Theunis Stofberg

Oom Schalk had been travelling through time again. This time he returned to listen to my story about Vloog Theron, a South African conman who stole an elephant while studying at Stellenbosch University. “An elephant,” exclaimed Oom Schalk. “Most people in Marico are satisfied with stealing a bottle of mampoer. And you tell me Vloog also went to church on Sundays to steal the collection! I suppose he believed in taking advantage of every opportunity the Almighty provided.” As young advocate, more curious about human nature than the Iaw I once represented Vloog in fraud charges in the Cape Town Regional Court. He had persuaded investors that an aeroplane was stranded in Lapland and needed petrol money to bring it to South Africa, where it could be sold at a handsome profit. The investors would share in the proceeds. The victims were so embarrassed at having been duped that they made it almost impossible for the investigating officer to prepare the case for trial. The charges were eventually withdrawn. “People are funny about money,” said Oom Schalk. “They’ll boast about a bargain, but if they’ve been cheated, they’d rather keep it a secret from their own wives.” Vloog’s American exploits were equally extraordinary. He was credited with taking the Kubus pyramid scheme from state to state until Noseweek editor Martin Welz tipped off the FBI. Then there was the Alcatraz story. If the legend is true, Vloog was the prison’s last inmate. He entered overweight and emerged slim. He allegedly used photographs of himself before and after prison to launch a slimming scam. The FBI supposedly deported him to South Africa rather than risk him teaching his tricks to other American inmates. During his trial, Vloog told me that Spielberg was making a film about his life, with Bruce Willis playing him and Demi Moore playing his wife. Oom Schalk heard me out. By then, he had learnt not to interrupt a good story. Years later, Martin Welz of Noseweek told me, during a defamation trial, that ordinary people were simply not equipped to deal with conmen like Vloog. Oom Schalk considered this. “An honest man assumes the other fellow has the same difficulty with lying that he has himself. He doesn’t realise he’s dealing with someone who regards the truth as an optional extra.” He took a sip of coffee. “I’ve noticed that the bigger the lie, the less likely people are to question it. Tell a man you’ve found a hundred rand and he wants to know where. Tell him there’s an aeroplane stranded in Lapland, and he starts calculating his share of the profits.” He put down his cup. “That’s why people fall for conspiracy theories and false prophets. A small lie asks you to think. A big lie gives you something to hope for.” Oom Schalk looked towards the horizon. “People don’t change much, even if you travel through time. They still want to believe they’re about to get rich, that they know a secret the rest of the world has missed, or that somebody has finally explained everything.” He paused. “And once a man has invested his hopes in a story, he doesn’t take kindly to anyone telling him it isn’t true.” Oom Schalk stood up. “I wonder what became of Vloog. Perhaps Spielberg made the film after all.” He considered this. “If he did, I hope Vloog paid him in advance.” Then Oom Schalk disappeared, leaving me to wonder whether I had just been taken for a ride myself.