Seas of South Africa (25 page)

I crept down the hall towards a door on the left that opened
into a large room. I stopped, shut my eyes, and listened. Someone was breathing inside the room. “Hello?” I said quietly.

There was silence, and then . . . “Hello.”

It was an old man's voice: rough, but quiet.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. I couldn't think of anything else to say.

“I live here. What are you doing here?”

“I'm visiting.”

“You're visiting in the middle of the night?”

“Yes. I travel in a submarine. I didn't want to moor it in Cape Town in the day, but I wanted to see Nelson Mandela's prison, so I thought I'd take a look at night. I didn't expect it to be open.”

“It isn't just Nelson Mandela's prison. Come in and sit down.”

I came into the room. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a small old man sitting on a chair on one side of the room. Except for a few chairs, the room was empty. I picked up another chair, put it down about ten feet away from him, and sat down. “My name is Alfred. I'm from Canada.”

“I am Tony.”

“Do you really live here?” For a split second it occurred to me he might be a ghost. He sort of looked like one. But he didn't sound like one.

“Yes, I live here. I have a small house. Many former prisoners have houses here.”

“You were a prisoner here?”

“Yes. Now, I am a tour guide. Every day I lead people through here, talk to them, and tell them what it was like to be a prisoner here.”

“Wow. That's cool. But . . . why are you here now, in the middle of the night?”

“I don't know. To remember, I guess. Sometimes, when I can't sleep, I like to come here. I like to sit in the dark and remember. In the day, it is too busy. Too many people. People come from all over the world. That is not how it was then. At night, in the dark, when no one is here, I can remember how it was.”

“Why do you want to remember that?”

He hesitated. Then he laughed. “I don't know.”

“Did you know Nelson Mandela?”

“Yes, very well. We were prisoners together. There were many other prisoners here. Nelson Mandela was just the most famous one. We have had many reunions since then, and he has come back often. But he is old now, and not so well. I haven't seen him for a while. Now, everyone wants to see Robben Island, because of him. Many famous people come here.”

We sat silently in the dark for a few moments. His breathing was shallow, and I wondered if he was not well, either. I had lots of things to ask him, but struggled to find the right words. “Why . . . Don't you want to leave, and travel the world?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“No. I never leave here.”

“I think that would feel like being in prison to me.”

He was quiet. And then, “That was one thing I learned while I was in prison.”

“What was that?”

“That we carry our prison inside of us. If we no longer carry it inside, we are never in prison.”

“I'm not sure I understand that.”

“It is something you must think about for a long time. It took me many years to understand it. It was Nelson Mandela who taught me that.”

“I will think about it. Can I ask you something else?”

“Ask.”

“Do you know why South Africa is such a violent country?”

Tony was quiet for a long time. I could only hear his breathing. It sounded like he had asthma. I wondered how many nights he got up and came here. I was guessing it was often. He took so long to answer my question, I was starting to wonder if he had forgotten it, or maybe even fallen asleep. He hadn't. He took a deeper breath finally, and then . . . “No. I do not know why. South Africa is a violent country. Very many people are angry, for a very long time. I do not know why.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Ask.”

“Under Apartheid, South Africa was divided between white people and black people, right?”

“Right.”

“And the white people controlled the government and army and police, and forced the black people to live in townships, and took away their rights, and kept them very poor, and without the opportunity for improving their lives, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, can you tell me, did they do it because they hated the colour of their skin, or did they do it because of money?”

Tony was silent again for a long time. This time I knew he was not sleeping.

“You ask interesting questions. I think, when I was your age, all I wanted to do was play ball with my friends. A long time ago, I would have said it was because of the colour of our skin. But since then I have learned that people can forget the colour of a person's skin. It just takes a little education. But people never lose their fear of not having enough money. So, I would have to say that I believe Apartheid was more because of money than the colour of our skin. I think they used the colour of our skin as an excuse, but the biggest fear was the fear for the loss of money. People are more afraid to lose their money than they are to live across the road from people of different coloured skin. But what causes so much violence in our society? That I do not know. You give me much to think about.”

“One person I met told me there would be violence here until people have suffered enough.”

“Hmm. That is interesting, but I think that people will
always suffer, even after they have suffered enough. How much is enough suffering? Isn't any suffering too much suffering? I think maybe violence will stop only when people have more respect for each other. That is something I heard Nelson Mandela say.”

“It sounds wise.”

“He is a wise man.”

“Thank you for answering my questions.”

“You are welcome. And now I must get some sleep, or I will fall asleep tomorrow while I am talking to groups of people.”

“Goodbye, Tony.”

“Goodbye, Alfred.” He laughed. “I thought you were a ghost.”

“I wondered if you were. Have you ever seen ghosts here?”

“Oh yes. There are many ghosts here. It is a difficult place to leave.”

I returned to the sub and motored out into the rising swells. I carried Hollie up and we leaned against the hatch together. Seaweed stood below us on the hull, pointing into the wind with his beak. The fog was lifting. There was the earliest hint of blue in the east. I reached up and felt the short stubble of hair on my head. It felt good. I stared north. The whole Atlantic lay ahead of us. It would bring us home. Then I turned and looked south. Just around the Cape, the Indian Ocean stretched all the way to Australia. It was the same distance in
both directions. I felt butterflies in my stomach. I thought this decision had been made. Why was I hesitating?

I thought of Los, and wondered how he was doing. Was he sitting up yet? Was he talking? I bet he was designing his sub in his mind. That's what I would be doing.

I thought of Nelson Mandela. He would be waking soon, somewhere in South Africa, unless he was awake at night, too, like Tony. Mandela was an old man now. Most of his life was behind him. He must have been pleased with what he had accomplished. He had fought Apartheid and won. He was Los' hero. He was many people's hero. And now, he was my hero too, even though my fight would be a different one—for the health of the sea. I had a feeling that Mandela's answer for the violence that threatened his country—more respect for people—was the same for what threatened the whole world, only it was bigger—more respect for all living things.

I took a deep breath and scratched Hollie's ear. The butterflies were fluttering in my stomach. I steered to portside and cranked up the engine. As we rounded the Cape of Good Hope once more, the sun came over the mountains of South Africa and warmed our faces. I looked down at Hollie's eager eyes. I wondered if he missed Little Laura. If he did, he didn't show it. He looked like a dog on a mission. The sparkle of adventure in his eyes confirmed what I was feeling in my gut. “You're absolutely right, Hollie. Appreciate your life. We're going to Australia.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Philip Roy resides in two places: his hometown, Antigonish, Nova Scotia, and his adopted town, St. Marys, Ontario. Continuing to write adventurous and historical young adult novels focusing on social, environmental, and global concerns, he is also excited to be presenting a picture book:
Mouse Tales
, the first volume in the
Happy the Pocket Mouse
series (Ronsdale Press), coming out in the new year. Along with the publication of
Seas of South Africa
this fall, Philip is bringing out the historical novel,
Me & Mr. Bell
(Cape Breton University Press). Besides writing, travelling, visiting schools, and running in the woods and countryside of Nova Scotia and Ontario, Philip spends his time composing music. His first score, for the Nova Scotia-based film,
The Seer
, by Gary Blackwood (FLAWed Productions) will be produced this year. Philip is also collaborating with Gary Blackwood on an opera,
The Mad Doctor
.