Dust Devils (34 page)

Zondi approached, carrying a plastic bag. Shouted at the kids in Zulu, fighting a path through to the driver's door. He slammed it and tried to start the car. The sound of rocks in a tumble drier.

Finally the engine caught and Zondi took off. "Jesus, you really know how to stay invisible, don't you?"

He passed the bag across and Dell opened it. A dusty pair of plastic Hong Kong binoculars. Bottled water. A wrinkled apple and a few packets of potato chips that looked like they'd been on the shelves a while. A black peaked cap with the white skull -and-crossbone insignia of the Orlando Pirates soccer team. A pair of Ray-Ban knockoffs. And a can of black Cobra shoe polish.

Dell held up the can. "What's this?"

"Smear it on your face and hands."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No. You stick out, man. Just do it."

Zondi reached down and handed Dell the rearview mirror that lay on the floor of the truck. Dell balanced the mirror on the vibrating dash and started rubbing the polish into his cheeks. He caught the sharp smell of turpentine and the paste burned his skin. He covered his face and his neck. Smoothed it over his lower arms and hands.

Saw Zondi looking at him. "And what do I do now," asked Dell, "sing 'Mammy'?"

Zondi laughed and after a moment so did Dell. Sounding strained, wobbling on the edge of hysteria. But laughing.

Sunday was pulled back into herself by the bellow of a dying animal. A man in a blue overall slaughtered a cow beside the fire, hacking at its throat with a butcher's knife, thick, bright blood patterning the sand.

Sunday was sick to her stomach with fear. She felt like running. Couldn't. The old dog's gunmen, rifles slung over their shoulders, patrolled the throng of guests that crowded her as she sat huddled on the grass mat. Inja stood by the fire, drinking. The heat haze made his body twist and dance like he was possessed. He turned to her and bared his teeth in a yellow smile.

Fat Auntie Mavis, stinking of brandy, dragged Sunday up off the mat, hissing at her. "Wake up, girl! Come. It is time."

Sunday allowed herself to be prodded toward the slaughtered beast. The crowd roared in anticipation as the butcher crouched and opened the cow's belly with his blade, letting the animal's insides spill out pink and glistening onto the sand.

Auntie Mavis reached beneath the blanket that wrapped her fat middle and produced a fistful of banknotes. Shoved them at Sunday. "Do it, girl."

Sunday took the money and squatted down beside the cow, feeling warm blood and sticky innards beneath her bare feet. Smelled the piss and the shit. Looked up at the faces in a circle around her, cheering, clapping, ululating. Her scrawny aunt at the front of the throng, wailing like a dying thing.

Sunday felt Auntie Mavis's bare foot in her ribs. "Do it now!"

She slid her hands inside the stomach of the cow, arms sinking to the elbows in hot, sticky organs. Left the money inside the abdomen and pulled her arms free of the carcass. Stared down at the blood that dripped from her fingers into a puddle between her feet. Heard the crowd roaring approval.

The ancestors had been bribed. She belonged to Inja Mazibuko.

The Ford was parked under a thorn tree, halfway up a hill in about as desolate place as Dell had ever known. Just the one
kraal
on a knoll below them, drumbeats rising up on the eddies of late afternoon heat.

Zondi stood scanning the landscape with the binoculars. Dell sat in the truck, door open, wearing the black cap and the sunglasses. The boot polish itched on his face and ran down his chest in dark rivulets of sweat. He dug in the plastic bag and found the elderly apple. Took a bite. It was brown inside and tasted like flour. He threw the apple out the car window and rinsed his mouth with water. Stood up and walked across to Zondi.

"What's happening?" Dell asked.

Zondi lowered the glasses, shrugged. "It's a Zulu wedding. Fat women in bras are dancing and wasted men are smacking each other with sticks."

Dell took the glasses, looked down at Inja's compound. The binoculars were weak and the lenses distorted but he could see a knot of people involved in a ceremony in the circle of huts. Heard the drums and high pitched ululating.

Dell handed the glasses back to Zondi and squatted in the sand. "You're Zulu, right?"

"Ja. So?"

"You don't seem too crazy about your traditions."

