Those Who Love Night

by Wessel Ebersohn

  “Some’ing like that.”

  A wire-bound book had appeared in Freek’s hands and he had started making notes. “But you don’t want to go back to this good man?”

  “Man, it’s not personal. I like Jonas. I admire him. Jonas got principles. I seen Jonas bring food to a poor village where the people were starving.”

  Freek knew that in a country as poor as Zimbabwe, where so many people were starving, the reasons for such gestures often did not have simple answers. It was impossible to feed everyone. “Where did the food come from?”

  “We took it from a World Food Program shipment.”

  “Did he charge the people for it?”

  “Never, not Jonas. He’s a good man. The others woulda sold it, but not Jonas. Jonas didn’t do that stuff.”

  “So he’s a good man?”

  “He’s a good man.” Khumalo was nodding emphatically.

  “Not violent?”

  “Never, not usually.”

  “Never, or not usually?” Freek asked, speaking slowly. “Which is it? Explain it to me.”

  “I seen him crack.”

  “And then?”

  “It’s not something that happens a lot.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “I seen it once. An’ I heard about it.”

  “What did you see? What happens when Jonas cracks?”

  “I heard about it before, but I only seen it once when I went with him to a farm where the white farmer was getting kicked out—part of land redistribution, you know. It was not the stuff we normally did, but someone high up who was getting the farm asked for us to come. When we got there the farmer was gone, but twenty or so of his workers were still there. The new owner wanted them gone too. Jonas told them to get out, but they said no. He showed them the letter of offer from the magistrate, giving the new owner permission to occupy the farm, but they wouldn’t listen. So he warned them to be out the next day and we went back to Gweru and booked into a hotel. That night he gets a call from our minister. I was there when he took it. The minister wants to know what’s going on, are the workers out? Jonas says, not yet, and the minister goes mad, screaming at him. He tells him the order came from the very top and if it is not carried out some head is going to roll. No prizes for guessing which head. The next morning we go back to the farm and the workers want to argue. They tell Jonas they won’t go. Jonas explains to them very nicely that it’s not him personally, it’s the government. They got to leave and they got to leave now. He says we’ll come back after lunch and they got to be gone. So we come back that afternoon and they still there. One a them, a youngster, comes right up to him. He brings his face right up to Jonas. He’s right in Jonas’s face and he screams as loud as he can. We not fucking going, he screams. This kid makes two mistakes. He didn’t show respect for Jonas and he was doing some’ing that woulda meant Jonas coulda lost his power. Jonas shoots him right there. He went down like a sack a potatoes. Deader’n a mackerel. Two others come forward too fast and Jonas shoots them too, himself, but not to kill. One takes it in the thigh, not too far from the main attraction either, and the other loses a knee. We not waiting longer, he says. They were out ten minutes later, goods, dead boy, their wounded and all. An’ they didn’t have much goods. With Jonas, you got to do what he says and you got to be loyal and you got to respect him and don’t mess with his power.”

  Freek had listened carefully to the story. It sounded real to him. Ephraim sat back now, exhausted with the telling of it. “You spoke about other occasions?”

  “Two others I heard of. One with a trade-union problem and one with interrogating a activist.”

  “He also did the killing himself?”

  “No. They say he gave the orders, but I dunno.”

  Freek was looking past him. “Any others?”

  “No, just them. But listen, commissioner, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about this guy. He saved lotsa people too. Sometimes, even when you on the wrong side, maybe he saves your life.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “The bombing of the party offices last year was big news, that’s a example. In Zimbabwe that sorta stuff is treason. All involved can get death. Jonas knew who done it, but he destroyed evidence and they got away. They never even arrested them.”

  “He destroyed evidence? You sure?”

  “I swear. I was working with him at that time.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Compassion. He was like that. Like those people at Madikwe Falls where he took food. That was Jonas. He was like that. An’ if he thought someone was not guilty, he never pushed for conviction. Never, not like the others.”

  Khumalo waited for another question from Freek. When it did not come he made as if to rise, hoping the interview was over. Freek was not finished, though. He was thinking about this man, Chunga, and what it was that Yudel most needed to know. “How high in the CIO is he?” was the question that came eventually.

  “One below the DG.”

  “So he’s next in line?”

  “Maybe, but there’s about six on his level. And I don’t think the others ever try to save anyone. They know their job. Maybe Jonas thinks too much.”

  “One last thing. Have the CIO chiefs ever in your experience used snipers to do their business?”

  “No, why would they? They can take whoever they want. Make them disappear, if they want to.”

  Freek studied the face of the other man. And you, he thought … what was your position in all this? “Why did you defect?” he asked.

  “I read the papers, Mr. Commissioner. I know Mugabe and them can’t travel anywhere in the world. I know what the world says about Zim. I don’t want to be tried for crimes against humanity. When the shit hits the fan, I want to be here in Jo’burg.” His voice took on a wheedling tone. “I helped you today. Maybe if immigration comes looking for me, you can also help old Ephraim.”

  “Maybe,” Freek said.

