This was not the time to look round or to allow her gaze to falter. None of Tony’s friends, nor any CIO members would understand. Chunga was trying to keep his eyes on her, but could not. They flickered again toward the young man on the veranda behind her. The pretense could not be maintained. His attention moved from Abigail and he was looking past her. At last she turned to look back. Tony was standing at the edge of the veranda. “Father.” The cry came again. Abigail could not say whether it was a plea, a cry for help or simply an acknowledgment of their relationship. Then Tony was coming toward them, uncertainly, not with the sort of care she had shown, stumbling as he stepped off the cement.
“Father.” Abigail heard a wildness in the sound, the call of an animal in pain. “Father.” If there was more he wanted to say, the struggle to articulate it was too great. Now he was stumbling toward them. In a momentary glance, Abigail thought she saw fear in Chunga’s eyes. “Father.”
The distance was not great, but later, as she remembered the incident, she could not decide whether it had taken very long for him to reach them or perhaps no time at all. He stumbled again on the uneven surface. Then he was in his father’s arms. His own arms were round Chunga, holding him close, perhaps the only time he ever had. Chunga seemed unable to move. Abigail knew that there was nothing else that could have had this effect on him. “Father,” Tony sobbed.
The embrace lasted only seconds. Tony burst away, stopping within an arm’s length of Abigail. It was a moment before she realized that he was holding his father’s service revolver in his right hand. Chunga’s jacket had been thrown open for an instant and Abigail saw that the shoulder holster was empty now. Tony was standing just a few meters away from his father and pointing the revolver at him. Almost immediately firearms had appeared in the hands of all the CIO men. “No,” Chunga shouted. “Put away your weapons. Put them away.”
Almost any other command would have been obeyed instantly, but this one was different. This political lunatic was pointing a firearm at the director. The bastard was clearly mad.
“Put them away,” Chunga commanded again. “Any man who fires his gun will be the next to die. Put them away.”
Tony had found a target in the center of his father’s chest. On either side of Chunga the guns were being put away—slowly, reluctantly, one agent at a time. “Tony,” Chunga spoke gently. “Tony, it’s all right. It’s all right. Just put down the gun. No action will be taken against anyone, just put down the gun.”
“Father…” The word hung in the space between them. It was clear that there was more to be said, but that saying it was not possible. “Father.” Tony raised the hand that was holding the gun. The angle of his wrist twisted. He had found a new target, one he could not be denied. A finger was searching for the trigger. The single report of the gun seemed to be amplified by the quiet of the rural morning. The bullet struck the boy just below his right ear. He fell heavily on the spot where he had been standing.
None of the CIO agents had moved. Yudel was the first to reach Tony’s body. His fingers searched for the carotid, then for the artery at his wrists, but in neither place did even the smallest flicker of life reveal itself. He found the position of the entry wound. The brain stem must have been blown away, and with it any chance of the body’s functions continuing. He rose to look at Chunga. The director was sinking to his knees. It was clear that he did not need proof that his son was dead. Abigail had moved back a few steps, putting that small extra distance between herself and the now lifeless body of her cousin.
* * *
To Abigail it seemed later that every moment of that morning had been etched permanently in her memory. Afterward she would remember the unevenness of the ground as she walked toward Jonas Chunga. She would remember the look on his face, first as he approached her, then when he heard his son calling to him.
If one moment was blurred in her mind it was the fraction of a second that it took for Tony to turn the gun away from his father and toward himself. It had happened so fast that perhaps there had never been even an instant when the picture was clear to her.
She remembered too the long moment, far too long at the time, before Chunga, consumed by his private hell, was able to give direction to his men. Without him giving the orders, none of them knew what should be done with the remaining seven dissidents, or with Yudel and Abigail. It was only when Chunga waved a hand, still without rising, and snarled, “Let them go, let the bastards all go,” that the group on the police-station veranda moved uncertainly into the street.
Equally clear in her memory was the horror on the face of Helena, who had heard the shot from the front passenger seat of the minibus taxi she had gone to fetch. Her first words on seeing Tony’s body were: “So the swine are open about killing us now.” Yudel had intercepted her to quiet her and tell her what had happened, and how silence was the best option.
Abigail could also never forget the brief meeting, that she later described to Yudel as bizarre, with Helena and her seven colleagues. They were in their seats in the taxi. She suggested that they make the short run to the Botswana border post. She said she was sure she could get them into that country as political refugees. The post was poorly manned, and there was no boom. If they left the taxi and walked across in a loose group, they would be in the office on the Botswana side before the Zimbabweans realized what was happening. Botswana would take them in. It was the continent’s country that had greatest respect for personal freedom. They always accepted political refugees.
