Chapter 4
Mister Sweets pulled the truck into the car park next to the beer hall. He delivered here early every Wednesday morning; eighty bags of maize meal and twenty cases of sheshebo spicy tomato and onion mix. As with all of his customers in the Alexandra Township, Sweets allowed a further ten percent discount to the owner. This discount was not passed on to the customers nor was it to be enjoyed by the proprietor. The ten percent went to Dubula, the local hard man who collected every Friday afternoon. Neither mister Sweets nor the owner contemplated lying about their respective turnovers. The simple reason for this was that neither one of them wanted to be dead. Not even a little. And people that attempted to skim from Dubula ended up in pieces. Spread all over Alexandra.
By the time that Sweets had unloaded, there was already a gaggle of children clustered around the truck, hands held out, high piping voices. Sweets. Sweeties. The trader handed out handfuls of the primary colored confectionaries and shooed each child off after they had received their share. But as he was doing so he was looking over their heads. Searching for someone. Someone who would never beg so crassly. A boy that would never debase himself by chanting for Sweets. A serious little man-boy with a sister. A boy who always carried with him a sharpened yellow and silver screwdriver. And surely enough, when all the other squealing children had left, mister Sweets saw him, standing by the gates. Looking in the other direction. Feigning indifference. Far too adult to clamor after gum drops and gummy bears. Sweets called out. ‘Hey, Vusi. How goes it?’
The boy walked briskly over and shook Sweets’ hand. They reversed grip, the African way. ‘Hello, mister Hlanganani.’
Vusi was probably the only person that Sweets knew that addressed him by his real name. A fact that both amused him and endeared the boy to him. It was typical of his serious demeanor that he would never address someone by their nickname.
‘So, Vusi, how is your sister?’
‘Still coughing, sir.’
‘Hold on. I have something for her.’ Mister Sweets went to his truck, opened the glove box and took out a packet. ‘Here, give these to her.’ Vusi started to open the packet. ‘No, no. Open it when you get home. Give them to her. And here, for you.’ Sweets gave Vusi a whole unopened bag of gumdrops. Vusi bowed in thanks and left. Mister Sweets smiled. He liked that little boy. He liked him a lot.
Vusi spent the rest of the day trawling Louis Botha Avenue and the area around it. He found a tray of stale buns behind the bakery and, in the trash section of the Mister Rooster fried chicken, three cartons of expired orange juice. He put his bounty into a plastic packet along with any small pieces of wood and cardboard that he found for his fire.
The sun was going down when he returned to the shack. Thandi had refilled the water bucket from one of the public taps and was lying on the floor. Her cough had worsened and she was not looking well. Vusi opened the packet that mister Sweets had given him. Inside was a roll of mentholated cough drops and a ten Rand note. Vusi never cried no matter what hardship he was subjected to but the trader’s small act of kindness brought a prickle of moisture to the boy’s eyes. Adversity could be ignored but compassion slipped easily through his defenses.
Thandi sucked on the cough Sweets. They seemed to help her congestion. Later that evening they feasted on buns and gumdrops. And once again, Vusi fell asleep, the screwdriver clutched ready in his right hand.
After a sunrise breakfast with Brian, Garrett decided to leave early. He wanted to see at least two of the orphanages today and have a chat to the people in charge. The first one that he figured on seeing was on the outskirts of Pretoria, about an hour’s drive away. The second was in Krugersdorp, sort of on the way back but still another hour’s driving. Not for the first time he blessed the man that had invented the satnav as he followed the many twists and turns to get onto the main highway to the city of Pretoria. He stopped to refuel before he hit the main road.
The harsh African sun reflected off the white-gray concrete highway and assaulted Garrett’s eyes like a laser. He squinted as much as he could without actually closing his eyes and reminded himself to buy a pair of sunglasses at the first opportunity.
The concrete surface rumbled loudly under the wide off-road tires and set up a resonance that made Garrett’s jaw ache. The noise combined with the sunlight led to a grinding headache within less than fifteen minutes. Garrett pulled in at a roadside service station and picked up a packet of ibuprofen, washing down four with mineral water before he had even got to the till. Then he noticed a rack of sunglasses. They were cheap but claimed to have Polaroid lenses so he picked a pair in the style of Rayban Aviators and paid for them along with the pills and water. Then he sat in the Jeep with the engine running, air conditioner on full, for five minutes while the painkillers took effect. He picked the price tag off the sunglasses, put them on and got back on the road.
As he approached the outskirts of Pretoria the satellite directed him, via a myriad of back roads, to the Sunlight Childrens’ Home Pretoria. In contrast to Manon’s place of work this was situated on a smallholding. A plot of dry earth with a rambling whitewashed bungalow in the center.
There were obvious extensions to the original building erected from corrugated iron sheeting with plastic covered windows. But the area was neat and tidy. Whitewashed stones lined the driveway and it was obvious that the dusty garden had been recently swept, the marks of the broom’s bristles still etched into the thick dust, the air hot and still.
As he drove down the driveway the Jeep kicked up a cloud of red dust that hung motionless behind him. When he stopped the car and got out the dry heat hit him like a hammer blow and he felt the sweat on his body evaporate instantly. Garrett turned to look at the dust cloud that he had created and marveled at its stillness. Nothing moved. There was no sound. It was as if he had been transported to some alien world where there was no life. No movement except from himself. Then he heard a dog bark. And children’s voices and, all of a sudden, the place was teeming with sound and life. Kids ran out of the front door towards him, dogs came from around the back of the building, barking and jumping. Tongues lolling, impossibly long, from panting mouths.
