by Deon Meyer
We had reached the stables. Okkie demanded Pa’s complete attention. I stood watching them saddle the horse, Pa explaining the basic principles of riding to Okkie. I wondered where Pa had acquired that knowledge. And I knew: he had asked someone, he wouldn’t have been able to suppress his curiosity. I saw how good Pa was with Okkie, I recognised him in that. He had been the same when I was small. Endlessly patient. And never condescending.
The saddle was on. Pa lifted Okkie onto it and adjusted the stirrups.
Suddenly Beryl was beside me.
‘I’m sorry, Nico,’ she said. ‘That you had to find out that way.’
‘I was just shocked,’ I said.
‘I understand that. We would have told you, but every time when we wanted to, something happened. A crisis. A war. A pastor . . .’ She smiled.
Pa looked our way. He saw Beryl’s smile, and mine. His body relaxed a little more.
‘How long have you . . .’
‘Remember Thabo and Magriet? The first traders?’
‘Medicine. For trade. We come in Peace.’
‘Exactly. It . . . We liked each other a lot from the beginning. But in that time it became serious.’
‘All right.’
‘And now you’re okay with it?’
‘Almost completely,’ I said.
‘Almost is good,’ she said. ‘Almost is good.’
All four of us went riding, slowly, for Okkie’s sake. We went down the gravel quarry road to the dam, and along the bank, Okkie and I in front, Pa and Beryl behind us.
We all ate lunch together and it was good.
Okkie and I dozed off on the biggest couch in the Orphanage sitting room, and at four we drank coffee and ate koeksisters and talked.
At five I went back to base.
At half past six Pa called Number One/Trunkenpolz/Clarkson over the radio. But I didn’t know that. I would only find that out after Pa was already dead.
But that was more or less the way we spent the last day that we were together.
I’ve played it over and over in my mind, for nearly thirty years.
Over and over.
Chapter 99
Send my regards to Cincinnatus: I
Commissioner Sizwe Xaba
That Sunday morning at around 11.30 the radio room picked up the broadcast on the forty-metre band. ‘This is Number One, calling on Willem Storm, this is Trunkenpolz, calling on Willem Storm.’
Every fifteen minutes, the same call.
My radio room called me immediately. Of course my responsibility is to report such an incident directly to the President. The problem was, our Caretaker President Cairistine Canary was in New Jerusalem at the time, advising on their hydro-electric power station, and I was unable to report to her. My second thought was to report this to the former President, as it was him who this Trunkenpolz was calling for. I proceeded to look for Willem. I saw him and his two sons and our Minister of Social Development Beryl Fortuin riding horses along the shore of the dam, in the direction of the boat landing. I knew that Willem had been through a lot, and he hadn’t seen his son the soldier for some time, so I made the decision not to disturb him yet. I proceeded to the Amanzi Special Operations Headquarters, where I informed the commanding officer of the unit, Captain Domingo, about the radio call. I did this because in my opinion Number One/Trunkenpolz was predominantly a military threat.
Cairistine ‘Birdy’ Canary
No, I knew nothing about it, I was in New Jerusalem, and that was the day of the voltage regulator fiasco, so I had my hands full, I couldn’t go home. And they, Willem and Domingo and Sarge X, couldn’t say anything to me on the radio because we didn’t trust the pastor, and the pastor’s people were listening in on our general comms frequencies, that much we knew. We’ll probably never know if they were eavesdropping on the ham radio frequencies as well.
Commissioner Sizwe Xaba
Captain Domingo insisted on going to the radio room immediately after I informed him of the Trunkenpolz call. This was at about 12.20, so we had to wait until 12.30 before Trunkenpolz called again, on the same wavelength. This was, as Captain Domingo pointed out at the time, the same wavelength on which we picked up the conversation about the Maseru sales meeting a few months ago, which we believed at the time to be a trap.
Captain Domingo decided that, in the absence of President Canary, he and I should decide on the appropriate military response. His argument was that the calls might cease before the President returned, or before we could get the Cabinet convened. He argued also that the Cabinet would have asked for and followed our advice in the matter anyway. He was persuasive. Captain Domingo was a very persuasive man.
