If you can dream it, you can do it.
Where do you get that populist crap?
Read it somewhere. Its true.
Thats Norman Vincent Peale or Steven Covey, one of those false prophets. Great white witch doctors.
I dont know them.
We are programmed, Tiny. Wired. What we are, we are, in sinew and bone.
We are growing older and wiser. The world is changing around us.
Van Heerden was always excruciatingly honest. I dont believe a man can change his inherent nature. The best we can do is to acknowledge the balance of good and evil in ourselves. And accept it. Because its there. Or at least the potential for it. We live in a world where the good is glorified and the bad misunderstood. What you can do is to alter the perspective. Not the nature.
No, he had said.
They left it there, agreeing to differ.
When he was discharged and left the white man behind in the hospital, he said good-bye with so much enthusiasm for reinventing himself, on fire for the new Thobela Mpayipheli, that Zatopek had taken his hands and said, If anyone can do it, you can. There was urgency in his voice, as if he had a personal stake in the outcome.
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 soldiers body like machine-gun fire, despairing dont, dont, dont 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; Pakamiles eyes wide and interested. When they arrived Van Heerdens mother was there to sweep the child away: Ive got a pony just for you. Hours later when he came back, the boys 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 wouldnt 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
rooikrans
logs, because Thobela had a talent for mimicry. Later, when the coals were glowing and Van Heerden was turning the sausage and chops with a practiced hand, he had said to his friend, I am a new man, Van Heerden.
Im glad.
He laughed at the man. You dont believe me.
Its not me who must believe, its you.
They hadnt 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 Mazibukos voice over the radio. Pure, clear, sheer hate. He had recognized it. For nearly forty years it had been his closest companion.
Its not me who must believe, its you.
* * *
It took Allison nearly fifteen minutes to convince the Xhosa woman that she was on Thobelas side. Miriams mouth remained stern, her words few; she evaded questions with a shake
of the head but finally gave in: Hes helping a friend, thats what. And now look what theyre doing.
Helping a friend?
Johnny Kleintjes.
Is that the friends 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?
Kleintjess daughter came around yesterday evening to ask Thobela to take something to him. In Lusaka.
What did she want him to take?
I dont know.
Was it a document?
No.
What did it look like?
I didnt see it.
Why didnt she take it herself?
Kleintjes is in trouble.
What sort of trouble?
I dont know.
Allison drew a deep breath. Mrs. Nzululwazi, I want to be sure Ive 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 wont help Thobela. Kleintjess daughter came to your house yesterday evening, you say, and asked him to take something to her father in Lusaka?
Yes.
Because her father is in trouble?
Yes.
And Thobela agreed because they are old comrades?
Yes.
And so he took the motorcycle
The tension and confusion were too much for Miriam. Her voice broke. No, he was going to take the plane, but they stopped him.
For the first time the reporter saw the stubbornness in the light of deep worry and put her hand on the thin shoulder. For a moment Miriam stood stiff and humiliated before leaning against Allison, letting her arms fold around her, and the tears ran freely.
* * *
For two hours Janina slept on the sofa in her office, a deep dreamless sleep until the cell phones alarm went off. Her feet swung to the ground immediately and she stood up with purpose, the rest a thin buffer against fatigue and tension, but it would have to suffice. She showered in the big bathroom on the tenth floor, enjoying the tingling water, the scent of soap and shampoo, her thoughts going on to the next steps, laying out the day like a map.
She pulled on black trousers and a white blouse, black shoes, wiped the steam from the mirror, brushed her hair, made up her face with deft movements of fingers and hands, and walked first to her office for the dossiers and then to the directors door.
She knocked.
Come in, Janina. As if he had been waiting for her.
She opened the door and entered. He was standing at the window, looking out over Wale Street toward the provincial government buildings and Table Mountain behind. It was a clear and sunny morning with the flags across the street waltzing lazily in the breeze.
I have something to confess, sir.
He did not turn. No need, Janina. It was the rain.
