Gertruida’s Journey (# 4)

Just this morning, Servaas told Oudoom why there are so many churches in Upington. Look, he said, there are two important characteristics in the Afrikaner people.

“It has to do with passion,” he said while sipping his coffee from the saucer, much to Mevrou’s dismay. “We Afriakners can’t be onlookers. If the Sprinboks play rugby, we eat our biltong and drink our beers and are willing to lynch a referee for daring to say we knocked the ball on. Why, the other day Prieska’s team played against some English team from Richard’s Bay. Our chap had to convert a try to win the match. You know what happened? Kruppelfrik de Jager tried to kick at the ball, missed completely and felt ashamed that he let his people down. The referee was much more enlightened. He knew he wouldn’t make it to his car if he didn’t allow Kruppelfrik another go. Eventually he succeeded with attempt number nine.

“That’s us, Dominee. If we support something, we go all the way…but there’s a catch.

“You get three Afrikaners in a room and ask them about the two forbidden subjects: religion and politics. It’s sure to start an argument. 

“We’re terribly inventive when it comes to practical things. Our forefathers moved ox-wagons across mountains and manufactured their own ammunition, built houses in the wilderness and fixed any broken thing with a piece of leather and a prayer. But once we start talking about theoretical things like ideology and religion, everyone has his own opinion – and he won’t budge.

“No, Dominee, I think Rolbos is the only town in the country with only one church. Maybe we are abnormal. You should think of inviting some opposition to open a branch here.”

Of course he said it as a joke, but now while Gertruida is telling them about her involvement with the Anti-Apartheid Movement, he sits, nodding sagely. Yes, the country was divided on many fronts in those days, just like the churches in Upington.

Why, didn’t he, Servaas, also come from an Ossewabrandwag family? It was unthinkable to say anything good about Jan Smuts who betrayed them and became an Imperialist. Some even said he had dined with the Royal Family. How low can you get? 

When the Nationalists took over, it was by the barest of margins; but the leaders were well-educated men and soon everybody was passionate about their new government. In a country where a university degree automatically ensured respect for the bearer,  Malan had a PhD in Religious studies which combined church and politics and made it easier for people to see him as a sort-of Messiah. Then came Strydom, the advocate. After him, another theologian, Verwoerd. 

The honeymoon period of blind passion and national pride couldn’t last, however. The Black population – like their brothers and sisters in the rest of Imperial and colonial Africa (where England, Portugal, Germany and Belgium ruled with equal harsh laws) – didn’t take kindly to forced removals, carrying passes and being subjected to blatant discrimination. So there, already, the majority of people in the country started their own organisations to protest against the injustices the Nationalists inherited (and admittedly aggravated) from the days the British ruled the country. Way back in the 1850′s, Blacks were being stripped of the rights the average citizen should enjoy. Then, a 100 years later, the fuse that would ignite the fireworks that would blow the Nationalists theories to bits, was fizzling along in silent fury.

Amongst the Whites the motto of In Unity is Strength, served to remind people of how things were in the past. The South African Party was no longer the only opposition, as various groupings to the left and the right politicised their movements. Secret organisations sprung up to support the spectrum of ideologies that emerged. Servaas is right: Afrikaners are notoriously reluctant to agree about such things. However, to be seen as opposing the government was dangerous, so a lot of activity was kept hidden from neighbours, friends and most of all, the dreaded secret police.

“So there I was,” Gertruida says, “helping to undermine the government. At first I was so afraid: I was risking my future – and in a way I’m still paying the price for that. My life could have been so different…” She pauses a moment, shaking her head. 

“There were spies everywhere in those days. Everywhere. The Bureau of State Security was an enigmatic and extremely powerful tool in the hands of the man who took over after Verwoerd’s murder. Oh, and many a rumour existed about that little incident in parliament when the unimportant aide stabbed the most important protagonist of Apartheid to death. Some even whispered it had been an inside job.

“But Vorster – now there was a man with a different vision. He was interned during the war for being a member of the Ossewabrandwag. While he was in jail, he met several men who he’d use in later years to protect him and his ideology. One such man set up the Bureau of State Security, or BOSS, as it was called. And they knew everything.

“So I suppose I wasn’t too surprised to receive a visit from one of their men, late one evening. He said they knew all along and that my days of being a student was over. In fact, he said, treason carried the death penalty and I shouldn’t make any long-term plans…I remember how he let that hang in the air before adding…unless I cooperated with them.

“And that, Boggel, was how I met Ferdinand Fourie. To my eternal shame, I became a double agent.”

***

The old man replaces the receiver. He likes being called ‘Boss’; it reminds him of the old days when a mere nod or a wink sealed some poor idiot’s fate. Oh, he was powerful, then! Vorster trusted his judgement completely, which allowed him to gather information on thousands of people – also people in government. This enabled him to manipulate history in later years by  having a massive influence on the future presidents of the country. PW Botha was stubborn, but no match for The Boss. And FW de Klerk…well, he came in when the game was all but over. 

Still, even today the remnants of his power – and the immensely revealing secret files he kept – made him untouchable. Much like his hero,  J Edgar Hoover,  his files kept a lot of people in line.

He grimaces as he gets up; his arthritis is getting worse and making moving about more and more of a problem. The pain in the joints are bad – but the pain of knowing Paul Harrison has once again escaped, is even worse.  

“That man knows too much,” he mutters under his breath, “and now he’s got the tools to bring this country crashing down on all of us. I should never have trusted him, damn it!”

A lifetime of sacrifice for his country – and now one man has the power to upset the balance he had been so careful to preserve… Like in the old days, there can be only one solution to the problem: Paul Harrison must be eliminated. He, and everybody who might have had insight into the damning evidence contained in those files.

***

The lorry from Kalahari Vervoer slows down when the driver spots the pedestrian next to the road, carrying a holdall. A hitch-hiker on his way to Rolbos? Now that is strange…

“You need a lift?” He shouts down from the drivers window.

“Oh, yes, please.” The man flashes a grateful smile. “Are you going to Rolbos?”

“The road ends there, my friend.”

Yes, the man with the slightly effeminate manner thinks, how true. The road ends there… 

Gertruida’s Journey (# 3)

Boggel allows Gertruida to ramble on and on, telling him everything about Paul Harrison and the past. She’s on her third Cactus by the time she finally falls silent.

“Wow….that’s quite a story, Gertruida. And to think you never shared this with anybody? Kept it bottled up for all these years?” He reaches over the counter to pat her shoulder. “I suppose the rest must know, as well. If we want to prepare for his stay, everybody will have to be on the same page. What do you think?”

Gertruida only manages a small nod.

***

They started exchanging letters as soon as Paul settled in the small flat in the outskirts of London. At first the letters were what one would expect between good friends: news about the weather, lodgings and various mundane events scarcely filled the single page in each envelope. As friends-never-to-be-lovers, the need was to assure each other that life goes on and that they’re okay. Gertruida expected the letters to become less frequent with time, and after about six months it seemed as if she was right. By now she was studying political science at the University of Pretoria and stayed in a flat in Hatfield – both of these sponsored by Mister Harrison, the kind and generous lawyer in Calvinia.

