The October Killings Page 2

  “He may not come,” she told Johanna, the words issuing forth unplanned, almost surprising herself.

  “But everyone is here, even two cabinet ministers.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  None of this satisfied Johanna, but there was something in the tone of Abigail’s answers that forbade further questions.

  “I do hope he comes,” Johanna said.

  The minister waited another half hour, then, trying hard to conceal his irritation, made his speech about the power of selfless devotion to the cause and how Michael Bishop’s life confirmed this. The recognition of his part in the liberation struggle would not be confined to this day and the country would never forget the sacrifices he had made.

  The minister’s speech continued for some thirty minutes, but Abigail stopped listening after only a minute or two. She had found a place at the back of the room and, resting against the wall, barely took in the content of the minister’s speech. There were times when a blank mind was its best possible state.

  3

  Abigail was still hurrying. Her evening function followed so close behind her afternoon one that she barely had time to shower and change before leaving.

  As was her way, she had paused only briefly before the mirror before leaving. Abigail knew that her face and figure were pleasing to men. She also knew that a little more weight in the bosom would have further improved matters, but she was perfectly content with the way things were. For the occasion she had dressed in a plain black pants suit, broken only by a single string of pearls, the first present Robert had ever given her. The thought that this would be very simple attire compared to that worn by most of the ladies had not entered her mind.

  Robert Mokoapi, her husband, had been putting the day’s edition of his newspaper to bed and would shower and change at work, meeting her at the home where the function was being held. Abigail had no clear idea of the reason for this evening’s occasion, except that Robert wanted her to strengthen her relationship with the controlling shareholders of the company he worked for.

  At night the run from their apartment on the Groenkloof hillside overlooking eastern Pretoria to Johannesburg’s northern suburbs took no more than thirty minutes. Now, with the evening commuter rush not quite over, the drive from city to city could take more than twice as long.

  Following the directions Robert had given her, she found the high-walled multimillion-rand house at the end of a short street of other high-walled multimillion-rand houses. In much of South Africa, and especially in Johannesburg, if your lifestyle revealed that you had money, you needed to take precautions to safeguard it and your family. Every house in the street had electrified fencing along the tops of its walls, closed-circuit television cameras at the gates, electronic alarm systems and rapid-response armed guards on call. Abigail’s own home too was protected by all of these devices.

  A uniformed guard compared her name to those on a list before opening the gate. She drove into a garden that did not seem to contain a house at all. It was surrounded by five acres of garden and was not visible from the garden walls. As she followed the drive, the house came into view through a network of jacaranda, palm and plane tree branches. The parking area alone, to which she was guided by another uniformed guard, covered half an acre.

  There were perhaps twenty cars in the parking lot. Among them was Robert’s Mercedes, a perk on which the company had insisted. Robert always said that the symbols of status meant nothing to him. He was after the real thing, he said, not just the appearance of power.

  As she opened the car door she could hear the sound of many animated voices against the background of Beethoven’s Pathétique sonata. She smoothed down the pants of her suit. The glass sliding doors were open and the guests had flooded out onto a broad patio, paved with Italian tiles and fringed with tiny, stunted palms. The pianist, a young blond woman in tuxedo and bow tie, was working a grand piano that had been positioned under a yellow canvas awning on the edge of the patio. To Abigail’s ears, she was adding little floral bits that would have surprised the composer had he been present.

  A middle-aged man, whose receding hair was so black that to Abigail it had to be dyed, was scurrying around the patio giving orders to waiters and others. He came forward to meet her. His public relations company had sent out the invitations. “Abigail,” he said, in a tone that suggested that her presence had made the evening for him.

  “Martin,” she said, trying to capture in her voice some of his enthusiasm. “How good of you to invite me.”

  “I always invite the really important people, my dear.” They laughed, both knowing that he had nothing to do with the invitation list. “Robert has been asking after you,” he said. “He’s over there with the bigwigs.”

  She recognized the man with her husband as the controlling shareholder and chairman of Robert’s company. Nearly as tall as Robert and in his late sixties, but lean and tanned, in immaculately tailored slacks and turtleneck sweater, he looked like an advertisement for a luxury cruise line. He was, in fact, the third-generation custodian of his family’s gold-mining money. During the apartheid years, when sanctions kept his company confined by South Africa’s borders, he had invested in many nonmining activities, from shoe stores to real estate. He had since rid himself of all non-core businesses, excepting Robert’s newspaper.

  “The food tonight is something really special.” Martin was still next to her, no new guests having followed her from the parking area. Abigail raised an eyebrow in a feigned attempt at curiosity. “Fried mopani worms and locusts for starters.”

  Since she had left home she had been aware that some irritant had been at work, just below the surface of full consciousness. Now that she gave the matter her attention for the first time, she realized that it was the label on her suit that had been scratching the back of her neck. Over the last half hour it had been tearing persistently at her skin and was now almost impossible to ignore.

  “Say again…?” she said to Martin.

