by Deon Meyer
Domingo took charge of Little-Joe. He gave him one of the few R6 assault rifles we had. The R6 was based on the R4, but it was smaller, lighter, shorter. And more suited to indoor work, for the circumstances that might be expected in aeroplane hangars in Klerksdorp or Hoedspruit.
I seethed with jealousy. I had never fired an R6 before.
Little-Joe’s shooting didn’t impress Domingo. The Committee said, ‘Let him practise more.’ Hennie Fly said, ‘You’re all so worried about the shooting. I’m going to fly over the places first to see if there is any trouble. We won’t land if there is any danger. I’m not an idiot.’
Domingo made Little-Joe shoot more. He improved a little.
Little-Joe had never been in an aeroplane.
One morning in early February just after sunrise, Hennie Fly took him up in the Cessna, to get him accustomed to flying. Little-Joe perspired and started to feel airsick and then threw up on the floor of the plane. He begged Hennie to land. Back on firm ground he stood shaking like a leaf, and said he was terribly sorry, but he wouldn’t be able to go. He would do anything else, really anything, but fly he would not.
‘It’s fear of flying, also known as aviophobia,’ said Nero Dlamini. ‘I can treat him, but it’s going to take time.’
We didn’t have the time, because the petrol was deteriorating a little more every week.
I wasn’t speaking to my father.
Birdy had arrived at Amanzi with braces on her teeth, six months before. She would often say: ‘I know these things have to come off, but where do we find an orthodontist?’
And Domingo would say: ‘Let me take them off, Birdy.’
‘You? I won’t trust a former biker with my teeth.’
He grinned, a little patient smile. She was the only person who could talk to him like that, who made him seem just a little less dangerous. Everyone knew Domingo was in love with her, everyone knew he’d been trying for months to ask her out on a date. ‘Will you go out with me, Birdy?’
Every time she would reply: ‘What for? I see you every day. And where would you take me? There’s nowhere to go out here.’
He would just nod and walk away.
She sat watching Domingo one evening in February as he was reassembling a pistol. She saw how delicately he worked, how strong his hands were, how precise his movements. She said, ‘Okay then. Tomorrow you can take these braces off my teeth.’
He looked up. ‘Why now?’
‘It should have been done a long time ago, and I can see you can work with your hands. But let me warn you, if you hurt me, I’ll cut off your water and lights.’
‘Ouch.’
‘My point exactly.’
‘I’ll get the pliers . . .’
‘No, Domingo. Tomorrow when the sun is shining.’
‘Tomorrow you’ll get cold feet. Or a cold mouth . . .’
The next morning she came to call him, and she sat on a chair by the summer vegetable garden where the swimming pool used to be, with her face turned up to the sun. Pa and Nero Dlamini, Beryl and Melinda Swanevelder went along out of curiosity, and to give moral support.
I was at school. Afterwards Nero would describe how Birdy sat in the chair, small and vulnerable. Domingo loomed over her; if you hadn’t known what he was doing it could have been mistaken for a torture scene. But he worked very gently, deftly and surely. Slowly, carefully, his voice soothing. He used a pair of wire cutters, long-nose pliers and his strong fingers. He told her: ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry, I would never hurt you.’ As he removed the wires and the metal anchors, he dropped each one into an empty teacup, each one tinkling delicately as it dropped, until the last bit of metal was removed.
He picked up the teacup and showed her the contents and said, ‘There you are. Now you owe me dinner.’
‘I owe you nothing, but I’ll tell you what, if Hennie Fly and I come back alive, I’ll have dinner and breakfast with you.’
‘Where are you going with Hennie Fly?’
‘We’re going to get the diesel aeroplane.’
‘Over my dead body,’ said Domingo.
‘Then you had better fall down dead already, Domingo, because I’m going. I had an epiphany last night: if I can prove to myself I have the guts to let you mess around with a pair of pliers in my mouth, then I have the guts for this trip. And here we are. I’m the smallest, lightest adult over eighteen in Amanzi. And you are going to teach me how to shoot.’
