Even this was comforting, that he was doing the ordering, relieving her of this minor responsibility. It was not something she usually allowed. Abigail did things for herself. She was not even good at delegating to Johanna. But tonight, sitting back in her chair at this man’s table, and allowing him to run the evening, she was content.
Unbidden, the thought of why she had come to Zimbabwe entered her mind, and the memory of Krisj Patel and the sight of his body on the pavement. “You’re not what I expected,” she said.
“And you’re certainly not what I expected.”
The procedure Abigail usually followed when getting dressed was to lay out the clothing items she intended to wear that day, a process that took perhaps thirty seconds, then slip into them, taking another forty-five seconds or less. Applying the few cosmetic aids she used took as little time as getting dressed. She seldom wore jewelry of any kind. The only ring she possessed was the wedding ring Robert had slipped onto her finger at a ceremony at which only the two of them and two witnesses had been present. She kept her hair cropped close to her head, never once in all her life having resorted to the hair-straightening devices employed by most of her friends and female colleagues. While she was impatient with the female need to look gorgeous, Abigail knew by the average male reaction to her that her appearance did not need artificial bolstering.
Tonight though, she had taken care. She had spent time in front of the mirror and was wearing a glowing crystal pendant set in silver, given to her by Robert, in the years before diamonds had become affordable. She had positioned it to hang just at the point where her cleavage began. Her white blouse was open to halfway between collarbone and waist, and billowed only slightly above close-fitting black trousers.
She knew how fabulous she looked and that Freek Jordaan would have gulped at the sight of her. She was not beyond enjoying the thought that when he told Robert that he was the old white guy lusting after her that it was true. She also knew that she would ensure that Freek’s lust would always be exercised harmlessly, from a distance.
Tonight was different. From the time he met her in Patel’s office, Chunga had been unable to disguise the effect she had on him. All the while she had been getting ready for the evening, she had tried not to think about Robert. Despite what she was certain he was doing with that damned PA, she could not think about him tonight. Nor could she think about this strange girl, Helena, or the rest of her clients. This man Chunga was, she had to remind herself, a director of the CIO. But, she persuaded herself, he may also provide the solution to everything.
Thinking about Yudel and Rosa too was not possible. She could not imagine that they would have approved. To hell with them, she thought. Who are they to judge me?
Yet she knew that the only person who knew where she was and who may be judging her was herself. So thinking was not possible. Least of all could she think about the body of Krisj Patel on the pavement, limbs spread-eagled in patterns they would never have adopted in life.
Looking at this man sitting across from her, it was not possible to believe that he had anything to with the evil she had been hearing and reading about. His assurances were so direct and uncomplicated. The sturdy barriers she kept around herself, only ever breached by Robert, had been lowered. As for the matter of the Harare Seven, that too had receded into the distance. She warned herself that there was a real danger tonight that she might lose touch with everything except this man and the moments they were both enjoying.
As they had come up the steps of the clubhouse, she had felt one of his hands in the small of her back. The fabric of her blouse had been between his skin and hers, but the pulse from him to her was as immediate as if the blouse had not existed.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.
“Nor did I. I didn’t even think you’d ask.”
“I didn’t either. I wanted you to come so that I could explain some things about myself and my work, and to tell you how I can help you. But now that you’re here, I’m having difficulty remembering what I wanted to say.”
“We can leave those things for some other time,” she said. But no, another part of her told her. You can’t leave them for any other time.
“We may have to leave them, if I can’t remember what they were.”
This was a powerful man, a man whom her clients seemed to believe had the power to decide who lived and who died in Zimbabwe. Not only did he have the power but, according to her clients, he exercised it readily. And this man was saying that, just being with her, he could not think straight. It was something Abigail needed to hear and she needed badly to hear it. “Jonas,” she said, “you know that we shouldn’t be here, talking like this.”
“I know.”
“I, especially, shouldn’t be in your company.”
“What if I can help you? What if I can smooth the path for your application to court? What if I can see to it that in a day or two you get everything you want?”
“Can you do that?”
“I think so.”
“And will you?”
“I will certainly try and I believe I will be successful.”
“And what payment will you expect?” She was aware that a certain flirtatiousness had crept into her voice.
“It’s not like that. It really isn’t.”
The playful tone of her own voice had a sobering effect, bringing her closer to reality. Some part of the cloud smothering her critical faculties lifted. She studied the earnest expression on his face. “Tell me you had nothing to do with Krisj Patel’s death. Tell me that.”
“I swear to you. Neither I nor anyone else in my organization had anything to do with it. It amazes me that anyone chose to assassinate him. The only effective act of his entire life was to bring you here.”
“You didn’t think highly of him then?”
“He was nothing, a person of no consequence.”
“And you don’t know who might have killed him?”
“A man was seen leaving the area, carrying what seemed to be a rifle. We know his name. We’ll have him in a day or two.”
“Is this really so?”
“We’ll have him in custody before you leave Zimbabwe.”
