Oh?
I will fill you in.
That is good, Janina, said the director.
I will be there in ten minutes.
Barely three minutes later it was Quinn. Maam, we need you.
She did not pick up the depression in his voice at first. I know, Rudewaan, I am on the way.
No. Its something else, he said, and she now registered his tone. Worry and frustration colored her answer. I am coming. The director wants me, too.
Thank you, maam, he said.
She ended the call.
The children, the job. Eternal pressure. Everyone wanted something from her, and she had to give. It was always that way. Ever since she could remember. Demands. Her father and mother. Her husband. And then single parenthood and more pressure, more people, all saying, Give, more; there were moments when she wanted to stand up and scream, Fuck you all! and pack her bags and leave because what was the use? Everyone just wanted more. Her parents and her ex-husband and the director and her colleagues. They demanded, they took, and she must keep giving; the emotions built up in her, anger and self-pity, and she looked for comfort where she always found it, in the secret places, the clandestine refuge where no one went but her.
* * *
He saw the helicopter silhouetted against the moon, just for a moment, a pure fluke, so quick that he thought he had imagined it, and then his finger reached feverishly for the headlight switch, found it and switched off.
He pulled up in the middle of the dirt road and killed the engine, struggled with the helmet buckle, took the gloves off first, and then pulled off the helmet. Listened.
Nothing.
They had searchlights on those things. Perhaps some form of night vision. They would follow the roads.
He heard the deep rumble, somewhere ahead. They had found him and he felt naked and vulnerable and he must find a place to hide. He wondered what had happened, what had tipped them off to look for him here. The petrol jockey? The traffic officer? Or something else?
Where do you hide from a helicopter at night? Out in the open plains of the Free State?
His eyes searched for the lights of a farmhouse in the dark, hoping for sheds and outbuildings, but there was nothing. Urgency grew in him he couldnt stay here, he had to do something, and then he thought of the river and the bridge, the mighty Modder, it must be somewhere up ahead, and its bridge.
Under the bridge would be a place to shelter, to hide away.
He must get there before they did.
* * *
Quinn and Radebe waited for her at the elevator and Quinn said, Can we talk in your office, maam, and she knew there was a screw loose somewhere because they were grim, especially Radebe he looked crushed. She walked ahead, opened the office door, went in and waited for them to close the door behind them. They stood, conventions of sitting irrelevant now. The two
began to speak simultaneously, stopped, looked at each other. Radebe held up his hand. It is my responsibility, he said to Quinn, and looked at Janina with difficulty his voice monotone, his eyes dead, as if there was no one inside anymore. Maam, due to my neglect, Miriam Nzululwazi escaped from the interview room. She went cold.
She reached the exterior fire escape and tried to climb down. She fell. Six floors down. It is my fault, I take full responsibility.
She drew breath to ask questions, but Radebe forged ahead. I offer my resignation. I will not be an embarrassment to this department anymore. He was finished, and the last vestige of dignity left his body with those words.
Eventually Janina said, She is dead.
Quinn nodded. We carried her up to the interview room.
How did she get out?
Radebe stared at the carpet, unseeing. Quinn said, Vincent thinks he did not lock the door behind him.
Rage welled up in her, and suspicion. You think? You think you didnt?
There was no reaction from him, which fueled her rage. She wanted to snarl at him, to punish him; it was too easy to stand lifelessly and say he thought he hadnt locked the door she had to deal with the consequences. She bit back a flood of bitter words.
You may go, Vincent. I accept your resignation.
He turned around slowly, but she was not finished. There will be an inquiry. A disciplinary hearing.
He nodded.
See that we know where to find you.
He looked back at her, and she saw that he had nothing left, nowhere to go.
* * *
Dr. Zatopek van Heerden walked her to her car.
She was reluctant to leave; the nearing deadlines called, but she did not want to be finished here.
I dont entirely agree, she said as they reached the car.
About what?
Good and evil. They are very often absolute concepts.
She watched him in the moonlight. There was too much thought in him; perhaps he knew too much, as if the ideas and knowledge built up pressure behind his mouth and the outlet was too small for the volume behind. It caused strange expressions to cross his face but found some release in the movements of his body. As if he wrestled to keep it all under control.
Why did he turn her on?
Ten to one he was a bastard, so sure of himself.
Or was he?
She had always been sensual, deep inside. She saw herself that way. But a woman learned with the years that that was only a part of the truth. The other part lay outside, in the way men saw you. And women, who measured and compared and helped put you in your place in the long food chain of love play. You learned to live with that, adjusted your expectations and dreams and fantasies to protect a sensitive heart whose wounds of disappointment healed slowly. Until you were content with the now and then, the sometimes reasonable intensity of stolen moments with a bleached policeman, someone elses husband. And here tonight, she wished she were tall and slim and blond and beautiful, with big breasts and full lips and a cute bottom, so that this man would propose something improper.
And what did she do?
She challenged him intellectually. She. Who was so average in everything.
Name me someone evil, he said.
Hitler.
Hitler is the stereotypical example, he said. But let me ask you: Was he worse than Queen Victoria?
