The Power of One (30 page)

We had crossed the gravel quad and passed through a narrow archway that led to the back of the prison. A long corrugated iron shed stretched from the main building, and smoke rose from three chimneys along its length. “Kitchens. The warders' mess is on the other side,” Klipkop said.

Doc was overjoyed to see me. He hugged me and patted me on the head and his sharp blue eyes went watery. “Now I see you I can sleep again. Let me see your jaw. Tut-tut-tut, I wish only I could have taken the kick, then you would be okay. Yes, I think so. Peekay, why are the peace lovers always the first to suffer in the war? Can you talk?” I had never seen him so worked up, and his words tumbled out so that I had no chance of getting a word in.

“My jaw is not so bad. They are going to take the wire out in six weeks, maybe even four, but I have learned to talk with my mouth shut.”

Doc laughed. “You and I, Peekay, even when they cement our mouths, we find a way to talk.” He was still patting me on the head as though to reassure himself that it was really me.

I handed him the books from Mrs. Boxall, and he held them briefly before putting them on the table beside him. “She is a goot woman, not so stupid either. You and she, Peekay, eleven out of ten for brains. Absoloodle. Also, Mr. Andrews. I do not think they would listen to a poor old German professor of music on his own. German measles was in the air, and only you and Mrs. Boxall don't catch a big dose, 70?” He chuckled at his sad little joke.

“I can come and visit you as much as I like,” I said happily.

Doc looked bemused. “Without the hills it will not be the same. What can I teach you here, my friend?”

“Lots of things, like out of books and things. And I could go into the mountains and find things and bring them here and then we could talk about them.”

Doc gave me one of his proper grins. “You are right, Peekay. A man is only free when he is free in his heart. We will be friends like always. Absoloodle. But also one more thing, they are going to let me have the Steinway here. You can continue your lessons. You must tell your mother this, I think she will be happy. On Monday they are letting me come with them to get it. If they move it wrong, it can be damaged. I will see my cactus garden one last time. Maybe also you can be there, Peekay?”

Dr. Simpson had said that another week's recuperation was in order. My granpa had given me a big wink and said, “Who are we to argue?” “I'll be waiting for you, I've already planted the
Senecio serpens,
just like you said, facing east.”

Doc looked pleased, but then a worried expression crossed his face. “Peekay, on Monday is happening a stupid thing. It is not my decision, but please you must trust me, that is why I want you to be there. I think Kommandant van Zyl wants to be a schmarty-pants with some people in this town. I am too old for such silly games. You will help me, please?”

“Kommandant van Zyl said I was to tell Mrs. Boxall everyone has to be in the market square at one o'clock, but he didn't say what it was all about.”

Just then Klipkop emerged from the door leading to the kitchen, carrying a small plate of roast potatoes. “Here, have some,” he said, offering me the plate. I pointed to my wired mouth and he laughed. “Sorry, man, I clean forgot.” He offered the plate to Doc, who shook his head.

“Monday, Peekay. Be so kind as to be at the cactus garden at twelve o'clock, then I will explain. Also, tomorrow maybe find for me Beethoven Symphony Number Five, you will see on the cover is printed my name and ‘Berlin 1925.' Inside I have marked the score. That is the one I want.” I knew where to look, for the music Doc played only to himself was kept under the seat of his own piano stool. I found it strange that he would ask me to find it. After all, he knew perfectly well where it was. “Peekay, put what is above the score in my water flask. The key for the piano stool lid you will find under the pot on the
stoep
where grows the
Aloe saponarie.
” He said all this in a perfectly straight voice in English. Klipkop appeared either not to understand or to be uninterested. I looked quizzically at Doc, but he put his forefinger to his lips and indicated the warder with his eyes.

A hooter sounded somewhere in the prison. “Lunchtime, Peekay, we must get back to the lieutenant and the professor must go to lunch.” Klipkop pushed the last potato into his mouth. “You can stay if you want and have lunch with the prison warders.”

