NOVELIST FISHER'S FACES in A GREEN ISLAND IN A BLACK SEA (Amazon's Kindle Library, 2013) PART THREE

NOVELIST FISHER’S FACES in A GREEN ISLAND IN A BLACK SEA (Amazon Kindle Library, 2013)

PART THREE

James R. Fisher, Jr., Ph.D.

© August 25, 2014

Rung Vijoen, Chief Chemist, ADM, Subsidiary of Polychem International, Ltd., Johannesburg, South Africa

In Devlin’s many conversations with Rung, not once did the Afrikaner refer to the Bantu in derogatory terms.  

Nor did he see Bantu as a race apart with no redeeming values.  He spoke of Afrikaner history as a struggle against the British and sometimes the Bantu to establish a nation state.  

Nor did he think of the Bantu, the Coloreds or the Indians as godless.  He did have trouble understanding why people were critical of Afrikaners when they had given the Bantu tribes homelands, and therein was his blind spot.

“I will concede apartheid has not worked as plan,” the Afrikaner admitted, but I will not concede it was wrong.”

“It may be a valiant attempt, Rung, but you must admit it has been a valiant failure.”

“That may be how you see it, but don’t you think that is a bit hypocritical, given your history of slavery?  We don’t consider the Bantu slaves.”

With Rung at the Coke Refractory in Sasolburg, South Africa

Sasol was a separation and distilling operation and petrochemical works.  It looked from afar to be similar to an American oil refinery and petrochemical plant.  

As they got closer to the operation, Devlin could see the immense black angular coal shoots, bulky black towers, combustion boilers and gigantic coal feeders lifting the coal on traction sleds from huge mountains of coal turning the coal into coke and then refracting the coke into oil, and other organic compounds, which made the operation quite distinct from an American oil refinery.

The plant workers addressed Rung with affection, kibitzing with him but always in Afrikaans, ignoring Devlin as if he were not there.  Sly looks his way suggested to him that he was the brunt of the humor.

“Where you from?” a squat plant worker with a blacken face said in broken English.  It reminded Devlin of the actor who played Al Jolson in the movie, singing “Mammy.”  

He held back a smile knowing it would be misinterpreted, but the man did look like a white man playing a Negro in a play.

Devlin assumed it was a loaded question, so answered, “Kentucky,” as that was his address in the states.

The six men in the group chatted in Afrikaans with “Kentucky” interjected in the conversation.  

“They don’t know American geography,” said Rung, "and want to know if that is a southern state.  I know that is not quite true, that it is a border state, but it did fight for the South in the Civil War.”

“That is also not quite true, Rung, as it was a divided state, but in the camp of the North, with brothers fighting against each other, but I see your point.”

“Thanks.  They dislike Americans in general and the North in particular, seeing the South was bullied and exploited by the North the same way they were by the British.”

Devlin looked at the group, and at Rung, all seemed to be young and in good health, fit but damaged, Rung the least of the lot.  For the first time he saw the faces of a divided nation, programmed to distrust if not hate people of difference.  

The Sasol foreman confirmed this suspicion.  He said something to Rung as if in anger.  It made the men laugh, slapping their legs.  It was clear the American was not going to get the red carpet treatment or a cook's tour of the facilities.  

Since that proved true, he was sure he read the foreman's tirade correctly. 

Devlin had failed the dress code and manner test, he in his Hickey Freeman three-piece ensemble, lily white hands and Florsheim shoes.  I am considered the enemy here when I am as much an outsider as they are.  Go figure!   

Devlin and Rung in intimate conversation after their day of visiting coke refractories and paper mills

“My wife is dying to see you in regular clothes.  She says you wear a different suit to the office every day.  She claims you must have at least thirty suits and says she wouldn’t be surprised to see your face one day on the cover of the ‘Gentleman’s Quarterly’.”

The day had been informative but wrenching.  He knew his temper only too well.  Don’t blow it, Devlin, he told himself, but he had to say something.

“I’m from a farm state, Iowa, but not a farmer, from an industrial town on the Mississippi River, where I worked my way through university spending summers working in a factory as a laborer.  

"I come from working class parents.  I am no different than any of these people I’ve met today, a working stiff with my share of demons and biases.  

"I hide mine behind my uniform, yes, I buy expensive clothes, yes I take great care of my appearance, and yes I am every bit as much the outsider looking in as these people are who snegger at me contemptuously as if I were the enemy.  

"Like you, I studied hard to get here; like you, I identify with people who haven’t been as fortunate as either of us.

"I make no apologies for who and what I am.  If I offend or give a false impression, so be it, there you have it!”

"Wow!"  Rung threw up his hands.  “That is the first time in the many months you’ve been here that you’ve come across sincere.  

