Molly nodded, trying to fathom the kind of life this woman must lead. Never knowing. Never being sure. An eternity of loss.
‘Tell her I’m sorry,’ she said helplessly.
‘I just did.’
‘Tell her again.’ She paused. ‘Did she know my son? James? Did she ever meet him?’
Domingos bent to Chipenda, putting the question, and she looked up at Molly, smiling for the first time. She had the mouth of an old woman, several teeth broken, others missing completely. She was nodding now, talking to Domingos. Domingos smiled.
‘What is it?’ Molly asked. ‘What’s she saying?’
‘She says that your son was crazy.’
‘Why?’
‘Coming out here at all. She says he should have stayed at home. And had lots of sons.’
‘I agree.’ Molly was looking at Chipenda now. ‘Tell her I agree.’
The woman laughed at Molly’s vigorous nod and finally extended a hand. Molly gave it a squeeze and leaned quickly forward. The baby at her breast shivered under the kiss, then both eyes closed again and the huge head lolled forward.
Molly got up. Domingos was talking to McFaul, pointing towards the far end of the cinema. McFaul nodded and then bent to Molly’s ear.
‘Domingos wants you to meet someone else. Guy called Guringo. He’s the chief, the elder, the head man. They call him the Soba. Domingos thinks he may be able to help you.’
‘How?’
McFaul hesitated a moment. Domingos was already making his way through the watching families.
‘Domingos thinks he knows the man who laid the mines. Where James got killed.’
Molly stared at him.
‘Here? Someone here?’
‘Possibly. Domingos isn’t sure. But since we’ve got this far …’ McFaul shrugged, ‘why not find out?’
The chief was camped beneath the expanse of end wall that had once served as the cinema’s screen. The white paint was barely visible beneath a grey film of rain-streaked soot and at the foot of the wall there was a tidy pile of firewood, newly scavenged from the wreckage of shelled houses. The chief himself was a man of uncertain age, bald, very thin, with a straggly grey beard and yellowing eyes. He sat cross-legged, surrounded by a circle of carefully husbanded possessions: a tin cup, an empty sack, a hoe blade, a handful of twisted iron nails, six melon seeds, two blackened billycans and a tiny bunch of wilting greens. Molly studied the tableau from a respectful distance, determined to take this mental snapshot back home with her. However bad things got, however desperate she might feel, no life could be as bare as this.
Domingos was crouched beside the chief, explaining why they’d come. At length the old man got to his feet, standing erect, inclining his head gravely towards Molly. When he’d finished speaking, Domingos translated.
‘He says he’s sorry to hear about your son.’
‘Didn’t he know before?’
‘Apparently not. Many have died in the minefields. He says he’s lost count.’
Molly nodded, looking at the old man again, feeling unaccountably guilty. Why should her loss be anything special? Why should James’s death be of any conceivable interest to these people?
McFaul was asking about the man who might have laid the mines. While Domingos put the question to the Soba, Molly watched a nearby woman coaxing a colourless mush into a child’s mouth. She used two fingers to feed the child, licking them after each mouthful. McFaul was watching too. Molly touched him on the arm.
‘What’s that?’
‘Pulped maize. It grows everywhere. It’s called funje.’
‘And what will she eat?’ Molly was still looking at the mother. ‘Afterwards?’
McFaul shrugged, indicating the inch of funje in the bottom of the earthenware pot.
‘Whatever’s left,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else.’
‘So what’s it like?’
‘Completely tasteless.’
Molly nodded, her eyes returning to the chief. For the first time, she realised exactly what his T-shirt said. ‘The Grateful Dead’ went the faded logo across the chest, ‘Ventura Stadium, ’85’. James, she thought. One of his favourite groups. She glanced at McFaul again.
‘Where did he get the T-shirt?’
‘It’s charity stuff. Cast-offs. Flown in.’
The chief was reaching for the bundle of greens. He extracted one and offered it to Molly. Molly was about to refuse but McFaul told her to take it. The Soba would be offended, he said. She must eat with him. Molly did what she was told, tearing off the leafy part of the plant. She put it in her mouth and began to chew. At first it tasted bitter, then it made her mouth burn, a strange, prickly sensation. For a moment, she thought she was going to throw up. She heard McFaul beside her, oddly comforting.
