And now he lay on a dusty, musty coir mattress in the middle of the Karoo and sleep eluded him because the scene with the two soldiers played over and over in his head. He sought the singularity, the moment when he had regressed, when that which he wanted to be had fallen away. The high blood of battle rising so quickly in his head, his hands so terribly ready to kill, his brain clattering out the knowledge of the vital points on the soldier?s body like machine-gun fire, despairing? don'?t, don'?t, don'?t? fighting with himself, such deep disappointment. If Pakamile could see him ? and Miriam, how shocked she would be.
?Look what you made me do.? The words had come out before they were formed. Now he knew it was displacement of blame; he needed a sinner, but the sinner lay within. Wired.
What could you do?
If Van Heerden was right, what could you do?
They went to visit Van Heerden once, he and Miriam and Pakamile, on a smallholding beyond Table View, at a small white house? his mother lived in the big white house. A Saturday afternoon, the family from the townships picked up at the taxi rank in Killarney Van Heerden and Thobela chatting straight off, the bond between them as strong as it always is for people who have faced death together. Miriam was quiet, uncomfortable; Pakamile?s eyes wide and interested. When they arrived Van Heerden?s mother was there to sweep the child away: ?I?ve got a pony just for you.? Hours later when he came back, the boy?s eyes were shining with excitement. ?Can we have horses on the farm, Tho-bela, please, Thobela??
The attorney, Beneke, was also there, she and Miriam had spoken English, but it wouldn'?t work, lawyer and tea lady, the gulf of color and culture and three hundred years of African history gaped in the uneasy silences between them.
Van Heerden and he had made the fire for the barbecue outside. He stood around the fire, he told stories of his new job, of motorbike clients, middle-aged men looking for remedies for male menopause, and they had laughed by the burning
?I?m glad.?
He laughed at the man. ?You don'?t believe me.?
?It?s not me who must believe, it?s you.?
They hadn'?t visited like that again. Rather, he and Van Heerden went somewhere to eat and talk once a month. About life. People. About race and color, politics and aspirations, about the psychology that Van Heerden had begun studying intensely to try and tame his own devils.
He sighed, turned onto his back, the shoulder aching more now. He had to sleep; he had to get his head clear.
What could you do?
You could walk away from circumstances that brought out the worst in you. You could isolate yourself from them.
The hatred in Captain Tiger Mazibuko?s voice over the radio. Pure, clear, sheer hate. He had recognized it. For nearly forty years it had been his closest companion.
It took Allison nearly fifteen minutes to convince the Xhosa woman that she was on Thobela?s side. Miriam?s mouth remained stern, her words few; she evaded questions with a shake of the head but finally gave in: ?He?s helping a friend, that?s what. And now look what they?re doing.?
?Helping a friend??
?Johnny Kleintjes.?
?Is that the friend?s name?? Allison did not write it down, afraid to intimidate the woman. Instead, she memorized it feverishly, repeating the name in her head.
Miriam nodded. ?They were together in the Struggle.?
?How is he helping him??
?Kleintjes?s daughter came around yesterday evening to ask Thobela to take something to him. In Lusaka.?
?What did she want him to take??
?I don'?t know.?
?Was it a document??
?No.?
?What did it look like??
?I didn?'t see it.?
?Why didn?'t she take it herself??
?Kleintjes is in trouble.?
?What sort of trouble??
?I don'?t know.?
Allison drew a deep breath. ?Mrs. Nzululwazi, I want to be sure I?ve got this straight, because if I make a mistake and write something that is not true, then I and the newspaper are in trouble and that won?t help Thobela. Kleintjes?s daughter came to your house yesterday evening, you say, and asked him to take something to her father in Lusaka??
?Yes.?
