by Zeilig, Leo;
The dog turned to the stairs and for a second time propelled itself, its legs working hard on the stone steps, its speed and momentum so great it seemed to hover above the ground. It flew towards him.
As Viktor knelt he saw the man reach the bottom step and throw himself forward, his arms reaching for the dog, his splayed fingers grazing the back of the animal, inches from a proper grip. The man lay for a second cursing, then tried to get up. He shouted, ‘Stop him!’
Viktor recalled the next events backwards, as he was driving back with Anne-Marie. The dog was almost upon him. He had clutched his phone, wondered if he should try to photograph the scene, if the animal would bite him. The dog bounded towards him, its tongue hanging out of its mouth, caught in the slipstream of the chase like a scarf blowing in the wind. The dog aimed for Viktor, on its face a sort of joy.
The cannon echoed again. The road behind Viktor was suddenly awash with light. The car had almost reached the crossing, where the steps met the road. Once more the guns fired loudly above them, like the sound of an orchestra, a distant rumble from the sky. If only we were all received by death like this, Viktor thought, after our momentary glimpse of light, our consciousness scratched on the living planet.
The curious thing was that the dog was playing, it was enjoying the chase. And this stupid, kneeling white man at the bottom of the stairs didn’t realise it. The dog’s jowls and wet mouth smiled. The dog ruled the moment; it was free. Viktor stretched out his arms for the animal and knelt further down. The dog trailed spit in long strands from its mouth, its front teeth exposed in a grin and, without pause to assess the gap between Viktor’s legs, to contemplate, the animal flew under him. Viktor’s free hand tried to shovel the dog into his arm, but he only managed to loosely brush its coat, narrowing the noose. With his phone incapacitating one arm, balancing on the tips of his size thirteen trainers, Viktor toppled over.
He fell, his phone skidding and bouncing on the road. He saw the car, the headlights and wheels, a twin-cab high off the road. He thought that the dog would miss the car, make it to the other side, survive.
The dog was caught by the front wheels, turned on its side and flung under the back wheels. There was only the muffled thud of the animal under the car.
The couple left soon after the father removed the dog from the road and laid it on the gravel path whole, still expelling heat. There was no sign of death on the animal, just rest – its ears alert, the mouth and black lips, the teeth visible in a soundless growl.
‘I thought it could be resuscitated. I thought the father was going to breathe life into its lungs. Bring it back to life.’ Viktor said in the car.
‘They care so much for their dogs. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had done mouth-to-mouth. Dogs and white men – a single entity.’ Anne-Marie replied.
When Anne-Marie had heard the car, saw the dog disappear into its headlights, she had held the children and stopped them from rushing to the road.
‘All I could think was that if I stopped the dog it would bite me. I should have tried harder.’ Viktor spoke quietly.
‘Rubbish. The dog was on a mission. It was trying to catch the car, to escape its owner. Its time had come. There was nothing we could do.’ Anne-Marie knew the road; she swung around potholes, deftly turning the steering wheel to avoid street debris.
‘It thought we were playing a game,’ Viktor said. ‘I was the last person to see it alive. That panting, happy face. It was enjoying itself. I swear it was just bristling with superabundant life. And then it was dead. It’s a message to us.’ Viktor stared straight ahead, the road lit only by cars, single headlights veering, swinging across the road like drunken Cyclopes.
Anne-Marie laughed and put a hand on Viktor’s knee. ‘What’s the message, mudiwa?’
Viktor adjusted his position, pushed back his seat and stretched his legs. ‘Okay,’ he started, his pulse quickening. ‘The dog had reached the pinnacle of existence, the apex of its dog-being. It had evaded capture. It was almost flying. Did you see how fast it was running?’
The traffic lights ahead were red. Anne-Marie slowed, crawled towards the junction ahead, checked to her right and left, then accelerated without stopping.
Viktor continued, ‘The dog wanted recognition from us. It wanted us to see it for what it really was.’
‘A dog!’ Anne-Marie laughed again.
‘No, an equal. Better than us. Faster. Awake to our shuffle. Ecstatic to our depression. Free to our unfreedom. The dog demanded that we see its power. Forced us to give it recognition.’
