by Roger Smith
"Like the minister?"
"Exactly." Panning the glasses across the landscape.
"You from around here?"
"Way back."
"So you knew him?"
"A little. He went into exile when I was a kid."
"Tell me about him."
"You're the reporter. You know the story."
"I know the rumors," Dell said. "He doesn't do interviews. Says the white media demonizes him."
Zondi laughed, lowering the glasses. "What do you want to hear? That you take Bob Mugabe, mix in some Mobutu Sese Seko, add a dash of Idi Amin and you've got our next president?" Dell shrugged. Zondi lost the smile. "Fact is, he's a fucking chameleon. When he talks to the poor, he's a poor man. Talks to the rich he's a businessman. Talks to the struggle veterans he's a comrade. But he's all about power. About as ruthless a fucker as you can get." He set the glasses down on the hood of the Ford and stood with his hands in his pockets. "If people get in his way he buys them off. If that doesn't work . . ."
"He whistles for the dog," Dell said.
"Ja. But not for much longer." Dell looked at him. "Inja's got full-blown AIDS and he's not on antiretrovirals. Believes in other methods."
Dell took this in. "You're telling me, him and this girl . . . it's one of these virgin cure deals?"
Zondi nodded. "I've got to get her away from him before he consummates this thing tonight."
"Jesus."
"It's the way it's done down here."
"Don't you have any influence with the authorities?"
Zondi laughed. "What authorities? Inja's the law in this valley. The nearest cops are fifty miles away, too shit scared to set foot here. And what would I tell them, anyway?"
"That he's forcing the girl to marry him against her will."
"He bought her, Dell. For a couple of grand and a few skinny cows. Doesn't matter what she wants. It's called tradition."
Dell nodded. "Okay. So what's the plan?"
"We wait until it's dark and everybody's drunk. Then we go down there and get her."
"How?"
"We'll improvise." Saw Dell's face. "You got a better idea?"
"No."
"Okay, then." Paused. "Dell, I know you want to take Inja out. Fine by me. But the girl is my priority. Understood?"
Dell nodded, then walked away. Looked out over the kraal far below. Marveled at just how fucked up things could get.
The wedding moon, fat and yellow as butter, oozed up over the hills. Inja sat on the steps of his house, alone in the darkness, firing up a spliff. He sucked in the hot smoke, watching the drunken revelry below.
Men and boys fought each other with sticks, flickering shadows in the firelight. The elders feasted on his meat and drained away his beer. The festivities would carry on into the morning and beyond. It had cost him a lot of money. But it was good. The ancestors would be pleased.
Inja's only disappointment was that his chief, the minister of justice, had not put in an appearance. He was in the area, visiting his home in the valley. Addressing a rally in Bhambatha's Rock tomorrow night. Knew the chief's absence was a sign of his anger at the way Inja had mishandled the Cape Town mess. Inja sighed smoke. Damage control was called for. Obeisance would have to be made. But not tonight. Tonight was Inja's.
He looked across to where the girl sat beside his sister, the fat woman drunk, a plastic chair awash with her flesh. Dwarfing the girl who was invisible beneath the veil, her skinny shoulders wrapped in leopard skin. Inja took a last drag on the spliff, flicked away the embers and walked over to her.
It was time.
Sunday saw the old dog coming toward her through the smoke. She was too tired and empty now to feel fear. Auntie Mavis cackled at her side, saying something filthy about the rituals of the wedding night, a chunk of meat in her hands, tearing into the flesh with her teeth, juices flowing down her many chins. Her plate piled with food on the mat next to Sunday's leg, cutlery lying ignored.
That's when Sunday felt the breeze on her neck, stirring the beads that hung from her hair. Felt her mother's presence. Heard her voice. Drawing Sunday's eyes to the small knife lying on the tin plate, the jagged blade orange in the firelight.
Sunday took the knife and sent it into the folds of her skirt. Then she stood as her husband reached her. Felt his hand on her arm, leading her toward his house. The women's voices, high and loud, rolled across the kraal in praise of Inja, calling on the ancestors to lend power to his manhood.