Not about that, sir.
When he stood etched against the sky like that, his hunchback was obvious. It was like a burden he carried. He stood so still, as if too tired to move.
The minister has phoned twice already. She wants to know if this thing will become an embarrassment to us.
I am sorry, sir.
Dont be, Janina. I am not. We are doing our job. The minister must do hers. She is paid to handle embarrassments.
She placed the dossiers on the desk. Sir, I involved Johnny Kleintjes in this.
He did not move. The silence stretched out between them.
On March seventeenth this year a Muslim extremist was arrested by the police on charges of possession of unlicensed firearms. One Ismail Mohammed, a leading player, probably a member of Pagad, Quibla, and/or MAIL. He repeatedly requested a meeting with a representative of the intelligence services. We were fortunate that the police approached us first. I sent Williams.
The director turned slowly. She wondered if he had slept last night. She wondered if it was the same shirt he had been wearing yesterday. His face betrayed no weariness.
He walked over to the chair behind his desk, not meeting her eyes.
Here is the full transcript of the interview. Only Williams, the typist, and myself know about this.
I am sure you had a reason for not showing me this, Janina. Now for the first time she could see that he was tired, the combination of inflection and body language and the dullness in his eyes.
Sir, I made a choice. I think you will eventually agree it was a reasonable one.
Tell me.
Mohammed had information about Inkululeko.
It was a moment she had waited a long time for. He showed no reaction, said nothing.
You know there have been speculations and suspicions for years.
The director seemed to sigh as if releasing internal tension. He leaned back in his chair. Do sit down, Janina.
Thank you, sir.
She pulled the chair closer, drawing a breath to proceed, but he held up a small hand, the palm rose-colored, the nails perfectly manicured.
You kept this from me because I am under suspicion. Not a question, a mild statement.
Yes, sir.
Was that the right thing to do, Janina?
Yes, sir.
I think so, too.
Thank you, sir.
No need to thank me, Janina. It is what I expect from you. That is how I have taught you. Trust no one.
She smiled. It was true.
Do you think it necessary now for me to know everything?
I think you need to know about Johnny Kleintjes.
Then you may tell me.
She considered awhile, collecting her thoughts. The director would know of Inkululekos history back through the eighties, when the rumors in the leaders circle of the ANC were put down to counterintelligence maliciously planted by the regime to damage the unity between Xhosa and Zulus in the organization. But even after 1992 the rumors persisted, the violence in Kwa-Zulu, the Third Force. And since the 1994 elections the feeling that the CIA were too well informed.
She tapped the dossier in front of her. Ismail Mohammed says in the interview that Inkululeko is a senior member of the intelligence arm. He says he has proof. He says Inkululeko is working for the CIA. Has been for years.
What proof?
Not one big thing. Many small ones. You know the Cape Muslim extremists have connections with Qaddafi and Arafat and bin Laden. He says they deliberately fed misinformation into the system here and watched things unfold in the Middle East. He says there is no doubt.
And we must assume they have decided to remove Inkululeko by giving us information.
We must consider that possibility at least, sir.
He smoothed his tie slowly as if removing imagined wrinkles. I think I understand now, Janina. You fetched Johnny Kleintjes out of retirement.
Yes, sir. I needed someone credible. Someone who would have had access to the data.
You sent him to the American consulate.
Yes, sir.
He was to tell them he had data he wanted to sell. And if it had been me, I would have told Johnny to use the September eleventh attacks as motivation. Something like I can no longer sit back and watch these things happen while I have information that can help you.
Something like that.
And the name of Inkululeko as an afterthought, an incidental extra?
She merely nodded.
So that they can know we know. Clever, Janina.
Apparently not clever enough, sir. It may have backfired on us.
I would guess you had a few names you wanted to experiment with, a few possible Inkululekos? To test reactions?
Three names. And a lot of harmless information. If the Americans said the data is nonsense, we would know he is not one of those three. If they pay, we know we are on target.