‘You’re fou, Viktor!’ Anne-Marie exclaimed. ‘The dog was disturbed by the cannon. It went crazy, that’s all. You’d be better arguing that it was killed by ZANU-PF and the Third Chimurenga. The latest burial of another war veteran.’
‘No, listen!’ Viktor sounded shrill. ‘The dog chose a brief life and then death to explain something to us. The puppy wanted the children to see. Wanted us to know. But I can’t find the answer, what the dog was trying to show us.’
‘Nothing, mudiwa. Nothing. Life is snatched from us violently for no reason. For no purpose, other than the combination of random circumstances. The cannon, the chase, the car, the road, that stupid murungu.’
While Anne-Marie spoke, Viktor raised a hand to his face. With his thumb and forefinger he pressed his eyes closed and muttered, ‘Tosca, you make me forget even God.’
‘Oh, Viktor darling, don’t turn silly, don’t be a benêt. What has God got to do with it? It was sad – you should have seen the faces of the children. But it was a dog. The only message is that we mustn’t concern ourselves with animals.’ Anne-Marie pulled up to the gates of the flats and flashed her headlights. From under the umbrella Lancelot stood, nodded a greeting and pulled the gates open.
‘We have to bring life and death together. Exuberance and death. Merge them somehow. Hegel had something to say about this.’ Viktor spoke excitedly as they drove into the car park. ‘The dog was taking a step along the path of self-consciousness.’ Agitated, impatient, Viktor expanded, ‘Hegel saw human self-consciousness in the process of life and death. The dog’s death was an ingredient in the epic drama of life’s struggle, of the spirit’s birth.’ With tears in his eyes, his skin bristling, Viktor concluded, ‘You see, mudiwa, it’s all about death.’ Then, suddenly, he shouted, ‘The dog can redeem us from our incarceration in itself, Anne-Marie!’
Exhausted by this revelation, Viktor fell back into his seat.
Anne-Marie shook her head. ‘Tell that to Biko.’
She drove into her parking space, turned off the ignition, lifted the handbrake. She sighed deeply and rested her head on Viktor’s shoulder. ‘Il faut sortir de l’univers du livre pour tomber dans le réel, chéri. If we have enough water I’m going to run you a bath, Viktor, and tell you that in the duel between life and death, death always wins. Please tell me you’ve learnt that lesson. There is no merging, you dope. You have to keep them apart for as long as you can. That’s all.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
In the end the cuts could not be healed. The broken arm, wrapped tightly in a torn shirt like a swaddled child, throbbed and pulsed in continual pain. Biko wondered how long he could bear the questioning, the beatings, the blows – always on the broken arm, the back, the same bruised shoulder, his cut eye and cheek. With Hopewell gone, the police amused themselves with Biko.
For the last four days in Chikurubi he had been beaten unconscious. He had not even been able to utter a single taunt, one curse, to tell these dogs that they would soon be buried, beaten by the system they guarded. Instead, his head slightly bent, he gritted his teeth and held on – tried to summon up his mother’s face, the sagging, doleful eyes, the feel of the rough hands on his brow, to stop himself from screaming, pleading, begging them to stop. They were breaking his physical body, but if he begged these men to stop he would have conceded something else. The reason he had given to his life, his understanding of their darkness, would be lost. He also
knew it would not save him. The names they demanded – Nelson, Anne-Marie, Lenin, the students in Bulawayo – he knew they already had. With the quivering, uncertain memory of his mother, his father and their stubborn, constant love beside him, he did not speak except sometimes to curse, call the men dogs, jackals, tell them who they were. Explain.
Samuel tended to Biko as best he could. When he was dumped into the cell Samuel tried to make him comfortable, find a way of cushioning his body, lifting and relieving the agony. He would wet the corner of the blanket and gently mop Biko’s head, his chest, clean him as much as he could on the filthy floor with the stink of faeces, the scratching of the cockroaches who occupied the prison with such confidence, such impunity, unconcerned by the human interlopers.