Zondi steered the Ford along the sand road toward Inja's compound. No headlamps. Driving by the light of the moon. Drumbeats and singing flowed in waves from the wedding party below them, hopefully drowning the uneven racket of the truck's engine.
Dell was at his side, staring out into the night. Silent for once. A suburban whitey whose life had taken a detour into hell. Dell's eyes held a look, a particular kind of glaze, that Zondi remembered well from back in the struggle days. The eyes of people who had passed a point of no return. People who were ready to die. Unarmed kids who'd attacked squads of cops firing automatic rifles and pump-action shotguns. Grief mad mothers who'd picked up rocks and charged the yellow armored cars that blocked the streets of the townships like fat clogging arteries.
Zondi had been in those mobs but he'd always brought up the rear, ready to fade into the tear gas and the dust when the blood began to flow. So what the fuck was he doing now, on some Mutt and Jeff mission that could only end badly?
He stopped the truck on a slope about a mile from Inja's compound. Killed the engine. The brake creaked like old timber as he set it. The truck groaned and lurched forward a foot or two before the brake finally held.
Zondi looked across at Dell. "You ready?"
"Yes. Let's do it." No hesitation in his voice.
Zondi opened the door and stood up out of the truck.
Inja brought her into the front room. Sunday had never been in a house this big, with furniture like she had seen in the magazines her aunt read. A huge TV set flickered in the gloom, showing a beautiful black girl in a red dress driving a silver car with no roof. The girl sang. Silently.
Inja paused to lift a bottle of brandy from the table by the TV, then he took Sunday's arm and led her down a corridor. He opened a door and flicked a switch and electric light filled the room. She saw a real bed, high and wide, with a bright pink blanket with long fluffy hair. He closed the door after them and set the brandy bottle down on the table beside the bed.
Inja crossed to another door and opened it, showing her a hard white space beyond. "Here, girl. Use this."
Unsure, Sunday stepped forward. Saw the light hammering off white tiles, saw a bath with taps and a toilet with a blue cover. The closest she had ever come to anything like this was the restroom at a gas station and that had been filthy and stinking, the floor awash with overflowing waste.
Sunday walked into the bathroom and closed the door. Lifted her beaded skirt and slipped down the panties that the fat woman had given her to wear. Big ugly things. Bloomers. She raised the lid of the toilet and sat. Drilled her urine into the water. Checked that the knife was still in the waistband of her skin skirt, up behind her right hip.
She wiped herself, looked for a place to throw the paper. Realized she was being stupid and dropped it into the toilet bowl. Pressed the flush lever and jumped back at the explosion of water.
Stood at the basin and rinsed her hands, looking at herself in the mirror, this veiled person in a high red hat. Thought of the girl in the silver car on the TV and wondered about God and his choices.
Sunday wiped her hands on a towel that was so thick and so soft that she wanted to stand there forever, holding it, letting it soothe her. But she dropped the towel in the basin and turned and went out.
When she walked back into the room the old dog was lying on the bed, on his back. Naked. Sunday averted her eyes and he laughed. She'd seen unclothed men and boys but never anything like this: his thing fat and hard.
He stood and rea
ched for her, pushing her down onto the bed, and she felt his throbbing flesh leave a trail of slime on her ribs like a slug. He pulled the veil away from her face, his hands busy at the skins that covered her calves. He lifted one of her legs so her bare foot pointed at the ceiling and bit into the meat of her calf hard enough to draw blood. She refused to scream. Waiting.
Inja's hands were at her skirts. He was breathing hard and she could smell the foulness of his breath and feel the warm wind of it on her face. He pushed his hands between her thighs and shoved them apart. Tugging at her panties. Her fingers found the blade and she brought it out and plunged it into his belly as he thrust his thing at her.
He made a sound like a gelded pig and grabbed at the wound, as if he was trying to push the blood back into himself. She used her knees to throw him off her and stood, the knife still in her hand. Knowing she must use it again.
