He went for a walk in the streets around the hotel. On a previous visit he remembered almost as many white as African faces in suburbs like this one. Now he saw no white faces at all, the great majority of the white population having sought refuge in other English-speaking countries. Most of those still in Zimbabwe either did not have the educational or financial requirements of the countries they were seeking to enter, or they had found a way to make good money here and had no intention of leaving it behind.
Under the circumstances, the sane thing to do was flee. That was what Yudel’s grandfather had done, with his wife and children, when confronted by the realities of Germany in the nineteen-thirties. When faced with the choice between fight and flight, it only made sense to fight if you were the stronger. Anything else was madness.
He found an outlet of an international fast-food brand where he bought coffee for one dollar U.S. The next matter requiring his attention was to work out the tip. It was an easy one, coming to exactly twelve and a half cents. He handed over two dollars. It was only when the girl behind the counter looked helplessly at him that he remembered a dollar note was the smallest change in the country. Yudel accepted his change in the form of a Coke and a packet of potato crisps.
It was late afternoon by the time he got back. Rosa was on the back terrace, drinking tea. “I’ve just had the strangest call on my cell phone,” she said. “That matron van Deventer from the home where Dad stays…”
Yudel sat down opposite her. “Yes, I believe I’ve met her.”
“She’s the strangest woman. She says that strings of women, strings, she said, have been calling to speak to Dad.”
“Obviously she’s exaggerating,” Yudel said.
“Exaggerating?” Rosa put down her book. “I can’t imagine even one woman calling to speak to Dad.”
“Companionship is a human need,” Yudel said.
“Don’t treat me to your psychological gobbledy-gook, Yudel. We’re not talking about Dad’s needs, we’re talking about his sex appeal. And I think you will agree that he doesn’t fall into the movie-star category.”
“Perhaps not,” Yudel said, “but I, for one, am glad he’s attracting some female attention. He has many good qualities. Discerning women will appreciate them.”
“What are these qualities that discerning women will appreciate?”
“He has a steady income. He’s also a man of good character. In addition, he does not have accidents in restaurants too often.” Yudel recognized that, even by his own standards, his arguments were becoming ridiculous. He laughed suddenly, with Rosa joining in.
She completed the thought for Yudel. “He’s also ninety years old, farts at inappropriate times, is in fact increasingly incontinent…” She paused to consider before going on: “… has bad breath, missing teeth and had to be reprimanded last year for pinching a nurse’s backside.”
“No one’s perfect.”
“I want to get to the bottom of this. I’m going to call this van Deventer woman back and have her tell me what this is about.”
“Give her hell,” Yudel said.
He looked up to find Abigail watching them from the doorway. “I have to meet the clients tonight, Yudel. Will you come with me?”
* * *
This time the meeting was held by candlelight around a kitchen table in a small apartment on Kenneth Kaunda Drive, near the center of town. Rosa had already left with her niece, leaving Yudel more than one number on which to contact her. Helena had arrived to guide them, sitting in the back of the car and making her feelings known. “I hate them, I hate them, I hate them,” she was saying. “What they did to Krisj is probably waiting for all of us.”
Prince was waiting for them at the meeting place. “I don’t think anyone else is coming,” he said. “The way they killed Krisj has spooked everyone.”
“Candlelight?” Yudel asked. “Do you think meeting by candlelight makes us any safer?”
“The area’s out,” Prince said. “At least it’s not the whole city.”
Helena could neither wait on Abigail, nor niceties. Yudel was sitting a hand’s breadth farther away from the table than the other three, and in deeper gloom. He saw Helena fix two hostile eyes on Abigail. Her eyes flashed in the light made by the candle. The deep brown of her face was an uncertain shadow in the room’s gloom. “You know what happened to the Makwati girls last night?”
“Yes.”
“And the old people whose house we were using?”
“No.”
“They’ve also been taken. God knows how long they’ll last in there. This morning those kids, their grandchildren, were alone in the flat. In the meantime, you were out again this morning with Jonas Chunga. What the hell is going on here?”
“He took me to see his suspect in the killing of Krisj.”
Helena’s mouth opened in astonishment. Prince sat forward. “They have a suspect?”
“Yes, but he didn’t do it.”
“How do you know?”
“He knows too little about the crime.”
“I knew it, the bastards. How I hate them. They took some bum, probably a convict, and made a pretense of solving the case.” The words poured out of Helena in a stream of uncontrollable bitterness that was aimed at everything in her world. “I hate this damned country. And I hate the people who just take this sort of thing and let the government walk all over them. And I hate these CIO bastards for everything they do. I hate them for parading an innocent man as Krisj’s killer. God, I hate them.” She turned on Abigail again. “You see? You see what they are? Don’t be taken in by this good-guy act of Jonas Chunga’s. You’ve experienced what they are.”
“Yes,” Abigail said. “But first I need to know about the others. Where are they?”
“After what happened to Krisj, they’re too shit-scared to show their faces.”
“So you two are my only clients now?”
“I suppose we are. And the missing people, they’re your clients too.”
