?In his room. I told him to wait there.?
?I?m sorry,? said Monica Kleintjes.
?What can I do for you?? He looked at her, slightly plump in her loose, expensive clothes: blouse, skirt, stockings, and low-heeled shoes. He struggled to keep the irritation out of his voice.
?I am Johnny Kleintjes?s daughter. I need to talk to you privately.?
His heart sank.
After all these years.
Miriam?s back straightened. ?I will be in the kitchen.?
?No,? he said. ?I have no secrets from Miriam.?
But she walked out anyway.
?I really am sorry,? said Monica again.
?What does Johnny Kleintjes want??
?He?s in trouble.?
?Johnny Kleintjes,? he said mechanically as the memories returned. Johnny Kleintjes would choose him. It made sense.
?Please,? she said.
He jerked back to the present. ?First, I must say hello to Pakamile,? he said. ?Back in a minute.?
He went through to the kitchen. Miriam stood by the stove, her eyes outside. He touched her shoulder but got no reaction. He walked down the short passage, pushed open the child?s door. Pakamile lay on the little bed with a schoolbook, looked up. ?aren'?t we going to farm today??
?Afternoon, Pakamile.?
?Afternoon, Thobela.?
?We will go farming today. After I have talked to our visitor.?
The boy nodded solemnly.
?Have you had a nice day??
?It was okay. At break we played soccer.?
?Did you score a goal??
?No. Only the big boys kick goals.?
?But you are a big boy.?
Pakamile just smiled.
?I?m going to talk to our guest. Then we?ll go farm.? He rubbed his hand over the boy?s hair and went out, his unease now multiplying. Johnny Kleintjes? this meant trouble, and he had brought it to this house.
They strode in time across the parade ground of First Parachute Battalion, also known as the Parabats, or simply the Bats. Captain Tiger Mazibuko was one step ahead of Little Joe Moroka.
?Is it him?? asked Mazibuko, and pointed to the small group. Four Parabats sat in the shade under the wide umbrella of the thorn tree. A German shepherd lay at the feet of the stocky lieutenant, its tongue lolling, panting in the Bloemfontein heat. It was a big, confident animal.
?That?s him, Captain.?
Mazibuko nodded and picked up the pace. Red dust puffed up at each footfall. The Bats, three whites and one colored, were talking rugby, the lieutenant holding forth with authority. Mazibuko was there, stepped between them and kicked the dog hard on the side of the head with his steel-capped combat boot. It gave one yelp and staggered into the sergeant?s legs.
?Fuck,? said the Bat lieutenant, dumbfounded.
?Is this your dog?? asked Mazibuko. The faces of the soldiers expressed total disbelief.
?What the hell did you do that for?? A trickle of blood ran out of the dog?s nose. It leaned dazedly against the sergeant?s leg. Mazibuko lashed out again, this time in the side. The sound of breaking ribs was overlaid by the cries of all four Parabats.
?You fucker ?,? screamed the lieutenant, and hit out, a wild swing that caught the back of Mazibuko?s neck. He took one step back. He smiled.
?You are all my witnesses. The lieutenant hit first.?
Then he moved in, free and easy, unhurried. A straight right to the face to draw attention upward. A kick surely and agonizingly to the kneecap. As the Parabat toppled forward, Mazibuko brought up his knee into the face. The white man flipped over backward, blood streaming from a broken nose.
Mazibuko stepped back, hands hanging relaxed at his sides. ?This morning you messed with one of my men, Lieutenant.? He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at Little Joe Moroka. ?You set your fucking little dog on him.?
The man had a hand over his bloody nose, the other on the ground trying to prop himself up. Two Bats came closer, the sergeant kneeling by the dog, which lay still. ?Uh ?,? said the lieutenant, looking down at the blood on his hand.