“I have to get home for lunch, thank you, Mr. Oudendaal. What is the time, please?”

“That was the twelve o'clock hooter. Just call me Klipkop, okay?” I nodded. I was becoming accustomed to calling adults by their Christian names. I would have to run all the way home as my mother would expect me back from the library by now. I wasn't at all sure how she would take the news of my potential comings and goings to the Barberton prison, nor how I would break the news to her. This more immediate preoccupation made me forget Doc's curious instructions.

After Sunday school the next day I went to the cactus garden. Dum and Dee had the afternoon off on Sundays and had excitedly agreed to come with me to clean things up a bit for Doc's return the following day. They took brooms and feather dusters and other cleaning things in two galvanized iron buckets which they carried on their heads, chatting away happily about how they would clean my friend's house like it had never been cleaned before. There wasn't much else they could do on their half day off, as they hadn't yet learned to speak Swazi. While I didn't think of it at the time, they must have felt isolated from their own kind. On the farm they had been at the center of things, quite important really, by comparison with the farm workers, certainly a notch up the social ladder. Here they were two lonely little girls who, outside our home, could make no contact and who knew no other people. We were their family and they were as cloistered as nuns in a convent.

When we arrived at the cactus garden they set to, delighted that they owned every inch of the task without supervision from anyone. I went straight to the large terracotta pot on the
stoep
of Doc's cottage, where
A loe saponarie,
also known as soap aloe, was growing. It has spots of lighter green and rust on its thick leaves.

It was with some difficulty that I pushed the large terracotta pot aside to reveal the key to Doc's piano stool. I hurried to the stool and opened it. The recess was almost a foot deep and it was packed with sheets of music and handwritten music manuscripts. There was also a bunch of programs tied with tape, though at the time I didn't know what they were. The top one had Doc's name on it and the rest was written in German. I dug down quite deeply into the manuscripts and sheet music without finding Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Then, lifting another batch of paper, I revealed a bottle of Johnnie Walker Scotch. I lifted the bottle, and directly under it was the piece of music for which Doc had asked.

On Friday afternoon after lunch I had gone to see Mrs. Boxall in the library to give her the kommandant's message.

“Whatever do you think they're up to, Peekay?” she had said, a worried look on her face. “Do you think it has anything to do with the professor?”

“I don't think so. At twelve o'clock they are going to fetch the Steinway and take it to the prison. Doc asked me to be there to help him.”

“My God! He's going to give a concert! The professor is going to give a concert in the market square. How thrilling, how perfectly thrilling!” I had never seen her so excited.

It was suddenly also clear to me. “I don't think he's very happy about it. He said Mr. van Zyl was trying to be a smartypants with the people of the town. That he would need my help.”

Mrs. Boxall, in her excitement, appeared not to have heard me. “I once checked up on our professor, he turned out to be terribly famous.” Her eyes shone. “There's something dark and very mysterious about it all, if you ask me. Why would a famous European pianist give it all up and bury himself in a tiny
dorp
in Africa where he lives on the smell of an oil rag giving lessons to little girls?”

“I think he just likes collecting things like cactus and aloes and climbing in the mountains,” I said, though she didn't appear to be listening. She had her elbow on the desk, chin cupped in her hand, and was obviously deep in thought.

“Peekay, did he ask you to do anything? I mean when he said he needed your help?”

“He asked me to get out Beethoven's Fifth Symphony with his name on it and ‘Berlin' on the cover.”

“Hip hip hooray! Jolly good show! Beethoven, eh? What a treat we're in for. I heard the Fifth for the first time when I was a gal and we'd traveled up to London to hear the brilliant young Arthur Rubinstein play at the Albert Hall.” Mrs. Boxall clasped her hands and looked up at the ceiling fan turning fitfully above her head. “Oh bliss! Oh blissful bliss!”

“He also said I must put what is above the sheet music into his water flask.”