Zondi shrugged. "Call me jaded but I don't buy into this noble savage bullshit. It's the fantasy of white men and Zulu nationalists."

"Like the minister?"

"Exactly." Panning the glasses across the landscape.

"You from around here?"

"Way back."

"So you knew him?"

"A little. He went into exile when I was a kid."

"Tell me about him."

"You're the reporter. You know the story."

"I know the rumors," Dell said. "He doesn't do interviews. Says the white media demonizes him."

Zondi laughed, lowering the glasses. "What do you want to hear? That you take Bob Mugabe, mix in some Mobutu Sese Seko, add a dash of Idi Amin and you've got our next president?" Dell shrugged. Zondi lost the smile. "Fact is, he's a fucking chameleon. When he talks to the poor, he's a poor man. Talks to the rich he's a businessman. Talks to the struggle veterans he's a comrade. But he's all about power. About as ruthless a fucker as you can get." He set the glasses down on the hood of the Ford and stood with his hands in his pockets. "If people get in his way he buys them off. If that doesn't work . . ."

"He whistles for the dog," Dell said.

"Ja. But not for much longer." Dell looked at him. "Inja's got full-blown AIDS and he's not on antiretrovirals. Believes in other methods."

Dell took this in. "You're telling me, him and this girl . . . it's one of these virgin cure deals?"

Zondi nodded. "I've got to get her away from him before he consummates this thing tonight."

"Jesus."

"It's the way it's done down here."

"Don't you have any influence with the authorities?"

Zondi laughed. "What authorities? Inja's the law in this valley. The nearest cops are fifty miles away, too shit scared to set foot here. And what would I tell them, anyway?"

"That he's forcing the girl to marry him against her will."

"He bought her, Dell. For a couple of grand and a few skinny cows. Doesn't matter what she wants. It's called tradition."

Dell nodded. "Okay. So what's the plan?"

"We wait until it's dark and everybody's drunk. Then we go down there and get her."

"How?"

"We'll improvise." Saw Dell's face. "You got a better idea?"

"No."

"Okay, then." Paused. "Dell, I know you want to take Inja out. Fine by me. But the girl is my priority. Understood?"

Dell nodded, then walked away. Looked out over the
kraal
far below. Marveled at just how fucked up things could get.

The wedding moon, fat and yellow as butter, oozed up over the hills. Inja sat on the steps of his house, alone in the darkness, firing up a spliff. He sucked in the hot smoke, watching the drunken revelry below.

Men and boys fought each other with sticks, flickering shadows in the firelight. The elders feasted on his meat and drained away his beer. The festivities would carry on into the morning and beyond. It had cost him a lot of money. But it was good. The ancestors would be pleased.

Inja's only disappointment was that his chief, the minister of justice, had not put in an appearance. He was in the area, visiting his home in the valley. Addressing a rally in Bhambatha's Rock tomorrow night. Knew the chief's absence was a sign of his anger at the way Inja had mishandled the Cape Town mess. Inja sighed smoke. Damage control was called for. Obeisance would have to be made. But not tonight. Tonight was Inja's.

He looked across to where the girl sat beside his sister, the fat woman drunk, a plastic chair awash with her flesh. Dwarfing the girl who was invisible beneath the veil, her skinny shoulders wrapped in leopard skin. Inja took a last drag on the spliff, flicked away the embers and walked over to her.

It was time.

Sunday saw the old dog coming toward her through the smoke. She was too tired and empty now to feel fear. Auntie Mavis cackled at her side, saying something filthy about the rituals of the wedding night, a chunk of meat in her hands, tearing into the flesh with her teeth, juices flowing down her many chins. Her plate piled with food on the mat next to Sunday's leg, cutlery lying ignored.

That's when Sunday felt the breeze on her neck, stirring the beads that hung from her hair. Felt her mother's presence. Heard her voice. Drawing Sunday's eyes to the small knife lying on the tin plate, the jagged blade orange in the firelight.

Sunday took the knife and sent it into the folds of her skirt. Then she stood as her husband reached her. Felt his hand on her arm, leading her toward his house. The women's voices, high and loud, rolled across the
kraal
in praise of Inja, calling on the ancestors to lend power to his manhood.