Heart of the Hunter

by Deon Meyer

  “There are just two things we need to shed light on: your father’s relationship with Mr. Mpayipheli and the character of the data that he has with him.”

  “I don'’t know what is on the hard drive.”

  “No idea?”

  “Names. Records. Numbers. Information. When I asked my father what it was all about, he said it was better if I didn’'t know. I think names ” Her eyes wandered over the wall next to the mantelpiece. There were photos hanging, black-and-white, color. People.

  “What names?” Williams followed her gaze, stood up.

  “Well-known ones.”

  “Which?” He looked over the photos. A colored family in Trafalgar Square, Johnny Kleintjes, Monica, perhaps five years old, her little legs stout and very present.

  “ANC. The regime ”

  “Can you remember any specific names?” There were photos of Kleintjes and people now in positions in the government. In Red Square, East Berlin, Checkpoint Charlie and the Wall in the background. Prague. The tourist spots of the Cold War.

  “He didn’'t say.”

  “Nothing at all?” Williams stared at Johnny Kleintjes’s wedding picture. Monica’s mother in white, not a beautiful woman but proud.

  “Nothing.”

  He looked away from the pictures, to her. “Miss Kleintjes, it is essential that we know what is in that data. This is in the interests of the country.”

  Her hands sprang loose from her lap, the tears spilled over the dam wall. “I didn’'t want to know and my father didn’'t want to say. Please ”

  “I understand, Miss Kleintjes.”

  “Thanks.”

  He allowed her a moment to calm down. She reached for her tissues and blew delicately.

  “And Mr. Mpayipheli?”

  “My father knew him in the Struggle.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  Another tissue. She removed her glasses and wiped carefully under her eyes. “Three weeks two or three weeks ago my father came to me at work. He had never done that before. He had a piece of paper with him. He said it was the name and contact number of someone he trusted completely. If anything should happen to him, I must phone Tiny Mpayipheli.”

  “Tiny?”

  “That is what was on the paper.”

  “Were you surprised?”

  “I was disturbed. I asked him why something should happen to him. He said nothing was going to happen, it was just insurance, like we work with at Sanlam. Then I asked him who Tiny Mpayipheli was, and he said, A phenomenon.’ ”

  “A phenomenon?”

  She nodded. “Then he said, A comrade.’ Tiny was a comrade, they served together. He saw Tiny grow up in the Struggle.”

  “Your father was in Europe during the Struggle?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that is where he got to know Mpayipheli?”

  “I assume so.”

  “And?”

  “And should anything go wrong, I should contact Tiny. Then I asked him again what would go wrong— I was worried— but he would say nothing, he wanted to talk about how nice my office was.”

  “And then when you got the calls from Lusaka, you phoned Mpayipheli?”

  “First I opened the safe to get the hard drive. On top of it was a note. Tiny Mpayipheli’s name and phone number. So I phoned him.”

  “And then you took the hard drive to him in Guguletu?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you asked him to take it to Lusaka for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “ ‘I owe your father,’ he said.”

  “I owe your father.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is his photo here?”

  She looked at the row of portraits as if seeing them for the first time. She pulled her crutches closer, stood up with difficulty. He wanted to stop her, sorry he had asked. “I don'’t think so.” She looked over the photos. The liquid welled up in her eyes again.

  “Have you had any contact with Mr. Mpayipheli since then?”

  “You listen to my phone. You know.”

  “Miss Kleintjes, have you any idea where Mr. Mpayipheli is now?”

  “No.”

  * * *

  Radebe called her to the Ops Room. “Yes?”

  “The team searching the files in Pretoria, ma’am ” “Yes?” “There’s nothing. They can’t find Thobela Mpayipheli.”

  11.

  The agent was from the Eastern Cape Bureau in Bisho. She knew, operationally speaking, that it was the backwoods of South Africa, a professional quicksand where nothing ever happened to give you a chance to rise above, to propel yourself to headquarters. The longer you remained there, the more you suffocated in the sands of mediocrity.

  When Radebe phoned from HQ to order you to interview a subject in Alice, you didn’'t moan about the lack of information, you put zeal in your voice and hid the gratitude and climbed into the grimy, juddering Volkswagen Golf Chico with 174,000 km on the odometer and you seized the day, because this could be your passport to higher honors.

  Then you focused on the questions you were going to ask, the tone of voice to maintain; you prepared until your thoughts began to wander, when you began to daydream about the possibilities this could bring— you saw in your mind’s eye Mrs. Mentz reading the report (not knowing what her office looked like, you filled it with chrome and glass) and calling Radebe in to say, “This agent is brilliant, Radebe. What is she doing in Bisho? She belongs here with us.”

  Before the fantasy could properly take shape, before she could furnish the dream apartment in Sea Point and picture the view, she had arrived. She parked in front of the house in Alice, just a kilometer or so from the lovely new buildings on the Fort Hare campus. There was a light still burning and she knocked politely, her tape recorder and notebook in her handbag, her weapon in the leather holster in the small of her back.