But the handle was slick with blood and when she lunged at him he brought up his arm and the knife flew from her grip and hit the stone floor, spinning under the bed. Sunday ran for the door. Felt his fingers close for a moment on her ankle, then she kicked loose. He bellowed, his voice impossibly loud. Echoing in the big room.
Sunday flew down the corridor, toward the front door. Inja yelling, his bare feet smacking the stone as he came after her. She ran past the flickering TV, out onto the porch, ready to sprint into the night, when she was lifted off her feet and the big man, the one with the dented skull, held her. She heard the dog shouting from inside the house, getting closer.
Sunday and the big man stared at each other, eyeball to eyeball. She could feel his heart beating. Then he lowered her and stepped back into the darkness, fading away as if he had never been there and Sunday ran for her life.
Dell followed Zondi over the rocky ground. They were close now. He could smell meat smoke from the fires that burned in the circle between a Western-style house and three huts. The clearing was jammed with people, their voices bubbling out into the night.
Zondi stopped him with a raised hand and Dell made out the shape of a man sitting with his back against a tree, the moon kicking off a rifle barrel. They stood for a minute. Still. Then the man let loose a loud snore and slumped to the side.
Zondi crossed to the drunken sentry and lifted his AK-47, clicked the banana-shaped magazine free and threw it into the darkness. Laid the weapon on the sand beside the sleeping man. They walked on, toward the house. A man shouted, from somewhere below them. His voice distinct for a moment, then lost in the babble.
Feet on gravel. Somebody running at them. Zondi moved forward and grabbed the girl. She was ready to scream but he covered her mouth, letting her see him in the moonlight. He took his hand away from her face and she gasped, drinking air. Put a finger to his lips and she nodded. They all turned as man came around the side of the house, a man crouched low, hugging his belly. A naked man, bleeding, sprawling onto the sand.
Inja.
Dell was over to him, the pistol in his hand, the barrel jammed up against Inja's head. The moon bright enough for him to see Inja's face, catch the shine of his eyes and the flash of teeth in the gaping mouth. Dell's finger closed on the trigger.
Ready to end this thing.
But Dell didn't end it, and now he crouched bare chested over Inja, in the rear of the truck, chewing dust as the Ford bucked and swerved. Pressing his bunched shirt to the wound that pumped toxic blood from the naked man's belly, saying, "Don't you fucking die on me you piece of shit."
Back there, behind the house, as he'd been about to pull the trigger, Zondi had knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. "Think, Dell. Kill him and you don't stand a chance."
Dell had looked up at Zondi. He didn't care about himself. He could kill the dog. But he wanted the dog's master. Lowered the gun.
So here Dell was with Inja bloody and twisting beneath him like something newborn. Trying to save his life.
Zondi drove, foot flat, truck fishtailing along the sand road. The girl at his side silent, gripping the dashboard, her high hat scraping the roof of the Ford. No rearview, so Zondi had to look back over his shoulder for headlamps. And to check that Dell hadn't killed Inja.
Seeing the wounded man had changed the game for Zondi. He had the girl. Fine. But now he could do more. Bring down the man who had put his mentor in the ground. Who was pissing on everything Zondi believed in. If he could just keep Inja alive long enough, he could do it. Maybe.
He saw the mounds of the car wrecks gleaming in the moonlight. Looked back. No headlamps. Just Dell crouched over the wounded man.
"Father," the girl said. "Where are you taking me?"
Zondi was smacked back to the now. Father. Of course it was just the Zulu way, a respectful form of address for an elder, but it reminded him that he had another mess to untangle. "Don't worry, girl. You are safe."
Fucking liar.
Zondi slowed and turned off the road, bumped the Ford past the dangling gate, stopped when the car bodies hid the truck from view. Not a safe place, this, but the only place he could think of where they could hide Inja while they tried to save his life.
Zondi banged on the iron door. Silence. Banged again. Heard grunts and muffled curses, then the door opened a crack and his hunchbacked cousin peered out at him, blinking away sleep. "What you want?"
Zondi pushed the door open, feeling the twisted little man give way. A match flared and he saw his uncle's face in the glow of a paraffin lamp. The old man lay on the floor. Two mats and thin blankets thrown down in the midst of the tools and car parts. The room stinking of sweat and weed.