"We Afrikaners can relate to that.  These people you met have the same issues of identity and security.  I do as well.  They know humiliation.  God, do they!  You act as if you are above all that, impervious to that.”

“Rung, that is my job.  My role is to form this new company successfully, not to make friends, to lead.  Dale Carnegie insists in his book ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People” that leadership is all about friendship.  It is not.

"Leadership is about command integrating people to purposefulness."

Then more reflectively, added, "You could use this harangue against me, but I know you won’t.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because you understand.  You would want me to be no other way.”

He smiled.  “I told them you were the fairest person Afrikaners and Bantus have ever known in ADM.  They didn’t buy it, but I felt good saying it because it is true.”

The three technical directors were now acting as a team in the formation of the new company, but known as “The Three Turks” for obvious reasons

They filled Devlin’s doorway in a collective aggressive stance.  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Devlin said cheerfully, “I have something to share with you.”

This immediately through them in confusion, and off their rehearsed confrontation about the field test kits, which were a subject of debate amongst them.  

They looked at each other as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of their lungs.  

Devlin waxed innocent.  “What?”

“We thought this was our meeting.  We need to discuss field operations,” the ACS technical director Jan Hofmeyer stated emphatically, emphasizing his point stretching his arms tightly across his chest.  “We have a problem with the test kits.”

Devlin registered mock surprise.  “This is news to me.  Whom did you discuss this problem with, Nina?”

“No, Frieda, last week,” Hofmeyer continued. 

“We thought you pushed it ahead to today,” chimed in ADM’s technical director.

Devlin studied them, you thought, you didn’t confirm, you didn’t talk to my secretary, you didn’t make it your business to consult me, you assumed, wonderful, but only said smiling, 

“I had no knowledge of this problem.”  Then looking at them to see if they believed him, deciding clearly they didn’t, he continued.

“Something has come up that I wanted to share with you,” pausing, “since you are our technical team.”  

They looked at each other suspicious of what was to follow.  “There has been a fire at the Durban plan.”  Their ears perked up.  "We were already six weeks behind in back orders.  This problem could be huge economically."  

Devlin studied their faces, and could see this information was having the desired effect.  

“As you can imagine, this takes precedence over everything else.”  Then more conciliatory, “Set up a meeting with Nina for later and we’ll discuss this test kit problem.”  

He wanted to say, come to me don’t go behind my back, but instead said warmly, “How much time do you gentlemen think you will need?”

They looked at each other.  “At least an hour,” suggested Dan Firth of BAF.  “Two, at least two,” demanded Hofmeyer. 

“Then two you shall have,” Devlin said graciously, “anything else?”

Without answering they got up and swaggered out.  It was clear they liked being given a heads up on Durban, but didn’t want to show too much appreciation.  Oddly, none of them had been to the Durban plant, including ADM’s own technical director.

They left with rubber legs still chomping at the bit about the test kit.  Expected power has as much currency as perks, if not more.  

He did wonder what all the fuss was about as ADM had full access to Polychem’s test kit, which was the best in the industry.  What more did they want?

Tom Cooke, plant manager, Durban plant

The plant manager wasn’t happy about the merger.  That was clear.  For good reason, Devlin thought, he was old school like Frieda and took it as a threat, which it clearly was in his demonstrable incompetence.

Cooke didn’t return Devlin's calls, avoided him when he visited the plant, didn’t use Helen Dunn in public relations, was rumored to have a problem with Coloreds and Afrikaners, as well as a drinking problem.  This was confirmed with two driving under the influence charges in his file. 

“Thomas Cooke here,” said the gruff voice thinking it was a call from Michael Matthews, Martin Matthews’ brother, who was the regional director, and had no control over Cooke.

“Devlin here,” he answered in mocking voice with a smile crossing his lips, “I understand you have a spot of difficulty.”

“More than a spot.  Number one and two production lines are down, had a fire in them, didn’t anyone tell you?”  

There was hesitation on the line.  Devlin sensed he was fortifying himself with a drag on a cigarette and a belt from a flask.  "Devlin, you there?"

“What are you doing about it, Mr. Cooke?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?  I’m dealing with it, what do you think?”  

That confirmed to Devlin’s satisfaction he was on the sauce. Never had he sworn at Devlin before!

“I’d like to see the situation myself.”

“Not necessary.”

“I think it is.  You see, Mr. Cooke, I’m now at Durban International Airport, waiting for Michael Matthews to pick me up.”

“You’re where?”

“Here in Durban.  It’s my job, Mr. Cooke.  It is the reason I’m in your country.”

That bloody fucking Matthews warned me he’d come down, but didn’t let me know when.  Now he’s here, bloody hell.

