Those Who Love Night (19 page)

But the voice surprised him by its gentleness. “Tony, are you feeling better now?” The speaker had kept his voice low to avoid waking the others.

It was Big Jake. Tony recognized him from the day before. How could I have forgotten? he asked himself. Jake, seeing that he was trying to rise, slipped a broad hand under one of his shoulders and lifted him until he was resting on an elbow. “I'm well, Jake,” he whispered.

“Can you stand?”

“I don't think so.”

“Do you want to use the shithouse?” The lavatory was in a corner of the cell, not enclosed in any way.

“Not now. Thank you.”

“Tell me when you want to.”

“Thank you, I will.” He looked up at Jake, who was kneeling next to him on one knee. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“We know who you are.”

“I see.”

“We know who you are, and we are sorry that you are sick.”

“I hope I haven't disturbed anyone.”

“Just the talking. The talking bothers some of the others.”

“I'm sorry about the talking. Ask them to forgive me. At night I can't always control the talking.”

“Perhaps you are not eating enough. You have given away too much of the food that was meant for you. They bring it for you, but you give it away.”

And yet the hunger was gone. He must have eaten some of it. He remembered his food being brought by the guard, and the murmurings of dissatisfaction from the other prisoners. How often had they brought him food? More often than the others and of much better quality, it seemed. The other prisoners had asked the guards why he was receiving better food than they were, but had received no answer. After that he had shared his extra rations with them.

“If you do not eat enough you will die,” Big Jake said.

“I'm not dying yet,” he said.

“I have told the others we can't take all of your extra food.”

“It's all right, Jake. I'm happy to share.”

“You are not strong. Tomorrow you must take more food yourself.”

After a while, Big Jake told him to try to sleep now and to avoid the talking, if that were possible. Then he went back to his own sleeping mat.

Tony remembered the bombing. He had placed the parcel just where they had decided. A few bottles of wine had ensured that none of the security guards were awake. He had often wondered what had happened to them afterward. The blast had been heard all the way down to the gated estate of Borrowdale Brooke, where the old dictator himself lived. They had all imagined his sleep being disturbed by it. It had shattered the door of the building, but done little other damage. After that, the police had placed a two-man guard on the door.

He was sure that the bombing was the reason that he had been picked up. And yet it had happened nearly a year before. Surely they must have known sooner?

The members of the group had all expected martyrdom. They had spoken about it on many nights. But when no arrests had been made, the prospect of heroic martyrdom had receded. Some had claimed disappointment, but he had felt only relief. And yet, when they eventually did arrive at his door, he had again felt relief.

Long after Big Jake had gone back to his mat, perhaps an hour or even more, Tony heard two men in the corridor outside the cell. A young, light voice was saying, “How long do we keep them, or is it permanent? And, if it is permanent, why don't they do it and get finished?”

A stronger, older voice answered. “The order came from high up, very high up. Nothing happens to any of them, especially this one. Nothing, you understand.”

“Yes, sir, I understand.” The lighter voice had lost whatever self-assurance it had held a moment before. “I just thought, perhaps there's no reason…”

“You will get your instructions. But you see to it that nothing happens to them.”

“And the thing of their extra food. The thing of their special food makes the other prisoners angry. Things are tough enough here without that.”

“Food is coming from Beira. The World Food Program is sending it.”

“For all the prisoners?”

“Yes, both the politicals and the others.”

“Coming when?”

“Soon. It's coming soon. It's already passed through Beira. In the meantime carry on this way.”

The voices drifted away and the fog again rose from the floor, enfolding him from every side. It drew back with the sound of breath being sucked in. It came close again as the breath was released, accompanied by a hoarse whistling.

Tony knew that the fog brought with it protection. It insulated him against the violence and brutality that seemed to surround everyone in his country, perhaps all of humanity. And yet fear also came out of the fog. The fear came every night. He had learned to expect it by this time, and he had been waiting. He knew that if he waited very quietly and did not fight it, it would pass. After that the fog would again be his, and he would be safe.

25

On Monday morning, Abigail was woken by her hotel phone ringing. A furious Helena was on the other end of the line. “So you were fucking the enemy last night.”

It may have been close, but I never did it, Abigail thought. She adopted her most outraged tone. “I wasn't fucking anybody last night. And your information is out of date. I did have dinner with the enemy the night before last.” She had spent Sunday in her hotel room, eating room service sandwiches, drinking coffee and occasionally trying to think. At other times she had tried not to think.

“Why? How do we know we can trust you now?” If Abigail had held the phone a meter from her ear, she would still have heard every word.

“The real question is—how can I trust you? Why didn't you tell me about the explosion at party headquarters?”

“It wasn't relevant.”

“Not relevant? You were going to allow it to be sprung on me in court, were you?”

“After this, I'm not sure our people are going to be happy with you representing us.” Helena was trying hard to regain the offensive.

“And I'm not happy representing people who hide relevant facts from me. I'll be on the next flight to Johannesburg. Goodbye.” She hung up.

Almost immediately the phone rang again. Abigail briefly considered ignoring it. When she did answer, Helena was trying to sound calmer. “You can't expect me to be calm after last night.”

“I was not making friends with the other side…”

“I'm not talking about that,” Helena yelled. “I'm talking about the twins.”

“What about the twins?”

“Didn't your boyfriend tell you? His mob picked them up last night after they broke down the door of the flat where they were watching the prison gate. They're in custody too.”

After she had hung up, Abigail dialed the cell phone number Chunga had given her. When she heard the recorded voice telling her to leave a message, she hung up and started dressing for breakfast.

*   *   *

The hotel had a small terrace where you could have breakfast served. She found a table that had just enough sunlight filtering through the branches of a tree. The breakfast menu was identical to that of the day before. She ordered two slices of French toast and coffee to come immediately.