  * * *

  Downstairs, in a parking garage that was almost completely empty, Freek tried to raise Yudel on Rosa’s cell phone. He was looking at his notes in between keying in the number, then keying it in again. He was getting no response from the Zimbabwean telephone system—no busy tone, no number-unobtainable signal, nothing at all. He had made only two pages of notes, but he knew there were points in Khumalo’s story that Yudel would want to hear about. Before starting the engine, he tried one last time. Still there was nothing. That country may as well have disappeared off the planet.

  37

  Yudel had seen a lot of the back terrace of McDooley’s Inn. On many occasions, Freek had made him aware that listening devices were more effective inside than out of doors. Now, with the power down for the third time since he had been in the city, he had ordered a glass of wine. On the table next to him was a copy of The Herald. It carried a report that the government had not opposed an application to court for a search of Chikurubi prison. The search had been conducted, but the applicants had not found what they were looking for. The confident face of Jonas Chunga looked back at the reader from the picture that accompanied the text.

  Yudel had considered ordering coffee, but two factors decided him against it. He may be embarrassing the management by asking for something they could not deliver … In fact, he had forgotten that one of the waiters had already explained that, because of the city’s regular power outages, the hotel used gas in the kitchen.

  The other factor was Rosa’s constant explaining that caffeine was bad for barely controllable sugar levels, like his. The wine also contained sugar, he had been told. So to minimize its effect, he had asked for and received an extra glass filled with ice. Sip by sip, as the wine level dropped, Yudel replaced the wine with ice. By the time he got to the bottom of the glass, he would be drinking water, with only the faintest taste of wine.

  Sitting opposite him, Abigail was fascinated by the process. “Why do you do that?” she asked.

  “Do you know how homeopathy works?”
he asked.

  “No.”

  “Apparently, they take a tiny portion of whatever is ailing you and dilute it by a million or so to one to cure you.”

  “Does it work?”

  “I’ve no idea. But I like wine and it’s not good for my blood sugar. So I drink it in homeopathic style, hoping that just the faintest vestige will cure my desire for it.”

  Abigail looked intently at his face for a long moment. “Jesus, Yudel,” she said eventually. She chose not to explain what she meant, and he never asked.

  She picked up her bag from the chair and excused herself, saying that she was going to shower and that after that they should discuss their strategy for the next few days.

  Yudel had spent the day following her from one office of the Department of Justice to another. It had been almost five in the afternoon before they got back to the hotel. “I’m not leaving until I have that judgment in writing,” she had told numerous government officials. The day had ended at Judge Mujuru’s private residence where Abigail, following his dictation, used his computer to type the order onto a departmental letterhead.

  As soon as they were out of the judge’s earshot, Abigail had waved the envelope triumphantly in the air. “I’ve got it,” she said. “I’ve got it. I’ve got it!”

  “We still have to find them,” Yudel had said.

  “When we do, I’ll be holding in my hand the authority for their release.”

  He was using a teaspoon to drop more ice into his wine, when the phone Rosa had left for him demanded his attention. “Answer your phone!” the recorded voice said.

  “Freek?” Yudel said into the phone.

  “I beg your pardon,” a female voice said.

  Yudel recognized the voice as belonging to Mariette van Deventer. “Gordon here,” he said, immediately wishing that he had just hung up.

  “Professor Gordon?”

  “Mr. Gordon,” he said.

  “Mr. Gordon,” she agreed. “I have a woman in my office. She’s carrying a newspaper clipping and she wants to see Mr. Yachad.”

  “No harm in that,” Yudel told her.

  “And she is very insistent. She says Mr. Yachad was in her office at the newspaper with another old man, not as old as Mr. Yachad though, she said.”

  “Young woman?” Yudel asked. “Long, rather ragged blond hair?”

  “That’s right. Do you know her?”

  “No, I don’t, but I understand that she works for the newspaper.”

  “What I would like to know is where does this advertisement come from?”

  “It comes from the woman who wants to see my father-in-law. You just told me that.”

  “I don’t mean…” He heard her take a deep breath. “I asked Mr. Yachad and he said something about marketing that I did not understand.”

  Go away, Yudel was thinking, I have more important matters to deal with. He had glanced toward the dining room and could see a light burning inside. The power was back on, so that was how the van Deventer woman had got through. “Marketing is a complex subject,” he told her.

  “I know nothing about marketing.” Mariette van Deventer’s voice had risen a few notes. “But I do know that my name is in an advertisement in the newspaper.”

  “Your fame is spreading. I suggest you introduce this lady to Mr. Yachad immediately.”

  “I have already introduced twenty-three to him.”

  “Well done,” Yudel said. “It’s been wonderful chatting, but I have to go. I have important Zimbabwean government officials waiting for me, members of the Central Intelligence Organization. Goodbye for now.” He cut the connection.

  He only waited a moment before dialing Freek. The answer came almost immediately. “Jordaan.”

  “Freek, it’s Yudel.”

  “Good. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “The power’s been down in the whole city.”

