by Tom Sharpe
‘I’m not saying anything of the sort. There’s no reason at all why you shouldn’t have a Kaffir’s heart,’ Dr Erasmus said desperately. He found Kommandant van Heerden’s violence positively unnerving.
‘There you are. You said it. You said I could have a Kaffir’s heart,’ shouted the Kommandant.
‘I didn’t mean that you had to have one. There’s no reason why a black man’s heart should not be put into a white man’s body any more than there is any reason why a white man’s organs shouldn’t be transferred to a black man.’
Kommandant van Heerden had never heard such a flagrant violation of the basic concepts of apartheid in his life.
‘There’s every bloody reason,’ he shouted, ‘why a white man’s organs shouldn’t be put into a black man. No white man is allowed to put any portion of his body into a black man. It’s against the fucking law.’
Dr Erasmus had never heard of the Fucking Law but he assumed it was police slang for the Immorality Act.
‘You misunderstand me,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t referring to sexual organs.’
‘There you go again,’ bellowed the Kommandant. ‘I’ll charge you with incitement to inter-racial homosexuality if you don’t shut up.’
Dr Erasmus was silenced.
‘Calm yourself, Kommandant,’ he said soothingly. ‘For goodness sake calm yourself. You’ll do yourself an injury carrying on like this.’
‘I’ll do you an injury, you bastard,’ yelled the Kommandant who wasn’t going to be ordered about by any pig of a doctor who told him he had coloured blood. ‘I know your sort. You’re an enemy of South Africa, that’s what you are. You’re a bloody Communist. I’ll have you in under the Terrorist Act and we’ll soon see how you like organ transplants.’
‘For the sake of your health, please stop shouting,’ the doctor pleaded.
‘My health? You talk about my health? It’s your health you should be worrying about if you don’t do as I say,’ the Kommandant screamed before he realized just what Dr Erasmus had meant. With a tremendous effort of will he calmed himself.
Now he had not the slightest doubt that his heart needed changing. Dr Erasmus had admitted it in so many words.
In a quiet voice and with the authority he still possessed under Emergency Powers, Kommandant van Heerden gave his orders to the surgical team. They were to make all the necessary preparations for the transplant operation and were ordered not to divulge any information to the Press, the public or their families. The whole operation was to be conducted in the utmost secrecy. It was the only welcome piece of news the doctors could glean from the Kommandant’s brief.
The only other consolation was the knowledge that Kommandant van Heerden’s body would almost certainly reject the new heart. As Dr Erasmus pointed out to him, he was probably committing suicide. The Kommandant knew better. He had been eating in the police canteen for years and if his stomach could keep down the food they served there, he couldn’t imagine that his body would reject a perfectly good heart.
Leaving the hospital still smarting at the affront to his origins and the good name of his family, but pleased with the way he had handled the situation, Kommandant van Heerden decided the time had come to pay a visit to Fort Rapier. His interest in the fortunes of Miss Hazelstone was undimmed by the events of the past month and his respect had if anything been increased by the old lady’s remarkable resilience in the face of the misfortunes which had overtaken the Hazelstone family. The reports that had reached him from Fort Rapier indicated that Miss Hazelstone had maintained her dignity and sense of social prerogative in a situation which would have induced a feeling of despondency if not of inferiority in a less vigorous woman. Miss Hazelstone had succumbed to none of the temptations of madness. She neither shuffled lost in some interior wilderness nor imagined herself to be other than she was.
‘I am Miss Hazelstone of Jacaranda Park,’ she insisted in the face of attempts to turn her into a model patient with problems amenable to psychotherapy, and instead of conforming to the indolence that marked the lives of the other patients, she had found plenty of interest to occupy her time. The history of Fort Rapier and the part played by her ancestors in the creation of the garrison particularly fascinated her.
‘My grandfather was C.-in-C, Zululand when this fort was built,’ she told Dr Herzog when she met him one day crossing the parade ground, and had astonished the Superintendent by her grasp of military history.
