Chapter 11
To go against the church is to go against God. And to go against God would negate his every reason for living. But sometimes the holy fathers demanded more than he thought that he could bear.
He stared at the rifle that lay on his bed with revulsion. In his past life he would never have believed that an inanimate object of wood and steel could elicit such depth of feeling. And when he picked it up and held it he knew its every angle. The steel, smooth as silk, the odor of gun-oil, the sweat-stained wooden furniture and the dull satin finish of the telescopic sights. He ran his hands along the length of the barrel. Caressing. Hating. Like a weak man who returns to the same whore again and again. Cursing his own weakness. But the church had spoken. And its demands must be met. Its orders obeyed.
He vividly remembered the day that he had first obtained the rifle. Taken off the body of a FRELIMO soldier that he had killed in an ambush. He had fallen in love with the venerable old sniper rifle from the moment he had first picked it up. It seemed a part of him. An extension of his own body. Unlike the hated standard issue G3 rifle with its excessive recoil and tendency to jam during a fire fight due to its shoddy workmanship and the resultant inability to be able to field strip it and clean it correctly. Two weeks later a South African Special Forces advisor had gifted him with a new Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight to replace the twenty-year-old Russian PSO1. He had practiced with the Dragunov at every available moment and, after a short while, it became apparent to all that he was an unusually gifted marksman, able to achieve hits at distances beyond even the inflated claims of the weapon’s manufacturer.
And then that day had come. His squad commander had laid an ambush on the main road between Dondo and the Gorongosa national park. Intel had reported that there would be three truckloads of weapons and ammunition passing their position at around four that afternoon. The ambush was in the form of an American made M19 anti vehicle mine that was buried under the road by burrowing in under the tar surface. Totally undetectable. This would take out the first truck, blocking the road so that the eight RENAMO guerrillas could attack and subdue the remaining two trucks and capture the weapons. The commander had placed him on a hillock some six hundred meters out from the ambush point so that he could provide covering fire and act as a stopgap.
The first truck had detonated the mine as per plan but then, as often happens in combat situations, the rest of the plan had gone to shit. The first truck was full of weapons, as they had thought, however, the second and third trucks were both carrying FRELIMO government troops. Fresh from R&R and keen as hell. Twenty-four of them. The cadre of eight RENAMO guerrillas broke and ran when faced with such overwhelming odds.
But the shooter on the hill with the Russian rifle had remained calm. Tracking from left to right he dropped seven soldiers with his first ten rounds. The next magazine of ten ended nine more lives. With the odds now being equal the guerrillas reformed and fought back, killing the rest of the government soldiers and taking no casualties. The operation was a resounding success due mainly to the shooter on the hill. A young boy who had just celebrated his fifteenth birthday. And from that day on the boy, who had just become a man, was no longer known as Afonso Diogo Mandoluto. Instead he became known to all as ‘The Long Gun’.
And over the next five years The Long Gun was responsible for the cessation of almost one hundred lives. He became a man admired and feared in equal measure. He also became a man haunted by the souls of the departed. Every night they would stand in silent queues. Waiting patiently in the shadowy recesses of his consciousness. Their horrific injuries never healing. A constant reminder of the savage death that he had delivered. Every night he tried to hide from them. To avoid their accusing looks. Their silent accusations. But wherever he turned they were there, close enough to touch. No longer separated by the distance that allows a sniper to remain aloof and unattached. Faces blurred as if seen through telescopic sights. Hands grasping. Imploring. Beseeching.
And the next day he would take his long gun and go forth and add to their number.
So, when South Africa had signed the Inkomati accord and withdrawn all overt support for RENAMO he had used it as an excuse to leave the cause and travel to the land of his father. Portugal. It was in this gentle country that he had found The Lord. He entered the Seminario dos Passionistas in Barroselas, Northern Portugal and, from his first week there, was marked as a young man to watch.
