Those Who Love Night

by Wessel Ebersohn

  Abigail leaned past Yudel and called to the boy. “What’s happening down there?”

  He brought his face close to the open window. Yudel could see the whites of his eyes all the way round the irises. “We are united. No more will we have dictatorship, no more, not in my country.” Then he was gone, still fleeing in the direction away from the football field. From where they had stopped, Yudel could see only a corner of the space that passed as a football field. Unlike the well-kept one in town, the field seemed to be almost entirely without grass. The absence of a watering system and the relentless sun had destroyed whatever greenery may once have existed.

  Down at the field the crowd seemed thinner, as people either drifted away or fled headlong. A man and a smaller figure, perhaps a boy, were kicking something on the ground.

  “I think we can go, Yudel,” Abigail said. “Whatever the threat is, I don’t think it’s aimed at us.”

  He agreed with her, but he allowed only gentle acceleration. In the rearview mirror he caught a glimpse of Helena’s face and thought he saw the same hard-eyed excitement there that he had seen in the eyes of the kids fleeing the football field. “I don’t think this is good,” Abigail was saying. “This is not good at all.”

  The smoke pointed out by the tavern owner had not come from a burning house, as he had thought. Its source was a smoldering bundle on the edge of the grassless football field. Others had joined the man and boy to kick the bundle on the ground. There were five of them now, one of whom was a woman.

  The people still on the field could not now be described as a crowd. They were a scattering of individuals, edging away from the scene in which they had participated. “Not in my country,” the boy’s voice shouted. “Not anymore in my country will they do what they like.”

  Yudel had stopped the car again and was getting out. He started toward the bundle on the ground. Abigail was running ahead of him. “Stop, brothers and sisters, please stop. This will bring reprisals on us all. Please stop.” It was only now that Yudel could see the shape of the thing on the ground. He saw a single hand with fingers spread-eagled that for the first time identified it for what it was. Smoke was rising from the blackened corpse. The clothing, or was it the flesh, was still glowing in places. There was not enough smoke to be visible from far.

  Most of those who had been kicking the body had stepped back with Abigail’s approach. Only one man and a boy who Yudel thought had not yet reached his teens were still attacking the figure on the ground. Abigail was shouting. “No, please stop. This will not help.” She pushed hard against the man. He stumbled and went down on hands and knees.

  “It’s too late, Yudel.” She knelt next to the body. “It’s much too late.”

  “The clothing,” Yudel said. Enough of the clothing had survived the fire to make it identifiable. “Look at the clothing. He’s wearing a suit. How many people in this place are wearing suits?”

  “Never in my country will this happen anymore.” They heard the teenage boy’s voice faintly, from a distance. Farther away a woman ululated and was joined by a second, then a third and perhaps more.

  By the time Yudel straightened up, it was clear that Agent Mpofu would not be selling them information of any kind, not ever again. From somewhere behind him the ululations were continuing.

  “Dear God,” Abigail said. “Let’s get out of this ghastly place.”

  Yudel could hear Helena. “It’s the will of the people. The people have spoken.” When he looked at her, her jaw was set and her eyes were shining. “It’s not your country.” Her eyes met Yudel’s. “It’s our country. You can’t feel the way we do.”

  Helena’s eyes suddenly widened and she drew back. Yudel looked for Abigail, but could not see her immediately. He felt the blow on the back of his head as a heavy, blunt-edged concussion. Abigail’s scream reached him through the swirling confusion of a consciousness that was no longer functioning. He felt his face make uncontrolled contact with the dusty surface of the field and tried to rise.

  45

  Very slowly Yudel became aware of the walls and ceiling of the cell. He was on his back on a mattress so thin that it may not have existed at all. At least it provided some insulation from the cement.

  His head seemed to have swelled to double its usual size. Even the smallest movement started the beating of a bass drum inside his skull. Consciousness came and went a few times. He was aware of skimming along just below some part of the afternoon. He was on a pillow of light, floating somewhere beneath the surface—but the surface of what?

  Eventually the floating stopped and he was in the cell, his head aching. He levered himself up on an elbow, but the bass drum in his skull started again and he sank back. “How blind I’ve been,” he thought. “It was all there. I can’t believe how long it took.”

  For the first time he wondered about what may have happened to Abigail. Someone shouted from the solid steel door. The face of a uniformed policeman had appeared at the inspection hole. He shouted again. Yudel did not understand the language, but he imagined the shout was a signal that the prisoner had woken.

  The inspection hole closed and moments later an officer who wore the stripes of a sergeant entered the cell. He was a small, lean man, in a uniform made dusty by the day’s activities. His hollow cheeks and bulging eyes made him look like a hungry insect, perhaps a mantis. He stopped next to Yudel. “So, my friend,” he said. “What were you doing here helping to kill the people of our township?”

  Yudel tried again to rise, but his head remained a problem. He settled for resting on one elbow and spoke softly, trying to keep the drum in his head quiet. “First of all, I’m not your friend. Second, I’m not going to answer your questions.”

  “Oh, yes?” Fury flared in the sergeant’s eyes. “You think so?”

