Swimming with Horses

by Oakland Ross

  My adventures and mishaps during the next three months could easily fill a pair of volumes — not only the serious work of scholarship that had brought me to Africa but also another book, partly dark comedy and partly a reflection on hope and fear, a memoir that I still mean to write one day, the reflections of a naive, middle-aged white man, at loose and alone on a turbulent continent in an unsettled time.

  One way or another I got through it. In fact, I thrived. When my work was done, I returned to Durban on the east coast of South Africa. Only a couple of days remained before my departure, and I meant to spend those days searching for Hilary. I had one last idea that might help me determine what had become of her, and it meant venturing into Bruntville, the black township that neighboured Mooi River, a two-hour journey to the north.

  Rather than get behind the wheel myself — a foolhardy enterprise, as I’d learned by now — I hired a car and driver, a voluble and perspicacious individual named Foster’s Moyo, who spelled his first name out carefully, to be certain I understood.

  “Foster’s?” I said, to make sure. “Apostrophe-ess? Like the beer?”

  “Exactly.” He laughed, and the metal in his teeth glinted. “Just like the beer. From Australia.” He hesitated. “The beer, that is. Not me.”

  There were two people I wanted to seek out in Bruntville, assuming either of them was still alive and dwelling there. One was Muletsi’s mother. The other was a mysterious gentleman named Everest Ndlovu, who’d been a local authority of some kind, according to Hilary. I had a feeling that if anyone knew what had become of her, it would be one of these two.

  The problem was I had no idea how to locate either one of them except by bumbling around, asking anyone I met. Foster’s said he had a better idea.

  “The barber-man,” he said. “Everybody has got to get his hair cut sometime, isn’t it? So if there is news, then that is where the news must come — to sit for a time, just like everyone else.”

  If there had been just one barbershop in Bruntville, my task might have been easier, but they seemed to be everywhere. All appeared to be hole-in-the-wall joints, each with a stool of some kind for the client and several tilting wooden or metal chairs set outside on the street, where patrons might sit while awaiting their turn, smoking cheap cigarettes, sipping corn brew, and chatting. We turned up nothing at the first place we visited, same as at the second place.

  On our third try Foster’s sallied into the fray, soon ingratiating himself into the ebb and flow of a conversation already underway. A quartet of men were gathered around a shaky wooden table in the gauzy shade of several flamboyant trees. Foster’s informed me in a whisper that the matter under debate was tigers. Had tigers ever dwelled in Africa? The men were speaking in Xhosa, apparently, so Foster’s had to translate the exchange for my benefit. The outlook of the assembly, he said, seemed to be evenly divided. Yes, tigers had once lived in Africa. No, they had not. He turned to me.

  “They want to know what you think, mistah,” he said. “As a white man. From the United States of America.”

  I didn’t bother to specify that I was actually Canadian. I adjusted my hat, a straw fedora I’d picked up at a safari outfitter on First Street in Harare during my sojourn in Zimbabwe. “What should I say?”

  “Whatever you like,” said Foster’s. “It’s a free country now, isn’t it?”

  One of the men in the gathering climbed to his feet, offering his chair to me. “Baas …” he said, no doubt out of long habit.

  I thanked him in English and said I was happy to remain standing. As for the question of tigers, I said I doubted there had ever been any such creatures in Africa, but I wasn’t sure. I had expected Foster’s to translate my words, but that proved unnecessary. It turned out that all these men spoke English perfectly well.

  “No tigers …?” said one man, the one who had offered me his seat.

  “Not as I understand it.”

  “And previously?” he said.

  I repeated my initial comment. “I don’t think so. If they had found the skeletons of tigers, then that would change things. But I don’t believe they have.”

  “Just because a thing isn’t proven,” said another man, a large, imposing individual who spoke in a deep, reverberating voice, “that doesn’t mean it cannot be true.” He smiled. “After all, it is impossible to prove a negative.”