“And the missing activists?”
“They may be in prison. I don’t know. What I can tell you is that we didn’t put them there.”
“My clients say they saw your people take at least some of them to Chikurubi prison.”
“Abigail…” His eyes were holding hers and, as on the previous night at the place where Krisj Patel was killed, if this were an act, it was a wonderfully convincing one. “Abigail, your clients are not the most reliable witnesses. Did they, by any chance, tell you about the explosion they set off at the ruling party’s headquarters and how I protected them? Did they tell you about that?”
“Is this true?” Almost everything he said was adding to her confusion.
“I will tell you nothing about it. You ask them.”
That too was the response of an innocent man. Ask them, he had said.
Chunga leaned across the table toward her. He placed a powerful hand over one of hers. Abigail’s impulse to withdraw it was immediately overridden by the stronger need to be touching him. “What you have to understand is that I also come from a minority group. I am of the Ndebele people. It’s true that there are not many of us in the upper levels of government, but just because the Shona people are in the majority does not mean that this country is a Shona dictatorship. I come from a small town in Matabeleland called Plumtree. I started work in the police there.”
Plumtree? Abigail thought. Why Plumtree? She remembered that Bizana, where her aunt had died, was not far from the town.
Chunga was still speaking. “My first position with the CIO was there. Did you know that the first director of the CIO after liberation was a white man? He had also been head of security under the old racist regime. I made the same decision as he did. I knew my own people had suffered. I had also suffered. But, li
ke that white man, I decided that resistance would only bring more misery upon my people. I made a conscious decision to work with the government to help build a better country. And the country has changed. It is a better place now. I know the work is not completed. I know the country is far from perfect, but it is improving, and I have no intention of destroying those talented young people who are now missing.”
“Talented? Are they all talented?”
He lowered his eyes for an instant. “Tony Makumbe is very talented. I don’t agree with all his writing, but the nonpolitical stuff stirs my soul. I don’t want to destroy the source of that inspiration. All I’m saying is that I have not personally been responsible for bad things happening, and that I am helping things to improve, and that I will help you reach a satisfactory conclusion to your matter.”
“And how will you do that?”
“To begin with, I have the influence to see that it is in court quickly.”
“They’ve given me a date of Friday in two weeks.”
“That’s disgraceful. Let me see what I can do.”
“Can you help?”
“Give me till Monday.”
“Thank you.” Now, let’s forget this subject, she thought. Let’s forget all the ugliness. Let me even forget Krisj, at least for tonight.
As if he had been reading her mind, he said, “I also have influence in this establishment. Here is the starter.”
Andrew, a young man with eyes that seemed to be permanently downcast, brought the calamari heads. They were as good as Chunga had promised. So was the sole that followed an hour later. The dry white wine, too, was excellent and it was still excellent by the time she had finished her third glass. Andrew was never more than a few paces away, ready to react immediately to the slightest glance from Chunga.
Some of the other diners finished, and she saw waiters dashing back and forth with their credit cards. By the time they finished, only a few were left. Chunga led Abigail through a side entrance of the clubhouse and onto the golf course. Ahead, a fairway, partly lit by the lighting from the parking area and the clubhouse itself, was alive with movement. When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness she realized that what she was seeing was a small herd of antelope. “Impalas,” Chunga said. “Aren’t they lovely?”
“They live here?”
“There are also wildebeest and some smaller types. Yes, they live on the course. Occasionally a leopard has found a hole in the fence and taken one.”
She slipped off her shoes and carried them in one hand. She had found the heels sinking into the fairway’s smooth surface, made soft by a heavy dew. The damp grass was cold underfoot.
Halfway down the fairway, Abigail stopped under the spreading branches of a tree. Its trunk was in the rough, but the immense spread of its branches reached across half the fairway. Looking up, she said, “This must get in the way of the golfers.”
“It does. I believe there have been many attempts to have it cut down, but the board has always overridden them.”
“Good for the board,” she said. “I like the board.”
Chunga had made no attempt to touch her. She had expected at least a casual attempt to take her hand, but so far there had been nothing. “Abigail,” he said, “I don’t agree with your clients. I know they will sneer at the idea, but I’ve tried to protect them from the very serious trouble their activities could land them in. What I really want to say, though, is how much I admire what you’re doing. I admire your bravery in the face of all that has happened, and your commitment to your case. I’ve never met anyone who is like you, in even the smallest way.”
Abigail could find no way to answer. They walked on in silence. By the time they reached the green of the first hole they were out of reach of the lights. Now he did touch her, but it was only the gentlest possible contact as he steered her back toward the clubhouse. “Come, there’s something else I want to show you.”
* * *
Chunga tossed a coin to the car guard who had approached to guide them out of the parking area. They passed through the club’s gate and he turned the Mercedes away from the city. Two nights before, when he had taken her to the scene of Patel’s murder, he had driven the CIO double-cab quickly through the potholed streets. Its big wheels and high ground clearance had almost smoothed out the bumps. Now he drove more carefully, picking his way through the uneven sections of road. It was not long before he left the tarred road to follow a dirt track.