  “I’m quite sure of it. If you have any doubts, you’d better check first with Director Jonas Chunga of the CIO.” It was a device that had worked for Abigail, and Yudel thought it was worth a try now.

  The sergeant’s chest was heaving with indignation. “Are you CIO?”

  “That’s not your business. My name is Yudel Gordon. You’d better tell Jonas Chunga that your men assaulted me and that you’re holding me.” The sergeant backed away to the door. Containing his anger had just become easier.

  The sound of many voices reached him from the window. Then a single voice shouted what sounded like a military command. The other voices fell silent. Yudel maneuvered himself carefully onto all fours, trying not to jolt his head as he rolled over. From that position he rose unsteadily into a crouch, then to his feet. Yudel found that by pulling himself up by the bars, he could just see out of the window. He had never been an athlete, and only managed to stay in that position for a few seconds, but it was long enough for him to see a group of twenty or thirty township residents, their heads bowed in submission. He let himself down as the hammering in his head started again.

  The steel door of the cell was just a few paces away. He walked carefully to it and, with great care, beat on it with his flat hand.

  The inspection hole snapped open and the guard’s face appeared. “Yes?”

  “Who are those people in the yard?”

  “Suspects.”

  “Suspects for what?”

  “Suspects for killing the CIO man.”

  Yudel had not expected the reprisals to start so soon. “There were two ladies with me,” he said. “Were they also arrested?”

  “No ladies, just you.”

  “Do you know what happened to them?”

  “No ladies were arrested.”

  “Was I the only one arrested at the football field?”

  Almost as he asked the question, a murmuring of many voices, a subdued rumbling, reached him. “Twenty, maybe thirty were arrested. We got them outside.”

  “So why am I alone in here?”

  “You must be the mastermind, the sergeant says.”

  “I’m the mastermind?”

  “Sergeant says
you’re the mastermind.”

  Thanks awfully, Yudel thought. “The ladies I was with are not in the twenty or so you arrested?”

  “All are men and only one township lady.”

  “Thanks.”

  Yudel heard the inspection cover snap shut as he turned away. It was nice to be thought of as the mastermind, much better than being seen as just part of the mob. It earned you a little status. Although how much masterminding it took to burn someone alive was another matter.

  His appearance was not something that ever took much of Yudel’s attention. His clothing was, without exception, made up of fairly neutral colors and he selected what he wore each day by the simple device of taking the items that came to hand first. But now he looked down at his clothes. Having spent some time face-down in the thick dust of the football field had not improved their appearance. He tried to dust off his trousers, but was only partly successful. After a minute or less he gave up and went back to the plastic foam sheet that passed as a mattress, sitting down with his back resting against the cell wall.

  In the distance he heard what sounded like the rolling of a great drum. Through the only window, set high in the wall, he could see the clouds that had gathered over the city. While he watched, a sharp flash of chain lightning snaked across the sky, the roll of thunder following a few seconds later. The rain had not yet started.

  Yudel was confident that what he had said to the sergeant would reach Chunga soon and that the director would not be able to resist his curiosity as to what Yudel was doing at the scene of Agent Mpofu’s death. He was surprised though at just how quickly that reaction took place. Within half an hour the cell door was being unlocked, and the guard indicating that he should follow.

  A middle-aged man wearing a tie, the jacket of a suit, faded denim trousers and sneakers was waiting in the charge office. “Mr. Gordon,” he said. “Director Chunga is waiting for you.” The station sergeant was nowhere to be seen.

  Yudel followed him outside to an old Honda, the upholstery of which had worn through in places. Waiting behind the car was an armored personnel carrier. Through the vehicle’s narrow windows, men in combat fatigues were visible.

  The afternoon was growing darker, the gathering clouds having blocked all sunlight. As they drove, lightning flashed over the city and to the north, but the ground was still as dry as before. For a short distance the armored vehicle followed close behind, churning up a column of dust that was spread by a gusty wind to settle on shacks on either side. As Yudel watched, it stopped at one of the alleys between the shacks and troops armed with repeating rifles started to disembark. In the middle distance, another personnel carrier was patrolling the football field.

  * * *

  The offices of the CIO on Samora Machel Drive were far simpler than Yudel had imagined them to be. Chunga’s own office was large, but simply furnished and without the paintings and statuettes he had expected. The director was seated behind his desk. He did not rise or offer a hand to Yudel, but he did nod to a chair.

  Yudel sat down and looked into the director’s unsmiling face and unblinking gaze. He was not in a hurry to start. He seemed to be appraising the man sitting across from him, making up his mind before he even heard Yudel’s explanation. “This is altogether unexpected,” he said. “To find you, a visitor to our country who is on a legal mission, seemingly involved in the violent death of one of our agents. Perhaps you would care to explain.”

  “Of course,” Yudel said, “but before I do, could you tell me if Abigail is safe? She was with me and…”

  “She’s at the hotel. She’s been making a nuisance of herself, trying to discover what happened to you. I phoned her and told her that you are now in CIO custody so there is no need for her to be concerned and that I would keep her informed.”