‘No, Birdy,’ said my father before he could stop himself. ‘You’re too valuable.’
She got up from the chair, feeling her jaw, and she said, ‘So, Willem, some animals are more equal than others?’
On Friday, 12 February in the Year of the Crow, Domingo came to take me out of school at ten in the morning.
‘You have to come and learn to operate the R6,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘You’re riding shotgun for Hennie Fly on the Great Diesel Expedition.’
Chapter 37
Thielert’s gearbox: IV
We walked out of the school, Domingo and I. I was burning to know: ‘But how did it happen? Did Pa say it’s okay? When do we fly? Are we going now?’
‘Not now.’ Curt and cold, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses.
I didn’t really understand, but kept quiet. We climbed into his Jeep. He gripped the key, but didn’t turn it. ‘My pa was a vicious man,’ he said.
I waited for him to explain. He stared into the distance, then he started the Jeep and drove towards the gravel road. I had a multitude of questions, I was bursting with excitement and now, suddenly, a little scared.
We didn’t speak, until he’d parked in the gravel quarry. He didn’t get out of the Jeep. He said, ‘Your father is a good man. It must have been a very difficult decision for him. You’re still a child.’
‘But I already—’
‘Be quiet. You’re still a child. I scheme you want to play the big man really badly. We’ve all been there. But your pa knows, and I know, that being a child, that innocence . . . once it’s gone, you never get that genie back in the bottle. That’s what your pa wants to do. Keep the genie there as long as he can . . .’
I wanted to say that it was way too late; I wanted to tell him about the night that I shot two men. ‘Domingo, I’ve already shot two—’
‘Shaddup. It doesn’t matter how many dogs you’ve shot, you’re a child, and your pa is protecting you. But now the Committee and the community have played their trump card, and your father is sitting with a losing hand, and I feel for him, so you’re not going to gloat, and you’re going to be very, very humble. In fact, if I catch you gloating, I’ll give you a hiding. Understand?’
‘Yes, Domingo.’ It was the longest talk he had ever had with me. I was intimidated and honoured. And excited, because it meant a whole lot of exciting things.
‘And your father talked to Hennie Fly for two hours this morning, and Hennie convinced him that he wouldn’t land if there was any danger. So your role is very clear: you’re just the pass-me-the-spanner boy. Understood?’
‘Yes, Domingo.’
He stared at me a long time. Then his voice softened. ‘Now, take the DM along in the aerie. And behind the seat will be the R6. Why take the R6 too? Because if you are inside hangars and buildings, the R6 is the better choice of weapon.’
I didn’t question why we had to practise with the weapon if I were merely the pass-me-the-spanner boy. I just listened closely, doing exactly as he said.
At three o’clock Hennie Fly came to fetch me: they wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be afraid of flying or get airsick.
Hennie talked the whole time, telling me the purpose of each instrument and lever. I think he wanted to distract my attention, he was so eager for me to pass the test. I didn’t hear anything, I just wanted us to take off, so that I could show him I was fine.
As the earth dropped away and my stomach turned a somersault, I was momentarily terrified that I would be sick. Then the beauty of it al
l overwhelmed me as the dam came into view, the landscape spread out below us. ‘Wow,’ I said. Hennie Fly smiled.
He sought out some turbulence, found it. My stomach lurched. He kept an eye on me. ‘No worries then,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be okay.’
I found my father in the late afternoon, hard at work at his irrigation project. He saw me approach and stood up, clutching his back and wiping the sweat from his brow. I could see he was trying to hide his emotions.
‘Pa, I’ll make you proud of me,’ is what I said; I had thought long and hard about what would be the right thing to say, what Domingo meant by ‘humble’.
‘I know, but I hope that won’t be necessary,’ and he took a step closer to hug me, but that was the last thing I wanted, because Lizette Schoeman was standing only two beetroot rows away.
