The October Killings (19 page)

The café was in one of the many arcades that weave a north-south network through the center of the city. When Yudel arrived the others were already seated at one of the bright yellow plastic tables that spilled out of the doorway and along the front beside plate-glass windows. A stream of people, big earners and small, eddied back and forth along the arcade and past the café. Most men wore jackets and ties. Women wore their hair styled, the older ones kept theirs in place with lacquer, and skirts were knee-length and shorter.

After leaning across the table to give Rosa the requisite perfunctory kiss, Yudel shook the hand of Freek Jordaan, deputy police commissioner for Gauteng Province and Yudel's friend of many years. He smiled at Freek's wife, Magda, who filled the last seat at the table as he sat down on the only vacant chair. A glance at Rosa's face showed that she looked reasonably relaxed. She may not yet have forgiven him, but at least she was not openly hostile. You could hardly expect more. After all, the incident at the restaurant was not even twenty-four hours old.

Freek was a big man, tall and broad in the shoulders. His face was tanned, the result of being out with his men whenever there was a law and order crisis of any sort, and the country still had too many of those. His hair was almost completely gray and thinning fast. Magda was a good-looking woman in her mid-fifties who spoke her mind on all occasions with an almost complete disregard for the consequences. “So, Yudel,” she said. “I understand from Rosa that you are trying to help an attractive female government official in the spirit of reconciliation and so on.” She raised an eyebrow archly. “Or has it got more to do with the way she looks?”

Damn it, Magda, Yudel thought, not now. “I am no longer assisting her,” Yudel said primly.

A sudden roar of laughter from Freek, suppressed until that moment, was accompanied by a slap on the back, heavy enough to rattle Yudel's teeth. “Never mind, Yudel. We all have to do our bit for reconciliation.”

Even Rosa seemed amused. That, at least, was something. “Has anyone ordered?” Yudel asked.

“I ordered you a Greek salad,” Rosa said, “And I told them to add bacon, but they seem to be a little bit slow in the kitchen.”

“Where do you find a place that isn't slow in the kitchen these days?” Magda asked.

“Anything is better than eating at home.” Rosa looked meaningfully at Yudel. “Only one plate of my stove is working and we are having some difficulty replacing the fuses.”

“The fuses shouldn't be too much of a problem,” Freek said helpfully. He glanced uncertainly at Yudel, wondering if advice on the matter might be the last thing that was needed. Recent years had complicated the relationship between the two men. Under the old government, Freek had risen quickly to become the youngest colonel in the force. But his career had stalled at that point, the consequence of too often following his own mind, instead of his orders. His career had started moving again after the new government came to power. The instruction had come down from above that the country must have at least one white commissioner or deputy commissioner. And, if possible, that officer should be an Afrikaner, a member of the group that had been running the country for the last half-century.

For Yudel, the new South Africa had left his career floundering. At least he had a job under white rule. As far as he could see, the main effect of the majority of South Africans gaining the right to vote was his retrenchment. He had not been acceptable to the old government and, until his meeting with the commissioner of Correctional Services two days before, his relationship with the new government had possibly been even worse.

The result of their diverging fortunes meant that visits that had once been regular had dwindled away until they had almost stopped altogether. Rosa had arranged the lunch in the hope of restoring something of the past friendship. She felt that Yudel was becoming increasingly isolated and needed it.

As for Yudel, he looked across the table at Freek, resplendent in his uniform, looking as relaxed and confident as always, no matter who was in power, and thought, Fuck him. Everything works out for him. It always has.

Freek caught his glance and tried a forced smile. “So, Yudel, how are things?”

The question only irritated Yudel further. Did Freek really expect an answer to it? Well, fuck him, if he did. He was not going to get one.

“Did you hear about Yudel's contract?” Rosa asked, trying to lighten the mood. She was wondering if the lunch had been a good idea. She could already see that Yudel was in one of what she called his black hole moods.

“We did,” Magda said. “Congratulations, Yudel.”

