burned-out cars, the driver slowed down and came to a halt. Matilda got out then came to sit beside him in the back seat. She had a black hood in her hand.
“You’re not allowed to see from now on,” she said.
He protested and pushed her hand away.
“What is there to be afraid of?” she asked. “Make up your mind.”
He took hold of the hood.
“Why?” he asked.
“There are a thousand eyes,” she said. “You are not to see anything. And nobody’s going to see you, either.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said. “It’s a riddle.”
“Not for me it isn’t,” she replied. “Make up your mind now!”
He pulled the hood over his head. They set off again. The road was getting worse all the time. But the driver did not slow down. Scheepers rode with the bumps as best he could. Even so he banged his head on the car roof several times. He lost all count of time. The hood was irritating his face, and his skin started to itch.
The car slowed down and came to a halt. Somewhere a dog was barking furiously. Music from a radio was coming and going in waves. Despite the hood he could smell the smoke from fires. Matilda helped him out of the car. Then she removed the hood. The sun shone straight into his unprotected eyes, blinding him. When his eyes got used to the light he could see they were in the middle of a mass of shacks cobbled together from corrugated iron, cardboard cartons, old sacks, sheets of plastic, venetian blinds. There were huts where a car wreck formed one of the rooms. There was a stink of garbage, and a skinny, mangy dog was sniffing at one of his legs. He observed the people who lived out their lives in this destitution. None of them seemed to notice he was there. There was no threat, no curiosity, merely indifference. He did not exist as far as they were concerned.
“Welcome to Kliptown.” said Matilda. “Maybe it’s Kliptown, maybe it’s some other shantytown. You’d never find your way back here anyway. They all look the same. The destitution is just as bad in all of them, the smells are the same, the inhabitants are the same.”
She led him into the cluster of shacks. It was like entering a labyrinth that soon swallowed him up, robbed him of his entire past. After a few paces he had totally lost all sense of direction. He thought how absurd it was that he had Jan Kleyn’s daughter by his side. But absurdity was their inheritance, something that was about to be disturbed for the first time, and then destroyed.
“What can you see?” she asked.
“The same as you,” he replied.
“No!” she said sternly. “Are you shocked?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not. Shock is a staircase. There are many steps. We are not standing on the same one.”
“Maybe you’re at the very top?”
“Nearly.”
“Is the view different?”
“You can see further. Zebra grazing in herds, on alert. Antelopes leaping and leaving gravity behind. A cobra that has hidden itself away in an empty termite stack. Woman carrying water.”
She stopped and turned to face him.
“I see my own hatred in their eyes,” she said. “But your eyes can’t see that.”
“What do you want me to say?” he wondered. “I think it’s sheer hell, living like this. The question is, is it my fault?”
“It might be,” she said. “That depends.”
They continued deeper into the labyrinth. He would never be able to find his way out alone. I need her, he thought. Like we have always needed the blacks. And she knows it.
Matilda halted outside a shack that was slightly bigger than the others, even if it was made from the same materials. She squatted by the door, which was shoddily made from a sheet of hardboard.
“Go on in,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”
Scheepers went in. At first he had difficulty in distinguishing anything at all in the darkness. Then he made out a simple wooden table, a few wooden chairs, and a smoking kerosene lamp. A man detached himself from the shadows. He gazed at him with a hint of a smile. Scheepers thought he must be about the same age as himself. But the man facing him was more powerfully built, had a beard, and radiated the same kind of dignity as he had found in both Miranda and Matilda.
“Georg Scheepers,” said the man, bursting into laughter. Then he pointed to one of the chairs.
“What’s so funny?” asked Scheepers. He had trouble in concealing his growing unease.
“Nothing,” said the man. “You can call me Steve.”
“You know why I want to meet you,” said Scheepers.
“You don’t want to meet me,” said the man who called himself Steve. “You want to meet somebody who can tell you things about Jan Kleyn you don’t know already. That person happens to be me. But it could just as easily have been somebody else.”
“Can we get to the point?” said Scheepers, who was beginning to get impatient.
“White men are always short of time,” said Steve. “I’ve never been able to understand why.”
“Jan Kleyn,” said Scheepers.
“A dangerous man,” said Steve. “Everybody’s enemy, not just ours. The ravens cry in the night. And we analyze and interpret and think we know something is going to happen, something that could cause chaos. And we wouldn’t want that. Neither the ANC nor de Klerk. That’s why you must first tell me what you know. Then perhaps we can combine to illuminate some of the darkest corners.”
Scheepers did not tell him everything. But he did divulge the most important points, and even that was a risk. He did not know who he was talking with. Nevertheless, he had no choice. Steve listened, stroking his chin slowly the while.
“So it’s gone that far,” he said when Scheepers had finished. “We’ve been expecting this. But we really thought some crazy Boer would first try to slit the throat of that traitor de Klerk.”
“A professional killer,” said Scheepers. “No face, no name. But he might have cropped up before. Not least in the vicinity of Jan Kleyn. Those ravens you were talking about could perhaps do some listening. The man could be white, he could be black. I’ve found an indication that he could be due for a lot of money. A million rand, perhaps more.”
“It ought to be possible to identify him,” said Steve. “Jan Kleyn only picks the best. If he’s a South African, black or white, we’ll find him.”
“Find him and stop him,” said Scheepers. “Kill him. We have to work together.”
“No,” said Steve. “We’re meeting now. But this is the only time. We’re going from two different directions, both on this occasion and in the future. Nothing else is possible.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t share each other’s secrets. Everything is still too unsure, too uncertain. We avoid all pacts and agreements unless they are absolutely essential. Don’t forget we’re enemies. And the war in our country has been going on for a very long time. Although you don’t want to recognize that fact.”
“We see things differently,” said Scheepers.
“Yes,” said Steve. “We do.”
The conversation had lasted only a few minutes. Even so, Steve got to his feet and Scheepers gathered it was all over.
“Miranda exists,” said Steve. “You can contact my world through her.”
“Yes,” said Scheepers. “She exists. We have to stop this assassination.”
“Right,” said Steve. “But I guess you are the ones who are going to have to do it. You are still the ones with the resources. I have nothing. Apart from a tin hut. And Miranda. And Matilda. Just imagine what would happen if the assassination came off.”
“I’d rather not think about it.”
Steve stared at him for a moment in silence. Then he disappeared through the door without saying goodbye. Scheepers followed him into the bright sunlight. Matilda led him back to the car without speaking. Once again he sat in the back seat with a hood over his head. In the darkness he was already preparing what to say to President de