Two months had gone by since Paul’s last letter, when he knocked at her door one evening. She was overjoyed, invited him in and offered coffee. With a nervous glance over his shoulder, he closed the door firmly before hugging her.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, Gerty. I promise to stay longer next time, we’ve got a lot to catch up on. For now, I’d like to ask you a favour.” He put down his attaché case on the table with an apologetic smile. “A friend of mine will come to pick this up within the next few days. His name is Ronnie. Don’t give the case to anybody else, and make sure Ronnie is who he says he is. Don’t trust anybody. If he can’t tell you the name of the first opera I took you to, he’s not Ronnie.

“I’m sorry, this is all I can tell you now. I am on a very tight schedule, so I must leave immediately.” He barely finished his coffee before leaving.

His visit left her completely bewildered. He hadn’t explained anything, leaving the inquisitive mind of Gertruida to piece the puzzle together. Paul was involved in some undercover work and now has drawn her into whatever he’s busy with. Why? What does it mean? He did flee the country to escape being conscripted, didn’t he? And he did hope to meet up with communist-minded activists in London – about that he had been abundantly clear. So…surely he’s taking huge risks in coming back to Pretoria and that’s why his visit was so short. Whatever it was, the contents of the case held the answer.

She tried opening the case, only to find it surprisingly sturdy and fitted with a set of excellent locks. There was nothing to do but wait for Ronnie.

Two evenings later, her studies were again interrupted. The man said he was Ronnie and she had something for him. She asked and he answered: Carmen. She invited him in.

“Look..er…Ronnie, I may have something for you; but first I need to know some facts.”

Ronnie wasn’t keen, but Gertruida wasn’t going to let him off the hook. The case, she said, wasn’t there. Unless Ronnie cooperated, she won’t tell him where it was. Ronnie sighed, accepted coffee and gave her the bare minimum. It was enough.

Paul had indeed met some people in London. By the time he arrived in London, the ANC and the Anti-Apartheid Movement had consolidated their relationship and were functioning well with the funds they received from the UN and other countries (including Britain, while still supporting the Nationalists). One of their many logistical problems was to communicate with  their supporters inside South Africa, to accomplish a coordinated approach from both outside as well as inside the country. They needed volunteers to courier documents, pamphlets and news into South Africa – people who preferably knew Afrikaans and could easily pass as travelling businessmen. Paul, with a new passport and identity, fitted the role perfectly.

“Am I now an accomplice?” Gertruida was upset at being used so blatantly, “You must realise how important my studies are. I can’t risk everything by being part of a clandestine operation to overthrow the government? Surely you understand that?”

Ronnie put down his cup carefully while weighing his answer.

“You are already an accomplice, Gertruida. Whether you like it or not, you have already committed treason by accepting this attaché case. Better get used to it, girl.”

***

Boggel’s Place is packed to the rafters by the time Gertruida arrives. Her expression is tired and drawn, her shoulders slumped and even Servaas thinks she’s shrunk a little. The formidable woman they all admire, has been reduced to a shadow of her old self.

“Before you say anything, Gertruida,” Oudoom holds up a hand for silence, “let me assure you that we support you 100%. I’m not sure what this is all about, but you have done enough for this community for us to help you in any way we can.”

Gertruida thanks him with a hint of a smile.

“I’ll start at the beginning… My parents were members of the Ossewabrandwag – or the OB as they called it. Like you know, this organisation was against South Africa becoming involved in World War II. Over the years historians attributed Nazi-like characteristics to the OB, but in reality it consisted of men and women who felt passionate about an independent South Africa. Most of them  were true patriots who failed to see why we had to send our young men to die in North Africa and Europe. Like so many of these organisations, the common people who make up the membership had little or no idea what policies were adopted by the top structure. If you loved your country, you joined the OB.

“It follows, then, that I grew up in a Nationalist home. From the beginning I was taught that the future of South Africa depended on the separate development and protection of the various cultures in our country.” She sighs as she scans the concerned faces staring at her. “We were all brought up like that, I think. If your parents, the schools, the church and the newspapers all told you exactly the same thing, you tend to accept it without question.

“And yes, preserving culture, tradition and language is important for every nation – the continued existence of groupings in society depends on it.

“But then, when I studied political science, I began to have my doubts. The draconian laws didn’t make sense. The idea that some sections of society are protected and benefited solely because of skin colour was ridiculous. To force people into locations, compounds and homelands, the government made more and more laws that verged on the insane.

“Okay – if you’ve got that background, I must tell you about Paul…”

***

In a hotel room, a thousand kilometres away, a man picks up the phone.

“He’s disappeared, Boss.”

“What…!”

“Gone. Vanished into thin air. I still followed him this morning to his flat. He locked his door. I was satisfied he’s inside. When night-time arrived, he didn’t put on any lights. I waited an hour, then rang his number. Nothing. I knocked on his door. Nothing.

“Then I picked the lock, Boss. He wasn’t there any more. He’s gone, like I said.”

“You bloody well find him, hear me! I don’t care what it takes, but you bring him in! This cat-and-mouse game has gone too far. I want him here!” The man drops his voice to a threatening whisper before going on, “And you better get him here…do you understand?’

“Yes, Boss. I’m on it, Boss.”

Click.

 

Gertruida’s Journey (# 2)

Gertruida replaces the handset carefully, as if it was the most fragile thing in the world. The call from Paul Harrison was most certainly not something she expected – nor could she foresee the effect it would have on her. She closes her eyes to allow her the luxury of remembering the time – so long ago – when the first stirrings of the beginning of love caused so many sleepless nights.

***

She’s sixteen years old, brilliant…and lonely. The move from Calvinia to Pretoria opened up a new future and she is extremely pleased with her new school (the library is extensive)…but she can’t get used to the big-city atmosphere. There are too many cars, buses, people – she longs for the peaceful silence of the Hantam Karoo and the open veld where she could walk and think (sometimes out loud) to organise her thoughts.

Here, she can only walk around on the campus – which is rather large – but there are always other girls around, making her quest for solitude impossible. Today she’s discovered something, however: solitude and loneliness are two completely different things. Being alone is a healthy, an essential part of her personality. She likes being alone.

But loneliness – that’s quite something else. In contrast to her desire to be alone, loneliness is a feeling of forced isolation, of not belonging where you are.

She’s still mulling over the idea of loneliness amongst so many other girls, when Dumpling waddles over. Like all the other junior students, Cathy Simpson had been given a nickname, and it stuck. Given the generous proportions of her figure, it is not surprising that she simply surrendered to the new name in an effort to seem friendly to the other girls.

Cathy – or Dumpling – lacks Gerty’s intelligence, but shares her desire for solitude. In contrast to the other girls with less fortunate figures, Dumpling doesn’t try to be friends with everybody. She has made peace with the fact that she’ll never win any beauty contests and will often sit alone, playing her guitar while looking for words for her new melodies.