‘Just a couple of little chews,’ he was saying, ‘no big deal.’
Domingos was on his feet again.
‘The chief’s talking about a fella called Zezito. The rebels took him several months ago but he’s back in the city now.’
‘Where?’
‘In the hospital. He was dumped at one of the road-blocks a couple of nights ago. It often happens.’
Molly frowned, not understanding, and McFaul explained the discipline in UNITA ranks was harsh. Anyone who stepped out of line was instantly punished and some of the punishments were barbaric. Afterwards, as a warning to anyone else who might one day be pressed into service with UNITA, the half-dead soldier would be returned to his home city.
‘So what happened? To this one?’
‘They cut his ears off. And one or two other bits.’
‘And he’s still alive?’
‘Yes. Apparently he’s been talking about the minefields. Because he knew the area so well, they made him lay them. He was supposed to stick to certain areas, places where the people plant crops and draw water. It drives them off the land. Destroys communities. Our friend in the hospital evidently had other ideas. Silly man.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning he wasted all their precious mines on useless bits of scrub.’
‘Including the bit James …?’
‘Quite possibly. If we’re talking the same minefield.’
McFaul looked at Domingos. The Angolan nodded, confirming McFaul’s account, and Molly turned away. An hour ago, sitting in the schoolroom listening to Bennie outside the window, she’d been engulfed in a kind of primitive rage. She’d wanted revenge. She’d wanted a name. Now she had one. Except that nothing was quite as simple as it seemed.
‘So Zezito …’
McFaul shrugged.
‘… thought he was doing the right thing.’
‘So does that mean the rest of the place is … safe?’
‘Shit, no.’ He looked at her a moment, a flicker of life in his strange dead eyes. ‘You know how many mines there are in this country?’
Molly shook her head.
‘No.’
‘Twenty million. That’s two for every Angolan.’ He smiled. ‘Or one for each leg.’
Todd Llewelyn stepped back from the tripod, inviting Bennie to help himself to the camcorder and take a look at the sequence they’d just taped. They’d rearranged the furniture in the schoolroom, putting two rows of seats between the desk and the window. In front of the display of survey maps, Bennie had erected the easel they used for training sessions and on the blackboard he’d chalked the outline of a minefield. Llewelyn had asked him to talk for at least a couple of minutes, and when the camera had finally rolled, Bennie had found himself expounding on the theory and practice of minefield clearance.
Mines, he explained, were normally laid in distinctive patterns. The ‘A’ pattern, for instance, had a big anti-tank mine protected by a triangle of three anti-personnel mines. Once you’d sussed a pattern like this, driving a number of exploratory breaches or ‘safe lanes’ across the minefield, you went for something called ‘roll-up’, clearing the rest of the mined land. This was a lovely theory and worked a treat
on a proper battlefield. In the Third World, though, ‘roll-up’ was a nonstarter because the mines were usually scattered at random, obeying no comprehensible pattern. In this case, you had no choice but to clear the site an inch at a time, leaving nothing to chance. This was known as ‘100 per cent clearance’. Another phrase, said Bennie, was ‘pain in the arse’.
Bennie stepped back from the viewfinder, impressed with his own performance.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘Where does this go out?’
‘People’s Channel.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a new satellite operation but I’m sure it’ll get sold elsewhere. These things usually do.’
‘ITV? BBC?’
‘Maybe.’ Llewelyn shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
Bennie eyed the camera. As well as the training sequence they’d also done a lot of stuff with the survey maps, Llewelyn building up a library of shots he’d need to compile his final report. Bennie looked round at the line of empty chairs.
‘What about an audience? Won’t it look a bit daft? Me talking to no one?’
‘We’ll get some people in later. It’s a simple reverse shot. I can pick it up any time.’ Llewelyn began to detach the camcorder from the tripod. ‘What I really need is something in the minefields. You guys actually doing it.’
‘I know. You said already.’
‘This afternoon then?’
Bennie shrugged.
‘Love to. Love to. You know I would. Depends on the boss, though. He says he’s got to talk to the UNITA boys. In case they get funny.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘No.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
Bennie laughed.
