* * *
Monica Kleintjes sat hunched in the sitting-room chair in her fathers house, the lines of suppressed tears down her cheeks. Opposite her, Williams sat on the edge of his chair, as if he would reach out to her in empathy. Miss Kleintjes, I would have done precisely the same if it were my father. It was a noble action, he said softly. We are here to support you.
She nodded, biting her lower lip, hands clenched in her lap, her eyes large and teary behind the glasses.
There are just two things we need to shed light on: your fathers relationship with Mr. Mpayipheli and the character of the data that he has with him.
I dont know what is on the hard drive.
No idea?
Names. Records. Numbers. Information. When I asked my father what it was all about, he said it was better if I didnt know. I think
names
Her eyes wandered over the wall next to the mantelpiece. There were photos hanging, black-and-white, color. People.
What names? Williams followed her gaze, stood up.
Well-known ones.
Which? He looked over the photos. A colored family in Trafalgar Square, Johnny Kleintjes, Monica, perhaps five years old, her little legs stout and very present.
ANC. The regime
Can you remember any specific names? There were photos of Kleintjes and people now in positions in the government. In Red Square, East Berlin, Checkpoint Charlie and the Wall in the background. Prague. The tourist spots of the Cold War.
He didnt say.
Nothing at all? Williams stared at Johnny Kleintjess wedding picture. Monicas mother in white, not a beautiful woman but proud.
Nothing.
He looked away from the pictures, to her. Miss Kleintjes, it is essential that we know what is in that data. This is in the interests of the country.
Her hands sprang loose from her lap, the tears spilled over the dam wall. I didnt want to know and my father didnt want to say. Please
I understand, Miss Kleintjes.
Thanks.
He allowed her a moment to calm down. She reached for her tissues and blew delicately.
And Mr. Mpayipheli?
My father knew him in the Struggle.
Could you be more specific?
Another tissue. She removed her glasses and wiped carefully under her eyes. Three weeks
two or three weeks ago my father came to me at work. He had never done that before. He had a piece of paper with him. He said it was the name and contact number of someone he trusted completely. If anything should happen to him, I must phone Tiny Mpayipheli.
Tiny?
That is what was on the paper.
Were you surprised?
I was disturbed. I asked him why something should happen to him. He said nothing was going to happen, it was just insurance, like we work with at Sanlam. Then I asked him who Tiny Mpayipheli was, and he said, A phenomenon.
A phenomenon?
She nodded. Then he said, A comrade. Tiny was a comrade, they served together. He saw Tiny grow up in the Struggle.
Your father was in Europe during the Struggle?
Yes.
And that is where he got to know Mpayipheli?
I assume so.
And?
And should anything go wrong, I should contact Tiny. Then I asked him again what would go wrong I was worried but he would say nothing, he wanted to talk about how nice my office was.
And then when you got the calls from Lusaka, you phoned Mpayipheli?
First I opened the safe to get the hard drive. On top of it was a note. Tiny Mpayiphelis name and phone number. So I phoned him.
And then you took the hard drive to him in Guguletu?
Yes.
And you asked him to take it to Lusaka for you?
Yes.
And he agreed?
I owe your father, he said.
I owe your father.
Yes.
Is his photo here?
She looked at the row of portraits as if seeing them for the first time. She pulled her crutches closer, stood up with difficulty. He wanted to stop her, sorry he had asked. I dont think so. She looked over the photos. The liquid welled up in her eyes again.
Have you had any contact with Mr. Mpayipheli since then?
You listen to my phone. You know.
Miss Kleintjes, have you any idea where Mr. Mpayipheli is now?
No.
* * *
Radebe called her to the Ops Room. Yes?
The team searching the files in Pretoria, maam
Yes? Theres nothing. They cant find Thobela Mpayipheli.
11.
T
he agent was from the Eastern Cape Bureau in Bisho. She knew, operationally speaking, that it was the backwoods of South Africa, a professional quicksand where nothing ever happened to give you a chance to rise above, to propel yourself to headquarters. The longer you remained there, the more you suffocated in the sands of mediocrity.
When Radebe phoned from HQ to order you to interview a subject in Alice, you didnt moan about the lack of information, you put zeal in your voice and hid the gratitude and climbed into the grimy, juddering Volkswagen Golf Chico with 174,000 km on the odometer and you seized the day, because this could be your passport to higher honors.
Then you focused on the questions you were going to ask, the tone of voice to maintain; you prepared until your thoughts began to wander, when you began to daydream about the possibilities this could bring you saw in your minds eye Mrs. Mentz reading the report (not knowing what her office looked like, you filled it with chrome and glass) and calling Radebe in to say, This agent is brilliant, Radebe. What is she doing in Bisho? She belongs here with us.
Before the fantasy could properly take shape, before she could furnish the dream apartment in Sea Point and picture the view, she had arrived. She parked in front of the house in Alice, just a kilometer or so from the lovely new buildings on the Fort Hare campus. There was a light still burning and she knocked politely, her tape recorder and notebook in her handbag, her weapon in the leather holster in the small of her back.
The man who opened the door was silver gray, the wrinkles on his face deep and multiple, the tall body bowed with age, but his good evening conveyed only patience.
Reverend Lawrence Mpayipheli?
That is correct.
My name is Dalindyebo. I need some help.
