by Deon Meyer
We watched Team Bravo climb into the Volvo, along with one of the West Coasters, and drive out of the gate. It was the first time since I’d become a Spotter that one team didn’t know what the other team was doing. It heightened the feeling we all had that something wasn’t right. And Domingo stayed behind. Domingo not going along? And then Birdy came walking out of our building, and she looked really worried.
It was strange.
Plus, both our sergeants were still busy with training in NJ, so we talked a lot among ourselves about what was going on.
Cairistine ‘Birdy’ Canary
It was a weird morning. We had to get the Special Ops Team on the road, because we didn’t have much time. And then we had to sit down with Willem Storm and Sarge X over the Trunkenpolz message. I know his name is really Clarkson, and there are people who talk of Number One, but to us, I think, he will always be Trunkenpolz.
Anyway, Willem said he thought it was strategically a good thing to keep talking to Trunkenpolz. We didn’t trust him, he knew we didn’t trust him, let’s see where it goes.
And Domingo said, yes, sooner or later he’s going to make a mistake. So let’s talk. Sarge X and I said okay, let’s do it.
Domingo said it must be only him and Willem in the radio room. Sarge X said his people were trustworthy, but Domingo said, be that as it may, let’s not take chances.
So it was only Domingo and Willem who talked to Trunkenpolz. And they came out of there, and said, okay, they agreed to a meeting, date and place to be determined.
Only the two of them would know what was said over the radio that day.
We drove from De Aar to Richmond, taking a lousy gravel road to Middelburg, and there was one spot where the road was completely washed away. We wasted three hours moving enough earth and stones with the spades that we carried in the back of the truck so we could get through.
In Middelburg we saw people. Not many, maybe eleven or twelve who came running out when they heard the Volvo’s engine. I ordered the driver to keep on going. I saw the people waving, they were starved, neglected and wild. There had been no sign of life when we last passed through here, thirteen, fourteen months ago. It was different now without the KTM killer gangs racing around.
The old R56 was tarred, but it must have been a bad road even before the Fever. Where we had to cross the Rooispruit between two hills, a low-water bridge had entirely washed away. We wasted another two hours making our way across.
And then we saw Koffiebus and Teebus, the two distinctive hills, Koffiebus like a fat man on our left, Teebus slender and feminine on the right.
John Hahn, the former Eskom employee and West Coast man, sat up front. He told me over the radio: ‘It’s past Koffiebus, you can’t really see anything from the road.’ And at last: ‘Slow down, slow down, there, turn left there.’
Through the peephole where Domingo usually stood, I saw the faded road sign that said Hopewell, Teebus Station, Bulhoek. We turned left, and scarcely two kilometres further was the old village: a few houses, a big swimming pool, now empty and dirty. I stared at it and wondered why a swimming pool, of all man-made structures, evoked the most melancholy when it fell into disuse and neglect. Maybe because we usually associated them with sparkling, blue water and the excited shrieks of children at play?
The entrance to the tunnel was just a few hundred metres further on, behind a high wire fence. The white signboard beside the road said nothing about a hydro-electric power station, only ORANGE–FISH TUNNEL: Administration and Plant.
We drove through the first big gate which was standing wide open. Not a good sign.
The second gate, in front of the few structures, was also open. To the right was a red brick building, on the left a shed where eight vehicles could park. It was overgrown, bleached and crumbling. Right in front of us, the tunnel. But it was walled up with poles, stones, bricks, planks, panels and roofing sheets.
I ordered my team to get out, take up their positions to cover the mouth of the tunnel. I had the Volvo back up, outside the gate and park at a safe distance. Cautiously I walked towards the entrance to the tunnel. It seemed as if someone had blocked it so they could shelter in the tunnel. Were they still inside it now?
I saw no recent signs of life.
And then there was a whirlwind of motion from behind the shelter, and shots boomed out.
Nero Dlamini
‘Send my regards to Cincinnatus.’ That was Willem Storm’s distress call.
