Wings of the Morning (56 page)

Alexa could only nod again.

‘We exchanged pleasantries and Petronile said they were out to relax as she was having a tough, but interesting week. I enquired further, and she explained it was on account of your visit
and work, Monsieur Bushell. You are clearly much respected in your field. She added that you had been introduced as Madame’s brother-in-law and Petronile asked if you were Australian
born.

‘No, Petronile reports you as saying, my mother was English and my father was French, an army officer and a farmer. We lived in the country near Limoges in a house now owned by my brother.
I was born Alexandra Labarre.

‘This casual conversation hit me hard,’ said Paulus, ‘especially after my talks with Patrick which brought back old times and had resurrected in my mind the name of Labarre.
When that Luc Courty found me in Kinshasa, he hurt me very much indeed. As he kicked and punched and threw me around my dingy attic, he would intersperse his blows with the same warning: tell me,
Paulus, tell me so that I can tell le Colonel Labarre. Tell me what you did with his son and tell me where is the money which you took from Labarre.

I could not concentrate on my music for the rest of that evening and when I got home, I went straight to my computer. A wonderful thing, the Internet, is it not. I found quite easily the
reference to the small family Chateau, the history, the names of Colonel Joffrey and his wife Elizabeth, now both deceased, their three offspring — Alexandra, Bernard the current owner of the
property and finally, mention of an older brother Michel who died many years ago.’

There was a very long silence. The men held each other’s gaze. Alexa shivered as she looked down at her feet. Finally, Paulus gave a long sigh, and commenced his conclusion.

‘I could not keep silent. I have been guilty of many things during a long life which has included too much crime and foolishness. But I have never maimed, nor tortured, nor killed. I did
not kill your brother, Madame, but I did arrange his kidnap and I did set a price upon his life. It is not much now to say sorry, although I do offer that apology. Anyway, I am here to accept
whatever you may wish to exact from me in retribution. I am yours Madame.’

And Paulus sat back a little in his upright chair.

There was no further delay. Mark Bushell felt the hand between his lose its tremors as it was withdrawn from his grasp. He could feel Alexa’s strength return, could sense her resolve and
determination. A kaleidoscope of memories marched through his head as he recalled all the struggles that he and she had been through together in Sydney as he had fought to pull her back from a
mental brink, a catastrophic precipice towards which this man before them had propelled her first steps. He might not have known, but he was guilty nonetheless.

Alexa acted. She rose from her chair and moved to the centre of the room. She turned and looked down at Paulus.

‘Stand up and come here,’ she instructed calmly.

He looked uncertain, but he did as she asked. Then she stepped closer to him, opened her arms and enfolded Paulus in her embrace. The seconds ticked by, turning into a minute and longer. Mark
kept his silence and his seat. Finally, Alexa stepped back: she looked calm — serene even. Mark could see the catharsis seep through her. She had reached the end of a painful road and was
finally able to lay the ghost which had troubled so much of her life.

Paulus just stood there, a slight and diffident smile on his face. He said nothing but he raised his weaker hand in a gesture of salute to them as he turned to leave. As he reached the door,
Alexa stopped him with a gentle question.

‘I must hear you play one evening, Paulus. How do I find you?’

‘You will have no difficulty with that Madame, and you will be most welcome. My club here in Century is well known and the name is over the door. I call it
“Michel’s”.’

DAVID HEAVEN — May 2013

Ten long years since Aischa’s death, David thought to himself as he sat in his study after breakfast. For an old and cynical independent such as him, it was remarkable
how much he still missed her. He was not, however, sloppy about it. He didn’t sit weeping into his whisky every evening. He was not especially lonely and was often out and about, happy to be
entertained or joining in some activity. He certainly did not wallow in self sympathy. He just bloody well missed her — missed the sound of her footfall, the choice of her words, the delicacy
of her accent remaining from childhood. He missed her shrewd judgement, missed her encouragement and even, he had to admit, her firm correction to his wandering path. He missed being able to check
if he had chosen the right clothes to wear, missed being reminded of who was related to whom and how. Just missed her. And even today, ten years on, he might come home from a dinner, get inside the
door and call out to her before being hit by the consciousness that she was beyond the compass of his voice.

May was not a good month for sloughing off the memories, but he could distract himself with a little review of what else had happened during these past years, and he could not help but hug to
himself the recognition of achievements.

Millennium was now a country far removed from the place they had come storming into at the turn of the century. Not everything was perfect of course. There was and would forever remain more to
be done and to plan for, but there were times when it was so good to sit back and reflect on the story so far.

It was the politics which fascinated him the most. David relinquished the President’s office to Hugh Dundas who held the position for just a matter of months. During that time, Hugh
concentrated on their finances. He was tireless in effort, impeccable in judgement, inspired in innovation. When he gave up day to day control at the Treasury, he left behind an apparently perfect
machine of management which promised to run for a thousand years without much adjustment.