He then proceeded to respond to Trunkenpolz. On the ham radio, on the forty-metre band he said, ‘Trunkenpolz, this is Domingo of Amanzi. I am authorised to respond. State the nature of your business with Willem Storm.’
And Trunkenpolz laughed, and he said, ‘I don’t speak to servants, I speak to masters. Tell Storm I have a proposition. I will be listening on this wavelength.’
Captain Domingo did not respond to this. He simply left the radio room. I followed him outside, and I asked him what he proposed we do.
He said we should get the message to Willem Storm. We proceeded to the Orphanage, where we saw Willem Storm and his sons having lunch with our Minister of Social Development Beryl Fortuin. Captain Domingo and I decided to postpone informing Willem about the radio call. We went and had lunch together. We did not discuss the matter with anybody. I am absolutely certain that my staff members on duty in the radio room that day did not discuss the radio conversations with anybody. I am absolutely certain. I asked them, and I believe them. They are good people.
Captain Domingo and I returned to the Orphanage at about 14.30. Willem Storm’s sons were asleep in the lounge. Willem Storm was sitting with our Minister of Social Development Beryl Fortuin under the trees on the east side of the building. We informed them both about the radio conversation.
Willem Storm asked for our advice. Captain Domingo said he thought we should make Trunkenpolz wait.
Willem Storm asked, how long?
Domingo said a day or two.
Willem Storm said that he would think about it.
I then issued orders in the radio room to be notified of any further activity, and went home.
At 18.15, Captain Domingo and Willem Storm arrived. They informed me that Storm had come to a decision. He would call Trunkenpolz at 18.30. It was also decided by the three of us that Storm would not misrepresent his status, but he would also not offer information pertaining to the fact that he was no longer the President of Amanzi. We agreed that this would give us a fair indication of how informed Trunkenpolz was on matters in our community. We then proceeded to the radio room, and at the designated time Willem Storm called Trunkenpolz on the forty-metre band.
The conversation was brief. Trunkenpolz answered within a few minutes, and said he had a proposition for Storm. One that would be to everybody’s benefit.
Storm asked about the nature of the proposition. Trunkenpolz said he would discuss this when they met in person. And would Willem Storm be willing to attend such a meeting?
Willem Storm said he needed time to decide.
Trunkenpolz said, ah, the vagaries of democracy, QRM all the time. He was using the Q codes that ham radio people used. QRM means ‘are you being interfered with’, so what he was saying was that in a democracy, you are being interfered with all the time. Which I believe was an attempt at humour.
We did not laugh.
Cairistine ‘Birdy’ Canary
I couldn’t go back to Amanzi that Sunday night; when the mess with the voltage regulators was sorted it was already dark.
My escort said we would leave just before sunrise.
So I arrived home at half past six on Monday morning, and Sarge X and Willem and Domingo were waiting for me in front of the Orphanage. That’s when I knew our troubles were not limited to electrical supply.
Send my regards to Cincinnatus: II
Domingo didn’t wake us.
On that Monday morning, the first Monday in May in the Year of the Lion, Domingo didn’t wake us up. Every weekday morning it was his habit to wake us, it was a rule, a ritual. He would come walking down the passage, opening every dormitory door, the first one at precisely six o’clock. He would say: ‘Rise and shine, ladies.’ He said that to the women’s dormitory, and the men’s. His words were measured, his voice never raised, he had never needed to scream at us.
On that Monday morning, the first Monday in May in the Year of the Lion, I woke just before six, as always, and waited for the sound of his boots on the cheap tiles, the halting step of the past months, but I didn’t hear it.
I checked my watch, saw that it was five to, then four and three and two and one, it was six o’clock and Domingo wasn’t here.
I jumped out of bed. Sergeants Taljaard and Masinga were still in New Jerusalem, I was the senior officer present. I must wake the troops.
I did so. I used Domingo’s words and tone of voice. It felt false and strange and just plain wrong.
