The Death of Rex Nhongo (6 page)

P
atson went to the bedroom as Fadzai cleared the table. Despite the hour, she felt restless, so she made sure the kids' church clothes were ready for the morning before retiring. She expected to find her husband asleep, but he was standing over the small chest of drawers.

“Patson?”

He turned round. He was holding the gun. She couldn't see his face in the pale glow of the candle behind him, so she instinct­ively reached for the light switch and flicked it on. It was one of the rare nights in Sunningdale when the electricity was working and the sudden illumination of the naked bulb surprised them both. For a second Patson looked terrified, before he managed to reorder his expression. He lifted the gun in front of him and read along the barrel aloud: “SIG SAUER, Sig Arms Inc., Herndon VA.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know.”

“Is it loaded?”

“He shot three times. But I don't know how many bullets it can hold. I don't know how to look.” He weighed it in his hand. “It is very heavy.”

“Is it safe?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you pull the trigger, will it fire?”

Patson looked at her with some bemusement. “I have no idea.” He blinked slowly. “What do I do?” he said.

Then his fears came tumbling out of him, one after the next. Harare was a small town, he said. The CIO was drunk and might not remember him, but what if he recognized the car? The soldiers were unlikely to report the shooting incident, but could he be sure? He hadn't given the man his real name, but he'd told the other one, the young one outside the building, and what if they talked? It was a gun. It was a gun and surely Mandiveyi, the CIO, was going to have to account for it. He was going to come looking. He was going to come looking and if he found him…well, what then?

“What will he do to me?” Patson said. “To you? Our children?”

Fadzai stared at him in shock. Somehow, since that night, she'd largely managed to put the whole shooting incident out of her mind. It was as if, in a life of problems, no particular one could be allowed to weigh more than any other. But now she knew that her husband was right, because this problem was just too heavy to ignore. She tried to gather her thoughts. She tried to remain calm. He had asked her what to do and it was a genuine question and she wanted to have an answer.

“Take it back,” she said. “Hand it in at the desk. You put it in a bag, say it is something you found and walk away.”

“What if they look? If they look, they will take me. And if they take me…” Patson shook his head. “I think I have to get rid of it. I'll throw it in a river. If Mandiveyi comes, I'll tell him I don't know what he's talking about. I don't know anything about a gun.”

“No.” Now it was Fadzai's turn to shake her head. “You get rid of it and you have nothing. What if he finds you? He says, ‘Where is my gun?' What gun? He doesn't believe you. You have nothing to bargain with. We have to keep it.”

“Keep it where?”

“I don't know. We will think of something. We must stay calm.” Fadzai told her husband to return the gun to the chest of drawers. She told him in a way that suggested she had a plan. She spoke with enough authority that he did so without complaint. She told him to get into bed and he did, like a child. He lay on his side, facing the wall, his back to her.

She went to turn off the overhead light but something stopped her. Instead, she began to undress, lifting off her T-shirt and unclasping her bra. She put the bra in the chest of drawers—there was the gun. Her heart was beating faster as she slipped out of her jeans and underwear. She dropped her underwear and T-shirt in the washing basket, folded her jeans and slid them into the bottom drawer, taking out a nightdress. She stood for a moment, naked, holding the hem of her nightdress. The room was cold and she shivered a little. As if on cue, Patson turned over and looked at her. She couldn't remember the last time she had stood naked in front of her husband and she felt a rush of embarrassment mixed with a long-forgotten frisson of daring. She looked back at him as she pulled on the nightdress. Then she turned off the light and climbed into bed.

“You're cold,” he said, and eased her towards him, sliding one arm under her neck and the other round her waist so that they lay nose to nose. She positioned one hand in the small of his back and they stayed like that for a while, each listening to the other's breathing. She shifted her position so that her thigh was between his legs. She felt the thickening weight of him push through his underwear against her bare flesh, simultaneously alien and familiar. “I thought we had no meat.” She giggled softly. “You should have told me you brought some.”

Patson said nothing, but his hips pushed forward and some muscle memory allowed her simultaneously to extract a trapped arm and roll on top of him. Now, brazenly astride him like that, she felt a wave of nervousness, but her husband made an involun­tary guttural sound that told her she was doing OK.

“Let me cook it for you,” she whispered.

Later, as they lay side by side, she said, “I have to ask you something.”

He grunted his assent.

“It's Gilbert. He wants to remain in Harare.” There was silence. It was pitch black and she couldn't make out a single feature of her husband's face, just hear the in and out breaths, long and slow. She wondered if he was asleep. “Patson?” she said.

