Petra
Petra rubbed cream into her cheeks. She rarely used make-up. Today was an exception. Her face looked blotchy. Having a white father and black mother was part of the reason. The colours had mixed well but not totally uniformly. Usually, she had a clear complexion. When she was stressed the blotches appeared.
She was stressed now. Her father’s plane was missing. Three days ago it vanished. The newspapers were still carrying the story on their front pages and everyone was talking about it. Nothing made sense. How could such an awful thing happen?
Planes couldn’t just disappear. They surely maintained contact with their base and sent out radio signals to say where they were. And what about the spy satellites? They were meant to follow everything that was happening on the face of the earth. Her father said you couldn’t blow your nose without a government agent knowing what you were doing.
Father was like that. People said he was paranoid. They called him a conspiracy theorist. It didn’t matter what happened, he always had an explanation that conflicted with the official story. Some of the things he said were plausible. Others were totally crazy.
He claimed that men never landed on the moon. He said that it was a hoax put out by the Americans to fool the Russians during the Cold War. He said the Twin Towers didn’t collapse because a couple of planes flew into them. He claimed that they had been wired up with explosives and it was all about invading the Middle East and stealing oil from the Arabs.
Petra examined herself in the mirror. She had inherited her father’s straight hair and her mother’s African features. Mother was Xhosa. She belonged to the same tribe as Nelson Mandela. Or, should the term be nation? Father said it should. There were more Xhosas in South Africa than Scots in Great Britain and the Xhosas spoke a distinctive language.
Again, he was going against officialdom. The South African Government insisted that there was only one nation but recognised different language groups. Three languages were spoken in Petra’s household. One was English, another was Xhosa and the third was Afrikaans.
She straightened her skirt and went into the hall. Nelson Mandela’s portrait hung there next to that of her grandfather. Plaques announced in gold letters that both had been presidents. Nelson had been president of South Africa. Simon de Villiers had been president of a string of mining companies.
Like the famous De Beers diamond family, the de Villiers were staunch opponents of the white supremacist government that had ruled South Africa. Simon sent her father to a multiracial boarding school in Swaziland. That was where he met her mother. Petra once joked that he could have become Nelson’s son-in-law. Winnie Mandela sent her daughters to a neighbouring school while Nelson was locked up in Robben Island Prison. Her mother went to the same school and, like Winnie’s daughters, spoke English with a posh British accent.
The multiracial schools were where those with an eye to the future sent their children. Her mother’s family had a long history of education. Her ancestors sought out the British missionaries. Like Nelson’s family, they belonged to the Xhosa aristocracy. The Zulus were their enemies and they weren’t unduly upset when white soldiers seized Zulu lands to their north.
Petra peered out into the yard. The de Villiers residence was regarded as a hippy commune by their neighbours. The Cape Town suburb of Constantia was home to the world’s ultra-rich. Princess Dianna’s brother, Earl Spencer, had a mansion nearby. Margaret Thatcher’s son, Mark, had a home just down the road. The Chinese were moving in and the black political classes were staking out their claims.
Her heart sank. In the early days of majority rule, everything had been about humanity and justice. Now money and power were all that mattered. Her mother had died worrying about it. Cancer had struck her down at an early age. She’d had great dreams for South Africa and they had soured. Grandfather had tried to comfort her. His dreams were souring too. They died within weeks of one another.
Petra waved to the people in the yard. Her father had created a place for individuals to express themselves. Grandfather would turn in his grave if he could see what had happened to his once stately home.
On a normal day, she would be at university. But today was not normal. Her father was missing and an old friend of the family had phoned to say that he had flown in from London and must speak to her. His plane had landed at the airport and he would meet her there.
Petra made her way to the garage and peered through the window. Her grandfather’s Bentley was inside. It had not been used since his death. Her father regarded Bentleys as ostentatious and insisted on practical vehicles which were kept going until they fell apart.
Her own car was nine years old and needed constant attention to keep it running. That was part of its charm. She didn’t feel like a privileged rich kid when she drove it to the university.
The car would be ideal for her present mission. Her elderly contact had told her to adopt a very low profile. His name was Steven Mason and he belonged to her grandfather’s generation. She vaguely remembered Steven from when her grandfather was alive. He spoke with a distinctive English accent and she recognised his voice immediately. His final words to her were chilling.
‘Fetch me and don’t tell anyone what you are doing.’
Steven looked much older than when she last saw him. Petra did a rapid calculation. He was nearing ninety, perhaps older. He said he wanted to go for a drive then return to the airport. What he had to tell her would take no more than a few hours. The sooner he flew back to England the better. His presence in South Africa would arouse suspicions if he stayed longer.
He asked her to take him onto a road that ran around the back of Table Mountain. There were things he wanted to show her. Petra couldn’t think what they might be. The university and the zoo came to mind but they were hardly worth a daytrip from London.
Steven remained a mystery. She assumed he had come to speak about her father’s disappearance. He would, no doubt, do so in his own time and she wasn’t going to hurry him. Steven and her grandfather had been close friends. Both were slow and methodical in everything they did.
The drive took them past the shanty towns that were springing up on the vast expanse of flat land between the airport and city. Steven remarked that they had grown immensely since he was last there. At one point, a concrete wall divided the freeway.
‘That’s a bit high for a crash barrier,’ he remarked. ‘I would have thought the materials could be put to better use building houses. The standard of accommodation here is appalling.’
‘It’s not a crash barrier,’ Petra explained.
‘Then what is it?’
‘It was put there to stop people driving cattle across the road and causing accidents. The people in the shanty towns come from the Eastern Cape. They are Xhosas like my mother’s family.’
‘What are they doing with cattle here in Cape Town?’
‘Bride price …’
‘In a city?’