You have come to the right place, sister. A strong voice. The minister stepped back and held the door open. Two veined bare feet showed under the burgundy dressing gown.
The agent stepped inside, swept her eyes over the room, the bookshelves along two walls, hundreds of books, the other walls hung with black-and-white and color photos. The room had simplicity, no luxuries, an aura of restfulness and warmth.
Please sit down. I just want to tell my wife she can go to sleep.
I apologize for the late hour, Reverend.
Dont be sorry. The minister disappeared down the passage, bare feet silent on the carpet. The agent attempted to see the photos from her chair. The minister and his wife in the middle, with bridal couples, at synod, with amorphous groups of people. At one side, a family photo, the minister young, tall, and straight. In front of him stood a boy of six or seven, a serious frown on his face, an overbite of new front teeth. The agent wondered if that was Thobela Mpayipheli.
The old man appeared from the passage again. I have put the kettle on. What do you bring to my house, Miss Dalindyebo?
For a moment she hesitated, suddenly doubting the prepared phrase on the tip of her tongue. There is something shining out of the old man, a love, compassion.
Reverend, I work for the state.
He was about to sit down opposite her when he saw her hesitation. Carry on, my child, dont be afraid.
Reverend, we need information about your son. Thobela Mpayipheli.
Deep emotion moved over the old mans face, across his mouth and eyes. He stood still for a long moment as if turned to stone, long enough for her to feel anxiety. Then slowly he sat, as if his legs were in pain, and the sigh was deep and heavy.
My son? One hand touched the gray temple, just the fingertips; the other gripped the arm of the chair, eyes unseeing. A reaction she had not expected. She must adjust her time scale and review her questions. But for now she must remain quiet.
My son, he said, this time not a question, the hand coming loose from the chair and floating to his mouth as if weightless, his gaze somewhere, but not in this room.
Thobela, he said, as if remembering the name.
It took nearly fifteen minutes for the old man to begin his story. He first asked after the welfare of his son, which she answered with vague lies to spare him anguish. He excused himself to make coffee, treading like a sleepwalker. He brought the tray, which he had arranged with a plate of rusks and biscuits; he dithered about where to begin the chronicle of Thobela Mpayipheli, and then it came out, at first haltingly, a struggle for the right words, the right expression, till it began to flow, to make a stream of words and emotions, as if he were confessing and seeking her absolution.
To understand, you need to go back to the previous generation. To his generation. To him and his brother. Lawrence and Senzeni. The dove and the falcon. Jacob and Esau, if you would forgive the comparison. Children of the Kat River, of poverty, yes, simplicity but pride, sons of a tribal chief who had to do herd duty with the cattle, who learned the Xhosa culture around the fire at night, who learned the history of the people at the feet of the gray-haired ones, who went through the Xhosa initiation before it became an exploitation of the poor. The difference between them was there from the early days. Lawrence the elder, the dreamer, the tall lean boy, the clever one who was always one step ahead of the others at the mission school with its single classroom, the peacemaker. Senzeni, shorter, muscular, a fighter, a born soldier, impatient, short-tempered, fiery his attention fully engaged only when the battles were retold, his eyes glittering with fighting spirit.
There was a defining moment, so many years ago when he, Lawrence, had to defend his honor in a senseless adolescent fist-fight with another boy, a troublemaker who was jealous of his status as chiefs offspring. He was baited with cutting ridicule and within the circle of screaming children had to defend his dignity with his fists. It was as if he were raised above the two boys facing each other in ever diminishing circles, as if he floated, as if he were not really there. And when the blows began to rain down, he could not lift his hand against the boy. He could not ball his hands into fists, could not find the hate or anger to break skin or draw blood. It was a divine moment, the knowledge that he could feel his opponents pain before it existed, the urge to assuage it, to heal.
Senzeni came to his aid, his little brother. He was staggering and bleeding in the ring of boys, head singing from the blows, blood in his eyes and his nose, and then Senzeni was there, a black tornado of rage ruthlessly thrashing the other boy with frightful purpose.
When it was over he turned to Lawrence with disdain, even a degree of hate, reluctant to accept this new responsibility and questioning without words how they could be brothers.
Lawrence found the Lord at the mission school. He found in Christ all the things he had felt within him that day. Senzeni said it was the white mans religion.
Lawrence received a scholarship through the church, and their mother encouraged him. He studied and married and began the long eternal journey as disciple here among his own people in the Kat River valley. And his brother was always there, a counterweight, by default the next tribal chief, the warrior who fastened onto the rumors of a new movement from the north, who read every word on the Rivonia trials over and over, who became another kind of disciple a disciple of freedom.
And then there was Thobela.
The Lord made the boy with a purpose. He looked at the ancestors and took a bit here and a little there and sent the child into the world with the presence of his grandfather Mpayipheli, the ability to lead, to make decisions, to see past the angles and sides of a matter and make a judgment. The Lord gave him the body of his father, tall, the same limbs that could run the Ciskei hills with characteristic rhythmic stride, the same facial features so that many, including Thobelas own father, would mistakenly assume the same peacemaker inside.
But God created a predator in him, a Xhosa warrior, the Lord went far back in the bloodline, to Phalo, Rharhabe, Nquika en Maqoma, as he did with Senzeni, and gave Thobela Mpayipheli the heart of the hunter.