"What is this?" the old man asked.
Zondi drew his pistol, pointed it at the hunchback. "Go and sit by your father."
His cousin slunk over to the old man and sat down. Zondi's uncle shook his head. "You dare to do this in my house?"
"Shut up." Zondi kept the gun on them, walked backward out the door, called across to the truck. "Bring him in."
Dell dropped the tailgate and he and the girl lifted Inja out of the rear of the Ford. Dell taking him round the shoulders, the girl grabbing his feet, carrying him into the room. They laid him on the floor, groaning, eyes closed, in the circle of light from the lamp.
Zondi heard the suck of his uncle's breath when the old man recognized Inja. "Are you mad? What hell are you bringing upon us?"
The old man stood, edging away from Inja, ducking under the length of plastic rope that stretched across the room with an overall, a T-shirt and a pair of briefs pegged to it. Zondi tugged the T-shirt free of its peg and threw it to Sunday. "Keep that on his wound."
The girl hesitated a moment, then she knelt and pressed the T-shirt to Inja's stomach. Zondi reached down and grabbed the blanket off his cousin's bed. Still warm from the man's body. He threw it over Inja's nakedness.
"Dell," Zondi said, pointing to the wash line. "Take down the rope. Cut it. Tie these two up."
Dell unknotted the rope and clipped it into four pieces with the lineman's pliers that lay beside a hammer on the floor. He must have recognized the older man as the threat, because he went to him first. Zondi's uncle tried to fight, broad-shouldered and strong as a bull.
Zondi stepped forward and kicked him in the kidney. Not at all ashamed at how much pleasure it gave him. "Old man, you keep still or I will shoot you."
His uncle stopped struggling, sank to the floor, muttering about the vengeance of the ancestors. Dell tied the old man's hands behind his back. Roped his ankles. The little hunchback didn't put up a fight. Sat staring into a dark corner of the room while Dell tied him.
Zondi crouched beside Inja who lay still as death. Touched a hand to his throat. He could feel an erratic pulse. Zondi stood and walked to the door. "I'm going now. Don't let him die."
Sunday squatted beside the dog, pressing the cloth to his stomach. Waiting. The white man, his face and arms painted black, streaks of dark color running over the pale skin of his chest, sat against the wall. Staring at nothing. Like he had in the cave. Th
e gun on the floor beside him.
"Girl." She looked up. The old man calling to her in Zulu. "Girl, I know you. You are Ma Mavis's child."
"Shut up," the white man said.
"Take the gun from this white bastard. Free us. We are your people. This man will only do you harm."
"I said shut up."
"Listen to me girl, or you will pay for this."
The white man picked up a fistful of cotton waste from the floor, black with oil, and walked across to the Zulu. The old man tried to twist away, shaking his head, shouting, but the white man shoved the cotton into his mouth and left him looking like a foaming animal.
While the white man had his back to her, Sunday let go of the T-shirt and reached across for the saw blade that shone on the floor beside Inja's foot. Lifted the blade and laid it across the throat of the dog, ready to hack into him.
She felt a hand on her arm. Gripping her. The white man lifted her arm away from Inja's neck and twisted her wrist. The blade fell from her fingers and clattered to the floor. He shook his head, saying something to her in his language. He pushed her away gently, lifted the bloody T-shirt and pressed it against the dog's belly.
Sunday sat, the veil falling across her eyes. She reached for the blade again and the white man tensed. Then she took off the hat and lifted the blade, sawing the veil away from her hair. Freeing herself. The white man watched her, his arms trembling with the waves of convulsions that came from the dog.
Zondi knocked at another door. This one opened to reveal the Belgian doctor, her hair mussed, face creased with sleep. "Disaster Zondi," she said. Zondi glimpsed bare skin as she stepped back into the darkness of her room. "I thought you had fled."
He followed her in and shut the door. "I need your help."
The doctor crossed to the bedside lamp and warm light washed her nakedness. She stood watching him as she lit a cigarette, shaking the match dead. "My help with what?"