“They realize they need somebody who can get the job done,” Freek said.

Yudel looked grimly from one to the other. He was determined to show no sign of pleasure or even interest.

At none of the other tables had the patrons received their orders. Usually a continual stream of waitresses, dressed in the same bright yellow as the décor, flowed in and out of the kitchen to serve the patrons. Today, there seemed to be none at all.

Inside the café, a young manager was hurrying back and forth behind the counter with quick, light movements. Blocking the entrance to the kitchen, the waitresses had gathered in a tightly packed, discontented knot. Yudel noticed the face of one, lips pursed in indignation, cheeks puffed up as if by inner pressure. As he watched they started moving through the entrance to the kitchen, leaving the young man to flit frantically about his duties alone. A few moments later he arrived at their table and leaned forward apologetically. “I'm terribly sorry, people.” He blinked as he spoke. “We have a small difficulty. If you're prepared to wait a few minutes, I'll have your order with you.”

Freek looked heavenward, a gesture of supplication. “What's the problem?”

“The ladies who wait on the tables are staying away until three o'clock.” He glanced uncertainly at the curious faces of his patrons at the other tables. “Management did a survey and found that the waitresses get good tips, so they reduced their wages.”

“There you have it.” Freek waved a disgusted hand. “No one is interested in doing a job properly anymore.”

“Well, management pulled a rather sharp trick there,” the manager said. “They have reason to be unhappy.”

Freek was about to pursue the matter when Magda laid a restraining hand on his arm. “It's all right,” she said. “We'll wait.” After the young man had left, she spoke to Rosa. “Isn't it wonderful when they sound so middle-aged?” She mimicked Freek. “ ‘No one is interested in doing a job properly anymore.' ”

A moment later the waitresses were streaming out of the front of the café, joining the passing throng until they were no more than a few bright patches in the rest of the foot traffic.

“There goes lunch,” Freek said soberly.

“It's a long time since things were so tense,” Magda said. “Freek has been called out nearly every night for the last three months. Armored car heists mostly. He's only been sleeping two or three hours a night.”

Yudel and Rosa both turned inquiringly to Freek. For the first time Yudel noticed how the other man's face was tinted with gray and seemed more lined than usual. Red veins showed in his eyes. “But why?” Rosa asked. “Freek has so many men he can send.”

“Not when you're the only one who can do things properly,” Magda said. “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.” She was mimicking Freek again.

“Is he doing this apart from his ordinary duties?” Rosa was awed.

“A man's got to do what a man's got to do,” Magda said.

Freek patted Rosa's hand in a brotherly way. “The problem is that there is too much crime and too few experienced policemen. Some ordinary constables have been on duty sixteen hours a day. It's not going too damned well, let me tell you.”

The young man of the café was back at their table, massaging his hands fretfully. “Will four tuna salads be in order? I know that isn't…”

Freek interrupted him. “Yes, the Lord knows. Four of anything, so long as we can eat it.”

They watched him dash back to the counter, squeezing between a standing patron and a table. “Not Freek's kind of man,” Magda suggested.

“He didn't do too badly there with the staff a few minutes ago,” Freek said. “Not badly at all.” But another thought had entered Freek's mind. “Yudel, do you remember a political by the name of Simon Mkhari? He spent time on death row, I think. I don't know why.”

“He burned an old woman alive,” Yudel said. “Yes, I remember him.”

“Yudel remembers all these awful things,” Rosa said.

Freek nodded. He had not needed that piece of information. He also knew Yudel well. “Mkhari was killed yesterday. You heard about the firefight in Marabastad between a gang of robbers and some of our men?”

“I read about it in the papers.”

“Mkhari was one of the robbers we killed. It looks like his crimes may not have had only political motivation.”

“They didn't,” Yudel said. “I remember him well.”

23

As Yudel turned the corner, entering the street where they lived, he recognized the car blocking the entrance to the driveway as belonging to Abigail. She was standing next to it, looking both tense and determined. It was a look that Yudel was beginning to recognize.

