Gertruida’s Journey (# 5)

Gertruida squares her shoulders. This story must be told and she’s the one to do it. She empties her glass before going on.

“I didn’t know what to do… I played the part of courier for the ANC and Paul, but at the same time National Intelligence was using me as a source of information. They wanted me to tell them everything I knew about Paul Harrison, who his handler was, what he knew – and whether he could be turned into a double agent, as well. They knew about him being gay and wanted to use it against him. In those days, being homosexual was still considered to be a source of shame – especially in South Africa, where churches controlled the way people lived and thought. “

Gertruida accepts the beer Boggel offers: talking about her past is not easy…

The old Capitol Theatre, Pretoria

“I was young and unsure. When Paul delivered the next batch of documents, I slipped him a note, asking him to meet me the next day at the Capitol Theatre. I’d be in the back row, I said. By then I was pretty sure my flat was bugged and my telephone tapped.”

Kleinpiet remembers how one of his liberal friends simply disappeared in the 80′s. He had been extremely critical about the way the secret police detained and tortured people, and had been rather vocal about it. Rumour had it that he was detained, but nobody knew anything. Or rather: if anybody knew what happened, he or she was too scared to say anything. Society had been bludgeoned into quiet acceptance: either you agreed with the government , or you faced the often brutal consequences. The country was riddled with spies and informers; you could trust nobody.

“I remember it was one of Stallone’s Rocky movies. Paul sneaked in to sit next to me, and I told him about Ferdinand. What must I do, I asked? Should I leave the country? Follow him to London?

“He said that it  would be stupid to abandon my studies in my final year. No, he said, this was a golden opportunity. He could feed the Nationalist government anything he wanted – especially if it was untrue. Fight disinformation with more disinformation, he said.

“And that’s how I became the middleman in one of the most ridiculous situations one can imagine. The ANC fed lies to the Nationalists, who fed lies back to the ANC.  Everything got inflated: South Africa’s oil reserves, the size of the army, the ease of circumventing all the boycotts and embargoes.  The ANC, in turn, bragged about the massive and unlimited support they received form Russia.

“And then Ferdinand changed tactics. By that time we got…involved…with each other. It was almost a type of Stockholm Syndrome – I felt sorry that somebody with such a keen mind, should be slaving under such brutal masters. Oh, I was young and naïve, a young student caught up in a game even the seasoned politicians and diplomats managed to botch up in the end. Anyway, Ferdinand said the disinformation I fed to Paul, would be even more believable if I worked for National Intelligence. With my degree in Political Science, my job would be a legitimate appointment, with the rest of my activities a complete secret.

“Paul welcomed the move. You see, I never lied to Paul. I had told him everything. He argued that the more the Nationalists were inflating their capabilities, the better. Feed the lies to the government in exile in London, he said, and let them spread it amongst the other international intelligence organisations – who’d inform their governments, of course. That way, the UK, USA and other countries will understand that the ANC needs more support against the overwhelming power of Pretoria. At the same time, it’ll encourage the world to condemn Apartheid and force the South African government to consider a more diplomatic approach.

“Although I gleaned some intelligence through my association with Ferdinand –  and during the course of my work – I mostly  used a lot of creative license to manufacture the information Paul carried back to London. Paul and I actually had a lot of fun thinking up false reports on how good things are going in London and Pretoria. Let’s play them off against each other, Paul said, and make them realise they must stop the war. He said it was like the situation between Russia and America: the more the one believed the other to be untouchable, the less sense it made to fight.

“It was a game of bluff and counter-bluff. P W Botha knew how the war on the border sapped the already weakening economy of the country – and took note of the inflated reports Ferdinand delivered. If Russia and China pledged unlimited support for the ANC, Botha knew he was fighting a losing battle.

“And so, my role as double agent had at least one positive aspect to it: it helped sway the Nationalists to rethink their aggressive attitude.”

***

The Boss flips through the file on his desk. Paul Harrison –  the man who hoodwinked them all. Throughout his career, The Boss had always been careful to verify the information that was channelled to him, and Ferdinand Fourie used to be one of his most trusted agents. Now, with the hindsight only time can bring, The Boss has to admit: Harrison had played him for a fool. When he advised FW de Klerk to negotiate peace with the terrorists of the  ANC, the Soviet Union was on the verge of collapsing. Even the ANC was in serious financial trouble.

The opposing sides in the struggle were like two tired boxers in the final round. If one of them could have landed a telling blow – one single, solid punch – the war would have ended right then and there. South Africa had the troops, the fighting power and the ability….

No matter that the Nationalists could not afford to continue the fight – the other side was even worse off! If he knew then what he knows now, he’d have told FW to escalate their efforts – and they would have won the war. But…Paul Harrison! One man managed to derail the whole situation. FW convinced his cabinet that the ANC was stronger than ever, based solely on the lies Harrison made them believe.