I beg your pardon?
Who fed Boer women and children porridge with glass in it? What about the scorched-earth policy? Maybe it was her generals. Maybe she had no idea. Just like P. W Botha. Denying all knowledge, and therefore good? What of Joseph Stalin? Idi Amin? How do we measure? Are numbers the ultimate measure? Is a sliding scale of the numbers of victims the way we determine good or evil?
The question is not who is the worst. The question is, Are there people who are absolutely evil?
Let me tell you about Jeffrey Dahmer. The serial murderer. Do you know who he is?
The Butcher of Milwaukee.
Was he evil?
Yes. But there was less assurance in her voice.
The literature says that for seven or nine years, I cant remember, lets say seven years, Dahmer suppressed the urge to kill. This broken, fucked-up, pathetic wreck of a man kept the nearly inhuman drive bottled up for seven years. Does that make him bad? Or heroic? How many of us know that sort of drive, that intensity? We who cant even control basic, simple urges like jealousy or envy.
No, she said. I cant agree. He murdered. Repeatedly. He did terrible things. It does not matter how long he held out.
Zatopek smiled at her. I give in. It is an endless argument. It rests ultimately on so many personal things. I suspect it rests ultimately on the undebatable. Like religion. Norms, values. The way you see yourself, the way you see others and what we are. And what you have experienced.
She had no answer to that and just stood there. Her face was expressionless, but her body felt too small to contain all she felt.
Thank you, she said to break the silence.
Thobela Mpayipheli is a good man. As good as the world allows him to be. Remember that.
* * *
He was busy putting the R 1150 GS down when he heard the drone of the helicopter coming closer.
He had battled to negotiate the steep bank of the river down toward the water, then he had ridden it up with spinning rear wheel through the grass and bushes directly under the concrete of the bridge. It would be difficult to spot there. Neither the side stand nor the main stand would work there, and he had to lay the bike on its side. It was difficult, the secret was to turn the handles up and hold the end, let your knees do the work, not your back. The big engines of the helicopter were ever nearer. Somehow or other they must have spotted him.
He placed the helmet on the petrol tank, removed the jacket and trousers they were too lightly colored for the night. He tried to see where the aircraft was, and when he looked around the edge of the bridge, he saw it was only thirty or forty meters away, not far off the ground. He could feel the wind of the great rotors against his face, saw the red and white revolving lights, and saw through the open door of the Oryx four faces, every one beneath an infrared night sight.
* * *
Da Costa, Little Joe Moroka, Cupido, and Zwelitini waited till the Oryx landed and the great engines had quieted before jumping down.
The helicopter had landed in a piece of open veld, bordered by the river and road and thorn trees. The first thing they did was to walk to the river, drawn by the ancient magnetism of water. Behind them the main rotor turned ever more slowly and stopped. The night sounds took over, frogs that had been still, insects, somewhere far away a dog barked.
Da Costa walked to the water, opened his fly, and urinated a fat shiny stream in the moonlight.
Hey, the farmers have to drink that fucking water, said Cupido.
The Boers drink brandy and Coke, said Da Costa, and spat his chewing gum in an impressive arc.
Not bad, said Zwelitini. For a whitey
So, can you do better?
Naturally. Didnt you know we Zulus have lips like these so we can spit on whiteys and Xhosas?
Put your money where your lips are, Your Highness.
Ten rand says I can do better than that.
Best of three.
Fair enough.
Hey what about us? asked Cupido.
This is the RU, my bru. Come and spit with us.
Wait, said Da Costa. I must radio the captain first. Tell him we are in position.
Take your time. The night is young.
And so they bantered and teased and spat, ignorant of their prey only twelve meters away, unaware that one of them would not see the sun rise.
31.
S
he told the director in his office of Miriam Nzululwazis death and she could see how the news upset him, how the stress of the whole affair slowly crept up on him. The little smile was gone, the compassion and consideration for her was less, the cheerfulness had been swept away.
He is feeling the strain,
she thought. The snow-white shirt had lost its gleam; the wrinkles were like cracks in his armor, barely visible.
And Vincent? he asked in a weary voice.
He offered his resignation.
You accepted it.
Yes, sir. There was finality in her voice.
The Zulu closed his eyes. He sat motionless, hands on his lap, and for a moment she wondered if he was praying, but she knew it was just his manner. Other people would have gestures or blow out their breath or sag in the shoulders. His way was to shut out the world momentarily.
There are always casualties in our work, he said softly.
She did not think he expected her to respond. She waited for the eyes to open, but it did not happen.
This is the part I dont like. It is the part I hate. But it is inevitable.
The eyes opened. Vincent. A hand gesture at last, a vague wave. He is too idealistic. Too soft and emotional. I will get him a transfer. Somewhere we can channel that dedication.
She still had no idea what to say, for her opinion differed. Vincent had failed. For her he no longer existed.
What are we going to do with
Mrs. Nzululwazi?
With the body? Why didnt he say it? She was learning a lot tonight. She saw weakness.
I will arrange to have her sent to the morgue, sir. No questions asked.
