Those Who Love Night Read online

  He was talking again. “Where are you staying?”

  As if you don’t know, she thought. “The Holiday Inn,” she lied.

  The look of surprise that crossed Chunga’s face was momentary, but it was clear to Abigail. “In that case, we’ll get you there.” His eyes dropped, seemingly unable to maintain the contact. “You’ll hear from me tomorrow.” He took a card from one of his jacket pockets and passed it to her. “The number of my cell phone is on it, in case you need me.”

  “Thank you.”

  After he had left, they had to draw aside a curtain before they could look down into the street. The black double-cab pickup with the CAM registration plates was parked half a block away. Chunga appeared from the front door of the building and walked quickly toward the vehicle. He was accompanied by two other men, both also in civilian clothing.

  “They must have waited for him outside,” Patel said.

  “Yes.”

  “He likes you—sexually, I mean.”

  “Perhaps.” The warmth in her face was draining away.

  “Without a doubt. And do you think he’ll try to contact you at the Holiday Inn?”

  “No. He knows I’m not staying there.”

  “Why did you tell him that you are?”

  “To test that statement, to see if he does know better. And he does.”

  “Yes, I could also see that. And are you going to wait for him to report before serving the papers?”

  “No, but he also knows that I’m not going to.” She stepped away from the window. “Give me our submission, Krisj. I want to go over it again tonight.”

  “I didn’t think things would happen so fast,” Patel said. “How did he know? Do you think someone in our circle told him?”

  “Don’t spend any time thinking about how the authorities know what they seem to know. It’ll mess with your mind. People used to do that in my country in apartheid days. Eventually no one trusts anyone else. Forget it.” She reached out and gave the shoulder closest to her a reassuring squeeze. “There’s no point in delaying anything. The faster we get it done, the sooner it’ll be over.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I want you to take me back to the hotel. I’ve got work to do.” She looked at him. Standing next to her in his ill-fitting clothes, he looked so vulnerable. Increasingly, Abigail felt the need to pat him or stroke him, not as a lover, but perhaps as a parent. “God willing, I’ll see you tomorrow, Krisj. We’ll let them know they’re in a fight.”

  Patel looked straight into her eyes. He may have been thinking about the CIO. “God willing,” he said.

  As they left the office, she wondered why she had used that expression. It was not usually one of hers.

  16

  Dad, as Yudel called Rosa’s father, was waiting for him. He had been waiting all day. The thought of being taken out and having something to eat in one of the city’s restaurants and simultaneously escaping a meal or two at the home was a source of endless anticipation.

  The strengths of the home’s staff lay in qualities like cleanliness and orderliness, not imagination. To compensate, Dad had his own small refrigerator packed with yogurt, muffins, cold meats and other snacks. He had filled his room with reminders of his identity. Family photographs were everywhere. Group photos of picnics, grandchildren performing in school concerts, himself with a ten-year-old Rosa, holding hands with Hanna, his wife of many years who had died only ten months before … his walls were covered with mementos of more active days.

  He was sitting on the edge of his bed when Yudel came in. His weekend bag that the nurses had packed was next to him. He rose slowly, with some difficulty. “Yudel, my boy,” he said. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”

  Yudel looked at the anxious eyes of his father-in-law and hated himself for all the times he had resented running these errands for the old man. “I never have and I never will,” he said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “But I’ve been waiting so long.”

  “Remember I told you I could only come in the afternoon.”

  “Yes, but I was waiting.”

  Conversations with Dad often followed this sort of pattern. Yudel let it go. Pursuing it had no purpose. He picked up Dad’s bag and helped him up. “Thank you for fetching me, Yudel,” Dad said plaintively, as they started down the corridor,

  “It’s a pleasure, but please don’t thank me. It’s not necessary.”

  The route they had to take passed close to the door of the matron’s office. She was standing outside her office—lying in wait, as Yudel thought of it. Of all the many people, including thousands of convicts, who Yudel had regular dealings with, there were few that he actively disliked. Matron van Deventer was one of them. “She’s a bureaucrat disguised as a nurse,” he had told Rosa on more than one occasion.

