The Power of One (62 page)

THE
second term of form three began with a new aspect of school life. Singe ‘n' Burn's tutorials three times a week were quite unlike school. We would talk for an hour, and from it would come at least three hours of reading and preparation for the next tutorial. The headmaster had a wide grasp of subject, and he was quick to discover where a boy's special aptitudes lay. These he would cultivate carefully while at the same time balancing the mental menu with the discipline of tackling subjects which, though less interesting, he thought essential to a well-rounded education. Sinjun's People seldom met as a group, and once chosen they were never mentioned again in the activity of the Prince of Wales School. No attempt was ever made to make any one of us seem special or especially important, although a powerful struggle among the six took place in the normal course of school, with each one of Sinjun's People competing fiercely in the classroom for honors. All this, combined with boxing and rugby football, left me very little time to myself.

Morrie had also revealed his big plan. By form three he was so intimately involved with me as a boxer as well as a friend that he acted quite unselfconsciously as my manager. In two and a bit years Morrie had acquired a remarkable expertise on boxing, and he too was aware that we'd reached the limitations of both Darby White and Sarge and needed to take the next step in my training.

“Who's the best professional boxing trainer in South Africa?” he'd asked one afternoon shortly after our return to school.

“We've already talked about that. Solly Goldman.”

“Well, I went to see him during the holidays. We're working out for him when he gets back from a trip to England in six weeks. If he likes what he sees, he'll take you on.”

“Jesus, Morrie, that's wonderful! How'd you get him to agree? Solly Goldman only handles professionals.”

For once Morrie wasn't ready with a flip answer. He looked down at the back of his hands as he answered. “We're going to pay him. We've got enough money in the bank to pay him for a year, then we'll think of something else.” Morrie looked up at me. “Now, I know what you're going to say; but as far as I'm concerned my money is yours. You'd do the same for me.”

“It's not on, Morrie. Thank you, but it's simply not on. There are two reasons: The first you already know about; no handouts; not under any circumstances, friendship notwithstanding. The second is more practical; that's our business capital. The first rule of business is never to eat into your capital. You above all people know that!”

“Look, we'd still keep The Bank. I can borrow money from my old man to keep the float going. You don't have to take a handout. You can buy back your share of the float capital from the profits, and you can take a salary as pocket money. You'll see, it will work out.”

“Morrie, there's nothing in the world I want more than Solly Goldman's expertise, but I can't do it. It's got something to do with an incident in my life when I was five years old and I promised myself I would never again forfeit my independence, never again find myself in a position where I wasn't in control of my life.”

Morrie looked hurt, and I couldn't blame him. In a sense I was rejecting his friendship and his trust. But the wounds the Judge and his Nazi storm troopers had made had left adhesions on my psyche as a constant reminder to me that I was on my own.

“Okay, Peekay, have it your way, man.” Then Morrie grinned. “If I think up a scam and your share makes enough money to pay Goldman, will you be in it?”

I grinned, relieved that he had accepted my objection. “That's business, that's different! But only if I play my part and the whole thing's kosher.”

“Shake a paw, partner,” Morrie grinned. “This one is going

to be an intellectual masterpiece!”

* * *

Atherton, Cunning-Spider, and I had been a combination on the rugby field from form one. I was a natural scrum half, with Atherton, following in the footsteps of his famous cousin, developing into a brilliant fly half while Cunning-Spider was a center with a lot of style. Hugh Lyell and Jean Minnaar, both Sinjun's People, were also on the team. While I was still technically under fourteen, I elected to play on the under-fifteen team to keep the combination together. Pissy Johnson, who seemed to grow bigger every term, was a front row forward and, of course, Morrie became interested only because most of the Wooden Spoon Goons were on the team. The under-fifteen team in any school is the nursery for the first fifteen, and so the players in it are always carefully watched by the rugby masters, who regarded this particular team as one with great promise.

Morrie, as usual, analyzed the teams against which we played. As with his boxing notes, we had a pretty good idea of their game plan and capability before taking the field against them.

As he had done in his swot spot in boxing, Morrie made us think and behave like winners. “Winners make their own luck, but winners are also lucky,” he said.

In the under-thirteens and -fourteens, when we had played Helpmekaar, the Afrikaans school where I had boxed my first bout to beat Jannie Geldenhuis, the much bigger Helpmekaar forwards had made mincemeat of us and the stronger, bigger backs had run us off our feet. Geldenhuis, playing scrum half opposite me, had thoroughly enjoyed his revenge on each of these four occasions. In the last under-fourteen match, when they'd beaten us narrowly, as we left the field he'd given me an unnecessarily patronizing pat on the back. “In the ring is one thing, on the rugby field is another. Rugby is more important than boxing, man.” We'd met five times in the ring, and while he was always a tough opponent, on each occasion I'd beaten him; he had a right to try to get even. We would play each school twice during a season, and so in our personal score it was me with five boxing wins, Helpmekaar four rugby wins. Morrie, in particular, was anxious to change these rugby statistics when we met in the under-fifteens. While the Helpmekaar team members were still bigger than we were, things had evened out a bit. Morrie was convinced we could beat them. “Look at the statistics, Peekay. In the under-thirteens they beat us twenty to nil and again fifteen-nil, last year it was nine-nil and ten-three and we scored a try to two free kicks and a drop goal. Statistically we have to take them this year.”

I had my doubts. Helpmekaar, with four wins to their credit in the preceding two years, had a right to be confident. “Morrie, they're Boers, they'd rather die than lose to an English school. It's not simply a matter of statistics!”

“Ja,
I know, that's what we're going to have to fix.”

On the Wednesday afternoon two weeks prior to the match, when we were meant to be studying at the Johannesburg library, Morrie drew me aside. “Will you come to Helpmekaar with me this afternoon to see Jannie Geldenhuis? Don't ask any questions, just say yes. It's important.”