She could see the track rising in front of the car as it twisted through dense scrub. It was not a surprise when he stopped at a thinning of the vegetation and she could see the city lights spreading to the east below them. He got out without saying anything and came round the car to open the door for her.
The hill was not a high one, but standing next to him she could see parts of the city. “Down there,” he said, “are the wealthier suburbs, brightly lit and well catered for. I live there too. Despite the state of the country, those people are eating well tonight. Across there…” She followed the direction in which his arm was stretched. “Across there, there is an even bigger area. Can you see it? It looks almost ghostly.”
“There seems to be something wrong with the lighting. What is it?”
“It’s the shack town.”
“What makes it look that way?”
“The lighting is by candles and oil lamps. They don’t make much light. There’s also not much food there.”
Chunga was a dark shadow against a still darker sky. “Jonas, why did you bring me here?” Abigail asked.
“I brought you here because I want you to know that I am a Zimbabwean. In addition to that, as I told you, I am of the Ndebele minority. I have been among those who were the victims of a government-sponsored massacre. But I decided that there was no point in resistance. We would all have been slaughtered. Only collaboration made any sense. This is my country, and everything I do, I do only because I believe it to be good for Zimbabwe. My life is aimed at helping to build my country. I am not part of killings or torture or holding people in custody without trial. I brought you here, because I want you to know the real Jonas Chunga.”
They had nothing more to say. Abigail was facing him and so close that she could feel his breath. Then he was touching her, drawing her toward him in arms that were powerful, but with a grip of great restraint. He was touching her breasts through the fabric of her blouse, his mouth was on hers, then his body was hard against her and she could feel his erection.
She had no breath and nothing she did was deliberate, but she was aware of the firm crinkles of his hair under her hands. Then one of his hands was inside her blouse, massaging first one breast, then the other.
At that moment the quick flash of a distant headlight reached them. “Not here,” he gasped. “We’ll go to my house.”
He had just started the engine and turned the car around when the other vehicle, a small pickup truck, came bouncing past them. Now Chunga did reach across to take Abigail’s hand, holding it firmly but gently in his much larger one.
I’m going to do it, Abigail thought. My God, I am going to do it. Oh, Robert, she asked her distant husband, what in hell has happened to us?
Abigail’s chest rose and fell with an almost unbearable excitement, but there was an uneasiness that seemed to have no cause. It was not the thought of Robert, or what her clients may think, or even the possible betrayal of Krisj Patel. Something beyond her ability to comprehend, but more powerful than all other influences, troubled her beyond measure.
The houses they passed were large, some of them almost palatial. Even at night it was clear that the gardens were well cared for. Only the pitted and potholed road fitted what she had seen of the rest of the city so far. Chunga slowed almost to walking pace at times, either to go round potholes or to ease the car through them. At one point they passed a boom at a checkpoint. The uniformed guard saluted. It was clear that the residents of the area wanted access to their neighborhood to be controlled. “What’s this sub
urb called?” Abigail asked.
“Borrowdale Brooke. I’m sorry about the road surface.” It was said as if he were personally responsible.
She was watching his face as he drove. His features looked as controlled as ever. Only a slight parting of the lips reflected any excitement he might be feeling. He glanced at her and their eyes met. She thought she saw a degree of surprise there that bordered on alarm.
They reached the front gate of a large house, the garden walls of which stretched away into the far darkness on either side. Chunga activated the mechanism to open the gate. He brought the car to a stop in the driveway.
Abigail remained in her seat until he opened the door for her. Then she allowed him to lead her across a broad patio, a strong hand on one of her elbows, and through a glass door. A tall reading lamp came on in a far corner, but she saw little through the confusion within her. The room was large and a polished wooden floor was covered by a handwoven carpet. Afterward, that was all she could remember of it.
Chunga was close to her. He had taken her hand to lead her toward a doorway on the other side. She reached out to touch him. The muscles of his chest were hard. She found herself massaging the biceps of one arm.
“Come,” he murmured. “This way.”
She followed him into a short hallway and from there into a spacious bedroom. Chunga had not turned on any other lights. Enough light reached them through the windows for them to avoid the furniture. “I’m glad you came,” she heard him say. He dropped his jacket onto a chair.
He came toward her, unhurriedly, fully in control. She felt his hands on her hips.
And then, without warning, Abigail understood the source of her earlier uneasiness. What had only been a disturbing influence, beyond her understanding, had become a reality. No, she thought. No, not now. I can’t now. When this is over, perhaps, but not now. Certainly not now.
He drew her closer, but hesitated, perhaps feeling the doubt within her. “Abigail?” He spoke her name as a question. She heard no hostility and no anger in it.
“Jonas, I can’t now. I just can’t.”
Those Who Love Night Page 13