“There’s a letter for you at the office. Miss Hornsby said a boy delivered it. Said it is urgent.”

The letter is from a boy who signs his name as Paul Harrison, written in a child-like scrawl, asking her if she would consider accompanying him to the movies on Saturday. He’ll pop in again tomorrow to see if she answered his letter. Very formal, to say the least.

Her initial reaction is to ignore the request. She doesn’t know him, doesn’t have an idea what he looks like, and doesn’t know why he wrote to her, particularly. Why on earth would she consider…

But then again…

Blossoming into adulthood is arguably the worst thing that can happen to a girl. The innocence of youth simply disappears as so many things change…for the worse. Suddenly, one fine day, the acute awareness of body, mind, soul acquires a new dimension: femininity. Gestures and words get new meaning, often confusing, to have undertones of sexuality. And with equal swiftness, the shy little girl of yesterday becomes the alluring young woman, so very much aware of completely new horizons that demand to be explored. Even Gertruida is aware of this instinctive compulsion to exchange childhood simplicity for the complicated minefield of adult relationships. Deep inside, she knows: it is time to test the fledgeling wings of womanhood.

She answers the letter, agreeing to meet this Paul-person at the gate on Saturday and watch a movie – provided it’s not one of the horror-films that are so popular these days.

****

Gertruida smiles when she thinks back on those days. Paul turned out to be a pleasant surprise. He was tall, blond and handsome. Despite the fact that he played flank for Boy’s High, he was rather effeminate in his manner. He was also very honest and direct.

Look, he said, I’m gay. I want you to know that. And I asked you out to prove to the other boys that I’m not. So here’s the deal: I know you’re not much into dating – Dumpling told me. She’s also one of…us. Understand? So if it’s okay with you, I’d like to take you to the movies sometimes. Maybe we can go to the State Theatre occasionally for an opera, or ballet. I’ll treat you like a lady and see to it that you have a good time. The benefit for you is that you get out of the campus every so often and that you know you are completely safe with me. There. I said it all. Now you may get up and leave…or stay.

The speech was so unexpected, so weird, that Gertruida simply didn’t know what to do. She remembers gaping at the young man next to her and repeating the word gay with several question marks behind it. Oh, she knew such men and women existed – in the all-girl school it crushes were not uncommon after all – but she’s never had contact with a gay male before.

In the end, it was his honesty that did the trick. She knew he must have been very brave to approach her like that and that he took the risk of being rejected in doing so. But it did say a lot about him, and that she liked. He wanted their friendship to be an open, honest and trusting relationship; and that’s why he placed all his cards on the table then, right at the start. He was also protecting her in a way, by telling her about himself and not allowing gossip to interfere with their future relationship.

They never got to the movies that day. Instead, they sat down in the shade of one of the big trees on the campus and talked till sundown. Paul turned out the be extremely intelligent and could hold his own of any subject she raised. Like his father (the lawyer in Calvinia – she should have made that connection earlier – he had liberal views in politics. Unlike his father, he thought Communism was the answer. Although they had an exhausting debate about Marxism and Socialism and eventually agreeing to disagree, she enjoyed the afternoon tremendously and looked forward to their next date the following Saturday.

Gertruida sighs as she puts on the kettle for some tea. Yes, she admits to herself, she secretly was in love with him; maybe because it was such a safe relationship, They enjoyed each other’s company and during her last two years at school, their friendship grew.

Then, like all young men of eighteen, he was called up to do service in the South African Army. Paul Harrison now had to make himself available to fight the very ideology he believed in. Everybody knew the terrorists on our borders were Communists – and this Red Danger threatened to eliminate White South Africa. The only answer to Communism was a well-aimed bullet; the state-owned broadcaster made sure every citizen understood this simple fact.

Paul did what many other young men did. He fled the country to head to London, where he hoped to make contact with the government-in-exile, as the ANC liked to see themselves back then.

And now the past came rushing up to meet the present. Gertruida sips the tea, shakes her head, and wonders how it is possible that we never manage to escape the past completely. Even here, in Rolbos where she took to hiding from society, she seems unable to distance herself from the terror of those days. She did what she did, believing that she was helping Paul in putting an end to the senseless killing on the borders of South Africa.

Yes, she’ll provide refuge for Paul. With Judge being away on an extended visit to study fracking in the USA, the spare room (actually, her library) is available.

She hopes it’ll be enough, but can’t help feeling a shiver running down her spine.

What if they find him here? Rolbos is such a small and insignificant place…but Paul managed to track her down, didn’t he? And if he’s on the run, there is a very real chance that Rolbos will become the target of some extremely unsavoury characters…

She gets up to walk the short distance to Boggel’s Place. If ever she needed help, it is now.

Don’t forget: Old Servaas and the young nurse. Was it really as innocent as it turned out to be? Check it out on your favourite e-book site or click the cover for Amazon:

Gertruida’s Journey (# 1)

Gertruida switches the laptop on and stares at the keyboard. Maybe, she thinks, she can try to make sense of her life if she writes down her story? Surely there must be more to life than stagnating in Rolbos? And with Doc’s prognosis still uncertain, she really feels terribly alone and lost.

It’s worth a try. At least the writing will keep her mind busy and stop her from feeling so depressed.

Look at Vetfaan, she thinks. Who would have guessed that he, the burly and sometimes introverted farmer, would get hitched with such a vivacious beauty? And what about Kleinpiet and Precilla? They’re not only deliriously happy, they’ve even got a live-in butler and a housekkeper as well. Servaas is in a good mood these days and Boggel…well, he’s just Boggel: always the good listener and phenomenal friend.

And yet here she is, dejected, alone and unhappy. Surely her life should amount to more than just saying goodbye to every man that ever loved her?

She taps dejectedly at a letter on the keyboard. Where must she begin? Her first memories are those of their house in Calvinia; a small cottage on the outskirts of the town. Her mother was an avid reader, and little Gerty would spend enless hours playing with her dolls at her mom’s feet. Her mother always said that books were the key to happiness. Books teach the reader to experience the unusual in the common events of every day. And, she said, reading is the most noble sport of all, for it exercises the most important part of human anatomy.

When Gerty was four, she could read almost anything in the house. Enid Blyton no longer fascinated her – she had discovered Alestair Maclean and later progressed to Wilbur Smith by the time she went to school.

Her prodigious intelligence caused problems at school, of course.  Her teachers often had to silence her when she started taking over the lessons of the day. If you know so much, I’m wasting your time, missy. Go sit in the library and shut up for a while! And don’t you dare come back until I called you! Understand? No punishment was ever so sweet! Little Gerty would skip happily down the corridor, pull a book from a shelf in the library, and lose herself between the pages of a book. Teachers were boring, but the library provided almost unlimited challenges – and pleasures.

At the age of eleven, she accompanied her father to a political meeting. Gerhardus van Rensburg, a staunch Nationalist, had challenged John Harrison of the Progressive Party to a debate on the eve of an election. Calvinia being what it was, everybody agreed that Harrison was wasting his time – there was no way anybody would vote for him.