Behind the children came an old man. Dressed in a black suit, so old that it was now a shiny dark green. Bent over he was, and walking with the aid of a stick but his huge size still apparent. His head bald, shiny as a teacher’s apple, his beard long and white but for the area around his mouth that was stained a dark yellow from the pipe that seemed surgically attached to his lips. Clouds of smoke billowed around where he walked, like some sort of rain god. Thor. Or even Odin. And when he stopped and spoke his voice reinforced the image. A deep, gravely baritone. His words clipped, precise. English not his native tongue.
‘Good day, my son. How may we be of help?’
Garrett walked towards him and held his hand out. ‘My name is Garrett, sir. I am a friend of sister Manon.’
The old man grasped Garrett’s hand. A rough leather glove stuffed with pebbles. His handshake was eye-wateringly firm.
‘Come inside, young man. It is cooler in than out.’
They walked back inside, the children and dogs thronging around them. The kids wide eyed and staring at the newcomer. ‘Come,’ he continued. ‘We will sit in the kitchen. Agnes will make us some tea.’
He waved the dogs and children off with his stick as they walked down the dim corridor. ‘Go. Go away. Voetsak. The grown-ups are busy.’ The noisy throng melted away leaving behind a strong smell of dog that competed on even terms with the tobacco smoke.
The old man pushed open the door and ushered Garrett into an enormous kitchen. Two ancient coal stoves stood against the far wall and the center of the room was filled with a rough wooden trestle table that was placed diagonally across. Twenty or so mismatched chairs were positioned around the table and at the one end sat a large colored woman in a bright pink dress. Around her head she had wound a turban of purple and her fingers were covered in silver rings. She was probably the
hugest female that Garrett had ever seen. Her massive bosom rested on the table in front of her and the flesh bulged around the silver rings like over baked bread rolls. She was chopping carrots, her movements deft and economical, belying her vastness. When she looked up at the old man her smile lit up the room like a lighthouse in a storm. Her teeth strong and white, her face a symphony of laughter lines and happiness. She stood up to greet Garrett. She was taller than he had suspected. Fully six foot. A towering work of art in bright pink. ‘Hello, sir. My name is Agnes.’
Garrett hurried around the table to grasp her hand. ‘I am Garrett.’ She held his hand for a while and looked deeply into Garrett’s eyes, her haze almost hypnotic. But not aggressive. Searching. And then she nodded in approval. ‘You have traveled here from afar, young sir.’
Garrett nodded. ‘From Johannesburg.’
She laughed, still holding his hand. ‘Further than that.’
‘London?’ Asked Garrett.
She nodded. ‘Further than that even. Much further. But you still have far to go. Never mind, sit down. Agnes will make you some tea and it will all seem better.’ She turned to the old man. ‘You too, Hartvig. Sit.’ She finally let go of Garrett’s hand and swayed over to one of the stoves, collecting a teapot full of water on the way.
While Agnes busied herself fixing the tea Garrett told the old man about sister Manon and her suspicions that something was awry with the missing children. However, Hartvig’s response took him by surprise.
‘I have met sister Manon. A lovely child. God has blessed her with both beauty and principles. However, in this she could never be more wrong. ‘
‘How do you know?’ Asked Garrett.
‘Well,’ answered the old man. ‘For a start, no children have gone missing from this home. Not for the last ten years. Not ever. And as for her missing ones, it is a sad and simply fact that sometimes these street children that we save prefer their lives on the street. There is no great conspiracy, no ring of kidnappers or such. Simply the knowledge that not all enter God’s house willingly. Tell the good sister to concentrate on her flock. Tell her that sometimes the wolves of temptation and sin descend upon us and take some of our sheep away and there is nothing that we can do about it. It is natures, and God’s way. In time they will return…or they won’t.’
Agnes placed a tray of buttermilk cookies on the table and a mug of tea in front of each of them. The tea was bright orange, stewed rather than drawn, made with sweetened condensed milk, the steam as fragrant as boiled sweets. It was delicious and Garrett complimented her. Hartvig puffed furiously on his pipe, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs like a cigarette smoker. ‘Used to have tea like that on the whaling boat back in the day. As strong as the word of the Lord and as sweet as any of his angels. Better than a shot of rum.’
Garrett raised an eyebrow. ‘You served on a whaling ship?’
‘Chief mate. Until the early seventies when whaling stopped in Durban. I turned to the cloth then. Dedicated my life to the Lord. His strength has kept me young. How old would you say I am?’ Hartvig jabbed his pipe at Garrett.
Garrett gave it some thought and then chopped off about a thousand years. ‘Seventy five?’
‘Ha. Ha and ha. Eighty-three. And as fit as a fifty year old. The Lord’s doing.’
Agnes raised her one eyebrow and gave Garrett a wink. ‘Any more tea?’
‘No thank you,’ Garrett declined. ‘Places to go.’
Hartvig leaned forward and shook Garrett’s hand without rising. ‘Good luck my boy. And remember to tell Manon, tend to her flock.’
Agnes led Garrett from the room, her hips brushing the door on each side as she sashayed through. When they got out of the front door she lent over to the young man. Conspiratorially. ‘He’s a liar you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Ja. He’s eighty-nine. Takes off six years every time. Thinks that I don’t know. Silly old man.’
‘But you love him.’
Agnes shrugged. One shoulder only. Like a small girl denying that she had a boyfriend. ‘He is a good man.’
Garrett gave her a hug and walked to the Jeep. As he put the keys into the door Agnes called him back with a hiss and a crooked finger. He strode back to her side. ‘He forgets sometimes. He doesn’t mean to. He is almost ninety after all.’
Garrett didn’t respond.
Agnes looked guilty. At odds.
‘Some of the children have gone missing.’
Choice of Weapon Page 4