Those Who Love Night

by Wessel Ebersohn

  “Oh, Yudel.” The crying had started again and now she was in his arms. “I’ve been on the edge of a precipice. I came so close.”

  “It’s all right. It’s over now.”

  “It’s not, it’s not over. It’s not nearly over.”

  The caretaker came out of his hut as they neared the gate. He swung it open with what was intended to be a gallant gesture. Yudel saw his conspiratorial wink in a shaft of light from a nearby house.

  As they drove back to the hotel, Abigail asked the question that was filling her mind more than any other. “We seem to be lost. Is there anything left for us to do? Tell me that.”

  “We must talk to the caregiver they spoke about, the one who looked after Tony and his sister.

  “How will that find the seven?”

  “We are missing something. I feel it strongly. We may find it there.”

  “I hope so,” Abigail said. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about. The thing of Tony being schizophrenic. I don’t think that’s so. I remember one of the passages in his writing. It said that all of life is pretense, that everything we do is aimed at misleading others…”

  “‘All of life is only a pretense,’” Yudel quoted. “‘We spend every hour of every day pretending to others that we are more than what we really are. Everything we do, every word we speak—all are aimed at misleading others as to our virtue, our bravery, our competence, our attractiveness. Truth and honesty are beyond the grasp of any human being.’”

  “Good God, Yudel, you memorized it.”

  “I reread it six or seven times, and it stuck.”

  “Could that really be the view of a mentally ill person? There’s so much truth in it.”

  “There is much truth in it, but it’s not a worldview that helps one to survive. The people we see as mentally ill often have a clearer view of the less attractive aspects of the human condition than the rest of us do. It may be that truth and honesty are practically beyond the grasp of any human being, that we are always presenting ourselves, as to our virtue and so on, in ways that mislead others. But we need our hypocrisies in order to survive. The people we see as schizophrenic often don’t possess those hypocrisies.”

  “You mean to be completely truthful, you need to be crazy?”

  “Something like that.”

  The police guard saw them from a distance and came running to meet the car. Yudel drove past him, but he followed them down the driveway. He was out of breath when he reached them. “Where have you been?” he wanted to know. “I can go with you if you want to go out.”

  They got out of the car, Abigail looking disdainfully at the policeman. “It seems to me that you haven’t been doing your job very well. You allowed us to slip away. I hope your seniors don’t find out.” They started toward the hotel entrance.

  The guard hurried alongside. “Where were you?”

  “Summer evenings in Harare are beautiful,” Abigail said. “We were inspecting the soccer pitch.”

  “You like soccer?”

  Abigail answered as they passed through the front door of the hotel. “We love it.”

  The proprietor was in the lobby. She nodded in the direction of the lounge. Seated in a chair at one of the coffee tables in an otherwise empty lounge was Agent Mpofu. The CIO man rose, frowning. “I’m glad you’re both safe,” he said.

  Any reason we shouldn’t be? Abigail thought. “How nice of you to drop in,” she said.

  Mpofu looked at Yudel. “I wonder if I can have a word with you in private, Mr. Gordon.”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps we can go outside.” He led Yudel across the terrace, through the narrow garden and into the parking lot. Glancing back at the building, Yudel saw Abigail at the window on the upstairs landing. The moon had again come out from behind the clouds, and she would be able to see them clearly. Yudel waved and she returned the wave. Now there was a witness to the scene and Mpofu knew it. “Mr. Gordon,” he said. “I might have information for you.”

  “You might have?”

  “Yes.” He was looking at Abigail who was making no secret of her presence. “But you must understand that we are very poorly paid in this country.” He had turned away from Abigail. He was also careful not to look at Yudel. “It’s impossible for a man of good taste to afford even a bottle of whiskey.”

  A man of good taste? Yudel wondered. “What is the information you have?”

  “I may know where the seven are.”

  Yudel took a step back. That the information may be offered to them in such a direct way was not what he had expected. “First I need to know if they’re all still alive.”

  Mpofu’s eyes narrowed. “That’s part of the cost.”

  “No, my friend. No one is going to pay to find dead bodies.”

  “All right. They are all alive.”

  “Are they all in one place?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what will this information cost us?”

  “Five thousand.”

  “Five thousand U.S. dollars?”

  “That’s what I said—five thousand American.”

  “We’re also civil servants,” Yudel said. “That’s nearly forty thousand rands. We don’t have that sort of cash.”

  “You want them alive, or don’t you?” The CIO man was staring at Yudel, an almost unbearable tension in his face.

  “Are you telling me you’ll kill them if you don’t get the money?”

  All the uncertainties inside Mpofu came bursting out. “I never said that. Don’t you pretend I said that.”

  Yudel was already moving back toward the hotel building.

  “Wait.” Mpofu managed to keep his voice down, but the urgency was unmistakable.

  Yudel looked back over his shoulder. He remembered what Freek had told him about Ephraim Khumalo’s fears. “Something else you should think about,” he told the CIO agent. “This country may soon have another government. Where are you going to be then? Who’s going to protect you from a new regime?”