Truth be told: Harrison didn’t do too badly in the debate. He even managed to silence van Rensburg on several issues concerning human rights, reminding the Nationalist that everybody was equal before God. When the chairman saw the debate swinging the wrong way, he invited questions from the floor – in the hope of finding something to counter Harrison’s arguments.

Nobody dared pose a question. Harrison – a local lawyer – was known for his sharp wit, and nobody wanted to look foolish in front of the other farmers attending the meeting. So, when little Gerty put up her hand, the chairman pointed at her and told her to ask Mister Harrison anything she liked.

“No, sir. My question is to Mister van Rensburg. I’d like to know how he and his party are going to improve the living conditions of their servants. And my second question: why do they deny other people from voting? Surely they can only expect revolt? It happened in Russia, Kenya, the Congo – why do they think it won’t happen here?”

Van Rensburg was furious. Not only did Harrison get the better of him, but now this …this child wanted to rub salt into the wounds as well.

“Your questions,” he said with a heavy sarcastic edge, “are an embarrassment to the country. I refuse to answer them.”

“Then, I have to answer you they way Helen Suzman said in praliament: it is not my questions that embarrass the country, sir. It is your answer.”

Of curse the Nationalists won the election. That’s the way things were in those days. There was one positive that came from that meeting, though: John Harrison made an appointment to see her parents.

“This young lady has a bright future ahead of her. She needs to go to a top school and later attend a university. I know you struggle to make ends meet, but I can arrange a bursary. I’d like to see a mind like hers develop and grow.”

Her parents objected, of course. Afrikaners are not beggars and they certainly don’t accept hand-outs; especially not from an Englishman and a member of the Progressive Party. Harrison knew the game, and said he was sorry, he didn’t want to embarrass them. Gerty’s mother held up a hand.

“Mister Harrison, we thank you for your kind and generous offer. Let me discuss this with my husband, and we’ll tell you tomorrow what we’ve decided. More tea?”

Now, we know Gertruida as a clever woman, and it is only natural to accept that she got those genes from her mother. That night Gerty’s mother took her father to the bedroom, closed the door, and indulged in one of the old man’s fantasies by dressing up as a nurse. (He had the dream of becoming a doctor in his younger days.)

The next day Harrison made a few calls and a week later Gerty left on the train to Pretoria, where she was enrolled in Girl’s High, one of the most prestigious schools in the country,

Gertruida stares at the keyboard. No, she can’t write that, can she? It’s so insignificant!  Surely it has no bearing on her current situation?

And then, as fate decrees sometimes, the unexpected happens. The phone rings, waking Gertruida from her reverie..

“Gerty? It’s me. Paul… remember me? Paul Harrison. We were friends a long time ago. I was your friend in Boy’s High.”

Gertruida sits down quite suddenly, as if her legs didn’t want to carry her weight any longer.

“Yes…?”

“I’ve got a problem, Gerty. And I was wondering…”

Fanny’s Surprise (# 39)

The human curse of emotion has been – and will always be – the reason why people aspire to unknown heights…and plunge to the ultimate depths of failure and destruction.

Take  the condition we call love, for instance. Despite the fact that we have books dating back 2500 years, we still have to find a scribe that can give a comprehensive definition of the word. How many songs, how many poems have been written in futile attempts to describe it? Since time immemorial, this feeling has been at the core of all relationships; yet we still fumble about  when asked to explain what, exactly, it is.

Mostly couples settle into that fuzzy, warm and comfortable space created by Love; mesmerised with the mutual infatuation and fascination of discovering the resonance they find in each other. Falling in love is an apt term: once friendship progresses beyond a jovial togetherness, the plunge into the unknown may be a sudden and often unexpected event. And then, once recognised and declared, it changes everything, just like Andrew Lloyd Webber said it would. This change; this magnificent rearranging of thoughts, interests and commitments; is responsible for the difficulty of defining what Love is all about.

By nature, people are selfish. We look after ourselves first. We care more about our own, individual survival than about the fate of somebody dying of hunger in Ethiopia (or wherever). We’ve become a blunted and unfeeling species because we just don’t have the time to consider the plight of others.  We don’t go there, because we might end up caring – and why should we do that?

But then love happens. The great fortress of self-interest crumbles as this ‘feeling’ takes over. Be it a pet, a child, a significant other – it doesn’t matter – the spark of love ignites the fire that has one purpose: to provide warmth and safety for somebody or something else. And then, for the lucky few and the privileged minority, the potential exists to tumble over the cliff to discover this eternal enigma we call genuine, eternal and effortless Love.

Sadly, like all human emotions, it can become corrupted. It is entirely possible that the allure of love sometimes turns out to be an illusion. The desire to love and be loved can be so overwhelming that it forces a person to want to create the feeling. Some will even believe the illusion.

That’s why the woman we know as Cruella is standing next to the wrecked plane, staring with so much hatred at Kallie Franz. Initially, a long time ago, he believed her when she said she was in love with him. He was, she has to admit, quite a catch: rich, successful, and quite handsome in a rugged way. When they met, her life was a mess. Having just been dumped by a previous lover who could not stand her temper and her demands any longer, Kallie represented a perfect solution. Oh, and she was so crafty in her seduction!

As long as love has been around, men (and yes, women too – but men especially) tend to be extremely naïve when  somebody else leans over to whisper sweet nothings in an ear. Given the head on the shoulder, the shuddering sigh and the soft body seeking the warmth of an embrace – well, lets just accept that the male brain takes that as a genuine declaration of love.

Kallie did, and it nearly ruined his life. When he found out it was all fake with lots of smoke and a few mirrors thrown in for good measure, he tried to extricate himself. It wasn’t so easy. Cruella had used her guile to make him putty in her hands and thus made sure he signed enough documents to make her comfortably rich in the event of divorce. She had always known she would not spend a lifetime with him – she had greater dreams and needed the capital to fund her fantasies.

Now, with Graham it is different. Although he earns a decent living as the supervisor of the maintenance workshop at Cape Town International Airport, there is no way he can support her in the leisurely and luxurious fashion she’d like to live. Graham isn’t somebody who asks questions. He does what she tells him to, just the way she likes her men. And Graham provided the key to her freedom and her future.

Oh, as soon as this is over, she’ll simply drop him, of course. Like all men in her life, she’ll use him and discard the empty shell once she’s finished. Then, with the means to do so, she’ll go out in the world to hunt bigger fish.

At least, that was the plan.

Only, it didn’t work out that way, did it?. Kallie should have been dead. The plane should have been wrecked, leaving no or inconclusive evidence. And now…now she’s standing here with the hated Kallie a few paces away, shocked by her sudden appearance. Well, if her plan failed and her dreams doomed to fail, she’ll make sure he has no future as well. No! She has spent too much time and energy of this project to accept it failed so miserably. After Graham had explained how he sabotaged the plane, he said no pilot would be able to get back on the ground in one piece. Impossible...that’s the word he used.