  “Doctor Gordon.” He had been trying to slip past, keeping Dad between him and the matron.

  The tone of her voice brought him to a stop. “Mr. Gordon,” he muttered.

  “I thought you were Doctor Gordon.”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “You would know, I’m sure.” She continued without, as far as Yudel could see, even pausing to breathe. “I would like to talk to you about Mr. Yachad. I believe he’s very lonely. It would help if you could see your way clear to fetch him every weekend.” It was said with the accusatory tone the righteous routinely employ when dealing with sinners.

  “We do,” Yudel said.

  “Mr. Yachad says otherwise.” Given the tone of her voice, she might just as well have said, Don’t you lie to me, Dr. Gordon.

  Yudel frowned at Dad. “Mr. Yachad is mistaken.”

  “I don’t see how he could be. It’s his life. He should know.”

  “Look at your logbook, woman,” Yudel was surprised by his angry tone. I should try to perfect it, he thought.

  “I certainly shall.”

  “Good. I’ll await your apology.” He took Dad by the arm and set off down the corridor at a quick march. He only slowed as they reached the parking lot. “Dad, did you put her up to that?”

  “You know me, Yudel. I can’t remember when you last came.”

  “We came on Sunday. We went to the zoo and got one of those little golf carts and drove around in it. And you had spaghetti Bolognese under the trees.”

  “Oh yes. Was that last Sunday?”

  “Yes. What did you tell her?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  You lying old bugger, Yudel thought. On their way to meet Rosa, Yudel deliberately drove slowly to let his agitation subside.

  “Yudel,” Dad said softly. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

  Yudel glanced at him, ninety years old and feeling remorse for the sympathy-seeking lie he had told the matron. I know, Yudel thought. You were just trying to win a little warmth from that piece of ice masquerading as a woman. Let me not be a jerk. “I’m not angry, Dad. It’s all right.”

  Dad waited a few seconds for the matter to subside. “Yudel, you’re a man who knows all about people. You know what they do and why they do it.”

  Superficially, I’m afraid, Yudel thought. “What do you want to know, Dad?”

  “I’ve heard them say that young women like older men. Is it true?”

  “Older men like me, or older men like you?”

  “Older men like me.”

  Yudel looked at the anxious eyes of the old man. His mouth was hanging open slightly and Yudel could see the gaps where two of his teeth were missing. He had not shaved well that morning and odd patches of stubble were visible in irregular patterns across his cheeks and chin. “Certainly,” Yudel said.

  “Then I don’t know why when I try to talk to them, they never seem very interested.”

  “So what does the matron say about you trying to pick up women?” Yudel tried not to smirk.

  “No, Yudel, not like that. I just try to talk to the nurses sometimes.”

  Oh damn, Yudel thought, don’t we ever outlive it? He
considered the matter for a moment before being assailed by what seemed to be a moment of inspiration. “I am told that all such problems can be resolved by good marketing,” he said.

  Dad looked puzzled. “I don’t know anything about marketing, Yudel.”

  But a new thought had been forming in the convoluted patterns of Yudel’s thinking. “Perhaps I can help,” he said.

  Parking was not easy to find near the newspaper office, but after a few times round the block, he saw a car leave on the other side of the street. An illegal U-turn that almost resulted in a collision with one of the city’s endless streams of minibus taxis got him into the bay marginally ahead of a luxury four-wheel-drive vehicle. The owner shouted something out of the window, then drove away.

  The only person manning an office that was marked “Classified Ads” was a young woman, probably still in her teens. Straggling, bleached hair hung down her back in uneven lengths. She was busy painting her toenails a fluorescent pink. “I’d like to place a classified ad,” Yudel told her.

  “Why don’t you do it on the Internet,” the girl said. “It’s easy.”

  “I want to do it now. I came here to do it.”

