21
HE MADE SLOW progress toward the office, his bruised muscles twitching with five different kinds of pain. The cut on his eyebrow had opened again and he stopped to wipe away the trickle of blood obscuring his vision. Through the red haze he saw Mrs. Ellis standing in the doorway to the kitchen, neat and trim.
“My God…my God…” she whispered. “Did they do this to you?”
Emmanuel nodded. He was still in his undershorts: a sorry, beaten man with skin pulsing red, yellow, and bright purple.
“My baby—” Mrs. Ellis gave voice to her worst fears. “My baby is alone with those men?”
“Yes,” Emmanuel said, and limped to the office. He had fifteen, twenty minutes tops to turn things around. “I’m trying to get her out.”
“Trying?” Elliot King appeared in front of him, his face pinched tight with impotent rage. “You lured her into that room. It’s your fault she’s in this position.”
Emmanuel slammed Elliot King hard in the chest and sent him flying back into a wall. He leaned to within an inch of King’s suntanned face. “Your daughter came of her own accord and she would have left of her own accord but for you and your half-baked attempt to manipulate events. This has been your doing right from the start.”
“I sent for the police, not a gang of Afrikaner thugs. I should have known not to trust the Dutch.”
“You entrusted Davida, body and soul, to a Dutchman in exchange for a piece of land,” Emmanuel said. “Now you’re not even in charge of your own house. How does it feel, Mr. King?” Emmanuel turned his back on him and limped to the office.
Winston King was inside with the phone to his ear and a crossed-out list of names balanced on his knees. He hung up and rubbed the flat of his palms over his eyes.
“No takers,” Winston said. “Botha will try to contact the commissioner of police in an hour or so to see what can be done. No promises, though. Nobody wants to mess with these Security Branch f*ckers. For once the size of your donations isn’t big enough.”
“The commissioner won’t take the call,” Emmanuel said. “A member of the Communist Party confessed to Captain Pretorius’s murder last night. The Security Branch has a signed confession. Nobody is going to go up against them.”
“Shit.” Winston looked sick. “F*cking hell.”
“I’ll take that as an expression of genuine regret for your actions,” Emmanuel said, and signaled him out of the office. “It comes a little too late for the poor bastard who was beaten into a confession and it comes too late for Davida. Two other people are going to pay the price for you, but you’re used to that, aren’t you, Winston? Someone else picking up the bill.”
“Davida doesn’t mean anything to those men,” Winston protested. “Why hold her?”
“She’s currency,” Emmanuel said. “They want to exchange her for a piece of evidence that could derail their case in the future.”
“I’ll tell them—” Winston was ashen. “I’ll confess to everything if they let Davida go. I’ll put it in writing.”
“Wait—” King said from the doorway. “I’ll give them a good price to walk away. How much do you think they’ll take?”
“This might be hard for you to understand,” Emmanuel said, and sank into the office chair. “But this situation is above money. Those men believe they are guarding the future of South Africa. Your cash means nothing to them. Not with a Communist ready for trial.”
“No one is above money,” King stated with certainty.
“Fine.” Emmanuel lifted the phone. “You and Winston go in and offer them a bribe, see what happens.”
The King men eyed the blood dripping off his chin onto the beaten flesh of his torso.
“You’ll make the deal for her?” Winston blushed at his own cowardice.
“I’ll try,” Emmanuel said, and placed the phone to his ear. “Now get out. Both of you.”
Emmanuel pushed the casement window up and leaned out to take a deep breath of fresh air. The sun was over the horizon and a golden light shone onto the meandering river and squat hills. It was going to be another fine day, full of wildflowers and newborn springbok. The office door opened behind him but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t have the heart or the stomach to face anyone right now.
“He won’t exchange the evidence for my girl, will he?” Mrs. Ellis said.
“No,” Emmanuel replied. “He won’t.”