That’s why she rushed over here to the crash site – to see for herself. And now, here they all are next to and almost intact but very well crashed aeroplane. The sight of them all – with Kallie the focus of her fury – had much the same effect in her mind as the flight had on the unfortunate Doc.

“I’ll kill you,” she hisses one more time as she lifts the gun.

Cactus Jack is well-known for it’s kick. Take too much and you’ll know about it tomorrow. A few sips may be innocent enough, but a bottle full is more than most people can tolerate. Boggel knows this. He’s been around long enough…

That’s why, when the bottle hits Cruella on the side of her head, she has no idea what happened. Boggel’s well-aimed throw takes her down like a sack of corn. One moment snarling and ranting, the next she’s out cold, a puppet without strings to hold her up.

For another second the group stands paralysed. The sudden appearance of Cruella – especially after the drama of the flight and the landing – cast an eerie spell on everybody. Gertruida will later call it ‘collective overload’. And everybody stood there, gaping, as Cruella threatened to kill the man she nearly conned out of millions.

Everybody.

Except Boggel, that is. He used to be a rather accurate bowler for the cricket team in the orphanage. It turns out he hasn’t lost the touch…

***

Tonight, in Boggel’s Place, the atmosphere is a bit subdued. Oh, they are all overjoyed that the day worked out so well, and everyone complimented the pilot and Vetfaan and Boggel.

But they know how Gertruida feels. Doc has been flown to Cape Town for psychiatric treatment. Gertruida herself said the prognosis is uncertain: there’s no telling what permanent damage had been done to that once-brilliant brain.

Out on the Veranda, Vetfaan and Fanny share a Coke.

“I hope the twins are okay, Fanie. They will be, won’t they?’

The big man wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“We’ve been through so much, Fanny. The time with !Ka and !Tung; the Valley of the Buried Wagon; the Hartfords, MIss Kenton and Mister Stevens. We’ve had adventure after adventure and I’ve even been to Japan. Now this aeroplane crashes near our little town.” He pauses to hug her closer. “I think we’ve had enough surprises for a while. No, Fanny, your twins – our twins – are going to be just fine, thank you. Whatever the future holds, we’ll be okay. You know why?” He waits for her to look up and ask. “Because this foolish thing we have. It’s not a feeling – it’s a condition. And no matter what Life throws at us, as long as we look after this condition, we’ll be okay. The condition, dear wife, is called love.”

And Fanny, happy tears in her eyes, nods.

This man’s love is such a surprise…and then again in reality, no surprise at all.

And so we come to the end of Fanny’s Surprise. Who knows what the future holds for Rolbos? With a lot of luck, they’ll have a few ‘normal’ days for a change…

Weekly Photo Challenge: Escape

Escape! The very word spells adventure and freedom..

I used to think escape meant packing my gear and driving out into the wilds to find new roads to travel. new places to find. new faces to meet.

And I did. Had a wonderful time doing it and still hope for some more of that.

I’ve pitched my tent on the soft sandy beach of Maziba Bay, upper Zambezi, far from the maddening crowd.

Even stopped for a few snorts at the beautiful – and deserted – pub at Puku Pan

Met many strangers with their own stories; men and women who continue to inspire me.

And every time I took the road less travelled to come back home

Because I found that escaping doesn’t mean you have to go somewhere. It’s much more difficult than that. ‘Escape’ means finding yourself; and that can be quite a journey… Freedom is, after all not somewhere else. It’s inside every one us. And that, I believe, is the ultimate escape.

Fanny’s Surprise (# 38)

While Kallie Franz herds the passengers to a spot next to the road, the stewardess tries to open the door to the cockpit. She had spoken to the passenger in seat 26 E, but he stared at her in an absent, blank manner, saying something about …have you any wool?  She left him there, knowing Captain Mokoena is a higher priority right now.

The door gives way unexpectedly and she stumbles into the cockpit. For a moment she doesn’t understand – the area seems to be filled with grass and twigs. Then she sees the arm of Captain Mokoena protruding from the mess, hanging down at an unnatural angle, blood dripping from the fingertips.

Digging frantically, she throws as much of the communal weavers’ nest as she can through the broken windshield to get to the pilot. She doesn’t hear the cheer of the passengers when the first vehicles arrive at the scene of the crash; her attention is focussed on the brave man who saved the lives of his passengers. When at last she cleared most of the stuff, she stands back aghast.

Captain Mokoena is pinned to his seat by the broken-off branch. It seems as if a his chest is being crushed by the heavy piece of wood: his wide open eyes pleading while he’s obviously fighting to breathe. She tries pushing, pulling, shoving in the confined space of the cockpit, but doesn’t manage anything. Mokoena is fading fast as his efforts to breathe diminish and fade. He’s suffocating right there, in front of her, and she can’t do anything about it.

Suddenly a big man is at her side.

“Get out,” he says in a soft, commanding voice.

He, too, tries to lift the branch that is forcing the life out of Captain Mokoena  - but fails. He now moves to the back of the chair. Bulging the muscles of his massive shoulders, he gets a grip on the backrest of the seat. Then, with almost nonchalant ease, he breaks the the back of the chair – snaps it clean off where it joins the seat –  setting Captain Mokoena free.

Later, the investigators will question this. It is impossible, they’ll say, to break a pilot’s chair. Can’t be done – especially not with bare hands. But Vetfaan did…and both the stewardess and captain will testify to this truth.

Vetfaan drags the captain – now breathing but still bleeding from the abrasions on his chest – to the outside. Kallie Franz rushes over to help as the speeding vehicle from Grootdrink slews to a halt.

“Vetfaan!” Gertruida’s shout carries with it a mixture of relief and anxiety. She rushes over to where they are kneeling next to the pilot. The stewardess has found a first-aid kit and they are working on his wounds.

“He’s in shock,” Gertruida says, “he needs a drip.” When Vetfaan looks up with a question in his eyes, she continues. “He needs intravenous fluids. An infusion. He’s lost blood.”

The first-aid kit is comprehensive, with everything needed for an emergency during the flight. The stewardess produces a vaculitre of Saline and the infusion set needed to set up the drip.

“Where’s Doc? He must help us here, dammit!” Gertruida glances around, looking for the familiar face. When she doesn’t find him, she sighs, takes the needle and slips it into the vein. She doesn’t explain – during her time with the intelligence services, the training had been exhaustive and included medical emergencies.

With the infusion running smoothly, she repeats her question.

“If…if he’s not out here, he must be the passenger in seat 26 E. He doesn’t want to get out. He’s just sitting there.” The stewardess spreads her arms wide, eyes filled with sympathy and sorrow. “I tried. I really tried.”

***

Inside the cabin, Getruida approaches the passenger in seat 26 E carefully. Doc sits exactly the way the stewardess described the situation: hugging himself and reciting rhymes. He’s busy with Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall…

“Doc?” He doesn’t respond, even when she repeats the greeting quite a bit louder.