“I see.” Abigail paused as she took in the two people she was representing. She had, during her career, represented more impressive, and richer, clients. “Unfortunately, they’re not in a position to give me the authority to act for them. But there’s something I need to know about you. Tell me about the bombing of the Zanu-PF building, and don’t tell me it’s irrelevant.”
“Jesus,” Helena snarled. “Whose side are you on?”
“Tell me now,” Abigail said. Her voice was calm, but Yudel could see that the calmness took an effort.
“I’ll tell you.” Prince was leaning forward, his forearms on the table. “There’s no secret. We all planned the bomb. Paul Robinson, the farmer, who you met with the rest of us, managed to get some commercial explosives, the kind they use in the mines. The blast was not very powerful. It only wrecked the front door. We decided to let them feel what it’s like to be on the receiving end for a change. It was done at night. No one was injured. Only the Independent picked up on the story. The government paper never mentioned it. I think they didn’t want to admit it had happened at all. That would’ve made them look weak.”
“And no one was arrested?”
Prince had opened his mouth as if to answer, but Helena cut in before him. “Not then. But now they’ve picked up seven of us.”
“How long ago was the bombing?”
“What does all this matter?” Helena’s fury showed both in her face and in her voice.
“More than a year ago,” Prince said.
“And in all that time no one was arrested?” Both were silent. “And Director Chunga was responsible for the investigation?” Still there was no response. “Why was no one arrested?”
“We don’t know,” Prince said.
Yudel could see that there was nothing more to be learned by pursuing this. “Let’s talk about tomorrow,” he said.
“It’s being held inside Chikurubi,” Abigail said.
“Inside that hellhole?” Helena was staring at Abigail in disbe
lief.
“That’s right. They say the courts are full.”
“Do you know who the judge will be?”
“Judge Mujuru.”
“Jesus,” Helena cursed. “He’s bought and paid for. He’s in the government’s pocket. He does what they tell him to do. He’s one of the beneficiaries of the farms they took from the white farmers.”
This is the man Jonas Chunga described as an excellent and fair judge, Abigail thought. “Well, he’s what there is. They aren’t going to change the judge for us.”
“Is he also going to be there?” She glanced at Yudel.
“I can speak,” Yudel said. “You can ask me directly. Yes, I’m going to be there.”
“So will I,” Helena said. “I’m not going to let them see how fucking terrified I am.”
Prince said nothing.
“I’ve changed the plea,” Abigail said. She was looking thoughtfully at her two clients. “I’m not asking for them to be released.”
“Oh?” Helena’s suspicions about Abigail and this white South African man who had suddenly appeared with her showed in just the one word.
“If I ask for them to be released, government will simply say that they don’t have them.”
“So?”
“So, you say that they’re in Chikurubi. I’m asking for an order allowing us to search the prison. Yudel has spent his entire adult life working inside prisons. He understands their workings. If we win, he’ll help us search.”
Helena and Prince looked at each other. It was Prince who spoke. “If we can search the prison I’m also going to be there. If my wife’s there, I want to find her.”
“Of course she’s there,” Helena said. At last Abigail seemed to have said something that met with her approval. “I’m in favor. You win the court order and we’ll search that damned place. Maybe Tendai Mujuru will do something good for once in his life.”
29
The roadblock across Julius Nyerere Drive was tucked away around a bend. By the time they came upon it they had already passed the back-up squad who were waiting in a side street. Turning back was not a possibility.
Two police vehicles were parked at the roadside. A number of uniformed policemen stood in small groups on the pavement. A single young policeman in the center of the road waved a torch for them to stop. Yudel eased the hired car to a halt and opened the window on his side. He could see no one who was likely to be a CIO agent. A police officer approached them, walking slowly. His manner was that of a man demonstrating that he was in charge.
“I’ve heard about their roadblocks,” Abigail said. “Apparently they’re not uncommon.”
“Identification,” the policeman demanded, looking first at Yudel, then frowning as his eyes focused on Abigail.
Yudel took out his passport. Abigail passed hers to him and Yudel handed both to the officer. He shone his torch on the first page of one, then of the other. “South Africans,” he said. “Why are you in Zimbabwe?” He was suddenly friendly.
Abigail leaned across Yudel to get closer to the window. “I am Advocate Abigail Bukula,” she said. “I am here to represent a client in an important matter. This is Mr. Gordon, my associate.”
“Wait here, please.” The officer was studiously polite. He shouted something in Shona then walked to the side of the road where an older man wearing the stripes of a sergeant examined the passports.
“We’re not likely to be going anywhere as long as he’s got our passports,” Abigail said to Yudel.
“The reserves are approaching,” Yudel said.
The sergeant and another officer had joined the first one and were coming round the car. “Good evening, sir,” the sergeant said. “I’m sorry to tell you that this car’s not roadworthy.” His two men were standing close to him on either side.
“This is a hired car,” Yudel said.
“It’s not roadworthy, I’m afraid. The left parking light is out.”
“The headlights are on.”