Sofia Bergman
That Monday morning I wanted to go and tell Domingo that I thought I should go back to school.
I don’t want it to sound like a big coincidence. The truth is, I had wanted to do it the previous Monday and the one before, and the one before that too, I had wanted to resign right after the Battle of Sector 3, but then something happened, and I thought, wait, I would stay a bit longer, it wasn’t a good time to resign. Because I had gone against the advice of everyone in leaving school and joining Special Ops, I felt I had an obligation to at least leave at the right time.
But that Monday morning I was resolute, as we had spent almost a month driving patrols non-stop with the people of the Great Trek, to NJ and back, and all of a sudden it was done, and I thought, before the next thing comes up, I’d better tell Domingo. If he thinks I should stay another week or two or longer, then I will, but at least he would know I intended to leave.
And then Nico opened the door and said, ‘Rise and shine, ladies,’ and it was just so unexpected and so . . . wrong, I knew something wasn’t right. I had a very strong feeling of . . . It was a sort of evil that I felt. Of course that’s nonsense, it’s just because you know what happened afterwards, and we were so accustomed to hearing Domingo’s voice, and suddenly it was Nico’s. But later I did feel that I had a premonition.
Domingo arrived at half past nine.
We were checking equipment after the weeks on the road. I heard Domingo’s voice in the passage: ‘Storm!’
‘Captain!’ I answered, and ran down the stairs to his office.
Birdy was sitting behind Domingo’s desk. He stood beside her. Leaning against the wall was one of the West Coasters, a bespectacled man that I had seen before, but didn’t know his name.
‘Close the door,’ Domingo said.
I closed it.
He didn’t invite me to sit. He said, ‘Is Bravo good to go?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘It’s a hush-hush job. Strictly confidential. Are we clear?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Birdy.’
She nodded and said, ‘Nico, do you know John?’
‘I know he’s one of the West Coasters,’ I said to the man.
He came closer and put out his hand. ‘John Hahn,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ said Birdy. ‘I’m not going to get very technical. Let’s just say for a hydro-electric system to work, you need voltage regulators. It’s vital, critical. That’s why there are always two voltage regulators on the control panel. One does the work, the other is the back-up, the redundancy. As in, the spare regulator. Understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘As you know, I helped the pastor and company to get NJ’s hydro-power going. They basically have the same system as we do, it’s just been five years since it was last used or serviced. We connected and diverted everything, got it all going. I was very careful, but when I threw the final switch, the voltage regulator blew. Completely fried, irreparable. So I knew I had made a mistake somewhere . . .’
‘Maybe it wasn’t you, Birdy. Maybe it was—’
‘Shush, Domingo.’
Only Birdy Canary could tell Domingo to ‘shush’. The dynamics of their relationship remained surprising and mysterious. And unthinkable. You expected him to pull out a knife or a pistol and say, ‘Nobody tells me to shush.’ But not when Birdy was involved.
‘I made a mistake,’ said Birdy. ‘That’s the long and short of it. I tried to track down the fault, and I was absolutely certain I had found it. So I switched everything on again, and I blew the redundancy regulator as well. So the Promised Land doesn’t have the promised electricity. And there’s no way to fix it. I had to tell the pastor and the pastor was not happy, to put it mildly. And then he asked me, what about our regulators at Amanzi. Would they work? And I said those are our regulators. And he asked again, will they work? And I had to say, yes, they would work. So, since it was me who fried the thing, it was my fault. And there is a strict share agreement, 46 per cent. So now Amanzi’s voltage regulators are part of the share. We have two regulators and they are claiming one. It’s our spare, Nico. Our one and only back-up. These things break eventually. If our one fries too . . . Anyway, it doesn’t help to cry. When I told the pastor sorry, it’s tough luck for NJ, he said I better go and tell the people. I must tell the people they have to sit in the dark and the cold, they must cook over fires while we in Amanzi live in the lap of luxury, ’cause why, we won’t share an extra, unused voltage regulator. Nkosi said let’s see how my people take that. Let’s see if we can stop a civil war.’