“All the kings horses…”

“Snap out of it, will you! Get a grip!”

“And all the king’s men…”

“Oh come on! You can’t do this to me! Come on, Doc, wake up!” She’s pleading now.

“Couldn’t put Humty together again…”

Gertruida tries to shake him, but he resists, starting with Little Jack Horner…

Crying softly, Gertruida leaves the plane once more, to look for the stewardess. Doc should be sedated.

***

The search-and-rescue teams reacted with uncommon efficiency. Following Gertruida’s phone call, the first helicopter arrives a mere ten minutes later. Ambulances from Upington arrive, followed by Jacob Rooi’s taxi – in the hope of picking up a few fares. Pretty soon the scene is awash with people scurrying to and fro, treating cuts and bruises and getting the injured into the ambulances.

Boggel – ever the barman – has set up a table and is dishing out Cactus Jack to everybody in need of some post-traumatic sustenance.

“Do you mean to say the captain saved everybody?” It’s hard to say if the seasoned paramedic is pleased, surprised or disappointed. “A crash like this…”

By now Mokoena is wide awake and manages a weak smile. “It was luck. And God, of course. I don’t know how the plane managed it. Truly.”

“But what went wrong?” Sersant Dreyer – so far the only policeman on site – has walked around the wreck, trying to figure it out.

“The systems cut out – one after the other. I don’t understand it. It’s impossible for so many failures to occur at once. I think the plane was sabotaged.”  With a shake of his head, Mokoena looks up at Dreyer. “Fortunately, we didn’t crash. Not like that. And the plane didn’t burn. The investigators will find something, I’m sure.”

“Does anyone know of any reason why somebody would have wanted to bring this plane down?” Sersant Dreyer addresses the few people still at the gathering point. “Anybody? Or dd anybody see anything suspicious?”

He gets no response for a while.

“Well. there was a lady at the airport.” Gertruida’s uncertainty is abundantly clear. “I…well. I thought she acted strangely. I don’t know. Just had a feeling.”

“What did she look like, Gertruida? What did she do?”

“To tell the truth, she looked like Cruella de Vil, you know, that Disney character? She…”

“That’s my wife!” The shout interrupts Gertruida’s hesitant explanation. “She…she could have done it! She and that damned mechanic….”

Sersant scribbles down the details before radioing the information to his headquarters in Upington. Halfway through, two paramedics pass by with a mumbling man on a stretcher, singing This old man, he played one…

As they load the demented man - he played three, he played nick-nack on his knee - into the ambulance, another vehicle roars up to stop nearby.

“You scoundrel! You bastard! You should have been dead! Dead! You hear me?”

It’s Cruella, brandishing a short-barrelled .38 Special.

Fanny’s Surprise (# 37)

Captain Mokoena sees the ground rushing up to meet the aircraft. Although he has bled off all speed he could without forcing the plane to stall and literally fall out of the sky, his instinct is that they’re still travelling way to fast. He still fights the controls, but there’s no sense in it now; barely feet above the ground, nothing he does now will have any effect.

When the belly of the plane crashes into the ground, the grinding and tearing at the fuselage is deafening. Mokoena had almost landed the plane on the road he had spotted.

Almost.

Not quite.

The plane skids along on the uneven surface next to the track, leaving a trail of destruction and scattering the broken bushes, pieces of iron and aluminium and the contents of the baggage compartment over the veld. A huge cloud of dust follows the speeding craft across the surface of the Kalahari like a frantic angry dog, while the tearing and screeching of the destruction seems to pitch higher and higher with every passing second.

Mokoena can see the tree coming. It’s the only tree next to the road between Grootdrink and Rolbos, a large thorn tree which serves as home for several families of communal weavers. The aircraft seems to be drawn to it as if by some giant magical force, and there’s nothing he can do to avoid smashing into that as well. As the tree looms larger and larger in the windscreen, he starts praying softly.

***

Gertruida, in the meantime, has been driving like a woman possessed, and maybe she is. When she reaches the turn-off towards Rolbos, she has to slow down on the gravel road; but even so her skill behind the wheel would have impressed Alonso. Even Hamilton, maybe. And, while fighting the wheel, she has managed to phone Boggel with the news. I think an aircraft is going to crash near Rolbos, Boggel. Please get the people to be on the lookout, will you?

Now Boggel isn’t your every-day barman. He knows his customers too well. When Gertruida has that tone of voice (almost verging on hysteria) you don’t ask questions. Rushing out, he gets the whole town to scan the sky for anything that looks like an aeroplane in trouble. They all gather in Voortrekker Weg, where Vetfaan divides the sky into sections to watch.

“What’s this all about, Boggel?” Precilla watches an eagle soaring high in the sky, her hand held above her eyes to shield the sun.

“She didn’t elaborate. Sounded extremely stressed, if you ask me. Look, we know she went to Upington to fetch Doc Woodcock. By the tone of her voice – and the fact that she’s on her way here – I’d guess it’s Doc’s plane we’re looking for. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine.”

Vetfaan has his powerful binoculars aimed towards the South, more-or-less in the direction of Grootdrink, and tells everybody this is a senseless waste of valuable drinking time. “What are the chances of us spotting an aeroplane here? We’re not on any flight path at all.”

“That’s the point, Vetfaan. If that plane is in trouble, it means something is wrong. And wrong planes may stray far from the right path.” Servaas never lets an opportunity pass. “Like us, they tend to crash because of that.”

“Oh, put a sock in it, will you?” Kleinpiet isn’t in a mood for a sermon. “Rather watch your bit of sky and shout if you see anything.”

For the next thirty minutes or so, the townsfolk argue, banter and grumble while they spot eagles, hawks, several crows and a solitary heron (where did it come from?). Then Vetfaan lets out a shout.

“I see it! I see it!!” He points. “There, towards Grootdrink! And it’s coming down fast.”

***

Mokoena instinctively leans over to his right, as if willing the stricken craft to veer off it’s crash course with the tree. It doesn’t help, of course. The almighty bang as the plane hits the old tree is louder than the screeching and grinding of the fuselage over the rocks that is tearing belly of the plane apart. The windscreen shatters as a branch snaps off the trunk. The obstacle  causes the nose to slow down, slewing the tail of the craft in a wide arc across the veld, flattening several giant ant heaps. Somewhere in the middle of the plane, the structure starts folding, bending, as the plane threatens to snap in two.

And suddenly…

Silence.

It is as if nature honours the brave Captain Mokoena with a moment of complete quiet, ashamed that such a beautiful craft had to be twisted and broken in such a vicious way.

The first one to react, is the woman sitting next to Doc Woodcock.

“I didn’t die! I didn’t die!” With blood streaming from a cut in her forehead, she manages to unclasp her safety belt to stand on trembling legs. Slowly, others follow her example – the clicking of the safety belt buckles unnaturally loud in the eerie stillness. Ons stewardess lies slumped in her seat, still help upright by her harness, but apparently lifeless. The other one gets up, walks in a daze to the emergency door and struggles with the mechanism. A burly man joins her and they force the door open.

