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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504035705 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Distribution |
| Publication date: | 04/05/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 168 |
| File size: | 238 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Conspiracy
By Odie Hawkins
Holloway House Publishing Co.
Copyright © 2012 Odie HawkinsAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3570-5
CHAPTER 1
He alternately slept and gazed out of the window. There was so little to do on a plane. One could stroll the aisles, strike up nebulous conversations with fellow passengers, fix the earphones in place, watch the movie.
Henrik Malan did not care for any of those pastimes, he preferred sleeping and gazing out at the clouds. These two activities gave him the opportunity to rest and focus on the problems he would be forced to deal with when he finally reached his destination.
"Can I get you something, sir?"
"No, no thank you, I'm quite comfortable."
He stared into the stewardess' eyes. A dark-brown-skinned Black woman with blue contact lenses. It was obvious that she liked him. She had shown every sign of being attracted to him after the flight was less than two hours old.
A Black woman with blue eyes, as blue as his own eyes. He decided not to try to figure out why she was wearing blue contact lenses.
He had learned, over the course of many trips to the United States, not to judge the behavior of the African-Americans by his own standards. They were an unpredictable bunch, the American Blacks, a perfect illustration, in his mind, of what happened when inferior people were granted a piece of a superior process.
"Well, if you need anything, just buzz. O.K.?" And she winked.
"Yes, of course."
He smiled at her back as she strutted toward the cockpit.
Women. Women were a species apart, he felt; scrape the skin off of them and no matter whether they were Black, brown, white or any other shade, they still had the markings of a different species.
Why was she attracted to him? Was it because he was "handsome?" He never thought of himself in matinee idol terms. His own reasoning told him that he was a youthful-looking fifty-year-old man, blonde hair streaked with gray, clean shaven, what some people called a distinguished-looking chap, lean and fit from regular exercise and no overindulgence in alcohol and the wrong foods.
He absently fingered the crescent-shaped scar at the right corner of his mouth.
I wonder what she would feel for me if she knew I was a South African, an Afrikaner, a Boer, a colonel in the South African Secret Police.
He smiled again, a wistful smile; who knows? Being a woman, she might find me even more attractive. I would have an "evil" quality that seems to be attractive to some women.
He flashed back to the white American college woman he had met three years before, on a mission to New York.
"Are you really from South Africa?" she had asked, puzzled by his slight accent.
"Yes, I am a South African."
He was feeling congenial and felt no need to avoid the inevitable debate he knew that they would have to have. And they had had it.
They continued the debate well into the night, at his hotel, after a good French dinner, wine and cognac. He felt better with a false name, distant.
"Are you actually saying, bottom line, that Black people are not qualified to govern themselves?"
"No, I am not saying that. I'm saying that they are not qualified to govern us."
He had watched her, pretending to be asleep, the following morning, as she scribbled a heartfelt note and tiptoed out of his life.
"Dear John," he nodded off, remembering the contents of the note ...
"Dear John, I had to leave before you woke up; I just couldn't bear the thought of being with you any longer. Somehow you don't really seem to be what you seem to be. I hate racism and racists, especially intelligent racists. I had a lovely time.
Sincerely yours,
Mary Beth Sawyer"
How many Mary Beth Sawyers had he been forced to deal with in the United States? He mentally counted three. No, five.
Strangely, he had found several other women who took a position to the right of him.
"I think what you guys are doing is right on. That's one of the problems we've had here because we didn't try to keep our niggers in their place."
Racists. He hated them. He felt that there was something inherently warped about feeling that one race was superior to another.
He had tried to explain his position to an American businessman, on his previous trip to California.
"You must understand, my friend, we are not trying to keep the African in bondage. We are trying to maintain a civilization that he would destroy, if given the chance."
"Say whatever you want to, pal. All I can say to you is this — keep those monkeys under your thumb by any means necessary or else you're gonna have the kind of problems we have here."
Once again, a wistful smile developed. The Americans were so unsophisticated about racial matters. It seemed to be quite simplistic for them: either you kept the Africans under your thumb or you released them.
He made a subconscious groan, and peered down into the sulfite-flaked clouds of the Los Angeles basin.
"Please, adjust your seat belts. We'll be landing at Los Angeles International Airport shortly. Thank you for flying ..."
He stared at the city welling up on his right; rows of pillboxes, kidney -shaped swimming pools, monotony. She strutted through the aisle one last time, making certain that everyone had his/her seat belt in place, leaned over to place a slip of paper with her name and telephone number on it in his lap.
Once again he was in Los Angeles, one of the cities in the world he really enjoyed, an insane place, laced with freeways and shopping malls.
He could never put his finger on what he liked about the place. There were several things: the "spread-out flavor" appealed to him, the sense of being anonymous, it was as though you were in a kind of fairyland. And the fact that he didn't feel repressed to the wall by Africans.
"Call me," she whispered as he left the plane, and winked again, her blue contacts giving her a weird look.
He smiled and nodded yes and immediately thought, call you what?
He had five days to do his work, no time to "call" anyone, indulge in sex-fantasy games.