His dedication to both God and the church was nothing short of fanatical. He prayed and preached with a fervor that was driven by the red-hot blade of his own guilt. His love for the teaching of the bible was a tangible thing. He drove himself mercilessly and, at the end of his first three years after he was ordained a Deacon he was sent to Rome to study at the foot of the Holy Father Pope John Paul II. Within two years he had obtained a doctorate in sacred theology. By the age of thirty-eight he had become one of the youngest bishops in Europe. It was then that he had asked to come back to Africa. A full circle.
And now he sat in a room with 4.3 kilograms of steel and wood and asked himself. If I hated it so much then why did I go to such lengths to keep it? Why did I not throw it into the ocean? He may well have asked why he did not simply cut off his own arms. But he knew that the Lord worked in mysterious ways and his was not to question them. So he bowed his head and prayed. He prayed for the people. He prayed for the church. And he prayed for himself. For His Excellency, bishop Afonso Diogo Mandoluto…The Long Gun.
When they arrived back from the Tornado’s house Brian had insisted on taking Garrett and Petrus out to dinner. Garrett had driven, under instruction, to a restaurant in Muldersdrift. A magnificent thatched and vaulted pastiche to colonial Africa. The center of the restaurant boasted a massive BBQ pit from which, roasted cuts of meat from seemingly every animal under the sun were served up. Besides beef, lamb and pork there were large spears spitted through sizzling slabs of warthog, giraffe, ostrich, crocodile, kudu and springbok. Most of the patrons were drinking dawa, a blend of white spirits, honey and slices of lime. Brian ordered a brace for Petrus and he and Garrett settled for Perrier.
The service was excellent and the atmosphere festive, but despite the mountains of food that kept arriving at the table, Brian merely picked at his food. His gaiety forced. Brittle. The conversation restricted to inconsequentialities. The weather. Politics. Formula one racing. Garrett ate his full and Petrus worked through piles of bleeding beef with a great show of lip smacking and sighs of pleasure. He eschewed the more exotic game with a sneer of distaste. If beef were available, he told Garrett, then a Zulu would not bother eating anything else. Over the course of the meal he must have put away over four kilograms of steak. No salad, no potato, no vegetables. Simply huge quantities of rare roasted flesh.
It had been a long, long while since Garrett had eaten merely for pleasure. For the taste and texture of food as opposed to merely refueling his body. The simple pleasure of eating more than you needed because you were purposefully indulging yourself. He had lived a monastic lifestyle, a lifestyle of abstinence for so long that he had forgotten what it was to indulge himself. But he took great pleasure in watching his new friend eat with such passion. Unbridled joy in such a simple act. And for a fleeting few seconds Garrett felt a flash of jealousy before it was washed away by a wave of common sense.
After Petrus had eaten his fill they ordered coffee and desert. ‘So,’ said Brian. ‘I take it tonight was a bust?’
Garrett shrugged. ‘Maybe not. The fat dude said a strange thing. He said that he didn’t have AIDS so why would he need a young girl.’
The dentist took a sip of his coffee and grimaced.
‘Fucking stupid bastards think that you can cleanse yourself by raping a young child. In fact, a recent study showed that almost twenty percent reckoned that sex with a twelve year old wasn’t even rape, just sex. You know, there are twenty thousand reported rapes a year in this country. Twenty fucking thousand. And that’s just reporte
d, the actual figure is probably two or three times that. Man, it’s like everyone here is either coming from or going to some sort of sexual encounter.’
Garrett looked at Petrus for confirmation or denial. The Zulu said nothing as he ladled sugar into his coffee, eventually stopping when his spoon could stand upright. Then he sipped some of the syrupy liquid with evident pleasure.
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ he said. ‘Yes, it is quite acceptable in the more rural areas for a twenty-year-old man to have sex with a twelve-year-old girl. Just because western culture deems it rape does not necessarily mean that rape has occurred. In fact a young girl of twelve or thirteen can gain a lot of status by dating a twenty year old plus guy. Also, AIDS has broken the normal family structure. Families are now headed by young teenagers who are in charge of toddlers. The parents are dead. If a girl wants to trade her ikheke for security then why stop her? Who would suffer? Not the liberal know-nothing who tries to assert their culture on ours. No, the children would suffer. Rape is only rape if you think that it is.’
