He even greets you on the streets, I've seen that. Peter nodded importantly, puffing at the pipe. Yes, Mr Carter has often remarked that Mr Courtney seems tolike me. I think I will be handling the account more and more in the future. Oh, darling, won't you speak to Mr Courtney and tell him that Mark is doing all this work for his book on Ladyburg, and that he is ever so interested in Mr Courtney and his family , oh, come now, Marion. Peter waved the pipe airily. You can't expect a man like Mr Courtney -'You might find he is flattered to be in Mark's book please dear. I know Mr Courtney will listen to you. You might find he likes the idea, and it will reflect credit on you. Peter paused thoughtfully, weighing carefully the value of impressing the womenfolk with his importance and influence against the dread prospect of speaking on familiar terms with Mr Dirk Courtney. The thought appalled him. Dirk Courtney terrified him and in his presence he affected a fawning, self-effacing manner which was, he realized, part of the reason why Dirk Courtney liked to workwithhim; of course, hewas alsoapainstaking meticulous lawyer, but the main reason was his respectful attitude, Mr Courtney liked respect from his underlings. Please, Peter, Mark is going to so much trouble over this book. We must try and help him. I was just telling Lynette that Mark has taken a month's leave from his job to go on an expedition up to Chaka's Gate, just to gather facts for the book. He's gone to Chaka's Gate? Peter looked mystified, and removed the pipe from his mouth. What on earth for?
There is nothing up there but wilderness. I'm not sure, admitted Marion, and then quickly, but it's important for the book. We must try and help him. What exactly do you want me to ask Mr Courtney? Won't you ask him to meet Mark, and sort of tell him his life story in his own words. Imagine how that would be in the book. Peter swallowed once. Marion, Mr Courtney is a busy man, he can't -'Oh please. Marion jumped up and crossed the room to kneel beside his chair. Pretty please, for my sake! Well, he mumbled, I'll mention it to him. Peter Botes stood like a guardsman beside the head seat of the long ormolu table, bending stiffly from the waist only when it was necessary to turn the page.
and here please, Mr Courtney. The big man in the chair dashed a careless signature across the foot of the document hardly glancing at it and without interrupting his conversation with the other fashionably dressed men further down the table.
There was a strong perfume hanging about Dirk Courtney, he wore it with the panache of a cavalry officer's cloak, and Peter tried in vain to identify it. It must be terribly expensive, but it was the smell of success, and he made a resolution to acquire a bottle of whatever it was.
and here again, please, sir. He noticed now at close range how Dirk Courtney's hair was shining and cut longer at the temple, free of brilliantine and allowed to curl into the sideburns. Peter would wash the brilliantine from his own hair tonight, he decided, and let it grow out a little longer. That is all, Mr Courtney. I'll have copies delivered tomorrow. Dirk Courtney nodded without glancing up at him, and, pushing back his chair, he stood up. Well, gentlemen, he addressed the others at the table, we should not keep the ladies waiting and they all laughed with that lustful, anticipatory laugh, their eyes gleaming like those of caged lions at feeding time.
Peter had heard in detail of those parties that Dirk Courtney held out at Great Longwood, his big house. There was gaming for high stakes, sometimes dog-fighting, two matched animals in a pit, ripping each other to ribbons of dangling skin and flesh, sometimes cock-fighting, always worne n, women brought in closed cars from Durban or Johannesburg. Big city women and Peter felt his body stir at the thought. Introductions to the parties were limited to men of importance or influence or wealth, and during the weekend that the revels continued, the grounds were guarded by Dirk Courtney's bully boys.
Peter dreamed sometimes of being invited to one of those parties, of sitting across the green baize table from Dirk Courtney and casually drawing towards him the multi-coloured pile of ivory chips without removing the expensive cigar from his lips, or of sporting among the rustling silks and smooth white limbs, he had heard of the dancers, beautiful women who disrobed as they danced the Seven Veils, and ended mother-naked while the men roared and groped.
Peter roused himself almost too late. Dirk Courtney was across the room, ushering his guests ahead of him, laughing and charming, flashing white teeth from the swarthy handsome face, a servant standing ready with his overcoat, chauffeurs waiting with the limousines in the street below, about to depart into a realm about which Peter could only speculate in disturbing erotic detail.
He hurried after him, stammering nervously. Mr Courtney, I have a personal request. Come, Charles, Dick Courtney did not look at Peter, but smilingly laid a friendly arm across one of his guest sshoulders. I trust you are in better luck than last time, I hate to take a friend's money. My wife's sister has a fiance, sir, Peter stumbled on desperately. He's writing a book about Ladyburg, and he would like to include an account of your personal experience. Alfred, will you ride with Charles in the first car. Dirk Courtney buttoned his coat, and adjusted his hat, beginning to turn towards the door, just a slight crease to is brow showing his annoyance at Peter's importunity. He is a local man, Peter was almost in tears of embarrassment, but he went on doggedly, with a- good war record, you might remember his grandfather John Anders A peculiar expression came over Dick Courtney's face, and he turned slowly to look directly at Peter for the first time. The expression struck instant terror into him, Peter had never before seen such burning malevolence, such merciless cruelty on a man's face before. It was only for an instant, and then the big man smiled. Such a smile of charm and good fellowship that Peter felt dizzy with relief.
. A book about me? He took Peter's arm in a friendly grip above the elbow. Tell me more about this young man.
I presume he is young? Oh yes, sir, quite young. Gentlemen. Dirk Courtney smiled apologetically at his guests. Can I ask you to go ahead of me. I will follow shortly. Your rooms are prepared, and please do not feel you have to await my arrival before sampling the entertainment. Still holding Peter's arm, he led him courteously back into the huge board room to a seat in one of the leather chairs by the fireplace. Now, young Master Botes, how about a glass of brandy? and Peter watched bemused as he Poured it with his own hands, big strong hands, covered with fine black hair across the back and with a diamond the size of a ripe pea on the little finger.
With each step northwards, it seemed to Mark that the great bastions of Chaka's Gate changed their aspect gradually, from silhouettes smoked blue with distance until the details of the living rock came into focus.
The twin bluff s faced each other in almost mirror image, each towering a thousand sheer feet but deeply divided by the gorge through which the Bubezi River spilled out on to the coastal lowlands of Zululand and then meandered down a hundred and twenty miles into a maze of swamp and lagoon and mangrove forest, before finally escaping through the narrow mouth of the tidal estuary. The mouth sucked and breathed with the tide, and the ebb blew a stain of discoloured water far out into the electric blue of the Mozambique Current, a brown smear that contrasted sharply with the vivid white rind of sandy beaches that stretched for a thousand miles north and south.
if a man followed the course of the Bubezi up through the portals of Chaka's Gate, as Mark and the old man had done so often before, he came out into a wide basin of land below the main escarpment. Here, among the heavy forests, the Bubezi divided into its two tributaries, the White Bubezi that dropped in a series of cataracts and falls down the escarpment of the continental shield, and the Red Bubezi, which swung away northwards following the line of the escarpment up through more heavy forest and open grassy glades until at last it became the border with the Portuguese colony of Mozambique.
In the flood seasons of high summer, this tributary carried down with it the eroding laterite from deposits deep in Mozambique; turning to deep bloody red, it pulsed like a living artery, and well earned its name, the Red Bubezi.