  I nodded although I disagreed. The supposed impossibility of proving a negative is a common fallacy in logic. In fact, we perform that very feat all the time. For example, to show that Hilary Anson did not kill Quinton Vasco, it would be sufficient simply to demonstrate that someone else did. Of course, if she did kill Quinton Vasco, then that would be a different proposition altogether. I briefly debated whether to mention any of this. Instead, I merely shrugged and deferred to his judgment.“Or so they say.”

  He gave a broad smile. Case closed, it seemed. He inclined his head, densely bearded with mixed filaments of black and grey. “And what has brought you here, monsieur, into our august company?”

  I got straight to the point. I said I was trying to locate a woman named Mrs. Dadla or, failing that, a man named Everest Ndlovu. I briefly explained why. For a time after I had finished speaking, this arch and self-confident fellow remained silent, as if ruminating on a broad range of complex or elusive thoughts. Finally, he inclined his head once more and smiled again.

  “Everest Ndlovu,” he said. “At your service.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Sam

  South Africa, Summer 1994

  I HAD SOMEHOW ENVISIONED Everest Ndlovu to be a meek sort of fellow, frail and deferential — a very different proposition from the portly, talkative, and even somewhat theatrical gentleman who appeared before me now, the one who had made the hypothetical case for tigers in Africa.

  Now he spread out his arms in a gesture of welcome. “I am the man you seek.”

  Somewhere in his midseventies, he wore a bright, voluminous shirt in the manner of Nelson Mandela himself, as well as a pair of loose black slacks and brown tasselled loafers. With some effort, owing to his generous girth, he hauled himself to his feet. He reached for a grey trilby, which he clamped upon his large, round head, and then fumbled about for a gnarled walking stick. He brandished it at the other men.

  “I will relinquish my position in this never-ending queue,” he said, then glanced at me, at my cane, with what seemed a look of fellowship. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

  At a tottering gait, Ndlovu led us to his home several blocks away, a small cinder-block structure roofed with sheets of zinc. Flower boxes decorated the windows, which were protected by iron grates. An elderly cream-coloured automobile — a Vauxhall Astra, I determined — occupied a cramped space beside the little house.

  “Behold, my humble estate.” Mr. Ndlovu called out for his wife, Marimba, by name. “Come, my dear, and meet our visitors.”

  Before long a woman shuffled out to greet us, a slender, dignified figure in a coiled head scarf and a long African robe. Meanwhile, the three of us arranged ourselves outdoors, Foster’s, Mr. Ndlovu, and I, lowering ourselves into an assortment of unstable-looking chairs arranged around a low table consisting of a repurposed wooden door mounted on cinder blocks. Soon enough Ndlovu’s wife plied us with coffee and chicory served in mismatched china cups. A pair of tulip trees provided a patchy sort of shade.

  Ndlovu explained that the other individual I had hoped to locate — Muletsi’s mother, Mrs. Dadla — was, unhappily, no longer among us, the victim many years earlier of TB. As for himself, he said that he now served as a local organizer for the ANC, a post that afforded him certain modest perquisites, including the ownership of a private vehicle. He gestured toward the Vauxhall, then replaced his coffee cup in its saucer, and folded his arms at his chest. He turned to look at me.

  “So,” he said, “you have come to inquire about Muletsi Dadla.”

  “And Hilary Anson.”

  “Just so. You have come a very long way.”
>
  I said that I had a dual purpose in my mission and explained a little about my literary investigations.

  “I see. And you have sought me out because …?”

  “Because you knew them both, I think. Because …” I hesitated, then decided to get straight to the point. “Do you have any idea where they are now? Do you know what happened to them?”

  He nodded. “It is possible that I do. But, first, tell me what you know.”

  “Not very much,” I said.

  Still, I told him what I could. I had known Hilary for just three months or so, the time she had spent in Canada during the summer of 1963. Possibly, she had been sent to Canada by her father to avoid scandal here in South Africa. Or maybe, for all I knew, the ANC had dispatched her on a mission to assassinate Quinton Vasco. Here, I shrugged and rolled my eyes, as if this version of events could not possibly be true. I briefly explained about the arms maker and his death, but I had a feeling that Everest Ndlovu was in possession of this information already. As for Hilary, at the end of that summer, as far as I knew, she had simply disappeared.

