That much of the story was true, but it wasn’t just one night. The white policemen had a braai almost every night, thick steaks roasting on the open fire, empty bottles of brandy lining the walls of the compound. They let Jacob and Letso join them. There were other askaris too, men who had once fought for the ANC but now worked for the police, sitting in a group to one side, part of the unit, but always separate. Berg sometimes made an appearance. He never got drunk. He only sat in the corner nursing a whiskey, watching the whites all act like idiots. The others talked about him in hushed tones. Jacob had wondered why Berg inspired such loyalty from men he had once tortured. One of the askaris, Kalo, was a former Angolan soldier who had served with Berg in Namibia. He told stories about how they kept scores of their kills on chalkboards at base camp, had some sort of competition going, Berg always in the lead. He never talked down at the black soldiers like the other policemen, but treated them with courtesy, Kalo said, made sure they had the same rations as the whites. The man was ruthless, but fair.
Rocky turned off the main highway.
“This isn’t the road,” Letso said.
“Back way. We can’t be stopped by the police,” Rocky said. “Go on with your story.”
Letso looked back at Jacob. “This man here, he is a brave man. When one of the crunchies walks past the window, he asks for a beer. The Dutchman he thinks it’s funny, because he comes inside with two beers. When he opens the door, this man jumps him, knocks him out. No problem.”
“So you just walked out of there?”
“We ran, chana. They shoot, but they’re all too drunk to hit us.”
“That’s it?” Rocky stopped the combi. Jacob looked out the window. As far as he could see there was nothing around them, just flat dry dirt. He turned back and looked down the barrel of Jonas’s Tokarev. In the front seat, Rocky had pulled his own pistol, pointing it at Letso.
“Haw wena!” Letso’s expression changed to one of shock.
“You know what, my bra.” Rocky pushed the barrel of the pistol into Letso’s forehead. “I don’t like your story. I think I have a better one. See, I think you didn’t escape at all. That you spy on us for those crunchies.”
“Never.” Letso’s voice was shaking. “Amandla.” He held his balled fist up in the air. “We are with the people.”
“Your words do not deceive us, traitor scum.”
“It’s not true,” Jacob shouted. “I hate them.”
“Get out,” Jonas said.
They led Jacob and Letso away at gunpoint. Letso protested his innocence, but Jacob knew the decision had been made.
“Stop here,” Rocky ordered a few paces farther. “On your knees.”
Pop. The sound of the gunshot next to Jacob’s head hurt his ears. He felt a fine hot spray on his face. Letso’s body slumped forward, his big eyes frozen forever in an expression of surprise. Without thinking, Jacob grabbed the barrel of Rocky’s gun. Rocky was tough, strong, but MK had taught Jacob how to handle himself. He wrestled Rocky to the ground, warding off blows from elbows and knees, keeping his focus on the weapon. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jonas training his Tokarev on them, trying to get a clear shot at Jacob. Jacob knew he had to keep moving, had to keep Rocky between himself and Jonas. Pop. Pop. Jacob wasn’t sure which gun had fired. Rocky was on top of him, wrestling the gun away. Pop. Rocky’s body suddenly went limp. Pop. Jacob freed the gun from his grip. He fired in the direction of the shots. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Jonas lay on his back, blood gushing from his thigh. He lifted his gun, training it at Jacob. Pop. Click. Jonas’s arm dropped to the ground, his body jerking before it went still. Jacob held his breath. A perfect silence rested over the barren plains, the way it must have been before any of them, white or black had laid claim to it, before there was even a creature such as man. For a moment he wondered how he would get the gun shipment back to Botswana by himself, before he remembered. The ANC had labeled him as a traitor. He was no longer welcome. They had killed his friend. He was supposed to be dead too.
Jacob took the combi. He followed the dirt road on until he reached a small farming town two hours later. The gas-station attendant filled the tank, his eyes returning to Jacob’s shirt collar. Jacob inspected himself in the rearview mirror as soon as the man walked away to get change. Dry blood clung to his ears and neck, Letso’s blood. Jacob went into the shop to look for a place to wash his face.