‘On this very parade ground in 1876 the Greys, the Welsh Regiment and the 12th Hussars marched past my grandfather before leaving for the Zulu War,’ she told the astonished doctor, and went on to give details of the uniforms of the various branches and the character of the officers in command.
‘What a remarkable memory you have,’ he said, ‘to remember these things.’
‘Part of the family history,’ said Miss Hazelstone and had gone on to explain the mistakes made in the campaign, and in particular at the Battle of Isandhlwana. Dr Herzog was so impressed with her interest, and especially by her knowledge of the Boer War and the part played in it by Dr Herzog’s own grandfather, that he invited her to his house for tea and the discussion was continued until supper.
‘Quite extraordinary,’ he said to his wife when Miss Hazelstone went back to the ward. ‘I had no idea my grandfather was responsible for our victory at Magersfontein.’
The following day he sent a memorandum to the staff, instructing them that Miss Hazelstone was to be given all the help and encouragement she needed to continue her study of military history and the part played in it by Fort Rapier.
‘We have a duty to encourage patients to pursue their hobbies, particularly when they may well be of benefit to the hospital,’ he told Dr von Blimenstein who complained that Miss Hazelstone had stopped attending her therapy classes.
‘Miss Hazelstone hopes to publish the history of Fort Rapier and any publicity must surely redound to our credit. It’s not every day that lunatics publish military history.’
Dr von Blimenstein had reservations on that score, but she kept her thoughts to herself and Miss Hazelstone had continued her researches with growing enthusiasm. She had discovered regimental records in a trunk in the basement of what was now the staff canteen, but which had in earlier days been the officers’ mess. These had led her to unearth even more interesting relics in the shape of discarded uniforms in the quartermaster’s stores.
‘We really ought to hold a pageant,’ she told the Superintendent. ‘The uniforms are there and while they do need patching up in places, because the cockroaches have got at them you see, there’s no doubt they are authentic and it will give all the patients something to work for. It’s so important for morale to create a common aim and something to look forward to.’
Dr Herzog had been impressed by the idea.
‘A pageant of Fort Rapier’s history,’ he said, ‘what a splendid idea,’ and his mind toyed with the idea of an open day in which the public and the Press could see the wonderful work being done on behalf of mental health in Zululand.
‘I thought we might start with a march past,’ Miss Hazelstone continued, ‘followed by several tableaux commemorating particularly memorable feats of courage in the history of South Africa.’
Dr Herzog was hesitant. ‘I don’t want any mock battles,’ he said anxiously.
‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Miss Hazelstone assured him, ‘I was thinking more of purely stationary representations of the events.’
‘We can’t have the patients getting too excited.’
‘Quite,’ said Miss Hazelstone who had long since ceased to think of herself as a patient. ‘I take your point. We shall have to see that the whole affair is conducted with truly military discipline. I was thinking of including as one of the set-pieces your great-grand-father’s heroic defence of his homestead in the 6th Kaffir War.’
Dr Herzog was flattered. ‘Were you really?’ he said. ‘I had no idea my family played such an important role in the military history of th
e country.’
‘The Herzogs were practically the Afrikaans counterpart of the Hazelstones,’ Miss Hazelstone told him, and with the knowledge that the pageant would enhance the reputation of the Herzog family as well as that of the hospital, the Superintendent gave his permission for the event to be held.
In the weeks that followed Miss Hazelstone threw herself into the preparations with an enthusiasm that communicated itself to the other inmates of Fort Rapier. She took command of the organization with all the natural authority of Sir Theophilus’ granddaughter and with an attention to detail made possible by her wealth. Bales of red cloth were ordered from Durban on Miss Hazelstone’s account, and the patients in the sewing-rooms were kept busy making new uniforms.
‘It certainly brightens the place up,’ Dr Herzog said to Dr von Blimenstein as they watched Miss Hazelstone drilling a squad of manic depressives on the parade ground one day.
