59

SUMMIT MEETING

OBADIAH WAS MANHANDLING THE EMPTY TEA URN through the swing door to the kitchen when Captain Ngobese rapped on the speakers’ table again. ‘Have you all had enough to eat? I’m calling the meeting to order.’

Raylene had organised glasses of water, notepads and ballpoints for the speakers. After a brief jostle over positions, the captain and the Prophet Hallelujah took their places in the middle, with Sis’ Diliza and Tannie Charmaine on either side and Father Liam and Girlie Ming at each end.

Clumps of chatting people broke up and there was a lot of shuffling as they found chairs. On the principle of women first (and good women even more so) the nuns seated themselves in a grey phalanx in the front row. Violet, Tinkie and Una sat behind them, next to Old Mrs Ming. The Reverend Dauncey said he preferred to stand and loomed like a gaunt hat rack above Old Mrs Ming, who fidgeted under the alien aura of his hard white dog collar.

In the next row, Tsietsi sat between Khanya and Jo, and Rejoice between Thulazi and Winifred. Behind them, Queenie settled herself next to Ma Sicelo and Lily. Benjamin smiled at her as he took the adjoining chair, motioning Raylene to leave the used dishes and cups as they were and come and sit next to him. When she did, he looked round proudly to see how many people had noticed.

Vigilance leaned over from the chair behind and tapped his arm. ‘Ehe, Mr Benjamin, you are onto a good thing. That one can work.’

Benjamin blushed and Raylene swung round with clicking braids and a tart, ‘Thanks for the compliment, Oupa. But so can ants.’

He shrugged and sat back again, alert for other alliances.

From his left, Dr Ulrich said, ‘Ants are goggas of low cunning. All the door frames in the clinic are hollow from being nibbled away by termites.’

Vigilance gave him a reproving look. ‘You should paint them with carbolineum, Doctor. Very effective.’

‘But it pongs.’

‘Eh?’ Hand behind his ear.

‘It’s too foul-smelling to use inside.’ The old man’s going deaf as well as peeing too often, he thought. I must schedule another check-up. And we’ll need help from the Public Health Department if people keep pouring into this dump. Those temporary toilets will overflow, and then what? Gastro. Dysentery. Cholera.

As if echoing his thought, Palesa said on his left, ‘You’ll be in big demand from now on, Doctor. No more time for babalaas.’

‘I did the trick, though. That baby’s alive and kicking.’

‘We did the trick. There were women on your delivery team, nè?’

He favoured her with his sardonic smile. ‘Oh, ja. I stand corrected. And do you include the brown Madonna, as Sister Dineo would have us believe? If all this carries on, we’ll be neck-deep in religious cranks.

‘Do you have to be so cynical?’

‘Wait till we have squads of old ladies in black wrecking their aged knees doing penance on the village gravel,’ he said as a parting shot, and looked round for someone else to irritate.

Tex had sat down beyond him, leaving only two chairs for the Van der Linde sisters, so Rooi Barend had an excuse to stand at the back, burping. He had sidled into the bar and helped himself to a cold Castle.’

Captain Ngobese raised his voice. ‘Are we ready? Shall I begin?’

‘Not without me.’ Rod Greyling pushed his way in through the swing door from the kitchen in a clash of cameras. ‘Your officious cops wouldn’t let me in, so I had to come round the back.’

Benjamin said, ‘No press. Sorry, Rod. This is a village meeting.’

‘Leave.’ The captain pointed towards the door.

‘No way. I’m a resident here. And this is my story.’

‘It’s our story!’ several voices called.

‘Out,’ said the captain.

‘I refuse.’ Rod’s dusty combat boots clumped up to the speakers’ table where he turned towards the villagers. ‘You all know me. I’ve taken your photos. I’ve been into your homes. I broke this amazing story to the world. All I’m asking is to be here with you now, as an honest scribe.’

‘Very touching, but no,’ the captain said. ‘Out.’

‘I second that.’ Sister Immaculata raised a belligerent forefinger.

‘Off the record?’ Rod tried.

‘How can we trust a dung beetle who’d sell his soul for a pile of shit?’ Dr Ulrich called. ‘Back in your hole, Greyling.’

‘If I promise no photos?’

‘No deal. Vuma!’

The combat boots went clumping out through the thwack-thwack of the swing door into the kitchen, where Rod took them off and crept back in his socks to peer through its window. People were so unreasonable about journalists, who were just doing their jobs.

‘Right,’ said the captain. ‘We need to talk about how we’re going to tackle the next few weeks. With all this publicity about a vision—’

‘The vision,’ corrected Sister Hilary.

‘Our Madonna. Brown like us.’ Sister Nokwe clapped her joy.

Tinkie Harmse, sitting next to her, whispered, ‘Nazaret says that a brown Madonna is an abomination, but I don’t go along with that. Tell me more,’ and leaned sideways to hear.

‘—with all this publicity,’ Captain Ngobese persisted, ‘I anticipate increasing numbers of pilgrims. It happens all over the world.’

‘People are drawn by signs and marvels, poor fools,’ muttered Dr Ulrich. ‘Next thing it’ll be UFOS and an alien invasion.’

When Palesa glared at him, he stuck his thumbs in his ears and waggled fingers at her. Rejoice giggled and Thulazi had to nudge her to be quiet as the captain raised his voice.

‘Our existing sanitary arrangements aren’t anywhere near sufficient and the café, store and hotel combined can’t provide the quantity of food and drink required for crowds.’

Girlie Ming wheezed, ‘Don’t forget the Beijing Bazaar. We do very good pies: chicken and mushroom, chicken curry and vegetarian. Everybody has been raving about them. Ask Mommy.’