Van Niekerk had been blunt to the point of insult. There was nothing in the proposal for him. No reason to exchange the ultimate blackmail tool for a frightened girl. He already had a maid and a cook. He had no use for another nonwhite female.
“They’re not going to kill her.” The major had been brutal in his summation. “I’ve seen the photographs and there’s nothing those men can do to her that hasn’t already been done. Disengage and walk away, for Christ’s sake.”
He could imagine van Niekerk doing just that. Walking away from a helpless human being without a second thought. That was his strength, and it would take him to the very top.
“What can I do?” The housekeeper was humble in her powerlessness. “What must I do to help my baby?”
Emmanuel heard the clink of cutlery and smelled the freshly brewed coffee. He checked his watch: 6:50 AM. He had three minutes left to make a decision. Go with van Niekerk and rise to the top of the pyramid of evil. Or stay here and go down fighting in defense of what was right.
He turned to Mrs. Ellis. She’d brought him a mug of coffee and a buttered ham sandwich cut on the diagonal. It was enough to light a spark.
“What’s in the pantry?” he asked.
“Everything,” she said. “We’re very well stocked. Mr. King insists on it.”
God bless the greedy rich, Emmanuel thought as the spark struggled to become a workable idea.
“Meat?” he asked.
“Bacon. Boerewors sausages and wild game steaks.”
“Sweet things?”
“I have some jam biscuits made up and a sponge cake for afternoon tea. Also some dried fruit and store-bought sweets.”
“Is Constable Hepple still here?”
“He’s out on the veranda waiting for you. He told Johannes and Shabalala that he couldn’t go back to town with them. He couldn’t desert his post.”
“Bring Hansie, Elliot King, and Winston in here,” he said. “We have to move fast.”
Emmanuel limped back to the guest bedroom with the mug of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. He stood in the doorway and sipped at the drink. The hot liquid singed the cut inside his mouth, slid over the lump in his throat, and continued down to the aching knot of fear in his stomach.
Sunlight filtered into the room but the Security Branch officers and the Pretorius brothers retained a grayish cast, the result of too little sleep, too little food, and too much beer.
“Well?” Piet was lounging on the bed, no doubt keeping the space warm in preparation for the woman’s return. Cigarette butts littered the floor around him.
Emmanuel forced more coffee into his bruised mouth and went to check on Davida: scared stiff but holding up. He handed her the coffee, which she drank down in a few thirsty gulps. She reached for the sandwich but he kept that firmly in his hand. It was a long shot. Relying on a plain ham sandwich to save Davida’s skin. He saw Dickie out of the corner of his eye. The big man was looking at the sandwich and at nothing else.
“Major van Niekerk wants more time to think about it. He’s going to call back in half an hour with an answer.” Emmanuel took a bite of the homemade bread and chewed it before continuing. “Can you wait that long?”
Piet stood up and flicked ash from his pants. “The answer is yes or no.”
“What do you want most, Lieutenant? The photographs or the chance to drop your pants for your country?”
Piet flushed. “And what the f*ck are we supposed to do while your major prances around?”
Emmanuel shrugged, and checked his watch. Any minute now, Mrs. Ellis was going to fire the opening salvo of the battle. He took a bite of the sandwich and felt the hungry gazes of Dickie and the Pretorius brothers follow the movement of his hands. He licked butter from his fingers.
“Where did you get that food?” Dickie blurted. “And the coffee?”
“This?” Emmanuel held the sandwich up. “Housekeeper gave it to me from the braai plate.”
“What braai?” Dickie said, and sniffed the air like a hound dog. The smell of woodsmoke began to rise and mix with the aroma of bacon, onions, and fried sausage.
“That bastard, King.” Emmanuel shook his head. “He’s got enough food in the kitchen to feed an army. Although I never had anything like that when I was marching through France. No boerewors or sponge cake in my ration pack.”
Dickie’s stomach gurgled and the Pretorius brothers stepped toward the smashed doorway. The sizzle of oil and meat called all men.