  “I just do my job.”

  “I’ll pay you one thousand U.S. dollars,” Yudel said, “at twelve noon tomorrow. We’ll hand over the money when you give us the information.”

  “Two thousand.”

  “Good night.” Yudel said. He was moving again.

  “All right, one thousand.” The words came as a strangled shout.

  This time Yudel did not stop until he reached the terrace. He stood at its edge, looking down at Mpofu who was still in the garden. “I’ll see you here at noon tomorrow.”

  “No. Come to this place. Follow these instructions.” He passed up a small piece of paper to Yudel.

  So, Yudel thought, you have it all worked out. “Just one more thing,” he said, “if you take the money and we don’t find them, I will declare you to Jonas Chunga. We are protected by our government. No one is protecting you.” His last view of Mpofu was of a truly frightened face.

  But how far our government can protect any of us against a sniper’s bullet is a different matter entirely, Yudel thought.

  40

  “I’ll talk to Robert about the money. I’m sure he’ll do it.” Abigail was seated on the edge of her bed. “But I don’t want to do this other thing now.” By agreement, they had remained in the building. What they were discussing was safe enough, even if someone was listening, as long as they stayed away from names, times and other specifics.

  Yudel was resting against the windowsill, facing her. “I think we should. It may be very important that we do.”

  “Why? Let’s get some sleep. We can do it tomorrow.” She was searching the expression of his face. “Or am I facing a Yudel Gordon intuitive moment? I know about them. Logic doesn’t stand up to them very well. Why can’t it wait?”

  “I feel strongly that we are running out of time here.”

  “Any reason?” Abigail was looking helplessly at him.

  “No single reason. Something in Mpofu, something in the air, if you like
.” He spoke softly, his mind seeming to be elsewhere. Abigail had seen him in this state on other occasions, and knew better than to ignore it. “I feel that the sort of investigation we are undertaking cannot continue for long in this country. There is a sort of communal patience in government that is wearing thin. I feel it.”

  Abigail rose. Yudel’s final argument had persuaded her. Now that she had decided to do what Yudel wanted, the weariness seemed to be slipping away. “Let’s hurry. It’s nearly midnight.”

  * * *

  It took almost an hour and six or seven inquiries—Abigail lost count—to find the room where Grandmother Loise Moyo lived. It was on the level directly above the ground floor of a building in which the lift had long since stopped working.

  The door was opened by a young woman. Two small children, still rubbing their eyes after being woken, were pressing close to her. “I want to speak to Mama Loise,” Abigail said in English. She had taken the precaution of buying food along the way. The smell of the fried chicken was already having an effect on the woman and her children. All three were looking at the parcels Abigail was carrying. “I brought food for all of us,” Abigail said.

  The woman turned her head and called the old woman. “Grandmother.” She followed that with something in Shona. Abigail understood it to be “There’s a rich woman here.”

  A curtain divided the room down the center. It moved and an old woman appeared; her hands outstretched in the way of someone whose eyesight was either very poor or had disappeared entirely. She was wearing a crinkled cotton dress she had been sleeping in.

  “Mama Loise, my name is Abigail Bukula.” None of Abigail’s usual assertiveness was present in her voice.

  There were elements of African culture that Yudel deeply admired. Abigail’s gentleness and the respect she showed when dealing with this old woman reflected some of that.

  “The white man with me is my good friend. I have come to talk to you about my family.”

  “Your family, child?”

  “And the food?” the young woman inquired. One of her children, a girl who came up to her mother’s mid-thigh, had reached out to touch the warm parcel with the tips of her fingers.

  “I’m afraid I can’t see very well these days, my child,” Loise said. “The eyes are old. I think your voice is young.”

  “Not very, mother. I will never see thirty again.”

  “Your voice sounds younger.”

  “What about the food?” the young woman asked again. “The children must go to sleep.”

  Abigail smiled at her, but spoke to Loise. “Yes, mother, I have brought food.”

  “Thank you, my child,” she said. “Come into our room, but we have no chairs.”

  “I’ll sit with you, on your bed. My friend will not mind standing.”

  The old woman turned in Yudel’s direction. “He is not very big. I can see that.”

  “He’s not big at all, but very clever,” Abigail said.

  And foolish, Yudel thought. Let’s not forget foolish. Any sensible man would have been at home in Pretoria tonight, where the only dangers come from criminals.

  “Ah.” Loise nodded. Clearly, being clever was something she admired. “Does he speak?”

  “Haltingly,” Yudel said. “With some difficulty.”

  This drew a short laugh from Abigail and a chuckle from Loise. “I think you are joking with an old woman, sir.”

  Abigail handed the food parcel to the young woman. “Mr. Gordon and I have eaten. Please share it with the children and with Mama Loise.”

  “Thank you, sister,” she said, but her eyes were on the food parcel.