‘Of course, yes. But we need a co-ordinated catering plan and places for people to sit and eat, as well as proper toilet facilities. Two questions: where do we find the funds and who is going to do the work?’

Tannie Charmaine said, ‘I can organise volunteer work parties.’

Not to be outdone, Violet called, ‘Me too. And funds.’

‘Thanks. Perhaps you two ladies could get together after this meeting about sharing the responsibility?’ When they both nodded, the captain went on, ‘I’ll handle security problems and provide men to control traffic and parking areas. Any more suggestions?’

‘Mr Chairman. There’s one thing nobody’s thought about.’ Winifred stood up, an old scarecrow whom most people knew only by sight. ‘All these pilgrims coming. Where do they find the brown Madonna?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing to see, really. No focus. Just a girl’s say-so. That’s why people were milling about on Sunday.’

There was a silence. In the exhilaration of sudden fame, nobody had thought of an actual location. Winifred sat down again.

Sister Dineo offered, ‘We could create a shrine. In the burnt-out hut, maybe? Sister Hilary does lovely posters and we have some left-over silver lamé. It would be an honour.’

The other nuns bent excited heads towards her, agog with plans, though Sister Immaculata sat erect, miffed that she hadn’t thought of it.

Captain Ngobese said, ‘Thank you, Sister. Any other concerns?’

‘Yes.’ The prophet rose in majesty next to him. ‘We are the ones who suffered most on Sunday, being overrun by hundreds of people who don’t belong to our congregation. I would like to—’

‘You asked for it,’ Father Liam put in, ‘stealin’ our saint and all.’

‘I did not! I merely—’

‘Happened to mention in passing that Ma-Jesu had taken a taxi all the way down from heaven to cleanse your flock of their sins?’

‘She’s not your property, Father,’ Violet called.

‘Nor yours, Mama Violet. My point is that I don’t think it’s fittin’ to confuse people with patchwork theology.’

‘Patchwork?’ roared the prophet. ‘Are you accusing me of cobbling my beliefs together?’

Vigilance stood up. ‘Excuse, please. I am a cobbler. I mend shoes. It is good work, not patchwork. You insult me.’

‘Shhh, bhuti. He didn’t mean that,’ Khanya whispered.

‘I wasn’t talking to you, old man.’ The prophet flapped his hand to make Vigilance sit. ‘I was the one being insulted. This priest—’

‘Father Liam Connor O’Laoghaire, to use my full imposin’ name. I was there at your service. I heard well what you said.’

‘And it was good.’ Queenie cut in, raising a fist in salute. ‘Hallelujah for the brown Madonna! We’re all back in business now.’

‘I wouldn’t have put it so blatantly,’ Girlie Ming said, ‘but you’re right, sisi. Our turnover is greatly improved. Greatly.’

‘Mine is unbelievable,’ Tex muttered.

‘The store has done very well too. We can pay many debts now, including—’ Khanya glanced sideways at Jo, ‘your outstanding fees.’

‘I’d better get swotting, then.’ She smiled her thanks at him.

The prophet raised a beneficent hand, taking charge again. ‘To continue—’

‘I was there at your gathering too, and it was wonderful,’ Una called from her seat, trying to be peace-dovish.

‘You were? That’s rank betrayal, going into the enemy camp. The man’s a charlatan. A con artist,’ Reverend Dauncey erupted behind her, unloading his grievances all at once like a ton of gravel being dumped.

Una got up and faced him. ‘He’s not, Ambrose. The prophet’s a good man and a better preacher than you.’

‘He can’t be! He’s a fraud! He lures my congregants to that tent and-andand—’ The reverend was frothing at the mouth, partly with rage and partly because he was half-starved. The rest of the meeting watched appalled as he advanced on the table where the speakers were sitting and the prophet stood, mute with offence, ‘and seduces them. That’s it, seduces! I’ll report him to my bishop. To the police. To the president! He should be locked up for li-i-i-i-i—’

As Una hurried forward to stop him, he collapsed on the floor and began to fit, arching backwards and juddering. Dr Ulrich’s chair fell over as he leapt up and ran to kneel by him, ordering, ‘Get back everyone. I’ll handle this. It’s a seizure.’ And to Benjamin, ‘Bring a blanket, will you?’

When it was over, they carried him to a lounge sofa where Una sat with him, stroking his face and murmuring, ‘Poor Ambrose. You’re in a complete state. We’ll get you to hospital now-now. Sorry, old thing. I pushed you too far.’ Her mothy face was contrite.

In the dining room, Captain Ngobese said, ‘Can we go on? I would ask the abafundisi to settle their theological differences somewhere else. This meeting is about the emergency situation that faces us all. We have to make plans as a community now.’

As if to underline his urgency, there was a hiss of air brakes as a bus pulled up on the gravel outside the hotel. The Miracle of Crocodile Flats had begun. Within weeks the plans would multiply, as would hope and prosperity as visitors poured in, tills jingled and a run-down farming village recovered its self-respect.

Within months Benjamin had married Raylene: beaded braids, skintight jeans, lurex boob tube and all. His mother had prayed so hard for him to meet a nice Jewish girl with maybe a bit of money, never mind her looks, but what she got for a daughter-in-law was a gifted teacher from the Cape Flats. Acceptance took time, but Benjamin’s growing success helped no end. ‘My son, the Crocodile Flats hotelier,’ she boasts to her friends over bridge.

The meeting took place in the last hot week of October as dust devils danced over the plain that had once been grassy and green. Soon, with any luck, there’d be a thunderstorm with cracks of lightning and rain hammering on tin roofs, followed by delirious children running through the muddy puddles.

And the river might just begin to flow again.