9

THE GOD BUSINESS

IN THE OUTSPAN BAR, BENJAMIN POURED A generous glass of Meerlust Rubicon ’86 and wondered again how wealthy the Catholic Church really was. Father Liam ordered expensive vintages.

‘Thank you kindly, Ben. I need this.’ Father Liam held the glass by the stem to swirl the wine, raised it to judge the colour, plunged his nose over the rim for a thoughtful sniff, took a sip, rolled it round his tongue, sucked in some gurgling air through one side of his mouth, paused, swallowed, considered the aftertaste and pronounced, ‘Just as Platter says it should be: ripe berries vergin’ on chocolate, but essentially dry.’

‘Excellent.’ Benjamin was respectful of a good wine but thought the tasting ceremony went a bit far. He liked ginger beer.

When the glass was empty Father Liam pushed it back. ‘Another, if you please. It’s been a long day. I’ve begun to imagine signs and portents.’

From the look on his face, Benjamin deduced that he had been teaching a catechism class. They have their rites as we have ours, he thought as the bottle chuckled again, recalling his struggle with Hebrew and the mortifying embarrassment of drying up during his bar mitzvah reading of the Torah.

Benjamin was a great-grandson of the Jewish lawyer who had acted for the amaPula people all those years ago. Realising the potential of the main road that ran through the village, the lawyer had returned in the early thirties to build the Outspan Hotel, which became an oasis of comfort to travellers and motoring families. In its dining room, waiters in starched white suits with red cummerbunds served meals that ran the gamut from soup to fish to meat to puddings with custard, followed by coffee in thick white cups. Kids had a break on the rubber-tyre swings in the playground; women retired to the Ladies to fish out powder compacts and renew lipstick; men slaked their thirst in the bar with another cold Castle, followed by a luxurious pee before taking the wheel again.

But a new road in the fifties bypassed Crocodile Flats and its hotel. After years of decline, the Outspan was on the verge of bankruptcy and Benjamin had been exiled from Cape Town to manage its death throes. ‘It’s your last chance,’ warned his mother. Her diffident Benny wasn’t a patch on his father.

‘I know, Mom.’

She winced at the anticipation of failure on his face. You could rely on him to do a good day’s work and not plunder the till, but it wasn’t enough. ‘So look for opportunities, eh?’ she said. ‘Don’t just stand there dreaming.’

And here he was, doing just that.

Father Liam’s muscular arm came down with a thump on the bar counter. ‘A superb vintage. Now one for the road.’

‘You’re not driving?’

‘No. Just after a drop of Dutch courage. It’s the ecumenical meetin’ tonight. I need to brace meself for Pastor Nazaret.’

‘He has a keen nose, Father.’

The answering laugh was a squall of Meerlust. ‘None keener. I’ve told him it’s cough mixture but doubts are settin’ in.’

‘Maybe two doses are enough?’

‘Ah, you know how it is.’ When his glass had been refilled, Father Liam raised it and took a blissful swig.

‘I do know.’ Because his Afrikaans was weak, Benjamin didn’t even qualify as a boere-Jood in the pastor’s eyes.

‘And the reverend will be there too with his plummy voice carryin’ on about his archbishop. “My esteemed superior in Christ” he calls him between gritted teeth.’

‘Why?’

‘He expected to get the job but it went to an energetic canon from Maseru. He blames it on affirmative action, but I reckon that being sent to Crocodile Flats is the judgement of God on the Reverend Dauncey.’

‘It’s the judgement of God on all of us.’

Benjamin’s day had been worse than usual because there were only six bed-nights booked for November. December was blank. His travellingsalesman clientele had deserted him. The Outspan Hotel with its gloomy passages, squeaky floors, stained enamel baths on claw feet, uncertain plumbing, candlewick bedspreads and wardrobes smelling of mothballs could not begin to compete with motels. ‘Completely run down,’ the bank manager had sneered.

Father Liam murmured, ‘Keep the faith, Ben.’

The bartender-cum-failed-hotelier managed a faint smile. ‘Mine or yours?’

‘Does it matter? Both have their virtues.’

‘So has communism.’ Benjamin had flirted with the Left during his brief (failed) year at university but the jargon had gone over his head.