“Wait,” Piet ordered. “This is a setup. Why would anyone light a braai at this time of morning?”
The lieutenant was a pure freak of nature, always on the lookout for danger. He didn’t need food or sleep so long as the “work” remained unfinished.
“Practice…” Davida leaned forward in the chair with the empty coffee mug held close to her chest. “Mr. King is going to have a breakfast braai for the guests when the lodge opens. He likes to test the food and pick what he wants.”
“What happens to the food he doesn’t eat?” Dickie asked.
“He gives it to the workers,” Davida said. “The ones building the huts.”
Dickie groaned at the thought of all that white man’s food going into the mouths of black workmen who were happy with a cob of roast corn and a piece of dried bread twice a day. He sniffed and thought he smelled brewed coffee amid the aroma of roast meat.
“Lieutenant…” Dickie begged. He was a big man. He liked six-egg breakfasts wiped up with a loaf of bread and washed down with a pot of black coffee. His stomach started to eat itself from inside. “Please…”
Piet eyed his men and saw the beginning of mutiny stirring. He’d been negligent; they hadn’t had a real meal in forty-eight hours. He pulled the woman over to the bed and secured her to the frame with his handcuffs.
“Half an hour,” Piet said.
Emmanuel handed Hansie a plate piled high with three kinds of meat and a fat slice of bread on top. The Security Branch crew hoed into the feast served up by Mrs. Ellis and King himself, who’d donned a servant’s apron for the occasion. Winston served coffee and tea with the oily charm that melted the knickers off English girls and made men dig deeper into their pockets for a tip.
“Take this to the man guarding the bedroom,” Emmanuel told Hansie. “Tell him the lieutenant said to eat it in the kitchen while you stand guard.”
Hansie went off and Emmanuel waited. Everything was going according to plan but for Piet’s restlessness. He ate and drank with his men but stopped every few minutes to check his watch and scan the area.
Emmanuel waited until Piet did his security check, then slipped into the house and bolted for the bedroom. He estimated he had two minutes. He pulled a set of keys out of his wrinkled pants and handed them to Hansie, who now stood guard outside the bedroom.
“You know what to do?”
“Of course,” Hansie said, and grabbed the keys.
“Good…” Emmanuel checked the corridor. Empty. “Remember, don’t stop until you get to Mozambique.”
“Yes, Sarge.” Hansie took off; the car keys jangled happily in his hands.
Emmanuel unlocked Davida’s cuffs and set her free. Her wrists were marked with blood, but that was child’s play compared to what Piet Lapping would take out of her if she was still here when he got back.
“We have to be quick. Go out the window and run straight to the night watchman’s hut. Fast as you can.”
She had to be out of the room and sprinting before Hansie fired up the sports car and drew the men to the front of the house. The window creaked open and Emmanuel lifted her in his arms.
“You?” she said.
“I’ll be fine.” He slid her out of the window. “Run—” he said.
She bolted across a patch of bush in her white cotton shift. She ran hard and did not look back. A memory surfaced as her form flew away from the house…
Emmanuel’s little sister ran fast down the alley, barefoot in her nightgown with the blue forget-me-nots embroidered on the collar. Emmanuel ran alongside her. He smelled wood fires in the air as they raced toward the light of the hotel on the corner. Fear blocked out the cold of the winter night. Anger burned in him at not being strong enough to stop the blade. When he was older, bigger, he’d stand and fight. Behind them, the screams of their dying mother chased them farther and farther into the darkness…
The sports car fired up with a roar and a spray of loose gravel as Hansie sped out onto the road. Emmanuel imagined the grin on Hansie’s face as he revved the sleek Jag across the veldt. He heard the blast of a horn, then footsteps and voices raised in surprise. The Security Branch was taking the bait. Car engines turned over and wheels spun. The pursuit had begun.
He listened for Davida, but with luck she’d made it to the night watchman’s hut and escaped. The plan was to transport her to a safe place known only to King and his faithful servants.