If it weren’t for Harrison, South Africa would still the happy place it had been before the Nationalist government had to hand over power to the deceiving and dishonest ANC. The Boss clenches his fist. Well, he can’t change history – but he can take revenge!

That’s why The Boss spent twenty years looking for Paul. Twenty years! And Harrison knew he was a hunted man and managed to evade The Boss’ clutches for two decades. Harrison, it seemed, drifted into Oxfam, and has travelled extensively to render help to less fortunate communities. The Boss had to wait patiently; but finally got lucky when Paul returned to South Africa to attend the funeral of an uncle.

The tow ex-agents traced Paul to a flat in Sunnyside, planning to abduct him the following morning. After that they’d deliver the man to his house on the outskirts of Pretoria. Here, he’d humiliate the ANC’s liar, and take his time in starving and torturing the man to death.

Oh, he’d been so excited…the exquisite pleasure of seeing a victim squirm and beg for mercy! How many times didn’t he do that in the old days; prolonging the agony of death in his well-rehearsed repertoire of primitive torture. Yes, he’ll start with the nails – it always the nails – perfect to get the victim in the right frame of mind.

And now the man has escaped!

The Boss flips through the file. Ferdinand Fourie is dead. Paul Harrison is on the run. Now…who was that woman who acted as a go-between? She must be somewhere? She might have a lot to answer for, as well…

***

“This is Rolbos?” Paul Harrison takes in the few buildings and the small church. “You sure?”

The lorry driver laughs, showing the bare guns that once held teeth.

“Yep, sure is. If you’re looking for somebody, you’d better wander over there. See the sign? Boggel’s Place? They’ll all be there, I bet you!”

Paul hesitates before pushing the door open. A woman is speaking inside. Yes…he recognises that voice.

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 (# 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 (# 34)

Doc Woodcock hates flying.  His research has taken him all over the world and made him quite famous amongst the geneticists working on foetal abnormalities (a small and select group, usually men and women with thick glasses and no collective sense of humour) – yet every time he boards a plane, he has this feeling of acute anxiety.

Oh, he can explain how the genetic code works and why some families will never escape mutations in that code – but the science of keeping a massive piece of machinery in the air never made much sense to him. Heavy things don’t float about in the air – they’re not meant to, anyway.  He’s told himself a million times it is stupid to be scared of flying and that the chances of a mid-air mishap are slimmer than being killed crossing the street. The advent of the taxi industry in South Africa contributed in no small way to this logic. 

When at last the plane levels off on it’s route to Upington, he forces his thoughts away from his irrational fear, to concentrate on his strange relationship with the brilliant woman from Rolbos. After that party in 1994, when the country let out a collective sigh of relief and everybody still believed that then – finally – a better future awaited, they occasionally chatted on the telephone. That was before their weekends became something they both looked forward to and their chats became seriously intellectual discussions.

That’s when he met Molly Mulder. 

He has to smile at the thought: Molly was the daughter of a once-famous politician, a staunch Nationalist who still had a degree of influence with the new government. Molly, however, could not be described as a conservative. She was a liberal in every way – from politics to morals. And she could sing..

The International Genetics Congress held in Cape Town was the first one to take place in the new, free and still desperately hopeful South Africa. The organisers (Modise, Mahlangu and Lipshitz – Event Organisers) were still learning the ropes as a fledgeling company in those days. They were collecting the expertise they would later be exhibited with the Soccer World Cup as well as several of our dear president’s numerous weddings (and other miscellaneous political events) that brought in the millions. On that occasion, however, they made several mistakes…

They thought to give the international delegates a taste of The Real Africa, and arranged accommodation for the dignitaries in the various townships surrounding Cape Town. Local families were paid well to vacate the only bedroom in these shanties, feed their guests traditional food and teach them about local traditions. Not only did this scare the unfortunate scientists into a completely new way of thinking about life in general and transport options specifically, it also gave rise to a unprecedented amount of paper work as the claims for stolen wallets and watches started building up. 

On the afternoon before the gala dinner at Three’s Company Shebeen, their entertainer for the evening was hijacked in the middle of Cape Town; the usual, every-day technique involving the homeless beggar at the traffic light – with several friends hiding nearby. With both car and original owner now finding themselves in place or places unknown, a replacement had to be found. 

That’s when Mr Modise remembered the recent party given for a prominent minister, when sushi was served on the bodies of semi-naked ladies (both the sushi and the girls being of rather doubtful repute). The evening’s entertainment included another pretty young lady with an unusual act: she did a seductive, slow, pole dance while singing old Voortrekker songs. Her rendition of Pappa, kom huistoe; a famous Briel Susters’ song; done while caressing the pole; had been a huge hit.

