We left the policeman to the ghosts and walked down the path that connected the church with the wide avenue that formed the spine of Minhoop. Like many South African towns, Minhoop had been built around the church, which stood at the end of the main street like a beacon of virtue. A lighthouse which guided the small community towards a life of piety, or perhaps it was the watchtower from which their sins were observed. A shoulder-high fence of painted steel bars protected the neatly mowed grass slope that surrounded the church, because as welcome as everyone was, the feet of the pious were required to stay on the path and keep off the grass. Two military policemen stood awkwardly at the gate, their weapons held up to their chests, trying not to meet the eyes of the huddled group of mourners who had been placing bouquets and wreaths against the fence. Beyond the mourners, a cluster of journalists loitered like jackals waiting for the carcass to be cleared. They braved the icy wind, warming themselves with cigarettes, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands.
“What’re they doing in there?” one of the older hands called out to us. “Trampling all over the evidence?”
“Don’t answer,” said Khanyi, and she held up a hand as if it was a screen that we could hide behind.
Beyond the journalists we encountered the groups of stunned locals who were keeping well back from the luminous evil at the end of the road. They stood in awe and gazed up at the church, or shuffled about aimlessly, nodding at each other, embracing one another. The main street was devoid of cars, given over to the informal gathering of a community reeling from the horror of the massacre.
‘Father’ Don Fehrson was the only customer in the lace-curtained, home-baked melktert coffee shop. He was seated at the window through which passers-by looked in at him as if he was a goldfish in a bowl. His white hair was particularly unruly today and, in combination with the rough-weave tweed suit, created the impression of an English professor caught unawares on a country weekend. The English look was one he carefully nurtured, with silk cravats, poorly matched country suits and brightly polished leather-soled shoes. He even spoke the language with the tinge of an unplaceable accent. Because many years ago he had astutely surmised that an Englishman in state security was more likely to survive the transition from apartheid regime to Rainbow Nation than would an Afrikaner. But the truth was that Fehrson grew up in a town very much like Minhoop and was a thoroughbred Afrikaner.
Fehrson looked up at the merry jangling of the bell on the door as Khanyi and I entered and frowned as if we were being inappropriately noisy and cheerful. Before him was a plate piled high with homemade, misshapen waffles. Fehrson was regarding them with disgruntled confusion. Beside him stood a hapless young girl dressed in black, with wet eyes, also gazing at the waffles as if they were the saddest thing she had seen.
“I wondered when you two would grace us with your presence,” said Fehrson, his eyes still on the waffles.
“We have all we need, Father,” said Khanyi as a form of excuse, revealing no inappropriate details in front of the waitress.
Fehrson harrumphed as if he didn’t believe that and poked at the pile of waffles with a tentative knife. Fehrson had once been an ordained minister of the Dutch Reformed Church and had spent his early years of military service as an army chaplain. That was before his superiors discovered his aptitude for the murkier, more secretive aspects of military operations. In his latter, serene years he encouraged the use of the title as a form of address because it better reflected his new role as nurturing leader, in contrast to his earlier approach of despotic dictator.
“Sara here had a second cousin in the church,” he said, pronouncing the name in the Afrikaans way with an ‘ah’ on the first ‘a’ instead of the English ‘air’.
We turned to Sara, who sniffed and showed us her red-rimmed eyes.
“Dreadful business,” said Fehrson. “Dreadful.” He plunged his knife into the stack of waffles, which belched syrup over the table. “Damn,” he said. “Thought that would happen. Fetch me a lappie would you, Sara? There’s a dear.”
Fehrson pointed the syrupy knife at the chairs opposite him. We sat down.
“You saw it?” he asked, using the knife to indicate that he was addressing me.
“It’s worrying,” I said.
“Dis maar net die begin,” said Fehrson, speaking Afrikaans, and then in case I had not realised he was using that language, he added: “in Afrikaans,” and he inserted a large forkful of dripping waffle into his mouth. “It is an Afrikaans town,” he said through the waffle, “so they translate it into Afrikaans.”
“Yes,” I said as we watched him chew.
“Only the beginning,” said Fehrson, when he had completed his twenty mastications and swallowed.
“Only the beginning,” I confirmed. Fehrson looked as if he suspected I was mocking him, so I added: “My mother was Afrikaans.”
“Of course. Don’t know why I keep forgetting that.” Fehrson held his knife aloft as he ran over the details of my provenance in his mind. “Written in Zulu, they tell me. Khanyisile will have do the Zulu part.”
“Isiqalo nje,” said Khanyi obediently, producing the percussive click on the ‘q’ and the softer dismissive click against her front teeth for the ‘nj’.
“Yes,” I said. Khanyi had already provided