*
Two weeks after the incident at the dam, Viktor drove, in Anne-Marie’s car, along the road where the dog had been killed. The dusk was turning the trees into shadows, the pines crowding the road, the sky fading into dark blue, the moon a white crescent. Just beyond the steps to the car park was a tall woman dressed in white, leaning on her hips, her stomach thrust out, pregnant. She hailed the car, her thumb thrust confidently into the road.
Viktor slowed down and watched the woman approach the car in the rear-view mirror, her hands on her extended stomach, her bony face empty of expression, her nose bent. By the time she had reached the car, opened the door and sat down, Viktor felt he had a firm opinion on who she was.
The woman uttered a small thanks and, without responding, Viktor pulled away.
The road curved up a small hill. The weak headlights sprayed the road, dispersed into the dark and gave back only a dim, hazy impression of the road ahead.
The woman commented, ‘The road is very dark.’
‘Where are you heading?’ Viktor asked.
‘Not far from here. I’ll give you instructions.’
Instructions? What did she mean, goddamn it? Viktor was annoyed. He wanted gratitude, acknowledgement that he was giving her a lift. He would not take her where she wanted to go. She could be dropped along his route into the Avenues. ‘I’m heading home. I can drop you on Tongogara.’
The woman was silent. She looked ahead, the dim dashboard lights marking her profile. ‘Turn left ahead,’ she said.
Viktor indicated and turned. There was a row of houses set back from the road. Viktor’s window was ajar; he heard the sound of crickets in the grass verge, the loud call for mates.
Why the hell did I turn? Viktor asked himself. Anne-Marie told me, Nelson too: ‘Don’t stop for hitchhikers, comrade. To a hungry, desperate person you are just a wallet – a stupid, wealthy, white foreigner with a guilty heart. Don’t stop.’
Viktor tried to open a conversation. ‘How many months pregnant are you?’
The woman ignored the question. When she spoke her voice was rough and deep. ‘A faith that cannot be tested cannot be trusted.’
‘True,’ Viktor replied automatically.
‘Turn left again. Here, beyond the trees. It is truly amazing what God has done in my life. If it wasn’t for Him I would be dead.’
‘Dead?’ Viktor queried.
‘Dead,’ she repeated. ‘An amazing transformation takes place when you acknowledge His power.’
Viktor was relieved. She was a believer. Harmless. Then, suddenly, he thought he should listen. He should try to empty his mind of his prejudices and unshakeable opinions and listen to her story.
‘God’s power?’ Viktor asked.
‘When you really go back to the beginning, there can only be God. Show me someone who can make something as beautiful as a flower. A crocus.’
‘A crocus,’ Viktor repeated.
They came to a crossroads.
‘Left again,’ she said simply. ‘In every fibre of your being you are unique. God knows you.’ She lifted her blouse and started to remove items of clothing: a bra, underwear, socks.
Viktor tried to keep his eyes on the road. He was lost, he had never driven to this part of the city. The houses looked abandoned. There wasn’t the familiar splutter and drone of generators, the pulsing lights like heartbeats from distant windows. Nothing except the crickets.
‘Remember, the devil was an angel, so he knows the Word but he doesn’t have Life. We have the power to speak Life into any situation. Would you argue with me that you have the power to speak Life?’
‘I am not sure I understand,’ Viktor answered meekly, confused.
‘God breathed life into us.’ They approached another turning. ‘Left,’ she ordered. ‘Always left.’ The content of her pregnancy was now folded on her lap: old clothes, rags.
Viktor obeyed, turned the car.
‘Proverbs 18, verse 21: “Death and life are in the power of the tongue and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof”.’
‘I find that problematic,’ Viktor stuttered. ‘Because behind the tongue, as you say, are interests, social relations, economic power. Some people have larger, louder tongues than others. Take Mugabe—’ Viktor felt his temples start to throb.
The woman ignored him, her hands on the bundle of clothes on her lap. ‘There is a choice. If you want death, you will have it. If you want life, you have to drop down on your knees and to say thank you for this day. Reset your day.’