She had dealt with difficult clients on many other occasions, and she knew that she was not going to be on the plane to Johannesburg at any time in the next two weeks, at least not before she had done what she had to do at the hearing. The injection of caffeine would clear her head. She could not believe that she would have to initiate the next move, whatever it would be. Something about the events of the last few days indicated that they almost possessed a life of their own. The best she could do was to cling on tightly and try to survive the ride.

While she knew very little about six of the missing activists, she felt that she did know something about Tony Makumbe. And she certainly knew Krisj Patel.

If there was one of the players that she knew nothing about, that person was Jonas Chunga. She admitted to herself that she had behaved like a hormonal sixteen-year-old, allowing him to charm her. She had spent an evening in the company of a man who was not only powerful, but possibly an enemy, and she had been ready to go to bed with him. If he had chosen to take her on the hillside overlooking the city, she knew she would not have resisted.

And if, but this was an unlikely if, she never again heard from any of them—activists, Chunga or the High Court—then she could return and see if there was still anything in her marriage worth saving. Even that was not an uncomplicated course of action.

Abigail was aware of a tension that extended from her hands and arms into her shoulders and back. She closed her eyes and tried consciously to relax the offending muscles. She heard the waiter put down the coffee. Let it be freshly made, she prayed. Please let it be freshly made.

Her attempt at relaxation was largely fruitless. The stress in her shoulder muscles and the pain in her lower back were unchanged. She opened her eyes and reached for the coffee as a shadow fell across the table. She heard the choking sound of shock that came from her throat. Recoiling from the shadow, she lifted both hands to protect herself.

“Abigail, my dear,” a familiar voice said, “it's only me.”

She looked up into the concerned face of Rosa Gordon. In a moment they were in each other's arms. “Rosa,” Abigail gasped. “And this? Are you alone?”

“No, Yudel's still in the restaurant. He'll be along in a moment.”

Through the windows that separated the restaurant from the terrace, Abigail could just make Yudel out. He was hunched over the table, a pen in one hand. “What's he doing?”

“Working out the tip.”

“The tip?”

“Yudel read somewhere that tips are now fifteen percent in the States. They've traditionally been ten percent in South Africa, so he feels twelve and a half percent might be fair. Do not ask me why. It's not an easy percentage to work out, though. On top of which, he has just discovered that there is no currency below a dollar note in this country. I have no idea what sort of compromise he might reach.” Rosa had said it all in a way that suggested she would not be surprised if she was not believed. Perhaps she had difficulty believing it herself. She sat down opposite Abigail.

Abigail found herself laughing for the first time since she had got off the plane, and it at last released some of the tension. “Does he have a calculator?”

“No, my dear. He's doing it by long division on a paper napkin.”

“He's a treat,” Abigail gasped between chuckles. In a moment, Yudel's particular brand of lunacy had made the world seem a saner place.

“He's a little wearing sometimes,” Rosa said.

Yudel appeared on the terrace, looking troubled. He still had the paper napkin in one hand. The picture that greeted him was of the two women sitting opposite each other and holding hands. “Hello, Yudel,” Abigail said. “How much was the tip?”

“Two dollars, twenty seven and a half cents,” he said.

“And what are you doing about the fact that there are no coins in Zimbabwe now?”

“I gave them three dollars, and they gave me a credit note for seventy two and a half cents.”

“Oh, Yudel, I love you,” Abigail said. Then, remembering Rosa, she turned to her. “Not in that way, Rosa.”

“I know, my dear. I love him in both ways. But you … how have things been developing?”

“Not very well. At this stage, it would appear that my urgent application will be heard in two weeks.”

The unexpected presence of the Gordons—she dared not hope that it would be support—had all but overwhelmed Abigail. “But what are you doing here?”

“We're on holiday,” Yudel said.

“Nonsense, Yudel. How can you say such a thing?” Rosa frowned at him. “After you called us and told us about the assassination of your attorney, I knew Yudel would have to come. I also knew that his contract with the department is coming to an end. On top of all that, they have refused to pay him out for accumulated leave. So I thought he might just as well take the leave. So I booked the tickets.”

“Thank you, Rosa. What I feel is beyond gratitude.” She looked at Yudel. “You're both so brave.”

“Rosa's the brave one,” Yudel said. “With me it's a compulsion. Compulsions don't count as bravery.”

“This one counts for me,” Abigail said.

Rosa looked seriously at the younger woman. “Abigail, Yudel made a solemn promise to me before we left.” There was no hint of amusement in what she was saying. “He promised me that every day he would tell me exactly what was happening and that when I felt the need to return home he would come with me.”

“I understand,” Abigail said. She reached toward Rosa and, in a moment, the two women were holding hands again, looking into each other's eyes. “My parents were killed many years ago. I know we haven't seen each other much, but I have never felt closer to an older couple.”

“That's beautiful,” Rosa said.

There's the famous Gordon sex appeal going to the dogs again, Yudel thought. “I'm deeply touched,” he said.

“One other thing.” Rosa was still holding Abigail's hand. “While we're here, I'll be staying with a niece who lives outside of town. Her husband is one of the few white farmers who have been left alone. They run a school for the children of the farmworkers in the area. I don't know if that's the reason they've managed to keep their place. She'll come for me later.”

“Now,” Yudel interrupted, “you'd better tell us about your visit here, especially the death of your attorney friend.”

26

Abigail was not slow to put Yudel to work. Jonas Chunga had left a message for her, saying that they had a suspect in the killing of Krisj Patel and that progress had been made in the matter of the hearing. He would come by to fill her in. “Will you go to see Krisj's widow?” she asked. “Perhaps she can tell us something useful.”