Domingo grunted.
Birdy said, ‘No, Domingo, it doesn’t matter that we will win a civil war. Those were our people. Those people helped to build what we have . . .’ She looked back at me. ‘It’s a tough choice, Nico. But I want to do the right thing. And to do that, I need more information. Fast. I told Nkosi to give me two days. Today is day one. Maybe there’s hope, because John . . .’ And she pointed at the West Coaster against the wall, ‘. . . worked at Eskom. John has been assisting me, these last two weeks at NJ. And John has strategic information. Tell him, John.’
Hahn stepped forward. He said, ‘Yes, I was with Eskom. That was ten years back. I was Works Coordinator: Maintenance and Operations for Eskom in the Eastern Cape, I worked in Queenstown. I had to send the teams out to build the substations and maintain them. And one of the substations was at Teebus.’
‘Do you know where that is?’ Domingo asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Between Middelburg and Steynsburg,’ said Domingo. ‘But John will show you. He’s going with you.’
‘You see, there are voltage regulators there,’ said Birdy.
‘There’s a hydro-electric generator that actually no one knows about,’ said Hahn. ‘Underground. In the middle of nowhere.’
‘Weird,’ said Domingo.
‘But true,’ said Birdy.
‘The Orange–Fish tunnel,’ said Hahn. ‘In 1975 they built a tunnel from the Gariep Dam, to bring water to the Fish River, for irrigation, and so that Grahamstown and Port Elizabeth would have enough drinking water. That tunnel runs underground, from the dam, for about ninety kilometres. As far as two pointed hills, Teebus and Koffiebus, named after a tea tin and coffee tin, because of their matching shape. Just past Teebus the tunnel emerges and the water runs down a canal for a few kilometres, and into the Teebus River, which is one of the tributaries of the Fish River. Now, just before the tunnel emerges, they built a hydro-electric power station. Underground. Under a hill just the other side of Koffiebus. You drive into a tunnel, slanting downhill, to a bigger tunnel. They call it the turbine hall, where the turbines and everything are.’
‘And that’s where I want you to go,’ said Birdy. ‘To see if the voltage regulators are still there.’
‘They should be,’ said Hahn. ‘The funny thing is, the power station was never used, because it was damaged before it could be switched on. Some idiot forgot to pull the handbrake of his vehicle, and the thing ran down the slope in the tunnel and crashed into one control panel. At the time there was more than enough electricity, and the Teebus station could only generate point-six megawatt, so they didn’t even bother to fix it. It’s from the same era and the same technology as our power station and Gariep . . . I mean, NJ’s. There should be two voltage regulators there. And they should work.’
‘As a matter of fact, we want you to take out the whole control panel for us,’ said Birdy.
‘I’ll help you,’ said Hahn.
‘If it’s still there,’ said Domingo.
‘My little ray of sunshine,’ said Birdy.
‘I’m a realist,’ said Domingo.
‘He’s right,’ said Hahn. ‘Those tunnels used to be closed for five weeks every year for maintenance. It’s been more than five years since there was any maintenance. The tunnels might have caved in.’
‘I have to give the pastor an answer the evening of the day after tomorrow,’ said Birdy. ‘You must let me know at the latest by lunchtime day after tomorrow if the regulators are there. And serviceable.’
‘Take the Volvo,’ said Domingo. ‘You can’t use the N1 or the N10, and I can’t give you air cover. ’Cause why, I don’t want a Nkosi spy seeing you travelling in that direction. Those voltage regulators are a very strategic asset now. You’ll have to take back roads, and they are in a bad state. So drive carefully, but don’t waste time. And we’ll use Romeo as radio code. R, as in Romeo, for regulator.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘If you see the regulators are okay, tell me over the radio, Romeo is affirmative.’
‘Romeo is affirmative.’
‘Check. And if it isn’t okay, for whatever reason, then you tell me, Romeo is a negative.’
Chapter 101
Send my regards to Cincinnatus: III
Sofia Bergman