  “Anyone can do it on our Web site,” she said, carefully examining the glowing varnish she had administered to the small toe of her right foot. “It’s easy to do.”

  “Are you refusing to take my advertisement?” Yudel glared at her. Mariette van Deventer had been enough for one afternoon.

  The girl sighed audibly and laid down the little bottle of varnish. “No, I’ll take it. We always give good service. It’s company policy.”

  Dad, holding on to one of Yudel’s sleeves for support, was following the exchange like a spectator at a tennis match.

  The girl passed a printed form to Yudel. “Name and telephone number,” she demanded. After he had filled in those pieces of information, she took back the form. “Section?”

  “Social,” Yudel said.

  She looked at Yudel. “So what’s it got to say?”

  Yudel gathered his thoughts for a moment before starting: “Financially secure older gentleman seeks companionship. I am vigorous, loving, considerate and generous. I am looking for an attractive female companion between the ages of thirty and seventy. I expect her to be well-read, intelligent, industrious and a good cook. Applications from ladies who are physically well endowed and possess a grandfather complex will receive preferential treatment. Applicants please phone”—he thought a moment, in order to get the matron’s name right—“Mariette van Deventer at 012-664-3922 to make an appointment with Morrie Yachad.”

  The girl stopped writing and reread her work. “An older gentleman like him”—cocking her head toward Dad—“or an older gentleman like you?”

  “Like him,” Yudel said.

  Dad smiled at her, revealing the gaps in his teeth.

  She made a copy of the form, placed the original in an out-tray and slipped the copy into her bag on the floor under her desk. “Still, I like the part about him being financially secure. None of my boyfriends ever have a buck to their names.”

  “None of them?” Yudel asked innocently.

  “Not one.”

  “The bastards,” Yudel said.

  “And this grandfather-complex thing—what’s that?”

  “Girls who have the hots for men old enough to be their grandfathers,” Yudel explained.

  “You get that?”

  “Certainly.”

  “A lot?”

  “Millions of them.”

  “Jeez.” She sounded stunned. “Some chicks are weird.”

  “So, are you signing up for a meeting?”

  “The next time one of my boyfriends takes me out and I have to pay, I’ll phone this Mariette. I swear.”

  “You won’t be sorry,” Yudel said. “Take no nonsense from Mariette, though. She can be a bit difficult.”

  * * *

  As a result of stopping at the newspaper office, Yudel and Dad were late meeting Rosa in the comfortable, family-run restaurant where they were going to have an early supper. A treat for Dad, Rosa had said. She was sipping from a glass of white wine when they came in.

  “We were slowed up by that damned matron,” Yudel said. “She accused us of not taking Dad out often enough.”

  “The cheek of it.” Rosa’s face colored red at the thought of such impudence.

  “And we had to do marketing,” Dad said.

  “Marketing?” Rosa looked at Yudel.

  A barely perceptible shake of Yudel’s head was intended to convey that Dad was confused as usual.

  “Never mind marketing,” Rosa said. “Let’s order. I’m hungry. I had no lunch and I’ve been waiting half an hour for the pair of you.”

  After they had placed their orders, the proprietor, a man in his early seventies who spoke with a Greek accent and walked slowly between the tables, came to tell them that the kleftiko Rosa had ordered for Dad would take half an hour. If you wanted to get the best out of it, it could not be hurried.

  “We’ll survive till then,” Rosa told him.

  “I’m looking forward to this,” Dad said. “Since the ANC won the election, they’ve given us practically nothing to eat in that place.”

  Rosa looked at her father through half-closed eyes. “Don’t talk nonsense, Dad. The government has nothing to do with the food at the home.”

  “I’m telling you, Rosa…”

  “The home is a private institution. And the election was months ago. If you’d had practically nothing to eat, you would’ve been dead by now.”

  “I nearly am.”