  Mr. Ndlovu stroked his chin with its thick brush of stubble, like some African oracle. He continued to peer at me but said nothing, so I kept right on going.

  I told him about the news report I had found in the archives of the newspaper in Pietermaritzburg — the Witness.

  “Ah,” he said. “My daughter works at that place.”

  I nodded. I realized now that I had probably met her that day in Pietermaritzburg. The librarian who helped me — her name had been Ndlovu. Something Ndlovu. I was pretty sure of that. I nodded again and went on. According to an article I had read, it was Jack Tanner who had died and Muletsi Dadla who had supposedly killed him — the very opposite of what Hilary had told me. The report had contained no mention of her at all.

  Throughout this monologue, Foster’s, my driver, said nothing. He merely let his gaze shift back and forth between Mr. Ndlovu and me, his mouth agape. He hadn’t bargained on this — these tales of death and mystery.

  “You seem to be in a fix,” said Mr. Ndlovu.

  He shook his head in what I took to be amusement and then scratched his jaw for a time. When he spoke next, it was to call for his wife to bring more coffee. “Or would a stronger libation be preferred? I believe we have a carton or two of iJuba in the refrigerator. You have sampled our traditional beer?”

  In fact, I had. In Zimbabwe on one memorable evening, I had tried to drink the stuff. Chibuku, it was called in that country. I could not say I had enjoyed the experience.

  “Maybe just coffee?” I said.

  Again, Mr. Ndlovu laughed.

  I waited for a beat or two and then posed the question. “Who shot Jack Tanner?”

  Mr. Ndlovu closed his eyes, smiled to himself, and opened his eyes again. “That is one question. Surely you know the answer already, or you can guess. The next question is who killed the other one, this, uh, this Quinton Vasco. Who was the killer there?”

  He peered at me for a time, then shrugged and looked away. Soon he shifted in his seat and again fixed his gaze on me. He kept me in his sights while his wife brought more coffee. Then he shrugged again and smiled and asked me to wait where I was. I watched as he hauled himself to his feet. Clutching his cane in his right hand, he lumbered into the small house. When he returned several minutes later, he was carrying a crumpled manila envelope. He held it out to me.

  “I believe,” he said, “that this is for you.”

  I took the parcel from him and placed it on my knees. I could tell at a glance that it was addressed to someone, but I had to fumble for my eyeglasses before I could discern whose name was written there. At once I started in surprise, the hackles rising on the back of my neck. Of all the possible addressees, this was the least expected. The name that was written on that envelope was mine. Mr. Sam Mitchell, in care of Mr. Everest Ndlovu. The following lines contained a Bruntville address. I glanced at the postmark — Maputo, Mozambique. There was no return address, and I could not make out the date stamp. I peered up at Mr. Ndlovu with what must have been a look of bafflement.

  Again, he laughed. “I am something of a clutter-bug, I fear — the bane of my beloved’s existence. I have kept this for you during so many years. It was all that I could do. I didn’t know where else to send it. I didn’t know you from Adam. But now you are here.”

  I was about to tear the parcel open right on the spot, but Mr. Ndlovu put out his hands and ordered me to desist. His tone was suddenly urgent.

  “Forgive me, but I have lived in southern Africa in darker times than these. You might easily be opening a parcel bomb.”

  “A what …?” I glared down at the envelope on my lap. The package suddenly seemed to glow, it seemed hot to the touch, as if it really might contain an explosive of some kind. I was tempted to fling it away, but I fought off the urge.

  “Very well,” he said and nodded at me. “I am no doubt guilty of excessive caution, but I have not survived all these years in this country by taking unnecessary risks. If you are going to open that parcel, I would request that you do so alone — and some distance from here. Even that might not suffice. I am far too old to be mopping up the residues of overly impetuous men.”

  I swallowed. “All right. I understand.”