But the group in the taxi had already held an impromptu caucus among themselves. They had looked at one another, and Helena spoke for them all. “We are very grateful for what you and Yudel have done. Also Rosa. She was very brave too. But we’re staying. We believe our country is changing, and we are going to stay here and help it change.”
“You’re not serious,” Abigail had said.
“We are serious. We are very serious.”
But the image that would return to her most often and most clearly of all, as the months passed, was that of Jonas Chunga kneeling next to his son’s body, his hands clasped together and pressed to his chest. Of all that had passed between them, that was the picture that she knew would never disappear from her memory.
55
It was early afternoon before Abigail, Yudel and Rosa reached the Bulawayo airport. That the car Yudel had hired in Harare was going to be returned to the car-hire company in a different city, so far from where they expected it and where they seemed to have no office, only troubled Yudel briefly. He was sure that they were understanding people and would not penalise him unduly.
Their flight would take off three hours later. They were still waiting for it when Rosa’s cell phone rang. Yudel listened to her side of the conversation. It was made up of “Oh yes, how are you?… You don’t say … I see … Yes, I see … When did this happen?… Oh, I see … And how is he?… And thanks for the call, Mariette … Yes, we will … I see … We certainly will, Mariette … We are very much in favor.”
What the hell is all this Mariette business? Yudel wondered. How did they suddenly become old friends? “What did that old cow want?” he asked after the call ended.
“Don’t talk about her that way,” Rosa said. “She’s younger than us. All she wants is what’s best for Dad.”
Yudel was less than certain about the accuracy of that statement. “So what does she want?”
“She says there’s now a woman in Dad’s life.”
“The old devil,” Yudel chuckled. “It just goes to show that marketing does pay.”
“It shows nothing of the sort. It didn’t come about as a result of that stupid advertisement. He and one of the ladies who live at the home, whom he has known for years, have decided to pool their resources and are moving in together. Mariette is giving them one of the flats there. She asked if we had any objections, and I said we are in favor. I trust that you have no objections, Yudel.”
“Certainly not.”
“A
pparently she and Dad have each sold their single beds and bought a double bed. Mariette says this matter of their double bed is the talk of the place. She says there has already been a delegation to see her, suggesting that if they really wanted to do something that extreme, they should have kept it quiet, perhaps had the bed delivered at night. Apparently they felt that such an act of rampant sexuality was not in keeping with the mood of the establishment.”
“Rampant?” Yudel said. “I’m not sure that I understand what the word means in this context?”
“Neither do I. It’s Mariette’s word, not mine.”
It was deep twilight when the cab Yudel had hired dropped Abigail at home. She asked the driver to stop at the motor gate. “Just leave me here. I’ll walk up the drive.”
“Why? Let us take you to the front door,” Yudel suggested.
“No, Yudel. Please. I’ll walk the last little bit. I want to.”
She watched the cab with Yudel and Rosa in it drive away, until it turned the corner at the end of the block. How long do you have to be together to fit together in such an effortless way as they seem to? she wondered. Now perhaps she and Robert would never find out. For Abigail it was good to be home—in a place where, despite the closing down of the Scorpions, the law was not overridden by government whenever it suited them.
It was Saturday morning, and Robert would be at home, or should be at home. Perhaps not should. But why would he not be at home? Where else would he be? And when last had they had contact, the time when he told her that the thing with his temp was over? Or when? Her talking to Robert had disappeared into the jumble of more pressing matters.
That sounds terrible, she thought. More pressing matters? And yet, that was the truth of it.
The motor gate opened at the first touch of the remote’s button. This was her home, or was it still that? It was so absurdly big, so far beyond any imaginable needs she and Robert would ever have.
The front door and all the windows were closed. It was unlike Robert to be inside the house and not open any windows. Could he have moved out? she wondered. Perhaps, after all, he had disappeared with the temp.
But Abigail was tired. It was two weeks, or close to it, since she had caught the flight to Harare, and now all she wanted was to sleep. The night in the car had been less than satisfactory. More than anything else, she wanted her own bed and enough time to enjoy it.
She let herself in at the front door and wandered through both lounges, dining room, kitchen and family room. Everything was impeccably neat, as if someone had spent the day before preparing the house for a magazine shoot. There was not even a used coffee cup in the sink.
Upstairs in the bedrooms, the condition of the house was the same. Nothing was out of place, nothing left lying around, not even a book on his bedside table. It was clear that the bed had not been slept in.
