Of course, Renzi realised, as he was now at some eminence in society, he must cut a figure, graciously entertain. He would see to it. But now what better public demonstration of his aligning to the British cause could there be for Ryneveld? ‘That is most civil in you, Mijnheer. I should be delighted.’
The afternoon passed pleasantly, the two drawing up a table of positions obtaining in the previous government for reference in forming the new. The wisdom of adopting completely the existing body of governance quickly became apparent – everything from the Court of Justice to the Chamber for Regulating Insolvent Estates, the Lombard Bank and Orphan Chamber, Tide Waiters and Matrimonial Court, Lands and Woods, all with their subtle interweaving of loyalties time-honoured, understood and ready to serve.
It remained only to win them over, or end with them sullen and obstructive – or worse.
‘A good day’s work, Mr Secretary. I think we have earned our dinner,’ Ryneveld said, first carefully locking his papers in his desk.
‘I would rather it were Nicholas.’
‘We Dutch are jealous of our honorifics, you’ll find. I am Schildknaap Ryneveld to others and would resent its overlooking. Please forgive if “Mr Secretary Renzi” offends, sir.’
Outside, Renzi stood squinting in the late-afternoon sun, admiring the square ramparts of Table Mountain so dominating the landscape.
‘My carriage.’ Ryneveld beckoned.
The open-topped vehicle was compact and expensively appointed with a youth holding a wide green umbrella over them. The driver clucked at the stocky horse and they lurched forward.
Renzi took in the sights with interest. It was a settlement like no other, at the end of Africa, a vast and mysterious continent that separated it from the old European civilisations of the north. Here, men had settled, their destiny shaped not just by the land but also by surging events happening far, far away.
The town was well laid out – neat, with wide streets and the sun-baked glare of whitewashed houses set off with green shutters and doors. An amazing variety of peoples were abroad: Malay slaves with bundles of faggots, grizzled Bushmen carrying bundles, hard-looking countrymen in broad-brimmed hats, hurriedly followed by a score of men with baskets on their heads – and well-dressed women primly stepping out, each followed by a maid with a silk umbrella, as could be seen in any avenue of Europe.
Ryneveld lived in the lower town, in a relatively modest mansion that was set about with a shady and colourful garden, which Renzi politely admired as they passed through.
‘My wife Barbetjie.’ A plump, practical-looking lady with an elaborate hair-dressing came to the door and curtsied gracefully to Renzi’s formal bow. ‘Do enter, good sir,’ she said, in quaint English. ‘A welcome awaits.’
He was ushered in and offered chilled wine as they sat in the drawing room. With its dark panelling and tiled floor, it was remarkably effective in preserving a cool against the heat outside.
‘A singular place, Cape Town,’ Renzi ventured.
‘As no other,’ Ryneveld said firmly. ‘Even the flowers, the
‘Er, are you perhaps inconvenienced at all by the more . . . forward species? The lion and elephant do spring to mind when thinking of Africa.’
‘The Cape lion was much feared around Table Mountain in Riebeeck’s time but has not been seen this age. The leopard and lynx are still to be encountered, but never the elephant. Nevertheless, if you mean to travel it would be wise to give heed to your guide.’
‘Even in town?’
‘Here at night you may meet hyenas on their way to devour offal on the foreshore, in the day troops of baboons. More to be respected is the spitting scorpion or perhaps your Cape cobra, its poison every bit as venomous as that of the black mamba,’ Ryneveld added.
‘Oh. Then the hippopotamus—’
‘Our dinner is served, gentlemen.’
They sat down at what was clearly a family meal; Ryneveld at the head, Renzi at the other. Opposite Mevrouw Ryneveld was a shy girl who darted glances at him and next to Renzi a young man with a look of patriotic defiance on his face.
Ryneveld pronounced a Dutch blessing on the meal and raised his eyes. ‘Our humble repast – a
Renzi enjoyed the spicy dish, meat studded with dried fruit and nuts and topped with a savoury custard. It was clearly a family favourite.
After dinner, the men retired to the library, a discreet and well-appointed room. Renzi stood admiring the volumes while Ryneveld found a bottle with a wax-sealed cork and opened it carefully. ‘A Cape liqueur, made with the skin of the naartjie fruit and orange blossom.’ Two glasses were produced and filled. ‘And named after Admiral van der Hum of the Dutch East India Company who did so admire it.’
The thick golden liquid had a tantalising tangerine flavour but was very sweet. ‘A little too sticky? Then we’ll add some brandy.’
Ryneveld was the perfect host and Renzi relaxed in his company. Here was a man of the world, an acute observer, whose interest in his guest was not contrived and who took an intelligent pleasure in the discussion of philosophies and the arts.
But the talk petered out when Ryneveld’s manner turned grave and introspective.
‘The grain famine?’ Renzi asked, with concern.
At first the man did not answer, then said woodenly, ‘For your nation, if this affair turns out against you then you’ll sail away. For me, I shall be left to answer for my conduct.’ He set down his glass very carefully. ‘Until now we’ve been able to console ourselves that we have our independence, but for all that, we must understand that we