Garrett raised an eyebrow, not wholly comfortable with Petrus’ sweeping statement, however, he refrained from comment. ‘And the curing AIDS thing?’
Petrus nodded. ‘Many people believe this. I don’t know why, not once have I ever heard of it working.’
‘So if a man with AIDS takes a young girl, is that rape?’
Petrus shook his head. ‘No. That is murder.’
‘Could people be kidnapping the children to sell as cures for AIDS?’
‘Maybe,’ conceded Petrus. ‘But two that went missing were boys.’
‘Wait,’ Brian butted in. ‘This is a good theory. The majority were girls. It could be simply that the boys ran away. The girls were kidnapped. Think about it, it makes sense. It’s far more likely for a boy to run away than a girl. Fuck me, I ran away all the time. Can’t actually remember a girl that did the same.’
‘You could be right,’ said Garrett. For the first time he felt like progress was being made.
Later they dropped Petrus at the orphanage. He stayed in a small lean-to at the back of the building. One room, outside toilet with a shower over it so that you had to sit on the crapper to wash. Cold water only. Concrete floor, a single rug woven from plastic shopping bags. In the corner a bucket for dishes. A paraffin Primus stove for cooking. Traditional icansi or sleeping mat as well as an isigqiki or wooden headrest that doubled as a low stool. Utilitarian in the extreme. Not dissimilar to Garrett’s croft in Scotland.
When they got back to Brian’s place the dentist left almost immediately, leaving Garrett alone with his thoughts and the music of Louis Moreau Gottschalk. Afro-Caribbean influenced compositions blending well with the surrounding night. He made himself a triple-three coffee and lay back on the sofa. The syncopated melodies flew around the room like a tropical bird released from a cage. Bright and colorful. Its flight path varying and unexpected.
He wondered, not for the first time, why he continued to harbor such intense feelings for Manon. Sister Manon. People say that one cannot control love but that wasn’t true. Love was simply an emotion. And emotion can be controlled. But only if one had the will. Perhaps she was his Flagrum. A scourge for his own self-flagellation. A hair-shirt of the mind.
He remembered his first stirrings ever of pubescent love. A matron’s assistant at his boarding school. The place was a bastion to Spartan living. Early morning runs and ice-cold showers. A school designed to bring up boys healthy, strong and ready for service. Miss Carmichael. Janice. Hair as blonde as cobwebs. A figure both full and lithe as only youth can provide. Lips a slash of scarlet and eyes a smoky gray. She wore no perfume and, sometimes when she was close, you could smell her. Cheap soap and female musk. Heady. Exhilarating.
And if you climbed out of the dormitory window, scaled the wall and followed a suicidal route along the crumbling battlements, there was spot that overlooked her bedroom window. If you were patient, still, you could watch her undress. She would always leave her bra on until last. Blouse first to go. Then skirt, stockings. Panties to reveal a shockingly dark wealth of pubic hair, lush and springy. Secret. And then her bra. Breasts full and heavy. Nipples erect in the under heated room. Sometimes she would run her hands over her nipples and her lips would part. Her tongue wet and pink. But never more than that. Garrett was the only one who ever saw her. Apart from him the climb was too dangerous for even the most testosterone driven teenager. But Garrett had welcomed the danger. Accepted it as a price to pay for the privilege of seeing Janice naked.
Many years later he had seen her in London. A chance meeting. They had a drink together. She was older than her years. Sallow. Bitter. A chain smoker with a voice like sharkskin. She told him that she had known that he used to watch her. Perv at her, she had said. He wasn’t embarrassed. He was sad. Sad that she didn’t understand. Sad that his princess of the night had turned into a charlady. She had groped at him under the table. Clumsy fingers grasping at his cock. He paid for the drinks and left. He could still hear her laughter in the street.
Was his love for Manon merely another way of climbing the battlements? Changing reality? If she ever accepted him would the end be the same? Clumsy fingers and ignorant laughter? The music filled the night with magnificent symphony. And Garrett drifted slowly off to sleep, not leaving the sofa.
Choice of Weapon Page 12