  The man who opened the door was silver gray, the wrinkles on his face deep and multiple, the tall body bowed with age, but his “good evening” conveyed only patience.

  “Reverend Lawrence Mpayipheli?”

  “That is correct.”

  “My name is Dalindyebo. I need some help.”

  “You have come to the right place, sister.” A strong voice. The minister stepped back and held the door open. Two veined bare feet showed under the burgundy dressing gown.

  The agent stepped inside, swept her eyes over the room, the bookshelves along two walls, hundreds of books, the other walls hung with black-and-white and color photos. The room had simplicity, no luxuries, an aura of restfulness and warmth.

  “Please sit down. I just want to tell my wife she can go to sleep.”

  “I apologize for the late hour, Reverend.”

  “don'’t be sorry.” The minister disappeared down the passage, bare feet silent on the carpet. The agent attempted to see the photos from her chair. The minister and his wife in the middle, with bridal couples, at synod, with amorphous groups of people. At one side, a family photo, the minister young, tall, and straight. In front of him stood a boy of six or seven, a serious frown on his face, an overbite of new front teeth. The agent wondered if that was Thobela Mpayipheli.

  The old man appeared from the passage again. “I have put the kettle on. What do you bring to my house, Miss Dalindyebo?”

  For a moment she hesitated, suddenly doubting the prepared phrase on the tip of her tongue. There is something shining out of the old man, a love, compassion.

  “Reverend, I work for the state. ”

  He was about to sit down opposite her when he saw her hesitation. “Carry on, my child, don'’t be afraid.”

  “Reverend, we need information about your son. Thobela Mpayipheli.”

  Deep emotion moved over the old man’s face, across his mouth and eyes. He stood still for a long moment as if turned to stone, long enough for her to feel anxiety. Then slowly he sat, as if his legs were in pain, and the sigh was deep and heavy.

  “My son?” One hand touched the gray temple, just the fingertips; the other gripped the arm of the chair, eyes unseeing. A reaction she had not expected. Sh
e must adjust her time scale and review her questions. But for now she must remain quiet.

  “My son,” he said, this time not a question, the hand coming loose from the chair and floating to his mouth as if weightless, his gaze somewhere, but not in this room.

  “Thobela,” he said, as if remembering the name.

  It took nearly fifteen minutes for the old man to begin his story. He first asked after the welfare of his son, which she answered with vague lies to spare him anguish. He excused himself to make coffee, treading like a sleepwalker. He brought the tray, which he had arranged with a plate of rusks and biscuits; he dithered about where to begin the chronicle of Thobela Mpayipheli, and then it came out, at first haltingly, a struggle for the right words, the right expression, till it began to flow, to make a stream of words and emotions, as if he were confessing and seeking her absolution.

  To understand, you need to go back to the previous generation. To his generation. To him and his brother. Lawrence and Senzeni. The dove and the falcon. Jacob and Esau, if you would forgive the comparison. Children of the Kat river, of poverty, yes, simplicity but pride, sons of a tribal chief who had to do herd duty with the cattle, who learned the Xhosa culture around the fire at night, who learned the history of the people at the feet of the gray-haired ones, who went through the Xhosa initiation before it became an exploitation of the poor. The difference between them was there from the early days. Lawrence the elder, the dreamer, the tall lean boy, the clever one who was always one step ahead of the others at the mission school with its single classroom, the peacemaker. Senzeni, shorter, muscular, a fighter, a born soldier, impatient, short-tempered, fiery his attention fully engaged only when the battles were retold, his eyes glittering with fighting spirit.

  There was a defining moment, so many years ago when he, Lawrence, had to defend his honor in a senseless adolescent fist-fight with another boy, a troublemaker who was jealous of his status as chief’s offspring. He was baited with cutting ridicule and within the circle of screaming children had to defend his dignity with his fists. It was as if he were raised above the two boys facing each other in ever diminishing circles, as if he floated, as if he were not really there. And when the blows began to rain down, he could not lift his hand against the boy. He could not ball his hands into fists, could not find the hate or anger to break skin or draw blood. It was a divine moment, the knowledge that he could feel his opponent’s pain before it existed, the urge to assuage it, to heal.

  Senzeni came to his aid, his little brother. He was staggering and bleeding in the ring of boys, head singing from the blows, blood in his eyes and his nose, and then Senzeni was there, a black tornado of rage ruthlessly thrashing the other boy with frightful purpose.

  When it was over he turned to Lawrence with disdain, even a degree of hate, reluctant to accept this new responsibility and questioning without words how they could be brothers.

  Lawrence found the Lord at the mission school. He found in Christ all the things he had felt within him that day. Senzeni said it was the white man’s religion.