Pa saw me dodge his embrace and for an instant there was a look in his eyes, a sadness, and then I thought he understood. He ruffled my hair with a soil-smeared hand. ‘Listen to Domingo and Hennie.’
‘I will.’
An uncomfortable silence. Pa nodded, bent down and pulled out another beet. ‘I hear you had a good flight?’ He had his radio on his hip.
‘It was awesome, Pa.’
He smiled. Pulled up another beet.
‘Have you told Lizette yet?’
‘What should I say to her?’
He just smiled. ‘Go on, tell her you’re the one who’s going on the flight.’
I was mortified that Pa knew, that he could read me so easily. ‘I don’t want to tell Lizette.’
But I did.
‘Off you go,’ said Pa. ‘I have work to do.’
I dithered and blushed. First I walked back to the four-by-four, stopped, looked back at Pa. He was concentrating on the beetroot plants. I wandered a little in Lizette’s direction. Then I lost my nerve.
In the morning, in the quarry.
‘People are fragile creatures in a hostile environment,’ said Domingo. ‘Those are the words of my favourite philosopher.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Nathan Trantraal.’
‘My father never told me about him.’
‘Never mind, just remember his words, ’cause it’s the foundation of survival. And we will be revisiting it, over and over again. Apart from a bullet-proof vest there is very little you can do about your fragility. So combat and survival are mainly about how you can make your environment less hostile. Understood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay.’ Domingo handed me a knife. It was nearly thirty centimetres long and razor-sharp. Black handle, black steel blade. ‘Flick-knives are for posers and showmen. In a real knife fight there isn’t time for flick and show off. So I’m giving you this combat knife. You carry it on your hip.’
‘Okay.’
He drew in a breath to speak, thought better of it and shook his head. ‘You’re too young for the things I have to teach you.’
‘Okay.’
‘Why do you keep saying “okay”?’
‘I don’t know.’
He took off his sunglasses. His eyes were steely-grey and very serious.
‘This is combat training. You only say okay when I say you can. You’re too young to learn these things, but it’s another world, this, and I’ll just have to live with it. And it helps a bit that I can see you have the restlessness. And the heart. Inside you is a predator, a warrior, but maybe you don’t know it yet. No, you’re not going to say okay. You’re just going to listen. ’Cause here comes the big lesson now. The biggest, for every first-time warrior: the other guy wants to kill me. You have to understand that. With that first fight, with that first battle, there’s a moment when you’re scared of what you have to do. It’s a big step, to kill another human being. Even if you have the heart. Even if it is self-defence. A very big step. So, you will be scared, and you will hesitate. And he who hesitates is lost. ’Cause you’re not making your environment less hostile when you hesitate, you are making it more hostile. So just remember: the other guy wants to kill me. If I hesitate, I die. To indicate to me that you understand, you can say “okay” now.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay. You’ve done a bit of shooting already. With a rifle it’s easier, there’s this distance between you and your adversary. You can be scared, and you can hesitate, but you can shoot, because it’s not so kwaai personal, and that distance buys you a bit of time. But a knife fight is up close and personal. And dirty and messy and hectic and chaotic. You’ve seen knife fights in the movies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, now let me tell you, those guys who made the movies, those guys were never in a knife fight. As a matter of fact, those guys who made the movies were never in a fight of any kind. You know how the guys in movie knife fights dance around each other, knife in hand? And then the hero says a cool thing, and then the baddy says a cool thing, and then you just see a blur and then you hear the knife go whoosh through the air, and the hero jumps neatly back, just his shirt ripped so you can see his six-pack, a little blood, that sort of thing? That’s all bullshit. To indicate to me that you understand, you can now say “okay”.’
‘Okay.’
‘The other guy wants to kill me. If I hesitate, I die. Say it.’
‘Okay.’