Father Liam shrugged and reached for the wallet in one of the mysterious recesses of his cassock. ‘Yesterday’s heroes. How much is that?’

‘The usual. Do you want me to cork it for carrying?’ Unfinished bottles often went into the priestly briefcase if Father Liam was going back to his room.

‘Not tonight. I’m obliged to do justice to Sister Immaculata’s Thursday offerin’ of toad-in-the-hole. She watches every mouthful.’ He gave a delicate shudder. ‘You have no idea how hard it is to feign enthusiasm over sausages in soggy batter. Even toads would turn up their noses.’

‘At least you don’t have to cook it yourself. I’m getting tired of the café’s fish ’n chips. My Mom’s a helluva good cook.’ Benjamin handed over the change.

‘The café’s steak-and-kidney pies aren’t bad.’

‘I can’t even look at kidneys, Father. Lost one of mine as a kid to nephritis and it doesn’t seem right to, like, eat them, you know?’

The priest’s shout of laughter came with a hearty clap on the shoulder. ‘Sensitive fellow. I’ll be in again tomorrow, eh?’

Large settlements of underprivileged people have a way of attracting churches, and with forty per cent unemployment Crocodile Flats was a potent magnet. Besides the three already-mentioned churchmen and the Little Sisters of Extreme Destitution, there were branches of the Salvation Army, the Zion Christian Church, the Quakers and a Jewish charitable trust. The Muslim Poor Relief soup kitchen came in a caravan twice a week. A Chinese astrologer visited Girlie Ming once a month. A Buddhist retreat had been established in an isolated farmhouse.

As if all these were not enough for one overgrown village, there was also a fire-and-brimstone preacher shunned by the other ministers because his church was decidedly not (to borrow a concept from a co-religion) kosher.

‘They’re jealous of my pulling power,’ maintained the Prophet Hallelujah, adding with a genial smile, ‘and nobody puts on a better show. That’s the big secret with revivals: you’ve got to attract and entertain believers instead of boring them.’

He claimed to have founded the Correct Baptised God Come Down in Africa Church in 1989 at the command of the Almighty Himself, via the tickey box outside the post office. Within months of a first foot-stomping gathering, his congregations had mushroomed.

The Prophet Hallelujah lived up to his title by making dramatic prophecies at irregular intervals, which brought people flocking so as not to miss one. He gave rousing sermons, spoke in tongues, cast out spirits and laid hands on the sick and suffering. Once a year he led a barefoot pilgrimage up the koppies to a holy rock said to bear the imprint of God’s right thumb. Best of all were the monthly baptisms at which white-robed candidates clutching plastic roses were dunked in a reservoir and rose up bedraggled and elated to the joyous singing of a gospel choir and the ululations of onlookers.

The prophet’s success hinged on one simple question: who in Crocodile Flats would not wish to be born again into a better life?

Too many people were crammed into the shacks, sharing germs and bugs with their blankets. In the stinking pit latrines lurked a virulent strain of cholera. Gastroenteritis, kwashiorkor, bilharzia, worms and impetigo were rife among the children; TB and venereal diseases stalked the adults. All but one of the prostitutes were HIV-positive and progressing to full-blown AIDS, which their clients were busy passing on to their wives and girlfriends. An immigrant who’d walked half the length of Africa had brought leprosy; he thought the loss of his toes were because they had worn off. Some Anopheles mosquitoes had hitched a ride in a bunch of bananas from Mozambique and begun to breed in the pools of stagnant water in the alleys, carrying a new strain of drug-resistant malaria.

Only the informal economy – hawking, spaza shops, shack-building, taxi-driving, burglary, shoplifting, barbering, hair-braiding, dagga and drug dealing, prostitution, shebeen-keeping and coffin-making – kept food on the rickety tables and loan sharks from the doors.

To put things in perspective, however, the settlement was no worse than slums in other countries and had a better climate than most. The blazing African sun dried and sterilised a good deal of the foetid waste; it rained seldom and snowed only once every ten years. During winter, icy winds howling up from the Antarctic were alleviated by the midday sunshine, which warmed cold bones, especially if you were leaning against a mud or corrugated-iron wall.

Dark clouds often have a silver lining, though in Africa they are feared for the mighty bolts of lightning they unleash.