  Dad was halfway through his life-saving kleftiko when he suddenly put down his knife and fork. Rosa followed almost immediately. It took a few more seconds before Yudel realized that he was the only one eating. Looking up, he saw the panic on the faces of both his wife and father-in-law.

  “Yudel,” Rosa said, “I need to ask you a very big favor.”

  Yudel looked from Rosa to Dad. “What’s happening here?”

  “Yudel,” Rosa was pleading, “we’re not entirely continent any-more and I can’t go into the men’s room with Dad.”

  It took Yudel a long moment to understand. “Jesus, Dad,” he said, “have you shat yourself?”

  “No, Yudel, I never shat myself. It’s just a wet fart.”

  “Please, Yudel, but you have to go now.” Rosa handed Yudel a plastic bag that contained something soft.

  “What’s this?”

  “A pad.”

  “A sanitary towel?”

  “A special kind for this. Please, Yudel.”

  He took the bag from Rosa. “Come on, Dad, before I change my mind.”

  On their way to the toilet two waiters watched them with interest. They were accustomed to seeing female clientele approaching the toilets in groups. More than one man at a time was unusual. One of them said something to the other. The second one shrugged. Professionally, it was simply not their business.

  Five minutes later, Rosa watched them come back from the toilet, Yudel leading Dad between the tables. “Thank you, Yudel,” she said. “You’re a kind man.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Yudel muttered.

  “I just want you to know that I appreciate it.”

  Dad added his bit. “I also appreciate it.”

  “It’s all right, both of you. Forget it. I’m trying to.” He thought briefly about the classified ad and the girl in the newspaper office and how she would have coped with the situation and whether a measure of financial security was worth it. Suddenly he was not convinced of the kindness of his actions.

  “The real problem is I suffer from tenesmus,” Dad told Yudel.

  “No, Dad. You don’t suffer from tenesmus.”

  “What’s tenesmus?” Rosa asked.

  The possibility of an answer was interrupted by a distant voice. “Answer your phone,” it wailed. “Answer now.”

  Rosa scratched in her bag and brought out her cell phone. “Answer yo
ur phone,” the phone itself commanded, louder and more insistent now.

  “Christ, is that a phone?” Yudel wanted to know.

  “They put that on instead of a ring tone,” Rosa explained. Her eyebrows rose as she recognized the voice on the other end of the connection. “Abigail, my dear, how are you?” Then, after a moment of listening, “Yes, of course. He’s right here.”

  Yudel took the phone from Rosa. “Yudel?” Abigail’s voice was as clear as if she was in the same room.

  “Where are you?” He had already guessed the answer, but wanted it confirmed.

  “I’m in Zimbabwe.”

  “Working on your case?”

  “Yes. Have you heard from Robert?”

  “No. I’ve had no contact with Robert since that confusion at the hotel.”

  “I can’t get hold of him.”

  “Shall I try to reach him for you?” Yudel did not believe that this was the reason for her call, though. “Are you having difficulties?” He was aware of the close attention Rosa was paying to the part of the conversation she could hear.

  “Everything seems to be difficult here. I’ve already had a meeting with one of the CIO top people and I’m serving the papers tomorrow.”

  Yudel had heard about the CIO from Zimbabwean prisoners in this country, but he had never been convinced of the accuracy of their stories. “Perhaps after you’ve served the papers you can come home until you have a court date.”

  “I’m not sure that I can. In fact, I don’t feel I can come home till it’s all over.”

  “I think Robert will want you to. I’ll try to contact him.”

  “No, don’t contact him.”

  “I can go to his office…”

  “No, leave it alone, Yudel. Please leave it alone.”

  “Abigail,” he said, pausing long enough after her name to create the effect that this was important. “Is there some way I can help you?”

  “Thank you, Yudel, but no. I don’t believe so.”

  Then why did you call? he asked himself. “You know that if there’s anything I can do, you have only to ask.”

  “I know.”

  After the conversation was over and Yudel had returned the phone to Rosa to switch off, she asked, “Is Abigail in Zimbabwe?”

  “Yes.”