‘I can’t help feeling uneasy,’ Dr von Blimenstein said. ‘Is it really necessary to include the Battle of Blood River in the programme? I’m sure it will have an unfortunate effect on the black patients.’
‘Our chief responsibility is to the whites,’ said Dr Herzog, ‘and it can only help them to see the great events of the past re-enacted here. I have every hope that by participating in them our patients will come to see that there is still a place for the mentally sick in modern South Africa. I like to think of this pageant as drama therapy on a vast scale.’
‘But surely, Doctor, you don’t consider insanity to be simply a matter of morale?’ Dr von Blimenstein said.
‘Yes, I do, and if it isn’t it ought to be. Besides,’ said the Superintendent, ‘the pageant will help to sublimate some of their aggression.’
On the parade ground Miss Hazelstone’s squad marched past the saluting base which the carpenters had erected between the two field guns.
‘Eyes right,’ Miss Hazelstone shouted, and two hundred pairs of eyes fixed themselves manically on Dr Herzog. The Superintendent saluted.
‘Eyes front,’ and the squad marched on.
‘Most impressive,’ said Dr Herzog. ‘What a pity we didn’t think of this before.’
‘I just hope we don’t have cause to regret it,’ said Dr von Blimenstein pessimistically.
As the day of the pageant approached, Miss Hazelstone had to deal with several problems. One was the question of assegais for the Zulu warriors. Dr Herzog was adamant.
‘I’m not having hundreds of black patients running around brandishing spears. God alone knows what would happen.’
In the end the problem was solved by the purchase of one thousand rubber spears which had been used in the making of a film a year or two before.
Another problem centred round the question of the music and the sound effects to accompany the tableaux.
‘I was thinking of the 1812 Overture,’ Miss Hazelstone explained to the conductor of the hospital band.
‘We can’t reach those heights,’ the bandmaster objected, ‘and in any case we haven’t got a cannon.’
‘We could use the field guns,’ Miss Hazelstone said.
‘We can’t go round letting off loud bangs in the hospital grounds. It would have a terrible effect on the anxiety cases.’
In the end it was agreed that the band would restrict itself to simple marches like ‘Colonel Bogey’ and tunes like ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray’ and that a recording of the 1812 Overture should be played over loudspeakers to accompany the battle scenes.
A dress rehearsal was held the day before the pageant and Superintendent Herzog and the staff attended.
‘Simply splendid,’ Dr Herzog said afterwards. ‘One has the feeling that one is actually present, it’s so real.’
It was quite by chance that Kommandant van Heerden chose the afternoon of the pageant for his visit to the hospital. Unlike the Mayor of Piemburg and other notables, he had not been invited because it was felt that Miss Hazelstone might not like it.
‘We don’t want anything to put the old lady off her stride, and having the police here would only remind her of her brother’s execution,’ the Superintendent said.
As his car passed into the grounds of Fort Rapier Kommandant van Heerden noticed that a new air of festivity seemed to have come to the hospital.
‘I hope it isn’t too open,’ he said to the driver who had replaced Konstabel Els, as the car passed under a banner which announced Open Day. They drove up to the parade ground which was decked with regimental flags and Kommandant van Heerden got out.
‘Glad you could make it Kommandant,’ Dr Herzog said, and led the way to the saluting base, where the Mayor and his party were already seated. The Kommandant looked nervously around as he took his seat.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked one of the aldermen.
‘It’s some sort of publicity stunt to foster public interest in mental health,’ the alderman said.
‘Funny place to hold it,’ said the Kommandant. ‘I thought everyone up here was supposed to be barmy. Good heavens, look at those Kaffirs.’
A detachment of schizophrenic Zulus marched across the parade ground to take up their position for the tableaux.
‘Who the hell gave them those spears?’
‘Oh it’s all right, they’re only rubber,’ said the councillor.
The Kommandant sank down in his chair in horror. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘this whole thing has been organized by Miss Hazelstone.’
‘Right first time,’ said the councillor. ‘Put up the money herself. Just as well she did too. I hate to think what this little lot cost.’