“It looks as if Abigail needs to speak to you again,” Rosa said.

Yudel and Rosa got out of the car together. “Leon's missing,” Abigail started without any preliminaries. “He seems to have been abducted.”

“And now?”

“Now, we have to find him.”

“There are things you need to tell me,” Yudel said. “You'd better come to my study.”

Abigail glanced at Rosa, as if asking permission. “Run along, my dear. I'll make coffee afterward.”

*   *   *

“There were eighteen of us living in the house outside Maseru at that time.” Abigail was again in Yudel's study. This time they were seated on the same side of the desk, Yudel's eyes never leaving her face. “I was the youngest in the house. I was just fifteen. Usually I was at boarding school, but I had been sick. If they had waited another day I would have been back at school. My parents were there and most of the others were couples. All of them were youngish people, under forty.”

Abigail was leaning forward, her hands clasped in her lap. Yudel was surprised by her transformation as she started speaking. The confidence that was so much a part of her disappeared. She gave the appearance of being no older than the fifteen she had been at the time. The words poured out of her, as if she had been waiting for the last twenty years to tell someone the story. “I don't know why we thought we were safe. The house was no more than five kilometers from the border, as the crow flies. It seems so naïve when I think about it now. To have assumed that the apartheid regime would have respected the borders of little Lesotho seems crazy. And to have assumed that they did not know about our house seems equally crazy. In those days the movement was riddled with informers in the pay of the security police.

“I remember clearly that evening before they came. It's as if the later events etched even the earlier part of the evening in my mind—as if they were also part of that night's horror.

“I had been outside with a young married woman, Julia. We were batting a ball back and forth with wooden paddles, the kind you take to the beach. She had just come back from a stint in Lusaka. The movement had deployed her there as a teacher in the ANC school. There was a small lawn in front of the house and the ball kept escaping into the overgrown flower beds whenever I missed it. I've never been good at that sort of thing.

“It was a lovely late spring evening. When it got too dark to play anymore, Julia and I sat down on the grass. I remember telling her about my ambitions. At that age I wanted to be an actress. I suppose most fifteen-year-old girls want to be actresses. The stars were as bright as they can only be on the Lesotho highlands. It seemed that if we reached up we would be able to gather handfuls of them. On such nights there always seem to be more stars in the Lesotho sky than anywhere else on Earth.

“Through the open window of the living room I could hear my father and one of the other men talking. They were arguing about the sort of government we should have in South Africa after the revolution. The other man was a Trotskyite and he wanted a government that would follow Trotsky's thinking. I was never sufficiently interested to try to understand what sort of government that would have been. My father was a social democrat and wanted a government like Sweden's. The doors and windows stood open, no curtains were drawn. And none of us gave a thought to the possibility that there could be men on their way to kill us. Oh God, Yudel, and there
were
men on the way to kill us.” The flow of words stopped as suddenly as it had started. “Must we do this? Must we really?”

Yudel could see that this was not just an idle question. Abigail would rather have done anything other than tell this story. He doubted that, without the disappearance of Lourens, he would ever have heard it. “You are not doing it,” he said. “You're telling me about that evening, but you are telling me everything except what is really important. If I am to help, I must hear about the important things, not the stars and the bat-and-ball game or Trotskyite plans.”

Abigail's eyes were begging him to find some other way, but she nodded. “I will tell you. It must have been about ten o'clock before I went to bed. I had a small room off the kitchen that had probably originally been the pantry. I heard some of the others moving around for a while as I lay in bed. Then everything was quiet.

“I don't know how long I slept, but I heard later that they came at about half past three. I don't remember how I woke up or exactly what happened and in what order things happened. I do remember being on my hands and knees next to the bed. The noise was deafening. There was shouting and heavy boots on the wood floor and what sounded to me like explosions. My door was open a bit and through it I saw the figures of men in camouflage. They all seemed to be moving.”