The October Killings (3 page)

“Shhh…” He had a finger to his lips.

“Robert, you've got to get me out of here. I won't eat that to please anyone.”

Robert took her by the arm and led her a few steps away from the nearest cluster of partygoers. “Listen, I need you to be on your best behavior tonight. Let me tell you what this is all about.”

She hated it when Robert preached to her about being on her best behavior. Before he married her he knew that she was rarely well behaved. He should have made peace with it by now. Trying to avoid him, she looked into the depths of a garden, where flowering orchids had been arranged in the nearer trees for the evening. They would be returned to the nursery in the morning.

He leaned forward to bring his face close to hers. “Tonight the old man is announcing his empowerment deal. I'm getting ten percent of the company.”

Abigail turned to face him, her head spinning in his direction like a toy operated by a windup rubber band. Her neck was still itching. “Ten percent of Vuna Corp?” The name of the company meant “harvest.” It had been changed from National Media in the first year after the democratic elections.

“That's right. What's wrong with your collar?”

“Nothing's wrong.”

“You keep fiddling with it.”

“It's fine.”

“If you keep fiddling, it looks as if something's wrong.”

“Ten percent?” Abigail asked.

Robert grinned at her. “Sweetheart, we're rich.”

Abigail realized that his pleasure was simply in anticipation of pleasing her. She heard herself say, “I can hardly believe it. What's it worth?”

“Half a billion.”

“Half a million?”

“Half a billion.”

“Half a billion rand?” It seemed impossible.

“Half a billion rand,” Robert said emphatically.

“Good God, Robert, are you worth that to them?” She paused for only a moment, before hurrying on. “I know how good you are at your work. It's obvious to me, and everyone who knows you says so, but half a billion…”

He was leaning toward her again, so that he would not have to raise his voice. “Look, they have to do it with someone. They can hardly do business in this country and interact with government without an empowerment partner. I'm the most suitable.”

“And you pay nothing?”

Now Robert looked uncomfortable. Abigail's reaction was nothing like he had imagined it would be. “Nothing we have to worry about. There's some fancy footwork in the accounting. It will take five years before the investment is fully ours.”

“Good God, Robert.”

“What is it?” He was almost begging.

“Half a billion?”

“You act as if you're not pleased.”

“I'm practically paralyzed.”

A cluster of young black executives, drinks in hand, had moved closer to them. A broad-shouldered man, carrying too much weight and at thirty-five a leading office-bearer of the country's most influential youth organization, was the center of attention. The entire group was laughing loudly at something he had said. He was hanging on to an embarrassed-looking young woman. “Everybody with influence has got his Indian,” he was saying. “It's the way the world works.” He was referring to the local myth that all Indian South Africans were rich. His eyes fixed on Robert and he wagged a knowing finger. “What about you, Mokoapi? What do you say?” He waved a finger at Robert. “I can see you've got your Indian, my man.”

Abigail was already moving away with Robert following. “Is that what Vuna Corp is—your Indian?”

“Don't be absurd,” Robert said. “Big Vusi is a fool. Everyone knows that. I don't understand you, Abby. I swear I don't understand you. Don't you want me to get ahead?”

The chairman and his wife had been moving among the guests like royalty at a command performance, waving here, nodding there, a few words spoken somewhere else, all grace and graciousness. She was wearing a Ghanaian robe, complete with turban, no doubt part of the all-African ambience that Martin had been talking about. She spotted Abigail with Robert and moved her husband in their direction. “Abigail, my dear,” she said, as they approached. “You look lovely tonight.”

“You too, Marcia. Your outfit is a perfect example of…” She caught Robert's warning eye. “… of genuine African chic,” she finished. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw him relax.

“Thank you, my dear,” Marcia said.

“This is an important night for your husband,” the chairman said. “I searched for years to find a black editor of genuine ability. I was delighted when I found Robert.”

“A personal triumph,” Abigail said. She felt more than saw Robert move uncomfortably next to her.

“I like to think of it that way.”

“Marcia, I was wondering…” Abigail began.

Marcia had been looking admiringly at the chairman, who was smiling modestly.

“Yes, dear?” Her eyebrows had risen involuntarily. Robert's eyes had also widened, no doubt wondering what his non-conforming wife might be up to now.

“Do you have some scissors I could borrow for a moment?”

Marcia glanced at her husband in a way that seemed to indicate that this was not in the script. “I suppose I can find something, my dear. Come along.” She led the way through the sliding doors and up a staircase that reminded Abigail of
Gone with the Wind.
Her bedroom was decorated in lavender and was furnished with only a single bed and a hand-carved yellowwood dressing table. In the adjoining walk-in wardrobe that was almost as big as the bedroom itself she found a pair of nail scissors. “Will this do?” she asked. “I don't know what the problem is.”

Abigail had already rid herself of her jacket. “This label is driving me crazy. It feels like it's made of sandpaper.”

After the label had been dealt with and Abigail was ready to return to the party, Marcia held her by one arm. “Most young women would simply have suffered the label on an occasion like this.”

“Maybe I'm not most young women.”

“You certainly are not, my dear. You're altogether refreshing. Something else I should mention…” She waited for Abigail's full attention. “My husband gets a little overdone sometimes. When he called Robert a black editor of genuine ability, he simply meant that he was an editor of genuine ability.”

Abigail nodded. “Thank you. That needed to be said.”

When she got back to Robert, he studied her face for a moment before releasing a lungful of air. “You look happier.”

“I no longer feel quite as patronized,” she said, “and the label's gone. I'm sorry, Robert. Here I am, behaving like a bitch on your big night. Please forgive me.”

“Let's just try to be a little tolerant. And I'm glad the label's gone.”