Concurrently, they worked as a team on creating a new Constitution and looking back on it, David had to admit that his own contribution was of better quality because he didn’t have an
executive role to distract him. Hugh was replaced as President by an impressive lawyer, born in Vietnam and thereafter a Canadian citizen before he emigrated to Millennium in the second wave of
arrivals. He took over under the new Constitution to head a Presidential executive with seven members who voted their choice of President. Beneath the executive was a form of parliament with two
hundred members who were voted in by their electorate. The parliament elected the members of the Executive who were full time, salaried officers of the state. The parliamentarians were obliged to
demonstrate a profession or business which would engage and reward them for the majority of their time. They were not permitted to be full time politicians. The Constitution called for national
elections every four years. A President could serve only one term but a member of the executive was permitted two consecutive terms and thus each succeeding President was identified four years
before he or she took up the top job.

They created a new style of fixed civil service which drew on aspects of the colonial services which had operated so long ago. The detail of all of this was complex to devise and install, but it
worked well enough in practice and it did much to earn legitimacy for Millennium in the eyes of the international community.

By this time, of course, David was long departed from any sort of official office but that did not prevent him from maintaining his close interest, his contacts and occasionally his influence.
He was surprised to find how well the arrangement suited him although he should have known better. Aischa had always told him that he had done his bit: much better to quit at the top and leave
others to build on his foundations.

And how well it had gone. Earlier this year, Millennium had succeeded in joining the Commonwealth and now there was even talk of a State visit from the Monarch. Everywhere, there was an
acknowledgement that Millennium was bringing a new style of nationality to Africa. It would have been impossible for the world to ignore, much less deny, the success which the formula as created by
David Heaven and his colleagues had brought to the country. The opportunities for personal success and fulfilment in a land blest with space and natural resources were self evident and proved on a
daily basis by the track record of those who had been encouraged to come from the four corners of the world to practice their skills and diligence. This in turn meant that standards and facilities
were constantly improving against the backdrop of a rapidly developing economy.

Once rolling, this bandwagon had hardly slowed in its progress and had never checked, hardly even during the world financial crisis of 2009. There had of course been problems, scandals,
dishonesty and mismanagement, but successive governments had used a heavy hand to deal with transgressions. Overall, the enthusiasm and commitment had been such that Millennium could point to
outstanding results in just about any area — in manufacturing and trading business, in agriculture, in mining and in oil, in forestry and ecology, in tourism, in the arts. In support of these
developments were outstanding examples of citizen care — health, education, transport, policing and a legal system free to all.

I’m a fortunate man, thought David Heaven to himself as he gazed out of his study window across the immaculate gardens of Founder’s Hill. It may be that we make our own luck in this
world, but by God I’ve been lucky with my friends and my opportunities: all the people, all the things I’ve seen and the places I’ve been. It’s best of all to be able to
look out over a plan, a dream, a vision and see that it has become a reality.

What of regrets? The absence of Aischa to share the twilight years which we planned to have together. That’s the haunting sadness, made far worse by my responsibility for her illness and
premature death. The same applies to Connie Aveling, my greatest friend. I wasn’t there for him when he needed me and I was too busy with my own life to notice it. But then there’s Anna
and her children, all my descendants although they don’t know it and it’s too late now for lifetime confessions: still it will all come out one day. The memoir is done. I know
it’s merely adequate and certainly not inspired but I’ve done my best and I’ll give it to young Olty one day when I think he’s ready: I’ve got high hopes for that
boy.

With that thought, David rose from his chair and walked over to the long wall in his study which displayed his rogues’ gallery, a hundred and more photographs hanging on the wall of his
study in an arrangement which was impressive if not artistic. There were few occupations these days which gave him so much pleasure as to muse over this record of the places in which he had set
foot, and the people who had populated his varied life. And he never failed to look longest at the original of that snapshot of the twin sisters in Mocamedes in 1970. It was the least expert record
of all on his wall, but it carried the most meaning for him.

He pulled himself from his reverie and went to fetch the light set of steps which were stored inside a cupboard. He put them in place, returned to collect a couple of empty frames which he used
for sizing up which of his latest acquisitions should hang where. With a soft grunt of appreciation, he approached the steps. This was his favourite past time, and it seemed reasonable to enjoy it
to the full on this rather special day, his seventieth birthday.

David Heaven was standing near the top of his vantage point on the steps when he had the presentiment that he was to be as lucky in death as he had been lucky in life. The sudden pain in his
chest was briefly excruciating. He dropped a frame to the carpet and clutched at a photograph which skewed in its mount. He lost consciousness and he had lost life before his body hit the
floor.

OLIVER AVELING — 2021

It’s Christmas Eve and working up to the hottest time of our year. I’m in my apartment in Century and staring at my screen. I should finish the writing today and
I’m going to feel quite lonely with this project complete.

It’s now nearly two years since Guy Labarre came to visit me in New York. We had our business meeting and then we went off to lunch with Guy carrying that small suitcase which has since
come to dominate my life.