The bottom of the plane is almost gone, leaving the red Kalahari sand only a foot or two away from the exit. Like sheep on their way to a dip, the passengers queue up to take that small step to freedom. It is not neccessary to hurry them up – they know they have to get out as soon as possible. Men and women, some of them bleeding and limping, help the fellow travellers who are too dazed or shocked to get off the plane on their own accord.

Kallie Franz is last of the able-bodied passengers to leave. The stewardess asks him to take the group as far away from the wreck as possible and to keep them together. She says she’s going too check whether anybody is left behind, and if the pilot is okay.

And then they hear the roar of approaching vehicles. The dust on the road from Grootdrink – as well as from Rolbos – seems to indicate that help is on its way.

In seat 26 E Doc Woodcock refuses to get up. He’s hugging himself while reciting Baa-baa black sheep in a small-boy voice; his brilliant mind regressing to a time when the world was a happy place and love wasn’t just another four-letter word…

Fanny’s Surprise (# 36)

Captain Mokoena is about 180 km North-East of Upington, trying to complete one of his fuel-consuming circles, when there is a sudden loss of power. There is no way he can keep the craft level any more as the nose dips slowly towards the ground. Mokoena, an experienced fighter pilot, knows: this is it. Either he finds a suitable spot to try and land the stricken plane, or he’s going to kill them all.

Towards his left and right, the Kalahari stretches away to the horizon. Even from this height, the surface doesn’t seem suitable for an emergency landing. The uneven veld, the little hills, the rocks and the sand dunes… The angle of descent is more acute now and even the closed door of the cockpit can’t keep the muffled screams of the passengers out. If he doesn’t spot a potential landing spot soon…

***

Doc Woodcock opens his mouth to scream, but he produces no sound, no word. The aircraft is clearly going to crash. His worst fear, his most terrible nightmare is happening here, now, as the cold sweat starts rolling down his brow. He wants to open his eyes and discover it is all only a terrifying dream.

But…when he forces his eyes open, he can see the other passengers in various stages of panic as well. Some seem to be praying, others are screaming and a few sit, ashen-faced, staring straight ahead in the paralysis only fear can bring. As the floor angles more and more, Doc feels himself being pushed back in his seat – and his life flashes by in a series of pictures.

Almost irrationally, it seems like a Powerpoint presentation.

His first memories of his mother and the cottage they lived in, is followed by scenes of his school years, his miserable attempts to compete in athletics and the praise of the headmaster at the academic prize presentation. Then the years of study, the solace of burying himself in work. Molly smiles at him briefly, before her image fades and Gertruida appears in his mind. In contrast to the other images, her picture doesn’t fade; it become brighter, more focussed better defined. He can hear her laugh – the soft chuckle she has when she wins an argument, proclaiming yet another victory.

A hand grips his shoulder so hard, it hurts.

“I don’t want to die!” It’s the woman sitting next to him, shouting at the top of her voice.

***

“Ladies and Gentlemen, will all people waiting for the Cape Town flight, please assemble in the cafeteria? Immediately, if you please. We also respectfully request all other customers to leave the area. We have an important announcement to make. We do apologise for any inconvenience caused by this. Thank you.”

The woman next to Gertruida sighs, throws her hands in the air and stomps off towards the cafeteria in a rather dramatic way. Gertruida, however, stands rooted to the spot for a while. She knows… Something inside her shrinks to a painful little ball of sadness and loss as she makes her way blindly towards the gathering point. This, she knows, will be unpleasant.

The cafeteria was never designed for something like this. The crowd gathers in silence, like troops waiting for the first shots in an ambush. There’s a collective feeling of doom, making conversation impossible.

A dishevelled man in a rumpled suit climbs on a chair, holding up an unneccesary hand for silence; in the quiet, you’d hear a pin drop, anyway.

“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you.” Now a collective murmur sweeps through the small crowd. “We’ve lost all contact with the flight carrying your loved ones.” The murmur becomes a buzz. “Please people. there’s no easy way of doing this.” He waits for the uneasy silence before continuing. “We had a sort-of Mayday about fifteen minutes ago. The undercarriage refused to come down, and the pilot notified the tower. Subsequently, all communication with the aircraft has ceased.” He pauses to let it sink in. “However, we kept track of the plane by radar. The pilot seemed to be doing the right thing, flying in wide circles to burn up as much fuel as possible. However, the last sighting on the radar was almost two hundred kilometres away, to the North-East of Upington.

“We’ve notified the authorities and they are busy – as we speak – scrambling emergency personnel and resources to engage in a search as soon as possible. Aircraft and helicopters will leave from Kimberley as soon as possible.

“Now I suggest that you await further developments in the lounge of the Kalahari Oasis Resort, where a special area is being prepared for you. Alternatively, you can go home – but please leave your contact number so we can notify you as soon as we’ve got anything new.

“I’s sorry, that’s all I can tell you now, because that’s all I know. Please remain calm, and don’t speculate. Please refrain from spreading rumours. I’m sure the media will have a field day on this, and we want to limit the trauma to loved ones.

“Thank you… Oh, there will be counsellors and clergymen available at Oasis. Pleas talk too them.”

With that, the man hurries from the area. This is the biggest emergency he’s ever had to handle; the worried faces of the crowd are almost too much to bear. Who, he wonders, counsels the counsellors and other workers?

Gertruida doesn’t follow the rest to Oasis. It’s no use to sit around with a lot of uncertain, anxious people telling each other how worried they are. She leaves her number and gets into her car to race back to Rolbos. Besides, the last know position of the plane puts it in the vicinity of Rolbos…doesn’t it?

As she reaches the tarred road to Grootdrink she wonders about the woman with the De Vil face – was she smiling when the man spoke to them? Or was it dismayed grimace? She can’t decide.

***

Fighting the controls with all his might, Captain Mokoena feels the nose of the aircraft lift ever so slightly. And then there – THERE! – is what seems to be a gravel road, straight as an arrow, cutting through the desert, Banking slightly to line the plane up with the only potential landing area, he glances again at the dead instrument panel, hoping to get some help from it. Without an indication of speed, height, wind…nothing…he’d need a miracle to get the craft on the ground.  He guesses the altitude to be about eight hundred metres above the ground, tries the landing gear again, crosses himself, and the opens the flaps to lose speed.

In the cabin behind him, an eerie silence settles amongst the passengers. They can see the ground now; the shadow of the aircraft racing across the stunted bushes and trees of the desert. White-knuckled hands grip the arm rests. Somebody starts whispering: ‘Our Father who art in Heaven…“

And Doc Woodcock, chased by a thousand nightmares and fears, feels sanity drain from his mind. The human brain is a finely-tuned machine. Like the aircraft, it has numerous safety mechanisms and backup systems to cope with almost any input it receives. The condition we  define as ‘sane’ or ‘normal’ depends of minute amounts of neurotransmitters being released at the right time, to maintain a balance between primitive urges and logical reasoning. Even so, sometimes the brain receives such a surge in input, that logic falters. We call that: ‘panic’. Should the inflow of terrifying information be even more overwhelming, the rational though-process may be damaged permanently. This is called ‘madness‘.