More silence. She felt Patson move his arms so that he was no longer touching her. She didn't know what that meant. He might have been simply resting his hands behind his head to be more comfortable, to give her question due consideration. She couldn't tell.

“So what do you think?” she said.

“Is this how you soften me up?” he asked quietly. “The first time in months and now you ask the question you were afraid to ask.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “No! Really! I've wanted to ask you these last few days, but when do we ever talk?”

Patson rolled out of bed. “I want to smoke,” he said, and he fumbled for his cigarettes and matches. He went out to the lounge without another word and she heard him unbolt the front door.

She got up herself, heavy-hearted. She put on her slippers and wrapped a
chitenge
around her waist. She followed him outside. This was their pattern—flight and pursuit.

She was relieved to find him standing on the small concrete veranda, leaning on the pillar. She sat on the far side of him on the edge of the step, hugging herself. She didn't speak.

Eventually, he said, “With what has happened, perhaps it is good to have another man in the house, in case they come and I am not here.”

Fadzai didn't look up. She didn't want to show her surprise. She said, “You know Gilbert has his license now? You could keep the car out twenty-four hours if you wanted.”

Patson sniffed, but it was a sound that, she thought, contained at least as much consideration as dismissal.

“I was worried to ask you,” Fadzai said. “You told me he was good for nothing.”

Patson denied it. “That's what
you
said. How can I talk about your family? He is your brother.”

“But we don't have room. And we can't afford to feed a grown man.”

He chuckled softly. “He is your
brother
.” He stubbed his cigar­ette on the pillar and squatted behind her, enveloping her at the shoulders and nuzzling his face into the back of her neck.

Fadzai resisted the tendency to break away. She said, “I thought you didn't love me anymore.”

“When I am home, I am
home,
” he whispered into her ear, and his breath was hot and wet and, in spite of herself, she made a reflexive sound of mild distaste.

I
ganyana
summoned Mandiveyi personally. Mandiveyi was uneasy. After all, the original order had come from Phiri, his immediate boss, and he had carried it out without question: he had collected the gun from the bottle store on Simon Mazorodze Road.

Sure, the death of Rex Nhongo the preceding night and the subsequent gossip that had engulfed the city had given him sus­picions (about both the order and its origins), but he had squashed them. Mandiveyi knew all too well that those who succeeded were those who acted, not those who questioned. He knew that in the hierarchy many smart men played stupid while only stupid men played smart.

Phiri accompanied him to the interview. The two men were shown into
Iganyana
's office and instructed to take chairs oppos­ite the empty desk. They did not speak.
Iganyana
came in a few minutes later and took his place. He walked from the door to the desk with that peculiar dainty dancer's gait. He made an extravagant sighing noise as he sat down, then shifted his position to get comfortable so that the leather of the chair squealed in protest beneath him. He sniffed enthusiastically and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. Mandiveyi had never met him in person and struggled not to stare at the patches of hyperpigmentation that mottled his face and had given him his nickname.

Iganyana
greeted Phiri warmly and Mandiveyi hardly at all. He ordered coffee from his secretary and, when it arrived in a pewter coffee pot, said, “I will be mother, as the English say.”

He served them, then took his own cup and saucer and swiveled in his chair so that his back was to them and he was looking out of the window. Mandiveyi glanced at Phiri. His colleague looked straight ahead.

After a moment or two,
Iganyana
enquired after Phiri's son at university in South Africa. Phiri hesitantly thanked him for remembering and said that, as far as he knew, all was fine.

“As far as you know?”
Iganyana
said. “Do you not know about your own son?”

Phiri prevaricated. He said that the boy had passed all his exams so far, but he was a young man away from home and who could say what he might get up to?

Iganyana
made a noise that might have been a laugh. He said, “Which university?”

“Pretoria.”

“It's not a party university that one, is it?”

“I don't believe so, sir.”

There was that noise again. “But a young man will always be a young man.”

“A young man will always be a young man,” Phiri repeated.

There was more silence. Mandiveyi sipped his coffee. It was cold and bitter. He should have taken more sugar, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself.
Iganyana
seemed briefly captured by something happening outside his window in the street below. He leaned forward and touched his finger to the glass. Then he swiveled in his chair again, placed his empty cup on the desk and his eyes fell on Phiri, as if he were surprised to find him still in the room. “Leave us,” he said. Phiri did as he was told.

Iganyana
turned to Mandiveyi. It was the first time he'd actually looked at him. He sat forward with his hands clasped on the desk and sniffed. “You like to drink,”
Iganyana
said.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“You like to drink.”