And so it was that Molly Mulder was hired to entertain the disgruntled scientists digging into  their Mopani worm appetiser in Three’s Company Shebeen that evening. While most delegates barely looked up when she sang, Doc admired the way she saw the evening through. Despite her audience’s lack of interest, she gave what she thought to be her best performance ever. When she finished with a flourish (Ou Tante Koba, upside down on the pole), Doc was the only one to applaud.

Doc was, and always will be, appreciative of any honest effort. When the young researchers working in his laboratory made honest mistakes, he would rather praise their efforts than degrade their results. So it was that he felt intensely sorry for the poor woman who tried so hard to make them forget about the meal they had to face. He stood up quietly, went backstage and complimented her.

Now this, we must understand, is not something that has happened with Molly before. Gentlemen knocking on her backstage door (or any other door of hers, for that matter) usually have even more…shall we say...intimate?… entertainment in mind. To find a distinguished gentleman expressing his appreciation and not expecting anything in return…well, let’s say she was astounded at the wave of surprised gratitude that swept through her scantily clad body.

The games people play…and the fickle finger of fate. She told him he’s a real gentleman and how much his gesture meant to her. He said she belonged on a bigger stage with more sophisticated audiences. She said ‘oh?’, not knowing what to say. Doc said he had a friend who knew people…

One thing led to another, and when she landed her biggest role ever – in Jospeh and the Amazing Techicolor Dreamcoat as Potiphar’s wife – she visited the doctor while the rest of the cast celebrated yet another successful performance. She said thank you. He said ‘oh?’, not knowing what to say. She invited him to join the cast at the local bar. 

She shouldn’t have done that.

It was here Doc met her ‘agent’ – a known member of The Americans, one of the most notorious Cape gangs. After his third drink – it could have been his fourth – Doc suggested that Molly leave with him. She did. The next day Doc’s car was stolen. 

And then Gertruida phoned him. He lamented his loss and she asked a few questions. When she put the telephone down, Gertruida was a worried woman. Using her many contacts in the intelligence world, the ugly truth of Molly, the pole-dancing Mulder, came out. She was, in fact, married to her agent, known as Fingers Naidoo. He used her as a decoy: whenever she gave shows, he’d get the guest list and then direct very well targeted burglaries at the selected homes of some members of her audience. Not every show had somebody rich enough in attendance, so the sporadic thefts in various suburbs were never connected to her.

Gertruida flew down to Cape Town to break the news to Doc on the Friday the police moved in and arrested Fingers, Molly and the rest of the gang. Doc was devastated, only managing a few ‘oh?s” while Gertruida told him about Molly, her husband, and their life in crime.That was their first weekend together.

Doc Woodcock wakes from his reverie when the announcement is made.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Mokoena speaking. We seem to have a problem lowering the landing gear. Now, please don’t panic. Fasten your seatbelts and assume the ‘brace’ position. 

“This is simply a precautionary measure, people. In fact, I can assure you I will do everything possible to get you safely on the ground. And…I may add I’ve done this before. Three times, in the air force, flying those Pilatus planes they can’t seem to maintain properly. 

“Thanks for flying with us. We all hope to see each other again…soon.” 

This is the moment that Doc Woodcock realises his fear of flying isn’t unfounded. In fact, as he fastens his seat belt, he knows for certain: he’ll never fly again…

Fanny’s Surprise (# 33)

                        Plato

“I  don’t know what to do.” 

This strange statement by Gertruida causes an immediate hush in Boggel’s Place. Gertruida uncertain? Now there’s an oxymoron for you! Boggel rushes over with a double Cactus to help her think.

That’s the funny thing about alcohol: no matter what solution to a problem you think of when sober – you always get a better one after the third glass. Boggel is prepared to swear under oath that he has seen this a thousand times. Take, for instance, the huge rock that lay there, right where Kleinpiet wanted to put up a shed. After his tractor broke down while trying to drag the rock away, he shared his problem right here, in Boggel’s Place, with the other patrons. After the third drink – it could have been the fourth – everybody agreed dynamite was the answer. 

Of course it worked. Afterwards they all helped to replace the roof of his house, as well. Rolbos is like this; they’ll always help to find solutions to the problems caused by the solutions of the problems that caused the initial issue.

“Want to tell me about it, Gertruida?” Boggel drags his crate across so he can lean with his elbows on the counter top. He is arguably the best listener in the world.

“It’s Doc, Boggel. You know – Doctor Gene Woodcock? He wants to come and visit. He says he wants to talk to Fanny, but that is just an excuse. Doctors don’t do home visits any more – let alone drive a thousand kilometres to chat with a patient. It doesn’t make sense.”

