Those Who Love Night (23 page)

“If he is schizophrenic, would that have something to do with his being willing to plant that bomb?”

“Suneesha Patel says Tony did plant the bomb.”

“Oh, Tony. Poor, poor Tony.”

They were halfway down the driveway, making their way to the front entrance of the hotel when a new police officer appeared, spreading his arms to block their way as they reached the street.

“Not another one,” Abigail muttered.

“Please, you must stay inside the hotel.”

Some distance along the street a car door slammed shut and a man in civilian clothes came hurrying toward them. As he got close, Abigail recognized him. “Agent Mpofu?”

“Good evening, advocate.” He stopped close in front of them, the uniformed officer taking a step back. “I have a message from Director Chunga. He asks that you don't leave the hotel after dark.”

“Is there a reason?”

“He's concerned for your safety, after what happened to Mr. Patel.”

“I see.”

“If you do want to go for a walk, the constable and I would like to accompany you.”

Abigail thought about taking a walk through the suburb's quiet nighttime streets with Agent Mpofu and his constable as companions. Yudel answered for her. “Thanks for your concern, agent, but we're on our way into the hotel.”

“Thank you. We'll be watching the road, and we have a man at the back of the hotel too.”

“Thank you,” Yudel said.

“Oh,” Abigail said. “Agent Mpofu, this is Mr. Gordon. Mr. Gordon, Agent Mpofu.”

Yudel shook hands with the
CIO
man. “Pleased to meet you and thanks again for your concern. These are difficult times for all of us, especially yourselves.” They were opposite the hotel's doors and Yudel could see Mpofu's face now.

“I don't understand.”

“I mean whatever political changes lie ahead, they may not be good for
CIO
personnel.”

“I know nothing about politics. Nothing.” He stared angrily at Yudel. “I just do my work.”

“Good night, agent.” At the door Yudel looked back. The policeman was close behind, but Mpofu was already retreating down the pavement. “It seems our movements are being carefully watched,” he said to Abigail.

“Controlled is more like it,” Abigail said. “And not just by the government side. Every time I go out, the other side knows about it too. Maybe this is what drove Tony over the edge.”

“I don't think so.”

Abigail's thoughts changed direction. “Will I win tomorrow, Yudel?”

“I think you will.”

“Why? According to Helena, the judge is a beneficiary of state patronage.”

“There's something here that I don't quite understand. Your friend, Director Chunga, has arranged to have the matter heard so quickly, and in the prison where your clients believe their friends are being held. I think it's already been decided that you are to get what you want.”

They entered the hotel in silence. We'll know tomorrow, she thought.

*   *   *

Now only hours were left. Abigail scanned the text of her address four times. At first she read fast, reinforcing her arguments. After that she went through it very slowly once, thinking about every phrase and every line. During the final reading she whispered the words for the first time, getting used to the sound of them and practicing the gestures she would be using. Only then was she satisfied that she would be able to read it as smoothly and effortlessly in the next day's makeshift court as if she were speaking without notes.

That Jonas's success in moving forward the court date had given her relatively little time to prepare was not important to her. Since the first call she had received in Johannesburg from Krisj Patel, the matter had been in her mind. And since arriving in Harare she had been making notes at every opportunity.

Abigail knew that her court appearances were good. Even when under personal strain, her thinking was lucid and, on this continent, she was as good a speaker as anyone in the profession. On top of all that, she knew that she looked good.

When waiting to address a court on an important issue, she was always nervous. She often had to clasp her hands tightly to prevent them from shaking. Intense concentration was needed to begin an address in a voice that was strong and secure. But once she had got past the first sentence or two, some other self seemed to take over and the words flowed smoothly and with great confidence. The notes and the prepared speech often lay unused in front of her, as she effortlessly held the attention of the court. She had every reason to believe that the next day would be no different.

It was after two when she put the text of her address aside and closed her eyes for the first time. Her cell phone rang almost immediately. Robert's voice on the other end of the line awakened a mixture of emotions. Anger, pleasure, guilt and frustration wrestled with one another.

“Abigail,” she heard him say, “tell me that things are going well?”

“Not so well. Your man hasn't turned up.”

“He should be arriving tomorrow morning.”

“What time?”

“About eleven, I think.”

“He'll miss the hearing. There's no point in his coming, if he's going to miss the hearing.”

“Is the hearing tomorrow? Since when?”

Since this morning. “Yes, it's tomorrow.”

“Our journalist can still pick up on the main thread of the story. But are you all right?”

Robert, you bastard, she thought. You know damned well that I'm in a hostile country and my attorney has been killed and you ask if I'm all right. “Why are you calling so late?”

“I needed to speak to you.”

“You needed to speak to me after midnight.”

“No, not after midnight, especially. I just needed to speak to you.”

“Okay. That's what you're doing.”

“Jesus, Abigail. Don't be so harsh. I'm trying to talk to you.”

“I'm listening.”

“Look, I need to talk to you about…” He seemed to be struggling to find the words he needed.

Is this it? Abigail thought. Is this where a marriage ends? Is this how it happens, on a long-distance call, in a tattered hotel room, after midnight?

“I need to talk to you about…” He hesitated again. “… you know what I want to talk about.”

“You'd better tell me.” She could hear the weariness in her own voice.

“What you suspected about me and that young temp…” He waited again, as if hoping that she would finish the sentence for him.

You can go to hell, Robert, she thought. I'm not going to help you out.

“I almost had an affair with her.” He hurried on. “But it never came to that and she's gone back to the agency. I just want to get our relationship back the way it was.” Again he waited, hoping for her to respond. “I just want to repair the damage I've done to the trust between us.”

“An affair? What the hell is an affair? Don't tell me you almost had an affair. Tell me you wanted to fuck her.”