Kommandant van Heerden wasn’t listening. He rose from his chair and looked desperately round for some way of escaping, but the crowd round the saluting base was too dense to pass through, and in front the march past had already begun. He sank back into his chair in despair.
As the band played the regiments formed up and marched towards the stand. Red-coated and surprisingly well drilled for their mental health, they swung past the Superintendent and at their head there marched the familiar figure of Miss Hazelstone. For a moment the Kommandant thought he was back in the hall at Jacaranda House, and staring once more at the portrait of Sir Theophilus. Miss Hazelstone’s uniform was a replica of the one the Viceroy had worn in the painting. Her face was partially obscured by a plumed pith helmet but on her chest were the stars and medals of her grandfather’s disastrous campaigns. Behind the first regiment, which was the Welsh Guards, came the others, the county regiments of England, appropriately less in step than the Guards (it had been difficult to find enough compulsive cases to be really smart) but shuffling along with determination all the time. After them came the Scots regiments recruited from women patients wearing kilts and led by a chronic depressive playing the bagpipes. Last of all was a small detachment of frogmen in rubber suits with flippers who had difficulty keeping in step.
‘A nice touch of modernity, don’t you think?’ Dr Herzog murmured to the Mayor as twenty crazed faces turned their masks towards the stand.
‘I hope those Kaffirs aren’t going to come too close,’ said the Mayor anxiously. There was no need to worry. The black lunatics were not allowed the privilege of marching past the stand. Miss Hazelstone was arranging them for the first tableau.
In the interval Kommandant van Heerden left his seat and spoke to the Superintendent.
‘I thought I told you to keep Miss Hazelstone under close surveillance,’ he said angrily.
‘She’s made remarkable progress since she has been here,’ Dr Herzog answered. ‘We like to see our patients taking an interest in their hobbies.’
‘You may,’ said the Kommandant, ‘but I don’t. Miss Hazelstone’s hobbies happen to include murder and you go and let her organize a military parade. You must be out of your mind.’
‘Nothing like allowing the patients to dramatize their aggressive tendencies,’ said the Superintendent.
‘She’s done that quite enough already,’ said the Kommandant. ‘My advice
is to stop this thing before it’s too late.’
But already the first tableau had begun. A square of cardboard ox wagons stood in the centre of the parade ground and around them gathered the Zulu schizophrenics brandishing their spears. After several minutes the Zulus lay down on the tarmac in attitudes supposed to represent agonizing death.
‘Blood River,’ said the Superintendent.
‘Very realistic,’ said the Mayor.
‘Bloody insane,’ said Kommandant van Heerden.
A polite round of clapping greeted the end of the battle. For the next hour the history of South Africa unfurled before the spectators in a series of blood-curdling battles in which the blacks were invariably massacred by the whites.
‘You would think they’d get tired of lying down and getting up and lying down again,’ the Mayor said when the Zulus had gone through their death agonies for the umpteenth time. ‘Must keep them physically fit, I suppose.’
‘So long as the bastards don’t win, I’m happy,’ said the Kommandant.
‘I think they do have a moment of triumph in the finale,’ said Dr Herzog. ‘It’s the Battle of Isandhlwana. The British ran out of ammunition and were massacred.’
‘Do you mean to tell me,’ said the Kommandant, ‘that you have allowed white men to be defeated by blacks? It’s insane. What’s more it’s illegal. You are encouraging racial hatred.’
Dr Herzog was nonplussed. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ he said.
‘Well, you had better think of it now. You’re breaking the law. You’ve got to put a stop to it. I’m not prepared to sit here and watch anything so outrageous,’ the Kommandant said firmly.
‘Nor am I,’ said the Mayor. Several councillors nodded in agreement.
‘I don’t really see how I can,’ Dr Herzog said. ‘They’re about to begin.’
In the middle of the parade ground Miss Hazelstone had organized the British camp and was superintending the placement of the two old field guns. Several hundred yards away the Zulu army was gathered ready for its moment of triumph.