‘There’s isn’t a fucking problem. Not if you want it that bad.’
McFaul and Christianne were several minutes late at the UNITA road-block. They’d left Molly at the MSF house, already exhausted by her first real taste of life under siege. McFaul parked the MSF Landcruiser in the shade of an acacia tree and walked across to the line of watching soldiers. Most of them were young, still teenagers, and their eyes never left Christianne.
Christianne approached the nearest soldier. He was wearing a rumpled forage cap and the side of his face was seamed with a long, thin scar. She began to explain in French about the rendezvous with Katilo but he indicated with a shrug that he didn’t understand. When she started again in Portuguese, he turned his back on her and walked away.
Ten minutes later, a big Toyota appeared in the distance, travelling at speed. It ground to a halt, broadside on to the road-block. A small, neat man got out. He wore dark glasses, camouflage trousers and a newly pressed US Marine Corps shirt. He had a revolver strapped to his waist and the tall, lace-up boots looked freshly polished. He studied McFaul a moment then signalled to the Toyota without looking round. Another man appeared. He was much bigger, dressed in black fatigues. He carried two lengths of material, evidently the remains of someone’s T-shirt. McFaul eyed them without comment. Blindfolds, he thought. One each.
Christianne was explaining about Katilo again. The man in the dark glasses ignored her. McFaul submitted to a body search, the man’s hands pausing at the bottom of his left leg, feeling the smooth plastic beneath his jeans. Afterwards, the man stepped back.
‘OK?’
McFaul shrugged, bowing his head, letting the soldier in the black fatigues tighten the blindfold around his eyes. Beside him he could hear Christianne protesting.
‘No sweat,’ he called, ‘it’s just a precaution.’
They were led through the road-block and helped into the back of the Toyota. McFaul heard the doors shut and the engine start. Then they were accelerating away, the big springs soaking up the ruts and the pot-holes on the baked-earth road. McFaul could feel Christianne’s body beside him. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. Somebody was smoking in the front now. He could smell the tobacco, the harsh, acrid tang of the stuff they shipped up from South Africa, and he took a deep breath, glad of the chance to mask the stale, sour smell of the blindfold.
The journey went on, the driver punishing the gears, the Toyota swaying and bouncing from one corner to the next. Twice McFaul tipped his head back, trying to see out beneath the blindfold, but both times he got no further than a thin strip of light, the tops of the front seats, and the wide, blue African sky diffused through the tinted windscreen.
At last, they began to slow. In the silence after they’d stopped, McFaul heard voices, someone laughing. Then the door beside him opened and he felt an arm tugging him out. He’d abandoned his sling now and he tried to protect the line of stitches with his left hand. Upright, he waited for Christianne to join him.
‘Ask them to take these things off,’ he told her, ‘for Christ’s sake.’
He heard her putting the request, first in French, then in Portuguese. There was more laughter. Then they were walking again, uneven ground, tripping and stumbling. Suddenly it was much cooler. McFaul could feel pebbles beneath his feet and a damp, weedy smell, like the breath of some creature from the swamp. Somebody was talking, definitely French, and he heard Christianne’s reply. She sounded wary, even a little frightened. For the first time, he began to wonder whether the rendezvous with Katilo was such a great idea.
‘What’s going on?’ he murmured.
Christianne didn’t answer. The other voice was closer now and McFaul could smell aftershave, Calvin Klein, the stuff Bennie used. Without warning, the knot on his blindfold was loosened, then untied. At the same time, McFaul felt a chair nudge the backs of his legs. By the time the blindfold was off, he was sitting down, rubbing his eyes, peering into the gloom of what looked like a cave.
Katilo sat opposite, sprawled in a collapsible director’s chair. The only photo McFaul had ever seen of the man didn’t do him justice. He was wearing combat trousers, belted at the waist, and a simple olive green T-shirt. He had a broad chest, and well-muscled arms, and when he smiled his whole face seemed to radiate energy, like an athlete in peak condition. He was speaking in French to Christianne but his eyes flicked back and forth between them, ever playful. According to the big Seiko watch on his wrist, it was five past two.
‘He says he’s sorry about the blindfolds,’ Christianne touched her face, ‘but he hopes you’ll understand.’