“Where you think you going, boy?” The old white man stepped out of the restroom in the back of the shop. He pulled the door shut behind him. “This is the white toilets.”
Jacob stared at the man, hatred surging. He felt Rocky’s Tokarev next to his skin. His hand slipped under his shirt.
“Didn’t you hear me? What are you standing there for?” The old man banged his walking stick on the floor for emphasis, his head trembling with righteous indignation.
Jacob’s fingers brushed over the butt of the gun. It would be nothing to kill the old bastard, to kill every person in that shop. It really didn’t matter which side he was on, they all wanted him dead and he despised them equally. He let go of the gun and clutched both hands together in front of him, bowing his head. “Sorry, Baas. Is okay, I say.”
“Stupid kaffir,” the old man muttered.
Jacob let him pass, comforted in the knowledge that he had let the man live, that he had that power. He hurried to the call box outside, hesitated for a moment, and lifted the handset. He tried to remember his father’s number. After his mother’s death, their relationship, already fragile, had broken down. Would the old man ever forgive him for what he had done? Jacob dropped the coins into the slot.
“Berg.”
“It’s me, Baas. Jakob.” Jacob pasted the subservient darkie act on. His life depended on it. “Letso, he’s dead. The Commies knew. You gotta help me, Baas, or I’m next. No joke, I swear.”
There was a short silence. “Come in.” Berg gave him an address. “And Jakob?”
“Ja, Baas?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
Flippie
Thick sheets of rain obscured the road, glaring red taillights the only sign of a car coming to a halt in front of Flippie. It had been slow going since he’d left his practice almost an hour ago. He needed new glasses. His old pair kept sliding down his nose, the cheap frames not up to the challenge of his thick bifocals anymore. Getting old was harder than he ever would have guessed. Flippie had a pinched nerve in his back and the pain kept him awake at night. The doctors said there was nothing they could do. He’d have to live with the pain or leave the country to get help.
The car in front of him disappeared behind veils of water. Alongside the road, drivers with more respect for the elements had pulled over to wait the storm out, but Flippie wanted to get home. He didn’t have the stamina for waiting anymore. All he wanted at the end of the day was a nice cup of tea and to watch the news in his favorite chair. Sometimes the neighbor women sent their daughters over with a plate of food and a dustcloth, but most nights he was content to turn in early. Sleeping was better than remembering in the dark hours.
A man appeared suddenly in the middle of the road, waving his arms. Flippie slammed on the brakes. His car skidded on the wet road. He missed the stranger by less than a meter. By the time his heart stopped racing, the man had disappeared into the grayness again. Flippie rolled down his window, yelling into the void where steam rose from the asphalt. “Anyone there?” Rain pelted him in the face, his glasses fogging up. The pounding of the water on his car drowned out any answer to his question. He was just about to pull away when a brown hand slapped the windshield.
A young man appeared at his window. “Sorry, Ntate. My bakkie stalled. Can you give a jump?” He had an earnest look about him, his clothes poor, his manner subservient.
Flippie strained to see in the direction the man was gesturing, barely making out the outlines of a pickup on the side of the road. “Of course, son. Get in.”
“I’m
too wet, Ntate. Don’t want to ruin your nice seats. Can you pull over there?”
Flippie followed behind the man at a snail’s pace. He took care to stop as close to the old pickup as he could. “The cables are in the boot. I have to unlock it.”
The first blow landed on his jaw as soon as he stepped out of the car, hard and unforgiving, not from anything made of bone and flesh. The man looked like two. No. There really were two of them, more. Blows barraged his skull. He held up his hands to stop them, but they knocked him on the ground, hit him in the chest. An excruciating pain radiated from his legs. So many men to kill an old man. Didn’t they know he had nothing?
The man who had waved in the road knelt next to Flippie. “Time to chaile, old man,” he said. The knife plunged deep inside Flippie. His lungs felt heavy, breath a battle, life ebbing as burdened seconds ticked by, the rain patting him, warm and gentle. It washes away my blood, Flippie thought. My blood joins the blood of those who have gone before me. I am one with the land now, one with them. Nobody can separate us from our home now.