“Did you hear me, Mr. Cooke, I’ll be at your plant momentarily.”

I heard you you bloody bastard, he said to himself, I’d like to drive your bloody teeth down your bloody throat.

Devlin took the silence to mean the conversation was over, hung up, and said into the silent receiver, “See you soon!”

“Wait!”  Cooke yelled into the click.  The bloody bastard hung up on me!  What in Christ’s name do I do now?

Annelie Van den Berg

Once at the plant, Cooke's secretary said he had "stepped out" to attend a scheduled meeting.

Devlin took this in stride, asking Michael Matthews if there was anyone in Durban ADM operations he could talk to about the situation.

He mentioned an Afrikaner chemical engineer, Annelie Van den Berg.

Annelie was a tall plain big boned young woman with a prominent forehead and unruly red hair.  She had full lips, a jutting chin, and piercing gray eyes.  The eyes followed Devlin’s every word as if they were floating soap bubbles destined to soon expire.

He felt simpatico with her, even more so than with Rung Vijoen, as she was an engineer and not a chemist.  He knew he wouldn’t have to be delicate with her about what was at issue.  

“What do you think we should do first?” she asked the American after he told her he had engaged a local engineering and construction firm to assist in bringing operations back on line.

“You tell me.”

She gave him a surprised if cautious look struggling to interpret his words.  "Me?"

"Yes, you!  You're going to head up this thing, if it is all right with you."

Convinced that he was sincere, she took out a red notebook from her briefcase, and flipped through its pages showing photographs and schematics of operating systems where she had previously identified chronic systemic problems.

Using the top of a fifty-five gallon drum as a desktop, she arranged these data into referencing previous concerns: heating cycles, humidifying rates, drying ranges, flow rates, viscosity fluctuations, and volume and yield irregularities.  

She also had indexed equilibria data of chemical systems, efficiency indices, and production rates of various lines before the fire.

She used her slide rule to calculate the heat reaction cresting before the fire from the heats of formation and heats of combustion, while showing variances that had caused earlier meltdowns in production and flagged this eventual problem.

She indicated with a big red “X” on diagrams of outdated control panels, malfunctioning pressure gauges, data recorders, and useless graph recorders, or substandard quality control practices across the board.

She had color coded the age of equipment, history of its repair and maintenance, and routine of inspections, or the lack thereof.  She had photographs of storage tanks, blenders, heat exchange units, and production boilers that had failed, along with dates when taken off line and restored to service.  It was scary stuff.

If Thomas Cooke had an ax to grind, it was clearly a different one than this young lady’s.  

She had a passion for quality and clearly felt left out of the equation.  Devlin had seen this in Suriname with the superintendent of an ALCOA aluminum refinery, who finally got attention when he showed up for Polychem.  Was this déjà vu all over again?

“The fire had many sources,” she concluded, “and it could happen again.”  This was said in a matter of fact tone. "We're always putting out fires here."

Amazed at her candor with the American, she added, “I have designed a parallel system to bypass plants one and two, now out of service, to bring the line back into production at least at a 25 percent capacity.”

“Has it been used before?”

“No.”

“Have you shown this to Mr. Cooke?”

“No, I’m not in his inner circle.”

“Well, you’re in mine.  I like your plan.  Would it upset you if it is Johannesburg’s in the short term to get through this mess?”

“Not at all,” she beamed.

“We’ll see you get full credit when this is behind us,” Devlin said, looking to Michael Matthews for confirmation.  He nodded.  

Devlin felt empathy for the young chemical engineer, to have all this to offer and to be put out to pasture. Well, now Cooke was out to pasture.

Annelie had a triple whammy against her with plant manager Cooke: she was a woman, an Afrikaner, and an educated problem solver. 

“Your title will be group leader, but you will be running the plant and implementing the work of the engineering and construction firm we have hired to work with you.”

“What about Mr. Cooke?”

“The regional managers will deal with him.  You worry about doing the job, sending your reports directly to me, and I’ll share them with the managing director.”  

When Devlin apprised Thomas Cooke of how the crisis was being handled, the plant manager fumed and stammered, but did nothing.  Devlin didn't expect him to thank him for taking his bacon out of the fire.

When Devlin was back in Johannesburg, Nina informed him that Cooke had gone over Martin Matthews head, and cabled Chicago citing his displeasure with the American.  Michael Matthews played ignorant of knowing anything about this.

 

Devlin could feel the cutting force of Armageddon in the wind.  Instead of being upset, it made him feel engaged.  He was in the eye of the hurricane, and experienced its total stillness.  It was where he belonged.  

Annelie Van den Berg was the reason why.  She was finally spreading her wings.  Everything was being reduced to a binary system.  God must be a chemical engineer.

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