Emmanuel turned to leave. By all conventional standards this case was a failure. The wrong man beaten into a confession, the Security Branch triumphant, and van Niekerk set to blackmail his way up the ladder. Rescuing Davida would have to be the saving grace. It would have to be enough for him.
“You think you know pain?” Piet stood in the doorway, calm as a cobra eyeing a field mouse. “A bullet wound and a few bruises? They are nothing. The scribbling of a child on your body.”
Emmanuel swiveled and jumped for the open window. He was getting out with his liver, lungs and spleen intact. Iron hands pulled him back into the room and Lieutenant Piet Lapping began the lesson in earnest.
Emmanuel tasted blood. It was dark. It was painful to breathe. He drifted in and out of consciousness on a tide controlled by pockmarked Piet. Piet’s blurred outline hovered over him and he thought: the Pretorius boys know nothing about administering a proper beating. Piet is right to give lessons.
There was a dark smudge of movement behind Piet’s head and the smash of glass. The lieutenant went down. A splash of whiskey landed on Emmanuel’s cut lip and he struggled to sit up and concentrate.
“You?” he wheezed.
Johannes, the foot soldier in the Pretorius army, pulled him up and dragged him to the open window. Emmanuel’s muscles quivered and he tried to stand. No dice. He had the strength of a bowl of jelly.
“Why?” Emmanuel grunted as the hulking Boer lifted him up and stuffed him out through the window like a sack of smuggled animal hides.
“Found the photos under Louis’s bed when we took him home,” Johannes said. “Burnt them. Everything you said about Louis and my pa is true. Got to make things right.”
“Oh…” Emmanuel slid over the sill and onto the strong width of a shoulder. A solid khaki uniform blocked his vision for a moment, then he caught flashes of bright yellow wildflowers, red dirt, and green tufts of veldt grass. He heard the singing of the trees and smelled the promise of spring rise up from the wet ground. He was moving across country on the shoulders of a giant. His eyes closed.
Constable Samuel Shabalala and Daniel Zweigman sat side by side and watched the first light of day appear on the horizon. Shabalala pointed a finger at the sliver of pale pink that pushed through the curtain of night.
“God’s light,” he said.
“Yes,” Zweigman agreed. “I’d forgotten what it looked like.”
Emmanuel forced his eyelids apart. The muddy outline of the two men filled the space at either side of him. He focused all of his energy on keeping his eyes open for one second longer.
“Ahh…you are back with us, Detective.”
Blurred faces, one white and the other black, leaned in close to examine him. He tasted a bitter liquid in his mouth and struggled to swallow it. Everything hurt.
“A half dose of crushed pills mixed with wild herbs gathered by Constable Shabalala from the veldt,” the white face explained. “You are my first patient to be treated with this miraculous combination of German and Zulu medicine. You are a lucky man.”
Zweigman. The name stuck with Emmanuel. Zweigman the shopkeeper and Shabalala the policeman. The two men who’d tipped van Niekerk off to his location and saved his skin.
“How long?” Patches of sky winked through the branches of a thick-limbed tree. He was on the veldt somewhere, wrapped in blankets and lying on a thin bedroll.
“Three days,” Constable Shabalala replied. “You went a long way away, but now you are back.”
“Davida?”
“Gone.” Zweigman pressed his fingers against the bruised muscles of Emmanuel’s torso. “Soon you will be well enough to travel. You have a fierce will to live.”
“The lieutenant and his men are gone also,” Shabalala said. “They left in many cars with the Communist man in wrist irons. Many newspaper cameras followed after them. They are the indunas now.”
Emmanuel felt himself gently lifted into a sitting position and tasted cool water in his mouth. He looked out from swollen lids. Veldt surrounded him on all sides in wide ribbons of green and brown. A dove cooed and the grass swayed in the early morning light. The landscape was golden and it hurt to look at, so he closed his eyes.
