He did not sleep again but shook on the mattress, the adrenaline dammed up, wondering if there would be more roadblocks, because his nerves could not take it. He wanted to get out from under the tarpaulin, wanted to get on the bike and have control? he could not be this helpless, wondering where they were, how long he had been sleeping.
It was practically dark where he lay, the hands of his watch invisible. He turned so he could lift the canvas, realized it had stopped raining, managed an opening. Twenty past twelve. Lowered the sail again.
Two hours on the road at an average of ninety, a hundred kilometers per hour. Richmond, that is where he guessed the roadblock had been. It was one of the danger spots they had discussed in the house when they had hunched over the map. He wanted to go to De Aar; Koos Kok said no, the army was there, let?s go through Merriman to Richmond and then take the back roads to Philipstown, and there you were through the worst, Petrusville, Luckhoff, Koffiefontein, perhaps some danger at Petrusburg because it was on the main route between Kimberley and Bloem-fontein, but after that it was a straight run, Dealesville, Bloemhof, Mafikeng, and Botswana and nobody would be the wiser.
He was not so sure. Kimberley was the straight line. And that is where they would wait for him. On a motorbike, not in the back of an El Camino.
And eventually decided the risk was too high.
The bakkie lost speed.
What now?
Stopped.
Lord.
?Xhosa,? said Koos Kok. ?What??
?don'?t worry. I have to fill up.? ?Where??
?Richmond. It?s just here.? Lord.
?Okay, fine.?
Koos Kok pulled away again.
He should have added: ?No jokes about the man on the motorbike.?
But it probably wouldn'?t have made any difference.
23.
She was naive when she joined the
But disillusionment followed, not suddenly or dramatically? the small realities slowly took over uninvited. The realization that people are an unreliable, dishonest, self-centered, self-absorbed, backstabbing, violent, sly species that lie, cheat, murder, rape, and steal, regardless of their status, nationality, or color. It was a gradual but often traumatic process for someone who wished only to see good and beauty.
Miriam Nzululwazi and Immanuel the shoeshine man had argued with such conviction that Mpayipheli was a good man. The minister had sketched another picture, the tragedy of the once trustworthy soldier gone bad. Very bad.
Where was the truth?
Will the real Thobela Mpayipheli please stand up.
The only way to find the truth, she knew, was to keep on digging. Keep asking questions and sift the wheat from the chaff.
Eventually Nic phoned in Orlando Arendse?s contact numbers. ?You can try, but it won?t be easy,? he said.
She began phoning, one number after another.
?Orlando who?? was the reaction without exception. She would tell her story, in a breathless hurry before they broke the connection: it was about Thobela Mpayipheli, she just wanted background, she would protect her source.
?You have the wrong number, lady.?
?So what is the right number??
Then the line would go dead and she would ring the next one. ?My name is Allison Healy, I?m with the
?Where did you get this number??
She was taken unaware; ?from the police? was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. ?I?m a reporter, it?s my job to find people, but, please, it?s about Thobela Mpayipheli? .?
?Sorry, wrong number.?
She rang all five numbers without success and slammed the flat of her hand down on the desk in frustration and then went to have a smoke on the sidewalk outside, short, angry drags on the cigarette. Maybe she should threaten. ?If Arendse does not speak to me, I will put his name and occupation in every article I write about this. Take your choice.?
No. Better to try again.