  “Followed by crocodile steaks with phutu porridge, and then fermented Amarula fruit with sour cream for dessert. To drink we have KwaZulu palm wine, distilled in their kraals by Zulu peasants.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Martin was indeed serious. “We decided to go all-African tonight. What do you think?”

  “Astonishing,” was all Abigail could manage politely.

  “I thought you’d be taken with our menu. Oh, here comes the deputy chairman. Got to go.”

  He hurried in the direction of the parking lot while Abigail started across the patio. Almost everyone present was a member of one of two groups, each with its own agenda. One group was made up of very rich white men who were determined to keep what they had by enriching a small band of influential black men beyond any possible imaginings. The other group was made up of influential black men: politicians, senior bureaucrats, one former cabinet minister who had recently resigned to pursue richer pickings, all determined to be part of the group that was being enriched by the very rich white men.

  Robert saw her long before she reached him and met her in the center of the patio. “You look great,” he said.

  A waiter swept up to them with a tray of crisply fried insects. Abigail waved him away. With her right hand she tried to reposition the offending label. “Have you seen the menu?” she asked. “Real African stuff, to make us darkies feel at home, no doubt.”

  “They’re just trying to be accepting,” Robert said. Abigail recognized his patient tone of voice.

  “Mopani worms, locusts, fermented Amarula with sour cream? Palm wine, made by Zulu peasants? For God’s sake. I grew up in Hampstead, just down the road from Buckingham Palace.”

  “Shhh…” He had a finger to his lips.

  “Robert, you’ve got to get me out of here. I won’t eat that to please anyone.”

  Robert took her by the arm and led her a few steps away from the nearest cluster of partygo
ers. “Listen, I need you to be on your best behavior tonight. Let me tell you what this is all about.”

  She hated it when Robert preached to her about being on her best behavior. Before he married her he knew that she was rarely well behaved. He should have made peace with it by now. Trying to avoid him, she looked into the depths of a garden, where flowering orchids had been arranged in the nearer trees for the evening. They would be returned to the nursery in the morning.

  He leaned forward to bring his face close to hers. “Tonight the old man is announcing his empowerment deal. I’m getting ten percent of the company.”

  Abigail turned to face him, her head spinning in his direction like a toy operated by a windup rubber band. Her neck was still itching. “Ten percent of Vuna Corp?” The name of the company meant “harvest.” It had been changed from National Media in the first year after the democratic elections.

  “That’s right. What’s wrong with your collar?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “You keep fiddling with it.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “If you keep fiddling, it looks as if something’s wrong.”

  “Ten percent?” Abigail asked.

  Robert grinned at her. “Sweetheart, we’re rich.”

  Abigail realized that his pleasure was simply in anticipation of pleasing her. She heard herself say, “I can hardly believe it. What’s it worth?”

  “Half a billion.”

  “Half a million?”

  “Half a billion.”

  “Half a billion rand?” It seemed impossible.

  “Half a billion rand,” Robert said emphatically.

  “Good God, Robert, are you worth that to them?” She paused for only a moment, before hurrying on. “I know how good you are at your work. It’s obvious to me, and everyone who knows you says so, but half a billion…”

  He was leaning toward her again, so that he would not have to raise his voice. “Look, they have to do it with someone. They can hardly do business in this country and interact with government without an empowerment partner. I’m the most suitable.”

  “And you pay nothing?”

  Now Robert looked uncomfortable. Abigail’s reaction was nothing like he had imagined it would be. “Nothing we have to worry about. There’s some fancy footwork in the accounting. It will take five years before the investment is fully ours.”

  “Good God, Robert.”

  “What is it?” He was almost begging.

  “Half a billion?”

  “You act as if you’re not pleased.”

  “I’m practically paralyzed.”

  A cluster of young black executives, drinks in hand, had moved closer to them. A broad-shouldered man, carrying too much weight and at thirty-five a leading office-bearer of the country’s most influential youth organization, was the center of attention. The entire group was laughing loudly at something he had said. He was hanging on to an embarrassed-looking young woman. “Everybody with influence has got his Indian,” he was saying. “It’s the way the world works.” He was referring to the local myth that all Indian South Africans were rich. His eyes fixed on Robert and he wagged a knowing finger. “What about you, Mokoapi? What do you say?” He waved a finger at Robert. “I can see you’ve got your Indian, my man.”

  Abigail was already moving away with Robert following. “Is that what Vuna Corp is—your Indian?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Robert said. “Big Vusi is a fool. Everyone knows that. I don’t understand you, Abby. I swear I don’t understand you. Don’t you want me to get ahead?”

  The chairman and his wife had been moving among the guests like royalty at a command performance, waving here, nodding there, a few words spoken somewhere else, all grace and graciousness. She was wearing a Ghanaian robe, complete with turban, no doubt part of the all-African ambience that Martin had been talking about. She spotted Abigail with Robert and moved her husband in their direction. “Abigail, my dear,” she said, as they approached. “You look lovely tonight.”

  “You too, Marcia. Your outfit is a perfect example of…” She caught Robert’s warning eye. “… of genuine African chic,” she finished. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw him relax.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Marcia said.