Van Damm was there, almost the caricature of a subservient chauffeur. Malan made a mental note to request that the Consulate get rid of Van Damm, he always greeted his arrival as though he were a Mafia chief or some kind of royal figure. It focused too much attention on him.
"Good afternoon, sir, I trust you had a good flight."
"Good enough."
He handed him the ticket for his bags and, in the process, rolled the stewardess' number into a small ball and flicked it away from him.
He settled into the passenger's seat, feeling slightly rusty from the hours of sitting down, but focused.
"Van Damm, I want you to drive east to Western Avenue, make a left turn going north on Western, and then turn left, going west on Wilshire Boulevard when you get there."
"Yessir."
He felt in tune with a city when he was driven through it, absorbed a sense of its rhythm.
Los Angeles was always changing, in small ways; a new gas station here, a one-story building torn down on this corner, a two-story building replacing it, a small shopping mall overwhelmed by a larger shopping mall, affluence everywhere, even in the Black areas.
He stared at the Black faces as they drove north on Western Avenue. It could be a section of Soweto, he thought, as they paused for the light at Manchester and Western.
"Ever seen so many filthy kaffirs in your life, sir?"
"They are not 'filthy kaffirs', Van Damm. They are underprivileged African-American citizens."
"Yessir."
He hated that, the automatic assumption prevalent amongst a certain level of South Africans (and a number of others) that being a South African white automatically translated-equated to being a racist. He freshened the mental notation to have Van Damm fired.
Western Avenue seemed to reveal one of the classical circumstances of America: the familiar stranger-neighborhood.
Now Black, now Latino, now Korean. Korean. He took in the shop fronts, the exotic block lettering. Koreans.
There seemed to be thousands more than he remembered seeing during his last visit.
"Wilshire Boulevard, sir."
He sighed and settled back. Nothing ethnic about the core of Wilshire, it was a street that was created for money. It could've been one of the main boulevards in Jo'burg.
"I was instructed to remind you, sir, that your meeting with Dr. Allen is for 10:00 a.m."
"Thank you, Van Damm, I have the schedule."
The Beverly Wilshire, the top-hatted Black doorman in the black green monkey suit.
"Evening ..."
He felt bored to the bone after a half hour in his suite. Same old, dreary stuff on the television, same old, uninteresting hotel room. He decided to rent a car. He knew where to go and what to do on a Monday night in Los Angeles.
"This is 515, I'd like to have a car for the evening."
"Immediately, sir, thank you."
Fifteen minutes later he was in a rent-a-car, heading toward the Crenshaw Strip.
Wonder if I'll run into the blue-eyed woman in the Pied Piper? Hardly likely, she'd be more likely to be found in the beachfront joints.
He never Celt hesitant to tour the jazz points in Los Angeles, the Black good-time spots. Whenever his presence was noted, there seemed to be an immediate assumption, after his "English" accent was noted, that he was an adventurous type who had strayed from the beaten path, along with a few others.
He made an impulsive left turn on Martin Luther King Drive, to Maria's Memory Lane Supper Club.
The odors, the perfumes greeted his entrance. He always liked that. No matter where he went, he knew that he would be pleasantly assaulted by the Black scent.
Blacks, all over the world, he reflected, seemed to love incense, perfumes, pleasant smells. He occupied a seat at the bar and looked the situation over.
It was a bit early, 9:00 p.m., too early for the kind of feeling he knew would develop later.
"What'll you have?"
"Uhh, let's make that a gin 'n tonic."
The men to the left and right of him seemed to relax. He was obviously a foreigner, someone they didn't share mutually bad feelings with. He felt the tension disappear.
Wonder what they would feel if they knew I was Colonel Henrik Malan of the South African Secret Police? He played with the thought for a moment, sipping his drink.
There was a strong possibility that they would ignore any announcement that he was a South African, a "beast" from the "terrorist state." Or maybe they would follow him outside and beat him to death.
He looked around at the audience. A few white couples, one table populated by a mixed bunch, himself, the only single white man in the place.
They must think I'm a "John," out looking for dark meat. Once again he reflected on the dilemma that the African-American presented. It seemed to be almost impossible to tell anything about their character. They could give the appearance of being calm, easy going, at peace, and then riot.
He didn't feel ill at ease, but at the same time he didn't feel that he knew them.
"Uhh, bartender, I'll have another one of these."
He felt the man's peripheral glance.
"You from England?" he asked.
Why not be from England?
"Uhh, yes, how did you guess?"
"Well, I could tell from your accent, but aside from that, I could tell from the cut of your clothes. The English put together some nice pieces."
"Have you been to England?"
"'Bout two years ago, me 'n my ol' lady. We decided to trip out to Europe and we wanted to go somewhere where they spoke English."
"How did you like it?"
"We had a ball."
They were interrupted by the star of the evening ...
"Ladies and gentlemen, the lady you've all been waiting to see and hear, without further ado, we proudly present the one 'n only Zena McNeil. Let's put our hands together and give her a big round of applause!"