  After a time he began to swirl what remained of the coffee in his cup, as if contemplating what to say or do next. “Come,” he said at last. He set down the cup and clambered to his feet. “I have something to show you. It isn’t far.”

  He called out to his wife, to inform her that we were off. Then, listing upon his cane, Mr. Ndlovu led Foster’s and me on a short walk that soon brought us to a pair of narrow, intersecting streets — just lanes, really, uneven and overgrown.

  “Look.”

  He pointed to a pair of wooden signs, already cockeyed and fading, that marked the intersection of these two forlorn-looking alleys. In fading, hand-lettered script, one of the signs said Sonya Abrahams Road; the other, Wilson Themba Street.

  These, he said, were the names by which Hilary Anson and Muletsi Dadla had come to be known — known to some. I took note of the inadvertent play on words in the name Sonya Abrahams Road. Yes, she did. She rode like an angel, if angels could ride.

  “I seem to recall that there is a bench hereabouts,” said Mr. Ndlovu. He gazed around. “A place where a civilized man might sit.”

  And so there was, a wooden park bench, squatting awkwardly amid the unkempt grass, large enough and sturdy enough to contain us three. We arranged ourselves there, with Mr. Ndlovu in the middle. He was silent for a time; then he began to speak. Regarding the murder of Jack Tanner, he said, the entire affair had been a set-up, one that he himself had devised, with the eventual approval of the ANC leadership. It was he who put Jack Tanner in the know, informed him of Hilary and Muletsi’s whereabouts, of their planned escape from South Africa on horseback. As a result, Jack ceased to be the hunter and became the prey. Why, even Nelson Mandela had gotten involved. After that, said Mr. Ndlovu, the only surprise was the identity of the shooter, the one who fired the shots that killed Jack Tanner.

  “Muletsi Dadla,” I said. Surely this was known.

  Mr. Ndlovu shook his head. “No. On the contrary.”

  “Hilary…?   ”

  He nodded, then laughed. “None of us could believe it. A girl …! A white girl …! Daughter of a government minister! No, no, no. Impossible to credit. And yet it was so.” He heaved a loud sigh and fixed his gaze on me. “What do you make of it?”

  I was unsure what to say or whether to say anything at all. Hilary…? It had been Hilary? Even before she’d appeared in Kelso, long before that, she had already done this? Murdered a man? Killed Jack Tanner? By rights, I should have been horrified. Instead, I was amazed. Thrilled, even. I shook my head. I had nothing to say.

  Mr. Ndlovu smiled — glad to be the purveyor of unsettling news, I suppose. After a short pause, he picked up the reins of his narrative and car
ried on. When he was done talking, the man let his shoulders slump. He said that I myself would have to fill in the rest. Perhaps the contents of the manila envelope might help me. Perhaps they would blow me to kingdom come.

  As for himself, he could use a carton of traditional beer, a carton or two. His throat was that dry. He hauled himself upright and led us on foot back to Foster’s’s car. From there, we gave the man a lift to his home and soon left him behind us, with his wife and his memories and his stock of iJuba beer.

  Foster’s drove me south to Durban. Somewhere along the way, he cleared his throat rather more loudly than was strictly necessary. He asked me if he might revisit the conversation of that afternoon.

  “If you like.”

  “About this Quinton Vasco chap …”

  “Yes?”

  “You did not answer the question.”

  “What question?”

  “Who it was who killed him? You were asked, but you did not say.”

  “You are very curious.”

  He nodded. “I have been told so before.”

  At first I didn’t answer. I gazed out the window at a riddle of decrepit shops and slanting makeshift houses, all speeding past in the dwindling light. My head was on fire. The manila envelope seemed to scorch my hands. Who killed Quinton Vasco? Finally, I told him that I did not know.

  We passed the rest of our journey in silence. It was seven o’clock in the evening and almost dark by the time Foster’s drew up outside my hotel, near the end of my African adventure. The following morning I would board a plane to begin the long journey back to Syracuse. Now I stood at the hotel entrance and watched as Foster’s drove off. Dead, of course — Hilary and Muletsi. Both of them dead. I turned and walked into the hotel.