In Doc Woodcock’s troubled brain, the overloaded circuits experience a similar situation to that which happened to the much less complicated controlling systems of the aircraft. One after the other, they short out. He can’t…can’t…be living through this. He’s going to die. Logic and reason has no place in his brain any more. He doesn’t notice the wetness on his seat as he bites down, hard, on his wrist in a desperate effort to believe he can still wake up from this dream.

Then the blood starts flowing the pain becomes unbearable- and he starts screaming.

This time, his shrill voice mingles with the noise of the reverse thrust Captain Mokoena manages to engage as the rutted tract to Rolbos rushes up to meet the belly of the plane.

Fanny’s Surprise (# 35)

Captain Mokoena is a worried man. It is true that the undercarriage won’t snap into the landing position and that he’s tried everything to override the controls to the stuck wheels; but there’s more. Much more.

The array of blinking yellow and red lights on the dashboard screams danger in a choir of dismay. Not only is there a problem with the hydraulics, but several electrical circuits seem to have failed as well. Of course he radioed the control tower at Upington Airport, but all he got out of them was a long, drawn-out Eiiiish! The controller did, however, promise to call his superior, who at this moment is sipping champagne with the lovely Innocence Matlaba, Miss Kalahari Oasis Casino and Resort, 2013. (No, she hasn’t been crowned yet, but as niece to the Premier of the North Cape Province, there can be no doubt who the judges will choose. Several lucrative government tenders rest on this decision and they’re not about to wreck their individual prospects by voting for the lovely and aptly named Beauty Ngakula.)

This leaves the captain to follow emergency procedures, or at least those he can think might help in this chaotic situation. With no help from the tower, he is the only one able to do something about this catastrophe. First of all, he has to get rid of the extra fuel in the tanks. With the various circuits non-functioning, he can’t dump the fuel. The only solution will be to fly in circles until the fuel has been all but used up. Struggling bravely to keep the aeroplane level, he waits anxiously for word from the tower.

***

Gertruida spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror this morning, before choosing an outfit for the day. Not too demure. Not too provocative. The denim skirt covers her knees, but she did compromise by leaving the top bit of the frilly blouse unbuttoned. Precilla helped to get her hair just right and there’s no greater expert on make-up than Fanny. Her two helpers had been overjoyed with the result of their efforts.

The arrival times on the big television screen suggest that the flight from Cape Town should touch down just about…she glances at her watch..now. The few other people waiting to greet loved ones, businessmen, as well and the divorce lawyer accompanying Kallie Franz, have all moved nearer to the window to see the landing.

On the plane, Kallie Franz himself  can’t wait to see his soon-to-be-ex-wife and get her signature on the settlement agreement. He wants to see the piece of paper signed, smell it, feel it, before celebrating his freedom. His initial wave of anger at finding his wife (known in the district by the unflattering nickname of Tremblebum) performing intricate and explicit acts of what was described in the court papers as sexual gymnastics with that…that…that insufferable little mechanic, gave way to extreme worry when he realised she had claim on half of his considerable estate in the event of their separation. Now Sly Strydom, the notorious divorce lawyer, has drawn up one of the cleverest, most devious documents he’s ever seen; and this opens the door to keeping his assets safe.

When Mrs Franz accidentally bumps into the attractive women at the window, they exchange apologetic smiles. Two strangers at an airport. Nothing more.

“The plane is late,” she says,  feigned irritation written over her face, “one would think at this day and age…”

“It’s like everything else in the country.” Gertruida isn’t surprised. Even the Upington Post skipped an edition last month.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the PA announces, interrupting any further conversation,  ”we regret to inform you of a delay in the arrival of the flight from Cape Town. There seems to be a technical hitch, but nothing to be worried about. Please be patient, as we are unsure when exactly we can expect the flight.Thank you.”

“Oh my word,”  Mrs Franz seems even more irritated than before. Like some people do, her pursed lips cause the edges of her mouth to curl upwards, causing what may be described as a false smile, but in reality is a cynical grimace.

Gertruida doesn’t respond. An icy hand grips her heart. Oh, please, please, let it be okay?

**

On board the troubled flight, passengers exchange worried looks.  The stewardesses have secured all the trolleys, crockery and the loose baggage and are now also strapped in in their chairs near the emergency exits. There was nothing to do but to wait.

…And pray, of course. And the passengers prayed to God, to Allah and various other preferred deities. Kuki Muggenay, the clerk to Sly Strydom, used to be an atheist (until Captain Mokoena’s announcement, that is). Her prayer is probably the most confused and anxious of them all.

In the cockpit, the brave captain discovered a few more red lights before most displays went blank suddenly. He now has no idea how much fuel he has left. By the time the tower tries to contact him, his radio is dead as well…

Captain Mokoena knows this is impossible. All modern aeroplanes have so many safety features, this can’t be happening. Safety is, after all, of paramount importance. There are backup systems for backup systems. Manual controls for when all else fails. There is no way an aircraft can die like this – on its own accord.

He’s right, of course. Only sabotage can cause this degree of mayhem, but then the perpetrator have to be an expert on this specific type of aircraft; say, for instance, one of the maintenance engineers at a major airport like Cape Town. Somebody with opportunity, motive and enough know-how to make fuses blow one after the other, maybe with several timing devices thrown in for good measure to short of the essential circuits.  Such a person would have had some serious reason for attempting to wreck an aeroplane and kill all the passengers on on board.

A few years ago, a plethora of organisations would have sprung to mind immediately. In the Old South Africa various individuals and organisations  tried their hands (with varying degrees of success) in bringing down planes, sinking ships and blowing up trains. Then politics got blamed for everything in a game nobody really understood and everybody suffered the consequences of.

But now, here, over the red sands of the Kalahari, Captain Mokoena has to manage the sabotage done by a man with a much more basic motivation. A man whose sense of reason got twisted around by a woman out for revenge, for instance. If such a man had reason to believe the woman in question would reward him with her ample and special favours – and even a rather obscene amount of money – well, he might just risk it all on one roll of the dice. An aeroplane going down on a domestic flight, due to various cleverly-disguised acts of sabotage would be headline news for a week. After that, an incompetent investigation would clear the pilot of all blame (or not) and newspapers will start writing about the president and the Guptas again.

***

One roll of the dice. That’s all the engineer needed.

Then he and Tremblebum will be off to Mauritius to mourn the untimely death of her husband after she inherited, the vast estate. Ironic, isn’t it, that a single signature on a piece of paper would have meant she only got a fraction of the cake? Now, if that document remains unsigned – and poor Kallie dies so tragically – it means she will get it all.

While they all scan the empty sky, Tremblebum Franz tries to force her face into a worried look. If Gertruida looked, she would have seen a face reminding her of Cruella de Vil.