  “This is an important night for your husband,” the chairman said. “I searched for years to find a black editor of genuine ability. I was delighted when I found Robert.”

  “A personal triumph,” Abigail said. She felt more than saw Robert move uncomfortably next to her.

  “I like to think of it that way.”

  “Marcia, I was wondering…” Abigail began.

  Marcia had been looking admiringly at the chairman, who was smiling modestly.

  “Yes, dear?” Her eyebrows had risen involuntarily. Robert’s eyes had also widened, no doubt wondering what his non-conforming wife might be up to now.

  “Do you have some scissors I could borrow for a moment?”

  Marcia glanced at her husband in a way that seemed to indicate that this was not in the script. “I suppose I can find something, my dear. Come along.” She led the way through the sliding doors and up a staircase that reminded Abigail of Gone with the Wind. Her bedroom was decorated in lavender and was furnished with only a single bed and a hand-carved yellowwood dressing table. In the adjoining walk-in wardrobe that was almost as big as the bedroom itself she found a pair of nail scissors. “Will this do?” she asked. “I don’t know what the problem is.”

  Abigail had already rid herself of her jacket. “This label is driving me crazy. It feels like it’s made of sandpaper.”

  After the label had been dealt with and Abigail was ready to return to the party, Marcia held her by one arm. “Most young women would simply have suffered the label on an occasion like this.”

  “Maybe I’m not most young women.”

  “You certainly are not, my dear. You’re altogether refreshing. Something else I should mention…” She waited for Abigail’s full attention. “My husband gets a little overdone sometimes. When he called Robert a black editor of genuine ability, he simply meant that he was an editor of genuine ability.”

  Abigail nodded. “Thank you. That needed to be said.”

  When she got back to Robert, he studied her face for a moment before releasing a lungful of air. “You look happier.”

  “I no longer feel quite as patronized,” she said, “and the label’s gone. I’m sorry, Robert. Here I am, behaving like a bitch on your big night. Please forgive me.”

  “Let’s just try to be a little tolerant. And I’m glad the label’s gone.”

  “It was scratching the hell out of my neck.”

  Suddenly Robert was laughing. He hugged her briefly, not the sort of thing husbands did to their wives on such occasions. “We’ll be able to afford clothing with gentler labels from now on,” he whispered.

  Robert was drawn into conversation with a business acquaintance, and Abigail moved to the edge of the patio. She watched her husband, smiling and shaking hands, as he was introduced to someone. He was so effortlessly gracious and as effortlessly honest. Watching him, she realized again how much she loved him. Dear Robert, she thought, you deserve an easier woman than me.

  In due course the chairman made his unavoidable speech. Abigail saw similarities with that made by the minister earlier in the day. Both, according to their authors, had been about liberation. The minister had spoken about Michael Bishop’s selfless devotion to the cause of political liberation. The chairman revealed his corporation’s commitment to the cause of economic liberation. Each speech was full of praise, first for Michael Bishop and then for Abigail’s own Robert.

  In time it was over, the food consumed and the requisite interval had been spent smiling, sipping drinks and shaking hands. And, at last, Abigail could go home. With the afternoon and evening behind her and the label in an ashtray in Marcia’s bedroom, life felt much better. She drove quickly along the highway between the two citie
s with the headlights of Robert’s car in the rearview mirror, never more than a hundred meters behind.

  4

  The distance between their cars narrowed as they entered Pretoria, Robert stopping close behind her at the first traffic light. Abigail was glad that the drive home had been uneventful. She admired the safeness of his driving after the amount of liquor he had consumed during the evening, but she did not imagine that he would have passed a blood test.

  A wind had been blowing across Pretoria all evening, and once they turned out of the main suburban artery the streets were sprinkled with lilac jacaranda blossoms. As far as the headlights reached, the little flowers formed a soft and colorful carpet.

  Tonight Abigail waited till Robert had finished showering before entering the bathroom. “Come to bed, baby,” he murmured in her direction as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I want to celebrate the occasion.”

  From the bathroom she saw him roll over slowly, quite naked, ending horizontally, his smooth, almost hairless body a deep brown splash on the crisp white of the sheets. Not tonight, she thought. She would stay a few minutes longer than usual in the shower and by the time she came out the liquor would have done its work, even on Robert’s cast-iron constitution. And he would sleep through till morning.

  Robert’s approach to sex was essentially uncomplicated. “Three generations ago Zulu men were still warriors,” he had told her more than once. “And I was a warrior against the old regime. I need sex and I need it regularly.”

  She was not sure what the connection between warriorhood, if that was the right word, and sex was. Not that this was normally a problem to Abigail. They were both in their thirties, in excellent physical condition and their love-making had never been anything but enjoyable. On occasion it was ecstatic.

  But tonight was different. She was trying not to think, but the memory that this afternoon threatened to reawaken was with her in a way that went deeper than thought. Despite the years between, it was never far from her and today’s meeting, not the silly evening one with the men on both sides all jockeying for financial position, but the pompous afternoon one with a cabinet minister singing the praises of a man whom the minister did not understand and who had not bothered to attend.