“Whatever can he mean?” she asked absently. It was obvious her mind was on Doc's concert in the market square, and her duty as the town's cultural representative was clear. This was no time to attempt to solve one of Doc's conundrums. “Peekay, you'll have to excuse me, my dear. I think we're going to have to close early today. I have such a lot of phoning to do. One o'clock. Are you sure that's the time Mr. van Zyl said?” I nodded and prepared to leave. “You will thank your dear mother for my lovely roses. I shall write her a nice note next week.” She had already started her telephoning, and as I went out of the door of the library I heard her say, “Barbara, you'll never guess!”

Now I stood holding Doc's music and staring down at the bottle of Johnnie Walker. Doc only ever drank in his room. Why would he keep a bottle in his piano stool? If Klipkop hadn't walked in at the moment he was about to tell me, everything would have been clear. I reached into my pocket for Doc's note and read it again. Maybe there was a clue I'd missed. I kept coming back to the last words, “... and whisky is getting easier not to have.” Had I been older it wouldn't have been a puzzle at all, but seven-year-olds are not very good at puzzles and usually know nothing about the drinking habits of grown-ups.

I wasn't at all sure I was doing the right thing, but the bottle was directly above the musical score Doc wanted and it was the only item in the piano stool you could pour into a water flask. I was more than a little conscious that when I had last interfered with Doc's whisky, the repercussions had been enormous. I took the water flask and the bottle of Johnnie Walker into the cactus garden, where I dug a hole in the ground and planted the flask with its neck protruding. I must say, it was a good plan, and I spilled hardly any. After that I planted the bottle upside down. It was to be the last Johnnie Walker bottle to be planted in Doc's cactus garden.

I returned the flask to the piano stool, placing Doc's musical scores over it. Then I locked the seat and put the key in my pocket.

I was waiting at Doc's cottage by nine on Monday morning. Dee and Dum had cleaned everything and the place was spotless. The Steinway shone like a mirror from a fresh coat of beeswax. The girls had spent an hour cleaning the whisky from the keys. Seated on the two piano stools, they had giggled fit to burst at the cacophony they made. I don't believe they'd ever had a more enjoyable afternoon. They continued to clean Doc's cottage every Sunday afternoon for the next four years, until I'm sure they believed it was their Sunday home.

I passed the time waiting for Doc separating succulents and generally clearing weeds from a small part of the garden. After a couple of hours I heard the low whine of a truck and the less agonized sound of a light van as they made their way up the steep road to the cottage.

The black prison flattop was a Diamond T. The van, coming along behind it, waited a little way down the road while the truck turned to face downhill again. On the back were six black prisoners and two warders carrying rifles. The driver and a third warder sat in front. I recognized one of the warders as the young one who had let me into the prison on the previous Friday, and I said hello. He jumped down from the back of the truck and stuck his hand out. “Gert Marais,
hoe gaan difV
' I shook his hand and replied that I was well and, in the Afrikaans manner, inquired formally about his health. Just then the van drew up, and I could see that Klipkop was driving and Lieutenant Smit was beside him. They
stopped in front of the lorry and
Klipkop jumped out. Walking to the rear of the van, he unlocked it. To my surprise, Doc stepped out. He was dressed in a clean white shirt, blue tie, and his white linen suit. The place where his knee had torn through the trouser leg when the sergeant's kick had brought him to the ground had been mended, the suit had been washed and pressed, and his boots shone. I had never seen him looking so posh. Lieutenant Smit and Klipkop both greeted me like an old friend.

I could see Doc was agitated, and when Klipkop and Lieutenant Smit moved toward the house he turned to me urgently. “We must talk, Peekay, today is a very difficult thing for me to do.” We followed the two warders into the cottage and Doc pointed to the Steinway and the stool. He was too preoccupied to notice the cleanup, and while I felt a little disappointed I said nothing. Cleanliness wasn't something I regarded too highly myself.