“I came back…” Emmanuel mumbled. He could have stayed in England with his new wife and learned to tolerate the rain and the cold. But he’d come back, knowing how cruel the country was and how hard the God that ruled over it.
“You love this f*cking place, laddie.” The sergeant major put forward his opinion. “This is the country where you chose to stand and fight. Simple as that.”
“Got my backside kicked. Lost the match,” Emmanuel said, thinking of the innocent man about to stand trial for Pretorius’s murder.
“Delirium,” Zweigman said, and laid him down again on the thin mattress.
“What about you?” Emmanuel continued his conversation with the Scotsman. “What are you doing here?”
“You invited me,” the sergeant major said. “But I don’t think you need me anymore. You’ve got the German and the African, so rest easy, laddie. Rest awhile.”
Zweigman took the detective’s pulse, then wrapped the blankets tightly around his bruised body. How Emmanuel survived the beating was a mystery but he would carry the scars, some visible and others hidden, to his grave.
“One day,” the German shopkeeper said, “I will tell you how I came to be hiding in Jacob’s Rest. For now I will tell you this: my wife and I are leaving and that is a very good thing. I will open a practice and start again. I have decided to stand up and see if I am knocked down.”
“Why?”
“Feel the sorrow, yet let good prevail. What else can men like us do, Detective?”
Emmanuel felt the rough ground underneath him and heard Shabalala’s deep baritone voice singing a Zulu song. His life was saved by a black man and a Jew, his physical being reawakened by a mixed-race woman, and his crushed body lifted to safety by a proper Afrikaner. It was a jigsaw of people that fit against each other despite the new National Party laws.
He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Shabalala’s voice carried him out of the dark cellar of his dreams and into the sunlight. He saw himself lying on the open veldt, beaten but not defeated. Zweigman was right. What else was there to do but get up again and take another swing at the world?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
IF IT TAKES a village to raise a child, it takes two villages to raise a family and write a novel. These are the people of my village to whom I owe thanks.
Imkulunkulu the great, great one. The ancestors. My parents, Patricia and Courtney Nunn, for love, hope, and faith. Penny, Jan and Byron, my siblings and fellow travelers on the dusty road from rural Swaziland to Australia.
My children, Sisana and Elijah, lovely beyond compare. My husband, Mark Lazarus, who gave me time, space, and the use of his impeccable eye for story. You are the roof and the walls of my little hut. Many thanks also to Dr. Audrey Jakubowski-Lazarus and Dr. Gerald Lazarus for their generosity and support.
Literary agents Siobhan Hannan of Cameron Creswell Agency and Catherine Drayton of InkWell Management, who bridge the gap between my writing desk and the world with focus and enthusiasm. I could not be in better hands.
For historical and cultural help I send special thanks to Terence King, author, police and military researcher, and historian. Gordon Bickley, military historian. Audrey Portman of Rhino Research, South Africa. Aunty Lizzie Thomas for Zulu help. Susie Lorentz for Afrikaans help. Any errors or omissions are entirely my own.
Thanks also to members of the Nunn and Whitfield clans for stories and memories, both light and dark, of life in southern Africa.
To the Randwick “Gals” and the Kingsgrove “Gals” for being a great posse of women with whom to ride out the transition into motherhood. Kerrie McGovan for introducing me to the mysteries of the intrawebs and delicious restaurant-quality meals. Loretta Walder, Maryla Rose and Brian Hunt, who lit the path on the darkest nights.
Members of the “Blind Faith Club,” an invaluable group of friends who, in the absence of proof, believed I would finish the book and that it would be published. They are Penny Nunn, the terrific Turks Yusuf and Burcak Muraben, Tony McNamara, Steve Worland, Georgie Parker and Paula McNamara.
Double thanks to Atria Books and to Judith Curr for giving my book an American home. Emily Bestler, who simply made the book better and reinvigorated my belief in lucky stars. Laura Stern, Virginia McRae and all the Atria staff.
Ngiyabonga. Thank you all.