It went way back, to that very first winter in Amanzi, that terrible winter. When we had our first democratic election. Everybody wanted Domingo to stand, to make himself available as a candidate, because we were all a little scared of him – especially the pastor – and we all wanted him inside the tent pissing out, rather than outside pissing in.
Of course Domingo refused. And the pastor cornered him about it, and Domingo said he didn’t believe in democracy in this crazy post-Fever world, he believed in a benevolent dictator. The pastor wanted to make a big song and dance about it, and that damn polymath Willem Storm said, hold your horses, Domingo has the ancient Romans on his side, they were democrats, but they knew the value of a dictatorship when they were in deep trouble.
And some time later, I think it was when Domingo saved the election for us, the second election. I think it was the second election, he saved it for us by telling the people he would leave Amanzi if Nkosi won . . . Anyway, that night, Willem Storm told Domingo that basically he was our dictator.
And Domingo said, well, you don’t sound very upset about it, and Willem told us the story of Cincinnatus. He’s the guy the American city of Cincinnati was named after, by the way. Cincinnatus was this ancient Roman guy, just another aristocrat that they elected dictator after Rome was attacked, and they were in real trouble. But when they defeated the enemy, Cincinnatus said, okay cool, guys, I’m all done here, he relinquished power and he went back to being just a regular aristocrat citizen, and he became a big democratic hero for letting go of power.
So Willem was saying, Domingo can be our Cincinnatus. One day he must just let the power go. And that’s how it started.
When Willem was President, he insisted on going everywhere on his bicycle. No escort, no guards, no fancy presidential car, he said oh please, that’s just nonsense. Which was all fine, most of the time. But then we were at war too, off and on. And Sarge X and Domingo were not happy, they called him our greatest asset, but Willem absolutely insisted. They demanded that he carry a radio with him at all times, and they gave him a special distress signal. It was Willem’s idea: ‘Send my regards to Cincinnatus.’ He came up with that. It was a sort of reminder to Domingo, to let go of power one day. And Domingo just smiled, and said okay.
So if Willem was ever in real danger, life-threatening stuff, he had to say that on the radio: ‘Send my regards to Cincinnatus.’
They leapt out right there in front of me, out of the chaos of rocks and bricks and metal sheets, with strange, unearthly cries. Panicked, I raised my rifle and fired. Behind me, my troops were shooting too, the bullets smacking left and right and over my head.
Two massive males raced out faster than I ever thought a baboon could run, dirty grey streaks of naked fear, one left, one right, up the hill behind the entrance.
Not one of the Spotters hit them. Despite all the hundreds of hours of training.
And then it was quiet, the baboons vanished.
And we laughed. My troops had the decency to wait until I began to laugh. But they carried on laughing much longer than I did.
Chapter 102
Send my regards to Cincinnatus: IV
The people who had blocked up the tunnel had been gone for years.
When we began removing the barricades, the only signs of life were baboon shit, dassie droppings, and the shed skin of a very large puff adder.
The tunnel was in a terrible state – part of the roof had fallen in. It was going to take half a day or more to tunnel a path through it.
&n
bsp; We started at once, while we still had a few hours of daylight left. We had brought candles and bundles of twigs to use as torches, but we had to save them for the delicate task of removing the control panels in the turbine hall – when and if we got that far. We were going to work deep under the earth in the pitch-dark and we would need all the light we could get.
Cairistine ‘Birdy’ Canary
At four o’clock they called me to the radio room; the pastor wanted to talk to me, all the way from New Jerusalem.
I wasn’t in the mood, I knew he wanted to harass me about the voltage regulators, and I had nothing to tell him. But what can you do? I went to the radio room. He said, Madam President, I cannot wait. I have spoken to my people, and I have prayed over the matter, and I cannot wait. Tomorrow, I am coming to fetch that voltage regulator. We want what is rightfully ours.
I’m no shrink, but I always thought the pastor was a bit of an anal retentive, or obsessive compulsive, or whatever you call them.