  Lawrence received a scholarship through the church, and their mother encouraged him. He studied and married and began the long eternal journey as disciple here among his own people in the Kat river valley. And his brother was always there, a counterweight, by default the next tribal chief, the warrior who fastened onto the rumors of a new movement from the north, who read every word on the Rivonia trials over and over, who became another kind of disciple— a disciple of freedom.

  And then there was Thobela.

  The Lord made the boy with a purpose. He looked at the ancestors and took a bit here and a little there and sent the child into the world with the presence of his grandfather Mpayipheli, the ability to lead, to make decisions, to see past the angles and sides of a matter and make a judgment. The Lord gave him the body of his father, tall, the same limbs that could run the Ciskei hills with characteristic rhythmic stride, the same facial features so that many, including Thobela’s own father, would mistakenly assume the same peacemaker inside.

  But God created a predator in him, a Xhosa warrior, the Lord went far back in the bloodline, to Phalo, Rharhabe, Nquika en Maqoma, as he did with Senzeni, and gave Thobela Mpayipheli the heart of the hunter.

  In early years his likeness fooled everyone. “His father’s son,” they said. But the son grew and the truth emerged. His father was the first to know, because he was brother to Senzeni. He knew the signs and he prayed for mercy, because he feared the consequences. He enveloped the boy with love, to create a cocoon to wrap him safely in, but that was not the Lord’s will. Too late he came to realize this was his test, this child, too late, because he failed, his wisdom and compassion failed him, his deep love for his son made him blind.

  The strife began insignificantly domestic differences between father and son, and from there, as the years advanced, expanded like the ripples from a pebble dropped in a still pool.

  And Senzeni came home to verify the rumors and their fierce hearts recognized each other, Thobela and his uncle, their mouths spoke the same language, their bodies thirsted for the same battlefields, their heads rejected the way of peace and love. And Lawrence Mpayipheli lost his only son.

  “In 1976 with the Soweto riots, Thobela was fourteen years old. Senzeni came for him in the night. My brother was forbidden to enter the house because of his influence but he crept in like a thief and took the child and phoned later to say he would bring Thobela home when he had become a man. He had him initiated somewhere, and then took him to every place where Xhosa blood was shed. He filled his head with hate. They were away a long time, three months, and when they returned I did not know my son and he did not know me. Two years we lived like this in the rectory, strangers. He walked his own paths, quiet and secretive, as if tolerating me, waiting.

  “In 1979 he was gone. The evening before, he said good night— a rare occurrence— and in the morning his room was empty.

  The bed unslept in, some clothes missing from the wardrobe. Senzeni came and said my son had gone to the war. There was a terrible row that day. Hard words were spoken. I forgot myself. I was wounded because I could not be a father, because my brother had stolen my son. My words were to Senzeni, but I raged with God. The Lord had let my son leave me. He had drawn the dividing lines of this land and this family in strange places. He made me a man of peace and love, called me to be a shepherd, and then He placed a wolf in the fold so that I was ridiculed, so that the apostate could scorn Him, and that I could not understand.

  “Only later did I see it was my test. It was the Lord’s way to humble me, to strip me of the illusion that I was more holy than others, to show me my feet of clay. But by then it was too late to save my son, too late to bring him home. Sometimes we had news, sometimes Senzeni would send a message about Thobela, how well he was, that he had been noticed, that the leaders of the Struggle recognized his character, that he had gone to foreign parts to learn to fight for his country.

  “Then one evening the message came. The Security Police had taken Senzeni— to Grahamstown. For eight days they beat the life out of him and left his body as rubbish beside the road. And we never heard of our son again.”

  Beyond Touws river the road shrugged off its bends, and for the first time Thobela’s thoughts drifted from the motorbike. He took stock of his position— the implications and what alternatives were available to him. The LCD stripes of the petrol gauge indicated he must refuel. At Laingsburg. After that it was 200 kilometers to Beaufort West, a deadly stretch of highway through the Great Karoo, wide and straight, oppressively hot in daytime, soul-destroying at night. Expected time of arrival: approximately midnight.

  From Beaufort West it was another 500 or 550 to Bloemfontein— too far to reach before sunrise? Maybe not, if he pushed on, if he could manage the refueling stops quickly.

  He would have to sleep in Bloemfontein, ride into the black township and rest somewhere while the sun shone.

  The big question remained: Did they know yet h
e had taken the bike? Had his error of not turning off the alarm already resulted in consequences? If the answer was no, he had until eight, nine o’clock tomorrow morning before the message went out. And they would have to guess his route.

  But if they already knew

  He knew the game. He knew how fast the variables multiplied for the hunters and the prey. He knew how they would reason if they already knew. Put their money on the main route, the fastest, shortest road, use resources there because that is where the highest-percentage probability lay, even if it was no more than 50 percent. There were too many longer, lesser routes; the possibilities would drive you out of your mind.