‘It’s the traditional way. There’s a joke that some bulls have been shuffled around so often they have been used to marry a thousand girls.’
‘Old traditions die hard,’ Steven muttered.
‘Yes. The people from rural areas are poorly educated.’
‘Hgh,’ Steven grunted. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking that outmoded traditions are confined to the uneducated. Some very well-educated people are obsessed by traditions that should have been consigned to the junk heap of history and one is the quest for empire.’
‘Those days have surely gone.’
‘No, Petra. The beast is still alive and kicking …’
‘Good Lord!’
He was suddenly distracted.
‘That’s Langa … isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It means Sun in the Xhosa language.’
‘But Langa was a drab township for migrant workers when I lived here. It was surrounded by a high fence and there was a police post at the gate. Residents had to carry passes and were constantly harassed by the security forces. The present houses are totally presentable. Indeed, some are impressive by any standards.’
‘The early migrant workers built a decent life for themselves when the apartheid laws were relaxed,’ Petra said. ‘The change happened slowly. I remember when Desmond Tutu became Archbishop of Cape Town. That would have been unthinkable when my parents were born but it happened under the old apartheid regime.’
‘Your parents were married in Swaziland, if I recall correctly.’
‘Yes. Mixed-marriages were illegal in South Africa.’
‘And they came to live with your grandparents?’
‘That was illegal too but no one was going to do anything about it.’
‘Not if that meant taking on someone as powerful as your grandfather,’ Steven chuckled. ‘I remember seeing you at your grandparents’ house when you were a child. You have changed a lot since then. I suspect that I have too.’
‘You have a bit.’
‘But, you remember me?’
‘I recognise your face and your voice.’
‘That’s good. My colleagues chose me for this mission because they hoped you would recognise me as an old family friend … someone who can be trusted.’
They were nearing the end of the airport freeway and approaching the road that ran around Table Mountain. Petra pointed to a collection of buildings on the lower slopes.
‘That’s where I should be now.’
‘You mean the university?’
‘Yes. I’m skipping classes.’
‘What are you studying?’
‘History and Law.’
‘You want to be a lawyer?’
‘No. A politician.’
‘Which party?’
‘I haven’t chosen one yet.’
‘Spoken like a true de Villiers,’ Steven smiled. ‘Your grandfather would approve. He never took a firm position on anything until the time was ripe.’
‘Which grandfather?’
‘Simon, of course.’
‘You never met my mother’s family?’
‘No.’
‘They were clan chieftains. That’s the term you British used because you recognised the similarities with the Scottish clans.’
‘And they always hedged their bets?’
‘Of course.’
‘So you are a smart cookie on both sides of the family?’
‘I hope so. South Africa needs smart cookies.’
He pointed ahead. ‘Go right at the next intersection. There’s a place I want to visit … if it’s not been torn down.’
‘Why should it have been torn down?’
‘It’s called Rhodes’ Seat or something like that.’
Petra switched lanes. ‘I know what you are talking about but we won’t get there by turning right.’
‘A lot has changed since I was last here.’
‘Yes. Cape Town has grown. People are crowding in.’
She entered a side road and proceeded in low gear. The old car protested at the steep gradients and crept up slowly to the annoyance of motorists behind. After many twists and turns they reached a parking spot and got out.
Steven pointed to a statue.
‘It’s still there. I can’t understand why you people didn’t just blast it away. That man was an abomination.’
‘You mean Cecil Rhodes?’
‘Yes. Cecil was obsessed by power and influence. He was an Anglican vicar’s son who acquired a fortune from diamonds. When he died in 1902, at the young age of forty-nine, he had acquired 90 percent of the world’s production of diamonds. The Anglican Church later made redress for his sins by appointing Tutu as Archbishop of Cape Town.’
Petra was surprised by Steven’s passion. For her, Rhodes belonged to history.
‘They are the curse of mankind, Petra.’
‘Who?’
‘Empire builders. Rhodes used his great wealth to invade the lands of the Shona, Ndebele and other tribes. The British recognised his conquests and incorporated them in their Empire under the name of Rhodesia. That vast territory has since been divided into what we know as Zambia and Zimbabwe. Your family still has big financial interests there.’
Petra followed the statue’s gaze towards the vast interior of Africa. That’s what the Rhodes Memorial was about. The great man was meant to be sitting there contemplating the empire he would one day create.
It was a beautiful day. Her mind felt ready to explode. Her world had turned upside down. A week ago she could have been sitting with her father talking about the problems the world faced. Now, he had vanished and she was with a man who was so old he almost belonged to history. Steven Mason had popped up like a genie from a bottle.
He produced a photograph.
‘This fellow is called David.’
The face that peered up at her was young and earnest. He had closely-cropped, blond hair and sharp features.
‘David is your first contact,’ Steven said. ‘You can keep his photograph. The person you really need to meet does not allow his photograph to be taken. David will introduce you to him.’
He grasped her hand.
‘Your father was almost certainly murdered. He upset some very powerful people and they caused his plane to crash. David and his colleagues want to find these people and bring them to justice. They will arrive in the next few days. David will phone you from the airport. He has worked for your father as a volunteer diver and knows him well. Make a place for him to stay with you. That is important. You may need David for protection.’
His fingers tightened.
‘You have grown into a fine young woman, Petra, and I am sure you can face life’s challenges. You have told me that you want to become a politician. That is a noble path for those who tread it in a noble way. You have Mandela and Tutu as your guides … but there are other players.’
‘What other players?’
‘You must find them for yourself, Petra.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You will, Petra …’
Steven suddenly seemed very weak.
‘It is time for me to leave ...’
He took her arm and she helped him to the car. She had expected more but it didn’t come. They drove back to the airport and she left him at the departures lounge. It seemed that he had discharged his mission and told her all she needed to know. She would learn more when she met David.