Boggel gives the long, drawn-out whistle we all know – the one a mechanic will give when he looks at the smoke billowing out past the sides of your car’s bonnet. 

“Old flame, huh? Kindling the smouldering embers? I know about Doc – you told me about your nice chats some time ago. He sounds like a pleasant fellow?”

“Ag, come off it, Boggel. It never was anything like that!” Gertruida blushes as she says this. She knows full well the doctor wanted their relationship to move to the next level, but after Ferdinand’s disappearance, she just wasn’t ready for that. “I’ll have you know that it was a good, platonic friendship, Boggel. Nothing more than that. Purely intellectual.”

Now Boggel? He’s heard that one before – and knows one should never laugh at the statement. Plato, the great philosopher who never married, is still remembered for his definition of Love: that through the admiration of beauty, more beauty is created. According to this philosophy, Love is the connection between an individual and God – but only once the individual recognises the need to use the relationship as a tool to enhance the life of that significant other person. 

While the philosophy aims at such deep values and goals, Boggel knows that few people ever think of love in that way. That’s why he won’t laugh – the fact that so many think of love in a much more superficial way, is actually  cause for great sadness.

“Did he anhance your life, Gertruida? I mean: did he contribute to your understanding of joy?  Was he someone who made you laugh?” 

“Oh yes. We laughed a lot. He had such a cynical way of turning my arguments around. Made me look silly, sometimes. But laughter? There was always laughter.”

“And tell me, Gertruida, could you share silence with him?”

The question makes her look up suddenly. Boggel, she realises, is a crafty philosopher himself. It’s not what he says that is so clever – it’s the way he guides his listener to explore own and new ideas. That, she realises, is the mark of a good barman – or a clever psychologist.

“I suppose so…no, wait…yes we did. Often. We’d have wine, talk, fall silent, talk more…all the time. Yes definitely. The silences were good.”

“Then there’s one more question – the most important one.” Boggel draws a deep breath. This will determine the future. “What did he want from you? Why did he spend time with you? There must have been a reason…?”

This time, Gertruida takes even longer to come up with an answer.

“Oh, I don’t know… He liked the way I think, I suppose.” She takes a tentative sip from her glass to get more time to think. “No, he didn’t want anything.” More certain now. “He always said he fell in love with my mind. He said that was the most important part of me and he was fascinated with it. Nobody else, he said, challenged him the way I do. So it wasn’t like he was after my body or anything like that. He wanted me to explore the limits of my reason – he said so more than once.”

“Then, Gertruida, I think you missed the opportunity to have a special bond with a soul mate.  Maybe you should be more careful this time around?”

Yes, she knows that. Years have passed and they’re both older and wiser. Maybe, she thinks, that’s why I’m so unsure? 

There was one evening. A special moment. She remembers it well…

“I often wonder what happened to Ferdinand, Gene. I mean, he simply disappeared.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, as if it was his fault, “you must have loved him a lot. It must be difficult for you. I mean, how do you get closure on such a relationship? If he’s got another love-interest, or even if he died, it is easier to move on. But not knowing…”

She didn’t object when he came over to sit next to her. He said soothing things. She began to cry. He moved closer; put his arm around her shoulders…and that broke the spell.

“No. Not like this. Get us some more wine, please?”

And he got up, looking for all the world like a chastised dog, to fetch the wine.

“Yeah. Miss Careful, that’s me. You know Boggel, it’ll always be Ferdinand for me. Nobody can replace him.”

“True. Nobody can and nobody will. It’s like I feel about Mary Mitchell – she was my first love, and my last. But you, Gertruida, should have a special friend. You can make somebody feel very special. You shouldn’t be spending your nights alone. Ask yourself an important question, if you dare: What would Ferdinand have wished for you? A lonely old-age? Nobody to spoil you with coffee in bed on a cold morning? Nobody to share silence with, or laugh at something funny? No, Gertruida, it’s time to let go of the past. You deserve more…”

“That’s the point, man! Relationships come with a price. You give up your independence to include another person in your life. After all these years of living alone, I’m not sure I want to do that. I like the way I live.”

Boggel throws up his hands in mock horror. “Listen to yourself: you’re already envisaging married life, and the man only wants to visit. Methinks the lady doth feel the stirrings of love? Oh my, Gertruida, you’ve loved this man from afar for many years, never acknowledging the fact, and now suddenly you’re scared to bits he might live up to your expectations? Here, have another. I think you need it.” 

Sometimes a good barman doesn’t have to solve the problem. Listening to somebody explaining the issue is much more important than providing a solution. When Gertruida gets up to leave a little while later, she seems confident that she knows what to do. There’s a new certainty in her step; just like Kleinpiet had that day when he walked out with the dynamite sticks in his pocket.

Sometimes even a good barman can’t predict the effect his sympathetic ear had…