Sitting on the top deck of the Parktown bus, he outlined his plan. “There are nearly twelve hundred kids at Helpmekaar and six hundred at our school. If we can get most of them to place a bet on Helpmekaar winning against our under-fifteens, we could really clean up, we'd have your Solly Goldman money.”

“Christ, Morrie, we're back to straight gambling! You're crazy. This isn't like those first boxing matches when we took a few bets in the toilet before the fight. There I was a surprise factor in that scam, the punters from the other schools didn't know we had a boxer who could fight. This is just the opposite. They know how good we are and what's more, we've never beaten them! This whole thing contradicts our business philosophy.”

“You know what your problem is, Peekay? You worry too much.”

“With you as a friend, that's hardly bloody surprising. I hope you've got a plan?”

Morrie opened his hands expansively. “Does a bird fly? Of course I've got a plan, but I may have to tap dance a little when we get there, so please excuse me if I don't explain it to you in detail. But I promise you, our business philosophy is intact.”

“Morrie, listen! Picking up a dozen punters in the shithouse is one thing; taking on a whole bloody Afrikaans school is another. You don't know these buggers like I do. These guys don't gamble, the Afrikaners are very religious, you know.”

“Greed, my dear Peekay, transcends religion. Did not the Roman soldiers gamble for Christ's garments at Golgotha? Besides, when those Helpmekaar guys see the odds I'm offering, their little Boer hands won't be able to get a kitchen knife to their money boxes fast enough.”

“Morrie, I hope this whole thing's kosher. If it turns out to be a con and they find out, we're dead meat!” Morrie had taught us all the Jewish word “kosher,” and it had become the generic term for something being legitimate.

Morrie smiled. “I've racked my brains. In fact, I'm rather ashamed of myself, but even with my considerable intellect, there is no way of ensuring the outcome, other than to pay them off, which is patently impossible. We simply have to beat them on the day. Believe me, it's as kosher as my granma's chicken soup.” He turned to me and gave me his most disarming smile. “Peekay, I know you've got a considerable rep with these Boers, no way I'm going to spoil that. You're the only
rooinek
Christian gentleman they respect.” He paused. “Just get it into your head that we can beat the bastards!”

“I hope you didn't mean you'd pay them off if you could find a way?”

“No, of course not, I was only kidding. The nicest part of a scam is the brains part. Anyone can learn to cheat.”

We reached the top of the hill and arrived at the Helpmekaar gates just as school was getting out. A sea of brown blazers piped with yellow braid engulfed our two green ones. Remarks were flying left, right, and center, and things were getting decidedly uncomfortable.

“What now?” I whispered to Morrie.

“We just wait here, you'll see,” he replied.

Just then a voice cut through the sea of brown blazers. “Peekay, howzit?” It was Jannie Geldenhuis. “Sorry I'm late, man, I had to see one of the masters. Come with me.” He extended his hand in the Boer manner and we shook it in turn and then followed him through the gates.

“Magtig,
I thought we were going to be lynched,” I said to Jannie in Afrikaans.

“No way, man, they all know you here, you a sort of hero.”

We had reached the school toilets, where a couple of guys about our own age were having a quiet smoke. Jannie asked them politely to leave and they kicked at the ground with the toe cap of their shoes, then, deciding to obey, killed their cigarettes by pinching the heads off and putting the unused
stompie
in their blazer pockets for use later.

Morrie said he'd accept odds of three to one on the Prince of Wales School winning.

Geldenhuis gasped. “You're crazy, man! We already beat you four games to nil!”

“Those are the odds,” Morrie said quietly.

“That's blery terrific for the punters,” Geldenhuis said, “but what about us? We—you'll be cleaned out! Fifteen percent of nothing is nothing, and I'll end up with my arse kicked by twelve hundred bloody angry Helpmekaar punters.”

Geldenhuis was not just a pretty face, I observed. Morrie'd gone crackers! Helpmekaar had to be favored to win. Three to one odds was suicide.

“Okay, Geldenhuis. Peekay and I will give you a written guarantee that we'll honor our debts if the Prince of Wales loses.” He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and handed me a square of folded paper. I opened it to see that it was a guarantee by The Bank to pay in the event of a Helpmekaar win. There was a place at the bottom for two signatures. Morrie had already signed as one of them.

“Sign it and give it to him,” Morrie said casually.

I made a rough calculation in my head. Assuming two thirds of the punters bet against us at an average of two shillings a bet, we stood to lose around 370 pounds. If we sold The Bank to a syndicate and our rights to Miss Bornstein's famous correspondence school notes and took all our savings, we could just make it.

I breathed a sigh of relief. If it had been more than our total assets, I would have had to turn Morrie down in front of Geldenhuis, causing us both no end of embarrassment. I borrowed Morrie's Parker 51 and, holding the guarantee against the toilet wall, I signed it. But I can tell you I was not happy; Morris Levy was going to be in a lot of shit when we were alone again.

Geldenhuis took the guarantee from me, read it, and pulled out a small leather wallet from his pocket. As he opened it to stow the guarantee, I noticed it contained no money.

“Okay, Geldenhuis, twenty percent of the winnings or fifty quid now. It's your choice,” Morrie said.

Like me before Morrie had entered my life, Jannie Geldenhuis had probably never seen a ten-pound note in his life, much less fifty. Eight pounds a week was the average white worker's wage. Helpmekaar was not a private school, and his parents were probably battling to make ends meet.

Morrie had read his man correctly. “I'll take the fifty pounds now,” Geldenhuis said.

Jannie Geldenhuis must have believed we couldn't win; Morrie was offering him fifty quid against a potential of seventy-five.