“All right, I wanted to fuck her.”

“And you chose the night before this important hearing to make your confession. That's amazing.”

“I just want…”

“Why didn't you do it?”

“Jesus, Abigail.”

“Well, why not?”

“I arranged to meet her at the Sheraton, but she didn't come. When I got back to the office, her resignation was on my desk.”

“So, I owe my marriage to this girl. Are you telling me that?”

“Look, I just want everything…”

“Robert. It's after two and I have a hearing tomorrow. I can't do this now.”

“Look, I just wanted you to know…”

“I don't want to know anything now. I have a big day tomorrow. Good night, Robert.”

“Abigail, please, I just want things back to normal.”

“That may not be possible. Good night.”

She hung up, still dry-eyed and angry. It took a moment before the weeping overcame her. She cried till she fell asleep.

30

Sleep did not come easily to Judge Tendai Mujuru on this night. It was only that day that he had received instructions about the duty he had to perform the next day. During the last year, life had been relatively comfortable. He had dealt with a murder case, a number of civil matters and a serious tax offense. Now, he again had to deal with a political matter. It was not fair. He did not want to do it. There were others who really believed. They should do these cases. Why did it have to be him?

Judge Mujuru liked to have ice in his whiskey. But with the power having been off since early that afternoon, making ice had not been possible. He did have a generator, but fuel was expensive. He only used his standby plant to heat up the water every evening and to provide two or three hours of lighting. Cooking on bottled gas was also a damned nuisance—you seemed to spend a lot of your life buying bottles, disconnecting used ones and fitting new ones.

But the worst inconvenience was drinking his whiskey at room temperature. It was much less expensive than the brand favored by Jonas Chunga, but it was greatly improved by a few blocks of ice. And, on a warm summer night like this one, room temperature seemed almost lukewarm. Given what you paid for whiskey, you should be able to drink it the way you liked it.

The whiskey did serve to dull the sharp edges of the discomfort he felt at the hearing he would be presiding over when morning came. He had seen the documentation and knew that this South African woman was going to be asking to be allowed to search Chikurubi. He also knew that the old man himself would be interested in this matter.

And whose bright idea was it to hold the hearing inside the prison? It was madness.

He knew where it had all begun. This Paul Robinson had been ejected from his farm by some of the party men, the so-called war veterans. They were faithful supporters of the president who had to be rewarded, he had been told. As for Robinson, he was just another white leech, taking for himself and giving nothing to the people. That was what they had told him the night before he heard Robinson's plea to have his farm restored to his ownership.

It was also not fair that Robinson and his lawyers had expected him to rule against the government. After all, the new owners had their letter of offer for the farm, issued by himself, that gave them full right to the land. Robinson knew he had no choice but to vacate the farm.

It was also not fair that when Robinson refused to vacate the land the matter had to come before him and he had to find Robinson guilty. And when he handed down a suspended sentence there were those in government who cursed him for being a weakling and others overseas who said he had no respect for human rights. Human rights groups in three European countries had said that he had better not try to visit their countries. If he did, things would get hot for him. None of it was fair.

And when they offered him a farm, how could he refuse it? If he had, where would he stand with government now? And he was a man with a family after all. He had never asked for the farm. They had instructed him to issue the letter of offer to himself and he had simply obeyed. It was their idea, and his reward for patriotic judgments.

The damned thing stood fallow now. He had left some workers with instructions, but the moment his back was turned they had left with whatever farm implements and seed they could carry and sold them in the city. How was he supposed to see that the farm stayed productive? It was two hundred kilometers away. If he went once a month, that was all. The damned thing had been a liability until he sold the tractors, pumps and a harvester. At least that way he had gotten something out of it.

We look after our own, they had said. You've looked after us, we're looking after you. We understand loyalty. In time to come, your new farm is going to be worth a fortune, they had told him.

And now he was their man. Refusing them anything had become impossible. But he had asked for none of it. He had wanted none of it. And this woman who wanted to be allowed to search Chikurubi—she had been made to think that such a thing could be allowed. What was she doing here anyway?

His glass was empty. It had been for some time. He poured another double from the bottle and again cursed the absence of ice. He had just started it when his phone rang.

Very little was required of him during the call. The caller did most of the talking in a call that did not last long. At the end of it, Tendai Mujuru understood perfectly what he had to do and the burden that he had been wrestling with had been lifted. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps they did look after their own.

31

The sun rose early on the morning of the hearing in Chikurubi prison, long before any of the day's protagonists were awake. The light it threw over the Nyanga hills some four hundred kilometers away was always beautiful, but especially at this time of the year, and more especially this year. There had been a fire during the winter which had burned away all the old dry grass. As a result, there had been no impediment to the new green shoots. The hills, as far as Bino D'Almeida could see, were a bright green.

The border had not been easy. There had been more trucks coming up from the coast, and Customs had been even slower than usual. At least he had got through without having to pay anyone, and his load was still intact. He calculated another six hours of driving, definitely not more than eight, before he reached Harare and Chikurubi prison. A few hours to offload, then on to Bulawayo.

With an empty truck and trailer, the down run would be much easier. Without a load, Customs also would have no excuse to hold him up. In the old days, the other drivers had told him, there were always full loads going down to Beira. Now that the Zimbabwean farms had been destroyed, it was only every second or third truck that carried a load on the down run.

Bino's own country had not been good to him. He had struggled to find work and had never been able to hold on to the jobs he did find. But in Mozambique he had found this job, driving the big trucks between Beira and Zim. He had his own place in the world now. It was not much, but it was more than he ever had at home. A cousin had told him about Mozambique. The cousin had been intending to go to Africa, but in the end he had stayed home and Bino had gone.