Why can’t I believe? Viktor thought, his throat tightening. Isn’t there a chink in my heart, a space large enough to fit her God, to answer my questions, my cravings, my longings, my doubts? The devil was an angel. Doesn’t she know that the ship of life has crashed against the continent’s shoreline? How can she not know this? How can this wise African woman not understand that for five hundred years the continent has taken life and turned it into death? Viktor adjusted his position on the seat. Should I tell her?
‘You will go through trials and tribulations, but at the end of the day the choice is yours.’ She crossed her legs. The dress rode up her legs. Under it Viktor saw trousers and on her feet, as large as his, trainers.
Her singsong voice, deep like a man’s, danced up and down. ‘God will put you through some trials. When you arise again you will be much stronger in your mind. God has predestined you for great things.’
Was she talking about him? Was he predestined for greatness? He thought, I have always believed that I was different, but never great. We’re all great. That’s what she means. If we let God in, we will be great. Choosing God makes us great. Viktor thought of Rosa. His love for her always seemed uncomplicated: a compass point, uncluttered by confusions, a place where he could stand and survey the past, look out at the horizon, see the whole of life, not cower from death. That’s it. She’s talking about Rosa.
The road was straight, the night fully descended. Viktor drove slowly on. He thought he recognised the neighbourhood.
‘The Bible says, You will be tempted, but I will give you a way out and I will make a way out for you.’
‘You?’ Viktor asked.
‘No, not me. Not man or woman. God,’ she snapped.
The woman lifted her dress over her knees. The trousers were now fully visible. The blouse was undone, her legs open. ‘Left here,’ she said. Viktor turned, saw the road, the bottom of the hill, the route to the dam. ‘Isaiah 43, verses 18 and 19. “Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert, to give drink to my people, my chosen”.’
Viktor thought of the last six months: the trials, the pain, Biko, Anne-Marie, Rosa, Nelson, Tendai, Moreblessing, Mobutu, Lenin. The tangle of the past, the web of former things – the wilderness, the rivers, the hot, urban deserts.
The road climbed round a small hill. In the distance he saw trees: the pines lining the dam, the stairs that led to the car park. She’s led me in a circle. Viktor’s heart pounded, lifted in excitement. She’s a he. A man in women’s clothes. Everything is an illusion, a lie. I need to strip away the myths, rid my
self of the past, behold the new, let the fruits spring forth. The thought suddenly seized him that this hitchhiker was the dog, the spirit of the dead animal returned now to exactly the same spot to guide him, to reveal the real essence, tell him that Biko would be saved. The thing. Viktor started to cry.
‘Pull up just there.’ His passenger pointed to the spot where she’d hailed him ten minutes before. She put the clothes on the floor and wiggled out of her dress, pulling the blouse over her head. Underneath she wore a red tracksuit jacket, zipped to her neck. ‘When it is impossible for man, it is possible for God,’ she said.
Viktor parked the car and rested his hands on the steering wheel. His passenger pulled at the lever, released the lock, opened the door and put a foot on the road. Turning to Viktor for the first time, he said, ‘Speak the word of God. Release it in the atmosphere and catch it.’
Their eyes met for the first time and the man winked and bared his front teeth in a strange smile. He then picked up the pile of clothes, got out of the car and slammed the door. For a moment Viktor remained still, paralysed, staring ahead.
‘This is what it means,’ he uttered suddenly, aloud. ‘History compromises nothing, but reveals everything in a new light: our lives are tragic. Hegel said so. And Marx, too, who added that history always progresses by its worst side. Trotsky also said that our lives proceed along the path of least resistance. Yet we insist on progress, forgetting the losses and the dead, for which nothing can compensate, no revolution, no redemption. He is showing us a way through life, through the deserts of existence, without the blind loss of history. Consider not the things of the past, the losses of the past; things will be as we have decided they should be. Biko will live. THAT’S IT!’ Viktor announced to the empty car.
In the rear-view mirror he saw the man standing, his thumb out.
By the time Viktor returned to the flat he was confused again. ‘What does it mean?’ he asked Anne-Marie. She laughed loudly, her head, as usual, thrown back in laughter, her mouth open. ‘Mudiwa, it means nothing, only that you have a soft, gullible heart, that you’re a benêt. A fool.’