  “I found him.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Listen, Yudel…”

  “I am listening.”

  “Listen well. You and Abigail need to be careful. You need to be very careful in dealing with this man.”

  * * *

  As soon as he had broken the connection, Yudel went in search of Abigail. He knocked on her door, then called her name, but there was no response. He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost dinnertime. In his own room, he found that the keys of the hired car had been removed.

  It was not usual for Yudel to hurry over anything, but now he went down the stairs too quickly, stumbling on the landing. Abigail was not in the restaurant, nor on the terrace that he had left only two minutes before. Christ, he thought, we only just got back. He found Marjorie Swan in the hotel lounge, talking to one of her guests. She looked curiously up at him. “Is everything all right?” It was said in a way that suggested the expectation that perhaps everything was not all right.

  “Do you know where Abigail is?”

  “She took your car. I hope that’s all right?”

  “No, it’s not all right. Do you know where she went?”

  The hotel owner looked anxiously from Yudel to her guest. Emotional disturbances were not good for business. “I didn’t give her permission to take the car. I thought you two were…”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No. She said something about an important meeting. I asked if she didn’t want you to accompany her, but she said this was something she had to handle herself. Shouldn’t she have taken your car? I know men are often touchy about their cars.”

  “Damn the car,” Yudel said. “The car is of no importance. Did she say nothing more?”

  “She said she may be a while. Is it serious?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not.” As he was turning away, the phone called to him again. This time it was Helena.

  38

  Abigail remembered that to reach the club, Jonas Chunga had taken the car through a number of turns. She had to stop twice along the way, once at a liquor store that had a stock of only two lines, a cheap brandy in half-liter bottles and a popular beer; then once more at a residence where she asked a woman, probably in her early twenties, to direct her further. The woman called her ma’am, told her where to go and offered the use of the phone if she needed it.

  She had contacted Chunga by using the cell phone number on the card he had given her. Waiting while the ringing signal reached her, she had recognized all the old uncertainties. It was just like her early days with Robert.

  What are you doing, girl? she asked herself. You want to know about him. You want to be certain. But what you know so far should be enough. You don’t want the truth. You want to discover that everything you’ve learned so far is wrong. It can’t be so, you’re telling yourself. And that’s what you want to learn.

  He has to be what he says he is, Abigail thought. I can feel it. And yet, since I’ve been in this country there have been so many times I’ve known he’s not. So many times and so many indications that nothing he says is true. And yet his eyes say something different. Oh God, Abigail. You sound like a fourteen-year-old. What’s happened to the other twenty-odd years of your life?

  When he had answered, she had heard something in his voice that she was certain was relief. “I’m so glad you called,” he said. “After yesterday, I thought there would be nothing more.”

  And after she asked him to meet her, he had said, “Yes, of course I’ll meet you. Can I fetch you?”

  Her cell phone rang. Jonas, she thought. Oh, Jonas, don’t say you can’t come.

  She slowed the car and, glancing down at the phone, recognized the calling number as Rosa’s. For a moment she hesitated, then switched off the phone. No, Yudel, she thought. This is not for you. I’m not discussing this with you, not now, maybe not ever.

  At the boom of the estate in which the country club was situated, a uniformed guard came up to the car. “Member?” he asked without smiling. His demeanor said that he was the man in charge of the gate and s
he had better have a good reason for wanting to enter.

  “No,” Abigail said. “I’m a guest of Director Jonas Chunga.”

  As she had expected, the man’s manner changed. Was there any place in this city where his name would not have that effect? “The director is expecting you, ma’am. He said you’d know where to find him.” He waved her through.

  Abigail drove slowly now. There were only a few hundred meters to the clubhouse. She did not want to hit one of the animals that roamed the property. She was not sure that she should have come at all. And in a few minutes she would be facing him again.

  No, it was not that she was unsure about the wisdom of coming. Somewhere deep within her, not as an officer of the court, but as a woman, she knew that she should not be here. But she also knew, as a woman, that she had to be here. Turning back had become impossible.

  Abigail saw him the moment she stepped onto the fairway. The day was over, but the African twilight remained. Fringing the horizon ahead of her, the sky still glowed with the warmth of the sun. Chunga was a silhouette under the tree that spread across the fairway, just where he said he would be. His feet were apart and his hands seemed to be in his pockets. She saw him for what he was—a man of power, an alpha male in the center of his territory, a physical presence that drew her toward him. It was only with the greatest restraint that she did not run to him.

  She compelled herself to walk slowly and stop all of twenty paces from him. He had not moved since she had first caught sight of him where he stood, waiting for her. “There are things I have to know,” she said. She had raised her voice just enough to reach him across the distance between them. “There are certain things I just have to know about you.”

  “Ask me anything and I’ll tell you.”

  “Do you know where the seven are?”

  “No, I do not.” His voice was strong and calm, reaching her without any apparent effort.

  “Were they abducted by members of your organization?”

  “As I told you before, not as far as I know.”

  “Did you have anything to do with the arrest of the Makwati twins?”