“The parking light must also be operational. Under Zimbabwean law this car can be confiscated until it’s repaired. I’m very sorry to tell you this.” His two juniors clicked their tongues in sympathy.
Yudel sighed. “How much is the fine?”
“Only one hundred dollars. I’m afraid Zimbabwean law is very strict on roadworthiness. And we are sworn to uphold Zimbabwean law at all times and under all conditions. Zimbabwean law does not allow for exceptions.”
Yudel considered that at least half the cars he had seen on Harare streets so far had looked less roadworthy than this one. But it had all been done in the most genial possible way. As shakedowns went, it was a truly amiable one. “A bit steep, isn’t it?”
“Otherwise, what about a drink for me and my friends, in good faith?”
“A drink in good faith,” Yudel repeated. After that sermon on Zimbabwean law?
“A policeman can’t afford a drink these days. Most of my men only get paid one hundred and fifty dollars a month.”
Zimbabwean law seemed to have taken a backseat, at least for the moment. “How much will that cost me?”
“Only fifty dollars. Cash now.”
Yudel’s right hand went to his money pocket, but Abigail stopped him. “We won’t be paying anything in cash,” she told the sergeant.
“They charge more in court,” he said. “Three hundred dollars at least.”
“We’ll see you there.”
The sergeant looked disappointed. To Yudel, the faces of the two junior officers reflected the puzzlement that comes when things do not go according to plan.
“Zimbabwean law…” The sergeant was trying again.
Abigail leaned over Yudel to get closer to the window and the sergeant who was standing next to it. “I know all about Zimbabwean law,” she said. “My friend, Director Jonas Chunga of the CIO, has explained it all to me.”
The sergeant’s head pulled back as if she had struck him. “You know him?”
“Intimately,” Abigail said.
“Get that parking light fixed,” the sergeant admonished Yudel. But he was already handing back the passports.
“Thank you, sergeant,” Yudel said. As he pulled away, he glanced at Abigail. “Intimately?” he asked.
“Go to hell, Yudel,” she said. “You know what I was doing. I just saved you three hundred and forty rands at this morning’s exchange rate.”
“Thank you,” Yudel said.
“And stop grinning at me.”
The roadblock had not been unexpected. The country’s roadblocks were well known on the African subcontinent. Driving from the border to Harare, travelers sometimes had to negotiate three or four. The purpose of them all was a subsidy for the one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar salary.
* * *
The hotel parking was a narrow, gravelled yard down the side of the building. As they got out, Abigail spoke. “Yudel, this schizophrenic thing of Tony’s. Tell me about it.” They were standing next to the car. The electricity was working in this part of the city, but the absence of functioning street lighting meant that the only light was a faint glow from a few windows on that side of the hotel and the gentle, white light from a clear moon overhead. Even in that light, Yudel could see the intensity in her face. “You said you weren’t sure.”
“You remember his writing about a fog that seemed to blot out everything except fear?”
“Yes. There’s nothing unusual about that, surely?”
“How often do you get misty conditions here?”
“Practically never.”
“And he doesn’t describe it as other people would describe a fog. He seems to be enclosed by it. It seems to be personal, cutting him off from everyone and everything else. I don’t think the mist he experiences would be visible to you or me. This sort of thing is fairly common among schizophrenics. But this is, at best, a guess. I’m not certain.”
“If he is schizophrenic, would that have something to do with his being willing to plant that bomb?”
; “Suneesha Patel says Tony did plant the bomb.”
“Oh, Tony. Poor, poor Tony.”
They were halfway down the driveway, making their way to the front entrance of the hotel when a new police officer appeared, spreading his arms to block their way as they reached the street.
“Not another one,” Abigail muttered.
“Please, you must stay inside the hotel.”
Some distance along the street a car door slammed shut and a man in civilian clothes came hurrying toward them. As he got close, Abigail recognized him. “Agent Mpofu?”
“Good evening, advocate.” He stopped close in front of them, the uniformed officer taking a step back. “I have a message from Director Chunga. He asks that you don’t leave the hotel after dark.”
“Is there a reason?”
“He’s concerned for your safety, after what happened to Mr. Patel.”
“I see.”
“If you do want to go for a walk, the constable and I would like to accompany you.”
Abigail thought about taking a walk through the suburb’s quiet nighttime streets with Agent Mpofu and his constable as companions. Yudel answered for her. “Thanks for your concern, agent, but we’re on our way into the hotel.”
“Thank you. We’ll be watching the road, and we have a man at the back of the hotel too.”
“Thank you,” Yudel said.
“Oh,” Abigail said. “Agent Mpofu, this is Mr. Gordon. Mr. Gordon, Agent Mpofu.”
Yudel shook hands with the CIO man. “Pleased to meet you and thanks again for your concern. These are difficult times for all of us, especially yourselves.” They were opposite the hotel’s doors and Yudel could see Mpofu’s face now.
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean whatever political changes lie ahead, they may not be good for CIO personnel.”
“I know nothing about politics. Nothing.” He stared angrily at Yudel. “I just do my work.”
Those Who Love Night Page 17