And I said, Mr President . . . Maybe I should just mention here, since they were in NJ, the good pastor insisted we call him Mr President too. So I said to him, Mr President, I will have to consult with my Cabinet.
And he said no, there’s nothing to consult about. They want their share . . .
Wait, it’s important that I remember correctly what I said. Let no one ever doubt exactly what he said. On my word of honour, he said, ‘There is nothing to consult about. We will no longer be denied. I want to make this very clear. We demand what is rightfully ours, and we will take what is rightfully ours. Our voltage regulators and our weapons.’
That’s what he said.
Sofia Bergman
Domingo came at about six o’clock in the afternoon, and said we were to sleep on the dam wall until further notice, we were guarding the hydro-electric power station, and our voltage regulators. All of us, the entire Team Alpha. And if anyone came near the entrance to the power station, we had his permission to shoot.
Cairistine ‘Birdy’ Canary
We had the Special Ops Team stand guard on the dam wall, and we tried to reach Nico Storm on the radio at Teebus, but we couldn’t make contact.
I have to add, Willem Storm was no longer in the Cabinet, so he wasn’t at the meeting where we decided to give the pastor nothing before Nico had sent us word.
And finally, probably only half past seven that night, Nico called us on the radio, and the signal was poor, and the news was bad, we thought they weren’t even in the tunnel, because Nico said, ‘No news on Romeo yet.’
From just outside the tunnel entrance we couldn’t pick up Amanzi on the radio at all. We had to drive back in the Volvo on the R56 to the other side of Teebus and try again. I stayed within protocol by saying: ‘No news on Romeo.’
Domingo said, ‘Really bad news. When can news be expected?’
‘Perhaps tomorrow around twelve,’ I said.
‘That is really bad news,’ he said.
From that I knew they wanted us to hurry.
We drove back. I divided my people into three teams – one to dig with minimum light, one to stand guard, and one to sleep. I rotated them. And I barely slept at all.
Beryl Fortuin
Willem went to Witput in the afternoon. Witput was the irrigation area west of Luckhoff, the farm alongside the canal where he wanted to plant potatoes in the spring. He was planning the layout of the fields, and he had gone to look for the right spot to install the old diesel water pump, as of course there was no electricity there.
He went alone. I think he enjoyed the solitude. Remember, for many years he could never be alone, he had always been surrounded by people, solving their problems, pleasing them, all the time. So I think he enjoyed being alone very much.
In that time . . . I don’t believe he considered it dangerous to go alone. Witput is . . . There’s nothing and nobody, not even a decent road. And it was after the Battle of Sector 3, there was no reason to be afraid . . .
He came back at sunset and we ate together in the Orphanage, and Birdy and Nero came in and told him the news of the pastor’s new deadline, and that Special Ops were guarding the dam wall now. And Willem said he thought the pastor was trying to intimidate Birdy, Nkosi had always been a bit of a bully. Then Willem said, ‘Birdy, tell Nkosi you are prepared to share the regulators, but Willem Storm has the keys to the power station, and he won’t give them up. If you have to, you can say that. Put the blame on me.’
And Birdy said thanks very much. And they left again.
That was the last night we were together.
We worked through the night, and through the morning. By Tuesday afternoon just after twelve the tunnel was open and safe, and we could go down to the turbine room. There were signs that people had lived here, perhaps two or three years ago. Empty cans, empty bottles, bedding, jewellery in a box.
The control boards with the voltage regulators were untouched. Covered in dust, damp in the humidity, but John Hahn said they would definitely work when they were dried out.
I drove back in the Volvo to where the radio reception was good and called the radio room. They sent for Domingo.
‘Romeo is affirmative,’ I said.
The signal was weak. ‘Repeat,’ he said. I repeated it.
‘He’s in good health?’ Domingo asked.
‘Romeo seems to be in good health,’ I said. And I wondered who might be listening in on our general communications wavelength. If Pastor Nkosi’s people heard this they would know we were doing something secretive, but they would have no idea what it was about.