Tessa
Tessa cleared up after the mourners, the mess people made when it wasn’t their own home. Someone had dropped a piece of milk tart on the floor and trodden it into the carpet. Tessa got down on all fours to scoop up as much of it as she could. When she looked up, a face flashed on the TV screen. Pale skin, pale eyes, fine curls the color of newly plucked cotton, a look of pure joy. The girl was posing for the camera, arm in arm with a plump girl about the same age. Tessa paused, mesmerized by the image.
Jeff followed her gaze. “Looks a bit like you, luv,” he said before switching the channel to cricket.
“No. Go back, please.”
Jeff sighed and turned the knob. The girl’s photograph appeared in a small screen next to the news reader’s head again.
“I can’t hear anything.” Tessa rushed to the TV set and turned the volume up.
“… believe it may be connected to the so-called Angel killings that have been committed in the Johannesburg area the past three years. Anybody with information regarding Johanna Jacoba Dreyer, or any of the previous victims, is urged to call the following number.”
A toll-free number appeared at the bottom of the screen.
“In sports today—”
Jeff switched the channel back to the rebroadcast of the day’s Transvaal cricket match. “Leave those, luv,” he said. “I’ll do it later on. Come sit by me.”
Tessa thought about protesting. She liked to get things done, but then she saw the look on his face, his tough-youth exterior replaced by a melancholy maturity. She set a stack of cake plates down and nestled in the crook of Jeff’s arm, her ear resting next to his heart so she could hear the quiet steady thump.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Not quite sure.” Jeff held her a little tighter. He had found his father slumped over his desk earlier that week. The doctor said it was a heart attack.
Tessa felt a pang thinking of Markus dying alone like that. “Will you stay?”
“I’m not much of a farmer. But I might be persuaded …” He ran his big hands over her hair, entangling his fingers in the ends. “If you made an honest man out of me.”
“No.” Tessa pushed away from him.
Jeff looked surprised by the violence of her reaction. “Tru, I thought …”
“Jeff, this isn’t the time to talk about this.” Tessa got up and rushed toward the dishes to give her hands something to do.
“I think it’s a fine time.” Jeff stood up, moving closer to her. “I know we said this ain’t serious, but I’ve changed my mind, luv. I thought you might’ve—”
Tessa jumped as the phone rang next to her. She didn’t bother hiding her annoyance when she picked up the receiver. “Hallo?” The line crackled, the person at the other end silent. “Hallo? Who is this please?”
“Rakgadi.”
Tessa wasn’t sure if she could trust what she heard. “Jacob?” More static.
“Ja. It’s me.”
“You’re alive.” Tessa’s heart beat faster. “Where are you?”
“I want you to—” Droning in the background overpowered his words, the blast of a horn, voices and music.
“Jacob, please, I have to see you.”
“No can do, orraait? There’s no going back no more. Not for me.”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Just come home.”
“Can’t.” Jacob’s voice carried an air of defeat. “Too late, Auntie. Pa, he’s …”
“What about Phillip? Jacob? Can you hear me? What happened?”
“Sorry, Auntie. Sorry, sorry.”
“Tell me where you are, then.”
Somebody yelled, “Hey, bra,” in the background. Jacob responded, forced joviality in his voice. Tessa tried to make out the muffled conversation, banter about girls, something about heading back in the morning.
“Rakgadi, I can’t talk longer. If they find out I’m talking to you—”
“Who, Jacob?”
“I’m in bad stuff, Auntie.”
“Jacob, I can help. Don’t worry about your dad. He loves you.”
Jacob’s laugh was without irony, a scoff at her ignorance. “Is klaar. Finished. You hear?”
“What are you talking about? You’re scaring me.”
“Pa’s dead, Auntie.” Jacob’s voice broke. “They got him last night.”
Tessa felt herself go cold, her mouth suddenly dry.
“I’m sorry, Auntie.”
“Jacob, please tell me where you are. Please.” Tessa’s body shook.