“It was scratching the hell out of my neck.”

Suddenly Robert was laughing. He hugged her briefly, not the sort of thing husbands did to their wives on such occasions. “We'll be able to afford clothing with gentler labels from now on,” he whispered.

Robert was drawn into conversation with a business acquaintance, and Abigail moved to the edge of the patio. She watched her husband, smiling and shaking hands, as he was introduced to someone. He was so effortlessly gracious and as effortlessly honest. Watching him, she realized again how much she loved him. Dear Robert, she thought, you deserve an easier woman than me.

In due course the chairman made his unavoidable speech. Abigail saw similarities with that made by the minister earlier in the day. Both, according to their authors, had been about liberation. The minister had spoken about Michael Bishop's selfless devotion to the cause of political liberation. The chairman revealed his corporation's commitment to the cause of economic liberation. Each speech was full of praise, first for Michael Bishop and then for Abigail's own Robert.

In time it was over, the food consumed and the requisite interval had been spent smiling, sipping drinks and shaking hands. And, at last, Abigail could go home. With the afternoon and evening behind her and the label in an ashtray in Marcia's bedroom, life felt much better. She drove quickly along the highway between the two cities with the headlights of Robert's car in the rearview mirror, never more than a hundred meters behind.

4

The distance between their cars narrowed as they entered Pretoria, Robert stopping close behind her at the first traffic light. Abigail was glad that the drive home had been uneventful. She admired the safeness of his driving after the amount of liquor he had consumed during the evening, but she did not imagine that he would have passed a blood test.

A wind had been blowing across Pretoria all evening, and once they turned out of the main suburban artery the streets were sprinkled with lilac jacaranda blossoms. As far as the headlights reached, the little flowers formed a soft and colorful carpet.

Tonight Abigail waited till Robert had finished showering before entering the bathroom. “Come to bed, baby,” he murmured in her direction as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I want to celebrate the occasion.”

From the bathroom she saw him roll over slowly, quite naked, ending horizontally, his smooth, almost hairless body a deep brown splash on the crisp white of the sheets. Not tonight, she thought. She would stay a few minutes longer than usual in the shower and by the time she came out the liquor would have done its work, even on Robert's cast-iron constitution. And he would sleep through till morning.

Robert's approach to sex was essentially uncomplicated. “Three generations ago Zulu men were still warriors,” he had told her more than once. “And I was a warrior against the old regime. I need sex and I need it regularly.”

She was not sure what the connection between warriorhood, if that was the right word, and sex was. Not that this was normally a problem to Abigail. They were both in their thirties, in excellent physical condition and their love-making had never been anything but enjoyable. On occasion it was ecstatic.

But tonight was different. She was trying not to think, but the memory that this afternoon threatened to reawaken was with her in a way that went deeper than thought. Despite the years between, it was never far from her and today's meeting, not the silly evening one with the men on both sides all jockeying for financial position, but the pompous afternoon one with a cabinet minister singing the praises of a man whom the minister did not understand and who had not bothered to attend.

Had not bothered to attend? she asked herself. Perhaps it was not like that. Perhaps attending was impossible. You had to know him to even guess at the reasons. And no one knew him.

On any other night the warm water cascading the length of her body and splashing around her feet would have been relaxing. On this night it was a shield, a protection against the advances of a loving and virile husband. God knows, she thought, he deserves a less complicated woman.

Leaving the water running, she took the few steps across the bathroom that would, through the crack of the door, give her a view of Robert on the bed. His arms and legs spread-eagled, he gave every impression of being unconscious.

She lingered another ten minutes in the shower, eventually emerging from the bathroom in a Chinese gown he had brought back from a fact-finding trip to the East during his days as a civil servant. By this time he was as she thought he would be. Robert would not be conscious again until morning.

Instead of lying down on the bed next to him, Abigail left the bedroom and made her way through the apartment to the French windows and onto the balcony. She stood for some time looking down into the street where splashes of blossoms could be seen wherever a street lamp lit one of the city's omni-present jacarandas. Tonight Abigail saw neither the blossoms nor the city lights stretching away to the west.

She did become aware of something moving in the deep darkness of the shadow of a large house that bordered the secure complex where she and Robert lived. Whatever it was would be able to see her clearly, she thought. It was probably just a cat, but the thought was not convincing enough to keep her outside. She was retreating toward the French windows when she saw the pale form of the bull terrier emerge from the deeper shadow. The dog had a reputation earned by attacking messengers and deliverymen with a ferocity not expected in a domestic animal. According to rumors spread by the neighborhood's domestic workers, the house owners routinely paid hospital bills and small bribes to keep the incidents from the police. Abigail shuddered at the sight of the creature padding along a pathway, its narrow eye slits giving the appearance of being closed. The animal rounded a corner and again disappeared into the darkness. She stepped inside, locked the French windows and closed the steel security screen. By the faint light from outside she sat down in one of the easy chairs.

You are a fool, she told herself. There is no connection between the dog and the man. Even so, it was three o'clock before she came to bed and, even then, sleep was not possible.

5

Sunday, October 16

The four female executives from the national rail carrier were seated in government-issue chairs around Abigail's desk. They all looked indignant, righteously indignant.

Her responsibility in the Department of Justice was the gender desk. This meant ensuring that new legislation did not keep women at a disadvantage, it being assumed that all women, especially African women, were already disadvantaged. It also meant that she could not avoid delegations like this one.

She had asked for a job that would allow her closer to major litigation, but the deputy director-general had answered through bored, half-closed eyes that the gender desk was an important part of the department. The department thought so, the party thought so, the president himself thought so and therefore she should think so too and do her best to make her section effective. It was clear to her that the deputy director-general himself did not think so.