‘Excellent news,’ said Domingo. ‘When will you be joining Juliet?’
John Hahn said we should be finished about three o’clock.
‘Some time tonight.’
‘Safe travels,’ said Domingo.
Cairistine ‘Birdy’ Canary
At lunchtime on Tuesday Domingo came to tell me the Teebus voltage regulators were good, they ought to arrive tonight. I got the Cabinet together and we decided we could take the risk, I had to let the pastor know we would be bringing him his regulator the next day.
So I went to the radio room and we called New Jerusalem, and they answered, but said the pastor was not available.
And when I asked them when he would be available, they said they didn’t know, maybe only tomorrow.
And when I asked them where the pastor was, they said none of your business.
Sofia Bergman
Domingo was with us, at three that Tuesday afternoon. He brought us food and water for the night, he had his pistol and his radio on his hip and his R4 in the Jeep; the rifle was upright where he always kept it in a holder.
He shared out the provisions, chatted to us and then he drove off. He didn’t say where he was going.
And then, at half past three, we heard Willem Storm on the radio, crystal-clear. On our wavelength, the military channel. There was great urgency in his voice. And I grabbed the radio and turned the volume up louder and I heard Domingo’s voice saying, ‘Repeat, Willem, repeat.’
And Willem said, ‘Regards to Cincinnatus from Witput, regards to Cincinnatus, I am at Witput.’ But you could tell he didn’t really mean to send regards to anyone, you could hear he was . . . excited. To be honest, if I allow my imagination to . . . Let’s just say his voice was very excitable.
And then it went quiet on the channel and Domingo said, ‘Affirmative, Willem, I will send regards to Cincinnatus.’
That’s all.
Chapter 103
Send my regards to Cincinnatus: V
We arrived back at Amanzi at eight that night. The sun had already set.
The guards at the Petrusville gate seemed subdued. I didn’t make anything of it.
The guards at the main gate were silent and stiff. They usually welcomed us with genuine friendliness, but not tonight. I suspected it might be because they were tired from the longer shifts now that there were fewer people left. More than 40 per cent of Sarge X’s defence force and rese
rvists had gone to New Jerusalem in the Great Trek.
We stopped in front of the base, I let my team get out; we were weary, hungry and thirsty. We knew the Special Ops kitchen would have something special for us, as they always did when we came home from a mission.
We offloaded the electrical control boards, and my team carried them into headquarters.
The others walked to barracks, while I stood waiting for the Volvo driver to come too. I wanted to do as Domingo would – I wanted to be the last to go in.
I wondered where Domingo was.
Birdy and Sarge X, Nero Dlamini and Beryl Fortuin came walking out of our headquarters. Right past the control board with the volt regulators, they didn’t even look at them. I could see from all four of them that something was terribly wrong.
Birdy, little Birdy, President Cairistine Canary broke into sobs before she could reach me. She said, ‘Nico, oh, Nico,’ her voice completely broken.
‘What’s wrong?’ My heart went ice cold.
‘Your father,’ she said.
I knew. I didn’t have to ask because I could see it in her and Beryl, in Nero and Sarge X, she didn’t have to say another word.
I felt the blood and life flow out of me, so fast, empty. I felt my legs wobble, my knees give.
Birdy grabbed me, embraced me. I felt Birdy’s body flutter and shake. Beside us Beryl began to weep inconsolably, and she put her arm around us as though she wanted to be part of this grief.
Birdy’s face on my chest. She said, ‘Domingo too, Nico. Domingo is also dead.’
I don’t remember much about those first few hours.
I remember that Birdy and I tried to comfort each other. We sat like that for a long time, holding each other tight.
I didn’t cry, everything seemed surreal. I couldn’t. I wanted to, I knew the tears were inside me somewhere, but I didn’t really believe it: Pa and Domingo? Impossible.
We sat in Domingo’s office. Somebody brought us sweet tea and fresh baked bread. I couldn’t stomach it, asked for water.