Malan was struck by the beauty of the woman who glided into the spotlight. In South Africa, she would've been classified a "colored," as would half of the Black people in the club, including the man who had opened a conversation with him.
Here, in America, in Maria's Memory Lane, she was simply an African-American singer. And an excellent one.
Once again he was stunned by the immediacy of the feelings that erupted during the set. He had witnessed the same emotions in clubs in Soweto, where his appearance had produced a much more subdued effect.
The club was bubbling after the singer's appearance.
"Lady's too much, ain't she?"
Too much? It was not a Pidgin, it really was another language.
"Yes, I guess one could say that."
It was time to go, the animation produced by the singer and the effect of three gin 'n tonics warned him that it was time to go, time to get ready for tomorrow.
"Check, bartender."
"You leavin', man, it ain't really started happenin' yet."
"Gotta go, busy day, lots to do, you know how it is when you have a few days and lots to do."
"Hey, I can dig where you comin' from."
He stared at the man's outstretched hand for a moment. Blacks were so ... so innocent ... so quick to grant their approval. He shook the man's hand.
"Give my regards to the Queen. Name's Jessie."
"By all means, the minute I see her, Jessie."
"What's your name?"
"Paul Marley," he answered, without thinking about it.
"You any kin to Bob Marley?" the man asked, with a broad smile.
"No telling, Jessie, the Marley tree had a lot of branches." The man smiled and waved to him, full of goodwill, as he made his way away and out of the bar.
He drove supercautiously back to his hotel. They'd made a big deal of any South African being cited for anything on the streets of South Central Los Angeles after dark.
South Central Los Angeles. He dismissed the familiar, sinister sound of it as he looked through his messages.
"Dear Col. Malan, welcome to Los Angeles ..." Stupid Vervoerd. He had no sense of secrecy. Anything that happened was worth a telegram, purely for the sake of form. Did it ever occur to him that he might not want certain people to know he was there?
The rest of the messages were like junk mail. If anyone was listening, they'd have to believe that a member of the South African Secret Police was in town. He shook his head in disbelief. It was incredible about the "American" operatives; after a year they became so "Americanized," they needed to be replaced.
He gazed out at a full moon before nodding off. Jonas Vervoerd offered his usual nervous greeting. "Welcome to Los Angeles, Colonel Malan."
"I received your telegram, Vervoerd," he said dryly and seated himself behind the bureaucrat's desk.
"Uhh, yes, of course."
They stared at each other for an awkward moment, Vervoerd wringing and washing his hands as usual. It was always difficult to have members of the Secret Police visit the Consulate, they seemed so cold and rigid.
"Dr. Allen will be arriving shortly. In the meanwhile, I have several suggestions to make. Number one, I would prefer that Van Damm not be employed by us any longer. You may give him two weeks' severance pay."
"Van Damm? He's one of our best ..."
Malan stabbed the nervous bureaucrat with a cold glance.
"Yes, of course, we'll see to it immediately."
He made a mental note to have Vervoerd replaced. America seemed to cause a terminal weakness of some sort, he noticed. After a couple years some people had to be replaced because they had become soft, or weakened in some way.
The secretary's voice spilled from the intercom.
"Dr. Allen is here, sir."
"Thank you, allow me five minutes and then send him in."
"Yessir."
"Vervoerd, you have an option, you can be a part of this meeting or not."
"If it's just the same with you, Colonel Malan ..."
"I am simply Henrik Malan here, how many times do I have to remind you?"
"Uhhh, sorry sir. If it's just the same with you, I have other matters to attend to."
"Suit yourself. Send Dr. Allen in, please."
Yes, there was definitely a need to send men like Jonas Vervoerd back home periodically, to "stiffen their backbones."
"Good morning, Dr. Allen, welcome to a bit of South Africa in America."
"Good morning, Mr. Malan."
"Please be seated."
Henrik Malan made a quick reading of Dr. Marcus Allen, again. Definitely an academic, but there was nothing of the absentminded professor about his manner. It was quite easy to see, behind the black horn rims, a sharp mixture of cynicism and intelligence.
Dr. Allen was one of the principal architects of his country's television image. He was the one who had warned them to take the heroic images of young Africans off of television.
"Don't you see what's happening? Even apathetic types are beginning to relate to their struggle — you must remove those images from the tube if your government wants to accomplish its aims without outside meddling."
He was a valuable consultant. His fee was large but he was worth it.
"Well now, what do you have for us this time, Dr. Allen?"
He watched Dr. Allen snap his briefcase open and dip inside for a sheaf of papers and a manila folder. "Per your instructions, or should I say, as a result of our last meeting," a quick, crafty smile, "I've developed four programs, designed for the American market. Each of them has a well-structured subliminal message. I think you'll appreciate the subtle messages contained in each of them."
"Both the president and I have been quite satisfied with your work."
"Thank you. In addition to the programs, I've designed one special, specifically aimed at the Black American audience."
Malan made a mental note of a few key words. He said "designed," not created. "Developed," "structured."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Conspiracy by Odie Hawkins. Copyright © 2012 Odie Hawkins. Excerpted by permission of Holloway House Publishing Co..
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