Mandiveyi shifted in his seat. His mouth was dry. He contemplated the bottom of his coffee cup. “Not so much.”

Iganyana
stared at him fixedly until Mandiveyi had no choice but to look up and meet his eye. Then he nodded smartly, bent down to his desk drawer and produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses. “You like to drink,”
Iganyana
said, for a third time. “It was not a question. I make it my business to know about those who work for me. Do not lie to me again.”

He poured a large measure into each glass. He slid one across the desk. “It is OK. A man should drink.” He raised his own glass as if in challenge and waited until Mandiveyi did the same. “Cheers,” he said, and downed it. Mandiveyi had taken only a small sip, but the other man was waiting, so he, too, drained his glass.
Iganyana
poured another two tots and finally sat back, fingering his glass thoughtfully.

Iganyana
began to ask Mandiveyi question after question, though his interest in the answers was cool and affected. It was an obvious tactic—a show of knowledge and, therefore, strength; one that Mandiveyi had used countless times himself. Still, it felt uncomfortable to be on the other side of the game, not least because the very nature of this game required both parties to know it was being played.

Iganyana
asked Mandiveyi about his daughter in form four. Was she preparing well for her O levels? What were her plans for the following year? He said that he had good connections at some of the sixth-form colleges in the city if that would help. He asked about his son, “the cripple.” He expressed sympathy that the boy had to suffer in such a way and admiration for his fortitude. He asked about his wife's Mercedes, and were they still struggling with the starter because he knew a guy who imported genuine parts at a reasonable price? He asked about Mandiveyi's mistress in town. Was she happy with her job at Tel One? Did she cause him problems with her demands for money? Did he know that her uncle was an “agitator”? No? This was,
Iganyana
said, the kind of thing Mandiveyi should know.

“People fear me,”
Iganyana
said. “They tell stories that I have this man killed or another one disappear. That is a very small part of my job and not the real reason they are scared. The real reason they fear me is because of what I know. Everything that happens in this country, I know about it. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, sir.” These lines were so familiar, but what choice did Mandiveyi have except to play his part? That was the brilliance of the game.

Iganyana
nodded. Then he said, “I believe you have conducted important business on our behalf. Is there anything you would like to tell me about it?”

Mandiveyi thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, sir.”

Iganyana
stared at him, as if giving him a moment to change his mind, then nodded again. He took a swallow of the whisky. Again, he patted his eyes with his handkerchief, before folding it carefully. Mandiveyi waited. He knew there was more to come.

“Let me tell you something, Comrade,”
Iganyana
said. “This business is not concluded. It will not be concluded for a long time. Perhaps it will never be concluded. Your part was just a small one, but I need to know that I can trust you. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And can I trust you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So there is only one problem.”
Iganyana
smiled, those curious patches on his face shifting like a Rorschach test. “I don't trust you. Not at all.” He paused. He poured himself another measure. This time he didn't offer the bottle. “Phiri tells me you are a man of ambition. Is that so?”

Mandiveyi considered his options. “I want to do my best, sir,” he said eventually. “I believe if I do that I will progress.”

“Good answer. Ambition is not a virtue for men like us. He also told me that you are efficient and you are not a talker. Is he right?”

“He is quite right,” Mandiveyi said.

“But these are not the reasons I put this business in front of you. Do you know that? Do you know why I put this business in front of you?”

Mandiveyi felt helpless. He said, “No, sir.”

Iganyana
strained his whisky through his teeth and effected the same curious noise he'd made when looking out of the window. It was not a laugh, more like a snarl. “I chose you, because you are a weak man with many vices and much to lose.”

Mandiveyi said nothing. There was nothing to be said.

“Of course, you know my nickname, isn't it?” Mandiveyi didn't know how to acknowledge as much, but it seemed his acknowledgment was not required. “
Iganyana,
the painted dog, on account of this—” he splayed his fingers and gestured down across his face. “—discoloration. But I like to think I have grown into the description. Do you know how the painted dog kills his prey?”

Mandiveyi was at a loss. “He is a pack hunter, sir,” he mumbled.

“Of course he is a pack hunter!”
Iganyana
exclaimed. “But that is not my point. The painted dog will pursue his prey over several kilometers. He is not particularly fast, but he is dogged—excuse the pun. A wildebeest, even an impala, has only so much energy. Eventually he will tire and then the dog is vicious, he will tear the animal apart.”
Iganyana
smiled. Mandiveyi saw a pair of gaping chasms in the ink blot. “Nothing can outrun the painted dog.”