  “Thank you.” Yudel felt certain Chunga did not really believe he was involved in the killing of Mpofu. He was also certain that this would be the last chance to learn anything of value from the CIO man. He knew he would have to go very carefully, but he also knew that the excessive enthusiasm of the township police had given him an opportunity he had no reason to expect.

  “Perhaps now you would care to explain what you were doing next to the body of one of our agents.”

  Yudel could see no obvious hostility in Chunga, but nor could he see anything that may benefit him. Nor could he be sure how Chunga’s obsession with Abigail may affect this meeting. The other man’s tight control was securely in place, as always. Perhaps not always, though. What Freek had told Yudel about the times when that control had cracked was foremost in Yudel’s mind. “I went there with Abigail to meet Agent Mpofu, but when we arrived there we found that he had already been killed by the mob. I was attacked from behind. I don’t know who did it. Probably someone who thought I was one of your men.”

  “There was a reason for you to be meeting him there, I presume.”

  “Yes.” Yudel knew that only the truth made any sense in this matter. “Agent Mpofu had offered to tell us where we could find our clients. We were to pay him one thousand American dollars for the information.”

  “So you were there with the purpose of bribing a government official. Is that correct?”

  “No. Agent Mpofu invited us.” And now it was necessary to lie. “It had never been our intention to pay him the money. We had intended to try to get the information from him without giving him any money.”

  For the first time, the slightest smile reflected something of what Chunga was thinking. “Congratulations, Mr. Gordon.” He let Yudel wait before telling him why congratulations were in order. “You lie beautifully.” He reached into one of his desk drawers and brought out Robert’s one thousand American dollars in ten-dollar bills and laid them on the desk. Inadvertently, Yudel’s hand went to his waist. The money belt was still there. Now Chunga smiled more broadly, with real amusement. “I’m sorry to say that your belt is empty now. This is what was in it. Now tell me again what you were doing at the place where my agent died.”

  Yudel looked at Chunga. The little smile of satisfaction told him that this was something he would have to give Chunga. He had made the most basic mistake. Chunga had won the point and he would have to leave it there. He knew he would simply have to let the dice roll. “All right. I was going to pay him the thousand dollars for that information. But he solicited the bribe.”

  “You were nevertheless a party to it.”

  “And yet it was not a real bribe. He was probably going to take the money, and we would get nothing from it. In truth, it was extortion.”

  “Because he never knew where they are?” This time Chunga laughed loud. “Mr. Gordon, are you suggesting that you are guiltless because of your stupidity?”

  “It could be seen that way.”

  Chunga laughed again. “I doubt that a court would see it that way.” The laughter diminished until it was no more than simple amusement. Yudel saw it as the amusement a cat may feel at the attempt of a mouse to escape. “I do believe that you had nothing to do with the death of my agent. And I will accept that he solicited the bribe. He was a fool. Getting himself killed that way was also the act of a fool.” The amusement had retreated to his eyes. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Gordon?”

  What does this mean? Yudel asked himself. Are we friends now? “What would we be drinking?” he asked.

  “Whiskey, imported.”

  “Thanks,” Yudel said. “Half a tot.”

  “Half a tot?” Chunga’s eyebrows lifted. “This is the first time I’ve heard a man ask for half a tot. Doubles often, nothing but water occasionally, but half a tot is new to me.”

  “I have a blood-sugar problem.”

  “Ah.” Chunga nodded. “Half a tot, then. With water, I suppose, to dilute the sugar further?”

  “Please.”

  Chunga poured the drinks at a table in a corner of the office. Yudel waited in silence. He knew that this was not the time to be raising any of the matters that interested him. He would have to le
t Chunga direct the conversation and wait for an opening that may not come. “Mr. Gordon, what exactly are you doing here?”

  “Do you think you could call me Yudel?”

  Chunga raised his eyebrows, this time in mock surprise. “Are we friends now?”

  “I hope so.”

  Chunga laughed again, no more than a brief chuckle this time. “I’m sure you do. No, I think you will remain Mr. Gordon and I will remain Director Chunga. But please answer my question. What are you doing in my country?”

  “Well, we came for this matter of these missing people.”

  “No. Abigail came for that reason. Why did you come?”

  “To assist her.”

  “Is she paying you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you her lover?”

  Now Yudel could see no sign of amusement in the other man, but he did see the smallest weakness in Chunga’s defenses. “No.”

  “What are you to her?” It was clear that this was something Chunga needed to understand, and that it had nothing to do with the dead CIO agent.

  “I can’t describe it exactly. I can’t even describe it inexactly.”

  “Give it a try.”

  “No.”

  “You refuse to describe your relationship with her? Why?”

  “I prefer not to examine it. I choose not to.”

  “I see,” Chunga said, only to correct himself a moment later. “No, I don’t see at all.”

  “You know that my wife is with me here?”

  “Of course, but that tells me nothing. So there is nothing sexual in your relationship with Abigail?”

  “Not overtly.”

  “Not overtly?” Chunga had said it thoughtfully, seeming to weigh up the meaning of the words.

  “I’m aware that I would probably not have had this relationship with her if she had been a man. But our relationship is not typically that of a man and a woman. Of course, I like her company and she is both a brilliant and a good-looking woman. The picture of her that The Herald carried does not begin to do her justice.”