McFaul grunted, non-committal. Five past two meant they’d been travelling for little more than twenty minutes. Ten miles, say. Maybe less.
‘Tell him about the minefields,’ he said, ‘tell him what we want to do.’
‘He’s asking whether you’d like a drink. He’s offering beer or whiskey.’
‘Lager,’ McFaul said briefly, offering Katilo a thin smile. The last thing he wanted to do was waste time but he knew that meetings like this got nowhere without the ritual courtesies.
Katilo clapped his hands and McFaul heard a movement behind him. He looked round. Naked light bulbs hung from loops of black cable and the fissured rock above their heads was glistening with moisture. Behind him, the cables disappeared behind a hanging blanket and somewhere close by McFaul could hear the chatter of a generator. Katilo was talking again, a deep bass rumble. Whatever the joke was, it made Christianne laugh. McFaul turned back in time to see Katilo leaning forward, his arm outstretched, one hand on Christianne’s knee. He wore an enormous silver ring on the forefinger of one hand.
Christianne glanced at McFaul. She was plainly terrified.
‘What does he want?’
‘He says he’s got some videos.’
‘Videos?’
‘Yes. We can have Terminator 2 or Baywatch. I don’t think he’s joking.’
The makeshift curtain parted behind McFaul and the cave was briefly flooded with daylight. A soldier in full combat dress offered McFaul a can of lager. Katilo was watching him, a smile still curling the wide, fleshy lips. McFaul accepted the can, waving away the proffered cup.
‘South African?’ he murmured.
‘Of course.’ Katilo nodd
ed. ‘Castle. The best.’
‘You speak English?’
‘Yes. Doesn’t your girlfriend want anything?’
McFaul shook his head.
‘She’s not in the mood,’ he said briefly. ‘And she’s not my girlfriend.’
McFaul took a deep pull from the can. UNITA logistics evidently extended to proper refrigeration.
‘We’re here to talk about the minefields,’ he said at last, ‘around Muengo.’
‘You want to clear them?’
‘Yes. Like I said on the radio. Just a handful, two or three, before we leave.’
Katilo considered the proposal, his elbows propped on the arms of the chair, his fingers steepled together. Finally, he shrugged.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘We have plenty more mines.’
‘But I need to be sure.’
‘Of what?’
‘My men. Their safety.’ McFaul lifted two fingers, aiming into the darkness at the back of the cave. ‘No accidents. No silly mistakes. None of your soldiers getting the wrong idea.’
Katilo was studying Christianne again. He had the indolence of someone with limitless time and limitless patience. McFaul swallowed another mouthful of the lager. For Christianne read Muengo, he thought. When I want you, I’ll take you.
‘We’re flying out in three days,’ McFaul began, ‘you’ll know that.’
‘Of course.’
‘Three days isn’t a long time. Not in our trade.’
‘Comment?’ Katilo was frowning at Christianne.
‘Trois jours n’est pas longtemps,’ she said at once, ‘pour trouver les mines.’
‘Ah, bon. Je comprends. Exact.’ He grinned at her. ‘Your Mr McFaul here, your friend … why does he do this work? Why does he bother? When we,’ he clicked his fingers, ‘just start all over again?’
Llewelyn rode out to the minefield in the Global Land Rover with Bennie and Domingos. Back in the schoolroom, the three men had spent nearly an hour arguing about the sequence Llewelyn insisted was vital to the film’s success: where it should take place, what it should include.
Domingos wanted to wait for McFaul’s return, not because he was nervous of the rebel troops but because he respected McFaul’s judgement. He’d worked for the Boss for nearly five months now and he couldn’t remember a single occasion when he’d got it wrong. He was methodical, he was cautious, and he was more or less intact, three reasons for postponing the shoot until they were sure it had his approval. Bennie, listening to Domingos, had shaken his head. Time was short. This programme of Llewelyn’s was all-important. Saving lives meant spreading the word and just now Bennie couldn’t think of a better way of doing exactly that. Working in a real minefield could wait until tomorrow. Doing what Llewelyn called ‘the tight shots’ in a safe area, a place they both knew had been cleared, would be the best possible use of time.
The Perfect Soldier Page 21