He’s left me. Abigail was sure of it now. He’s gone and left me the house. After more than ten years, it ends this way … not with ugly words and shouting, but with a perfectly tidy house, a perfectly empty house. And no Robert anywhere—not even a note. Maybe there would be an e-mail waiting for her. That was probably the way these things were conducted these days.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, slipped off her shoes, then stretched out and closed her eyes. She was very tired. The phone rang almost immediately. She lifted the handset and mumbled into it, “Abigail Bukula.”
“Abby, what are you doing there?” It was Robert’s voice, coming from far away, almost as part of a dream.
In an instant Abigail was fully awake. “Hi, feller,” she said. “You may have noticed that I live here. What are you up to?”
“I’ve been looking for you?”
“What are you talking about? Where are you?”
“I’m here.”
“Where is here?”
“McDooley’s Inn, Harare.”
She was sitting upright on the edge of the bed now. “What are you doing there?”
“I came to see if you needed help. It sounded as if you and Yudel were in trouble.”
Abigail was laughing. The whole thing between her and Robert was all so funny now. There he was, her knight in shining armor, more than a little clay-footed perhaps, but still coming to her rescue. He was a few days late as it turned out, but at least he had turned up for the battle. “Damn, Robert, you bastard, I love you,” she said.
“I suppose I can come home now. I feel a bit foolish.”
“Don’t feel foolish. Just come home.”
* * *
The combined funeral of Tony Makumbe and Krisj Patel was a muted affair. There had been some uncertainty about the sort of occasion it should be.
Patel had been brought up a Hindu, but had converted to Catholicism when the Catholic Bishops’ Conference had been the only body, religious or otherwise, to speak out about the Gukurahundi massacres. With the world media silent, choosing not to believe that the hero of his country’s liberation struggle could be a tyrant, and with his own religion showing no interest in the fate of the Ndebele people, Patel had decided that Catholicism must be the one true way. However, as the years passed, he had wearied of the rituals and chanting, and the stories of priests molesting young boys. He had not been to church for a decade or more. His own priest had not demonstrated nearly enough vigor, in his mind, in attacking the government’s excesses.
As for Tony, he had never shown any sort of interest in religion. In fact, Helena remembered him having once told her that he wanted to be cremated without ceremony and have his ashes scattered over CIO headquarters in Harare. Apparently he felt that such a course of action would have infuriated them. And that would have been satisfying to him, if satisfaction is possible after death.
Finally, the decision fell on a young Presbyterian minister who was a member of the Organization for Peace and Justice in Zimbabwe. At least they knew where his sympathies lay. Suneesha Patel had shown little interest in the occasion, agreeing readily to the arrangements, simple as they were, that were made by her husband’s political friends.
She had attended, though, and listened to the minister read a verse from the Bible that said something to the effect that David’s love for Jonathan surpassed that of women. She sighed at the thought. She had loved Krisj, but his love for Tony had surpassed the love she could offer. Damned fool, she thought. And finally the two of them were together, in one ceremony. The bastards. She wondered if even their ashes had been mixed by their friends.
Helena Ndoro was one of the first into the chapel, holding the hand of her partner, Petra. She also thought about the young minister’s text. She would have chosen a different one. There was a verse in Ecclesiastes that said there’s a time to live and a time to die. At least Krisj and Tony had lived. They had risked comfort, success, their very lives. And they had done it every day. They had lived.
Most of those who attended the service in the chapel that morning were members of their organization. One of the few who was not a member was old Mama Loise. She had cried for Tony from the time she came in till long after it was all over.
A thick-set, graying man, wearing dark glasses and an expensive suit, arrived after everyone else and sat in the back pew. He was also first to leave. Few of those who attended even noticed his presence. What he thought about the funeral of his son being combined with the funeral of the one who had to die because of their relationship was never known.
Helena had torn a page from that morning’s Herald. She had it in her bag, intending to show it to the others at the funeral, but, distracted by the emotion, had forgotten it there. On the front page, the government paper carried a short report about the retirement due to ill health of Jonas Chunga, one of the CIO’s directors. He was a man, the newspaper said, who had been tipped to be that body’s next director general. The minister had been quoted as saying that the nation could not afford the loss of so dedicated a senior executive. “He is a man who has devoted his entire life to the pursuit of justice.”
; Also by Wessel Ebersohn
The October Killings
In Touching Distance
Klara’s Visitors
The Otter and Mr. Ogilvie
Closed Circle
Divide the Night
Store Up the Anger
The Centurion
A Lonely Place to Die
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOSE WHO LOVE NIGHT. Copyright © 2011 by Wessel Ebersohn. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
www.stmartins.com
e-ISBN 9781429951159
First U.S. Edition: January 2012
Those Who Love Night Page 33