“I have to go. You promise you don’t look for me, okay? Is better like that. You look for me, now-now they gonna find you. Then it’s tickets for both of us, see?”
“Jacob, wait.” He didn’t answer. Tessa forged ahead. “There is land in Unie. It belonged to your grandpa. If you ever need a safe place, go there. I’ll—”
There was a click, a dial tone instead of static. Tessa’s fingers cramped around the receiver. She slowly put the phone back in its cradle.
“Trudie?” Jeff reached for her. Tessa succumbed to his embrace, her mind reeling. Jacob had to be mistaken. Flippie couldn’t be dead. She knew she should call, find out, but as long as she stood there in Jeff’s arms the possibility still existed that it was just a misunderstanding.
Jeff combed his fingers through her hair. “Everything all right, luv?”
There was something so innocent in this big man with his strong arms and broad chest, something so eager to please her, that Tessa’s instinct was to lie to him. She pushed away. “I can’t marry you, Jeff,” she said before she could change her mind. “There are things about me you wouldn’t understand.”
“I don’t care about the past, luv.”
“You know nothing about me.” Tessa crossed her arms. “You don’t even know my real name.” She watched his certainty waver. “You want a family. Well, I can’t have children.”
Tessa noticed his disappointment before he had time to hide it from her. “That doesn’t matter,” he said. “I love you.”
“It matters. More than you realize right now.” Tessa bowed her head. “And it matters to me.” The knot in her stomach tightened as she thought of Dean, the child they could never have. Flippie. The pointless despair of it all was suddenly overwhelming and she couldn’t stop the tears.
“It’s okay, luv.” Jeff touched her cheek.
“No.” Tessa pushed his hand away. “There is a man,” she said. “If he finds me, he’ll—”
“I won’t let anybody hurt you.”
“Ben will kill you. He’s done it before. I’m not going to let …” She closed her eyes, struggling to let go. She hadn’t told Dean who she was. It had strained their marriage, a barrier that she never could get past. She was reminded of the disconnect every time he called her Lilly. But in the end her lies had done nothing to protect him. She was sick of secrets, the guilt she felt about his death. Jeff and Markus had been li
ke family, yet she kept secrets from them too.
Jeff gripped her shoulders. “What’s going on? Please tell me. Let me help you.”
Tessa wondered if she even had it in her to completely trust another human being again. She struggled against the thing that separated them, the words stones in her mouth. “My name is Tessa.” She held her hand to her mouth, tears flowing freely now. “I am Theresa Morgan.” Her name felt new and ancient all at once, a thing that had remained hers, the bedrock under the changing seasons. She looked up at Jeff, studying his reaction. “I was born in 1901.”
11
Saturday
DECEMBER 18, 2010
Joyboys was packed. Mismatched lounge chairs and couches strained under the weight of rotund posteriors eager to take refuge from the sweltering heat. The converted vestry had no air-conditioning, but the walls were thick brick, and huge ceiling fans teased the multicolored drapes on the windows. Almost everybody had heard about the death of the suddenly sainted Trudie Pienaar, but an occasional intake of breath with a shocked hand in front of the mouth signaled the uninformed.
Joey moved about the coffee shop in a wifebeater and denim shorts, his hair gelled into a faux Mohawk. He stopped at each table, the belle of the ball, taking orders for sandwiches, chocolate cake and iced coffees in exchange for gossip and flirtation with the ladies of the district. In the kitchen, Gertie, Maria’s counterpart, stacked orders on trays, mumbling in Xhosa every time Joey placed a new order ticket on the serving hatch.
Alet observed the scene from the doorway. In front of her, three elderly ladies waited for a table to open up. She walked around them, trying to get Joey’s attention.
“Wait your turn, girlie,” said one of the women, her hair rinsed a cotton-candy blue.
“I’m not here for cake, Mrs. Dippenaar.” Alet bristled. “I’m in uniform.”
“So is he.” Mrs. Dippenaar pointed a gnarly finger across the room, where Strijdom sat with his wife, two huge pieces of quiche in front of them. Captain Mynhardt and his wife completed the party.
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