  The curtain had been drawn aside, revealing the whole room. Each side had a single bed, one for the young woman and her children and the other for Loise. A row of cardboard boxes along one wall served as cupboards. Abigail could see no dust anywhere. There were places where tears in the flawlessly clean bedding had been mended with needle and thread. While the others sat down, Yudel took up a position, leaning against the door.

  “Mother, my name is Abigail Bukula.”

  The old lady raised a hand to her mouth. “I know the name, Bukula. Who are you, my child?”

  “I think you knew Janice Makumbe.”

  “I knew her. Yes, I knew her. And her name was Bukula before she got married.”

  “She was my father’s sister.”

  Bending forward, Loise covered her face with both hands. “You have come about unhappy matters, I think. Why are you here?”

  “I think you looked after her children after she died.”

  The old woman was rocking back and forth now. She had not yet touched her share of the fried chicken. From the other side of the room, her three roommates were eating noisily. “Is the lady very rich?” the younger one asked her mother in Shona.

  “Be quiet, child,” the mother said.

  “I came to find Tony. Mr. Gordon and I want you to tell us a few things. After that we’ll go away and not bother you again.”

  The rocking stopped long enough for her to speak. “I know where Tony lives. I can give you his address. He still comes to see me sometimes.”

  “No, he’s gone from there.”

  This was even more distressing. The rocking started again, with greater intensity. “Oh, my poor child. Then I don’t know and I can’t help.”

  “Please, eat while we talk,” Abigail said. “We just need to talk a little, then we’ll go.”

  Loise groaned aloud, but before she could protest further Abigail placed a packet of the fried chicken in her hands. “Eat. Please eat.”

  Loise began eating with her fingers. Her eyelids flickered furiously over eyes that could barely see.

  “Tell me, mother. Did Tony and his sister come to you soon after their mother died in the Gukurahundi?”

  “Don’t speak of those times, my child. Please don’t speak of them.”

  “But that is right, isn’t it?”

  “I only knew they’d died when the children arrived.”

  “Who brought them?”

  “The police. The police from Plumtree brought them.”

  “Plumtree, mother?”

  “That is the main police station in that part of the country.”

  “And you had to look after them? Why you?”

  “I don’t know, my child. Perhaps because I also come from the same village. Its name is Bizana. I am also Ndebele. My own husband had died and I was alone. First the social services came to see me, then the police brought the children.”

  “It must have been a burden.”

  Loise shook her head. “There was money. Every month there was money. Postal orders came every month. There was food. We lived quite well. Once a year the social services came.”

  “My Uncle Wally sent the money, but he never came to see the children?”

  The rocking, that had eased, started again. “Wally was dead, my child. Your uncle died the same night your auntie did.”

  “I thought he survived that night.”

  “No, my child. He died. I saw his body the next day. He was still in his van. The soldiers of Five Brigade killed him there.”

  “So who sent the money?”

  “At first, I thought the government, but other people never got it. I don’t know who sent it. But whoever sent it didn’t want to have the children, just wanted me to look after them. I asked the social services lady once, but she said she didn’t know. But I was getting money, so I should be happy, she said. And I was. I only ate because I had the children.”

  Despite the distraction caused by the fried chicken, the young woman had been listening to the conversation with growing interest. “They bring no money now,” she said. “We are struggling.”

  Abigail glanced at the children’s faces. The area around the mouths of both were gleaming with the fat of the fried chicken. How many other hungry children are there in this damned place? she wondered. She lay a hand on the old woman’s shoulder nearest to her. “Where is Katy, T
ony’s sister?”

  The old woman turned toward Abigail, reaching out with chicken-oily fingers to touch her face. Abigail made no attempt to avoid her. “My child, where have you been? You know nothing about your family.”

  “I was overseas, and I was in South Africa, mother.”

  “You have been away too long. The girl is dead. She killed herself, in my house. We had a visitor who had a gun and she shot herself in the kitchen of my house.”

  Abigail took the old woman’s hands in hers. “When did this happen?”

  “Long ago, my child. Katy was still a young girl, maybe seventeen, maybe eighteen, when she killed herself.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No, I never knew. She was not a happy child.”

  Yudel raised a hand as a signal to Abigail. “Did anything happen just before that, a visit perhaps?”

  “No, my quiet friend. I remember nothing.”

  “A visit perhaps from social services?” Yudel was surprised by the question. He had not intended asking it. It seemed to have come from some place outside of himself.

  “Social services?” Loise’s thoughts seemed to go back to those days. “Yes, I think so. They took the children away once and brought them back a day later. It may have been then.”

  “And what effect did her death have on Tony?”

  “Oh, Tony.” She seized upon his name, as if relieved not to be talking about Katy. “He was always a beautiful boy. His face was beautiful and his soul too, but other spirits, sad spirits, lived inside him, like his sister—from the beginning, when he was small.”

  “And that got worse when Katy killed herself?”

  But she was shaking her head, as if to brush away the collected dust of so many years. The memories were old, and no longer in sharp relief. “Perhaps, sir, perhaps … I don’t remember.”