‘No, say: “The other guy wants to kill me. If I hesitate, I die.” ’
‘The other guy wants to kill me. If I hesitate, I die.’
‘If you take out the knife, you don’t want to dance, you want to kill. Say it.’
I said it.
‘Louder. Say it like you mean it.’
The night before we flew, Lizette Schoeman came to tell me: ‘I think you’re very brave, Nico Storm.’
And she gave me a hug.
I couldn’t sleep a wink that night because of it.
Pa wrote me a letter:
My beloved son
The word ‘responsibility’ is an interesting one. We can talk about the root ‘respons’ from the Latin, it means ‘accountable’. ‘Responsibility’ means in reality that we must eventually provide answers to questions that our loved ones, our neighbours, or our community ask us. (And now that I think of it, loved ones, neighbours and community should be synonyms of each other.)
Our community – and you – asked me a question this past week, and my response-ability was to agree to send you with Hennie. Now it’s my turn to saddle you with a responsibility, by asking you: please come back safely.
I love you very much, and am very proud of you.
Pa
That letter is here beside me today as I write.
The story of Hennie Fly and the wheat made a big impression on the community. It was as if his survival and the safe arrival of the seed were a sign that we were destined for success. Add to that the search for the one to fly with him on the Great Diesel Expedition, and the interest in our mission took on epic proportions. Consequently, a crowd gathered at the Petrusville airfield, just before dawn on Saturday, 20 February in the Year of the Crow. They arrived in every vehicle from Amanzi that would still run.
Hennie Fly was unsettled. He looked across the crowd, frowning deeply. ‘I really don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ he said to Pa. ‘We’re just flying a little way.’
When we took off, they waved, they cheered and clapped. I could see that Hennie enjoyed it just as much as I did. But his eyes sought out Melinda Swanevelder, and mine Lizette Schoeman.
Chapter 38
Thielert’s gearbox: V
Sunrise from the air, at our height of three thousand metres, was so beautiful that I cried out.
Hennie Fly took a pair of sunglasses out of his breast pocket and put them on. Then he reached into his other pocket and took out a pair for me as well. ‘The light can be bright up here.’
I put them on. They were too big for my face and kept sliding down my nose, but I wished at that moment I had a mirror to see what I looked like. It felt even better than the sunrise.
Hennie ta
lked a lot. He described other planes he had flown, and those that he still wished to fly.
He pointed out Hopetown below, the only town that we flew close enough to see, he showed me the Vaal River. The rest was just monotonous landscape far below. And then, barely two hours after take-off, we began the descent to Klerksdorp. He pointed at the gold-mine dumps that lay like white scars across the landscape. ‘They dug all that up from underground,’ Hennie said. ‘It will probably lie there for a long time.’
We flew low over the airport. ‘If there is anyone here, they will come out and look,’ said Hennie. ‘They always do.’
We saw no sign of life.
He flew back and forth over the airport. ‘I promised your father we would be very careful . . .’
There were two aeroplanes parked outside on a tarmac square. One had two engines. ‘Luckily neither of those is our TD,’ said Hennie. ‘If they stand outside for so long . . . Your big trouble is rain in the fuel tanks.’
There were a whole lot of big steel hangars, I counted more than sixteen, some long and wide, others small and square. ‘Our TD could be in any of those hangars,’ said Hennie Fly.
He turned and landed. Then he taxied the Cessna down the tarmac road that ran past the hangars. He was looking for something. ‘There it is,’ he said and pointed. On the side of the hangar I read Western Transvaal Flying School.
He turned the Cessna so that the nose pointed back at the runway, and then he stopped. He turned off the engine. He said, ‘Can you see anybody?’
I had the R6 in my hands, and I wished there was someone to see how I looked with the weapon and sunglasses. In my imagination I looked just like Domingo. But there was nobody there to see. I heard Domingo’s voice in my mind: ‘People are fragile creatures in a hostile environment. Vigilance makes the environment less hostile. Use your eyes and your common sense.’