Dust Devils (15 page)

Zondi opened his eyes, looking up at a million bright points of light, like pinpricks in a velvet curtain. Stars. Far brighter than he'd grown used to in the city. And the moon, a flaring disc. No, not the moon. A flashlight, shining down on him.

He was on his back, under a crush of weight he realized were the uprooted seats of the taxi. The minibus lay on its side and Zondi was staring up through the rectangle that had housed the sliding door. Two figures dangled down through the doorway. He heard voices. Male. Teenagers. Too young to be the gunmen.

"Yaw, yaw, yaw. They are meat, man."

"Jump in and get their stuff. I see a gun."

The light was blocked for a moment and the taxi shook as a figure dropped down and landed beside Zondi, heavy boots smacking the metal close to his head, crunching on broken glass.

As the beam moved Zondi saw Lucky lying dead. The boy frisked Lucky and held up a skinny black arm, fist clenched around a wad of cash. "Look, my brother!"

The other kid laughed and said, "Make fast before somebody comes on."

The beam moved onto Zondi. He didn't shut his eyes fast enough.

"Hey," the boy holding the flashlight said, "that one is still alive."

The kid standing over Zondi swung a boot and kicked him back to black.

The armored vehicle rattled through a village that looked like sticks and straw blown in on a desert wind. The villagers – women, children and shriveled old crones – watched from inside the huts, eyes white in the darkness.

They saw the rotting bodies of their men tied to the sides of the armored car. Saw Goodbread and his crew standing up out of the vehicle, shouting, drunk on palm wine and blood. Heard screams as the guerrillas lying in ambush fired on them.

Goodbread awoke wet with fever, scrambling himself upright, reaching for his AK-47. Fingers finding only the 9mm pistol beside him on the sofa. The shouts that woke him those of farm laborers on a tractor, not the enemy in a long-forgotten bush war.

Goodbread looked across at the man lying on the bed, on his stomach, arms flung wide. Breathing deeply. Still dressed in the striped pajama top and the bloody jeans. Feet bare and soft looking. His son had wanted to talk the night before, demanding answers from Goodbread after the cops had left. Pouring the bottle of Jack Daniel's down his throat like it was some kind of balm for grief. Knocked him down and knocked him out cold.

Not before he'd cursed Goodbread as every kind of wrongheaded sonofabitch in God's creation. Goodbread had sat silent, impassive. Taking it. Reckoned he owed his boy that much.

Goodbread smothered a cough, not wanting to wake Dell. Stood and walked across to the sink for a drink of water. He'd also slept in his clothes. Sat awake, truth be told, smoking in the dark. Gun at his side. He'd slipped into a fevered slumber for maybe a half-hour. Now the sun burned hot behind the yellow curtains above the sink.

He shifted the drapes, looking out at the day. Saw the green fields and the milk cows. The propellers of the wind farm turning lazily in the distance. A breeze found its way through a crack in the glass, flapping the X-ray he'd taped there to keep the wind out.

An X-ray of his chest, showing his bones and the white masses that bloomed in his lungs like desert flowers. Taped up there to keep the wind out, sure, but also as a kind of meditation. A reminder. So each morning when he opened the drapes he'd know he had one day less to live.

Goodbread took the acetate film between his fingers and pulled it free of the glass. Opened a drawer beneath the sink and hid the X-ray. He didn't want his son to see it. Didn't want to get into that now. He heard a groan and saw that Dell was busy waking up to his own nightmare.

Goodbread coughed, spat bright red blood onto the silver metal of the sink. Ran the faucet, watched the blood and mucus swirl away down the plughole. He had thought that his last battle was going to be against his own body. But here he was, locked and loaded. Ready to face the old enemy.

Dell opened his eyes to the cramped room with the unplastered walls. Saw the gaunt old man silhouetted against the acid yellow drapes. Flashbacks finding Dell through the fog of a hangover.

His father walked toward him, holding out a smeared tooth glass of water. Dell took it and drank it back in one draft. Put the glass down on the cement floor beside the empty bottle of Jack Daniel's.

Goodbread said, "You hit that bottle like you bore it a grudge."

"We need to talk." Dell's voice like sandpaper in his throat.

"Sure we do. But first I need to take me a shower. It's in the building next door. I'll walk you there when I'm done. Meanwhile, I'm going to ask you to kindly keep the drapes shut and stay away from the window. I don't want the laborers to see you."

Dell nodded. The old man went toward the door carrying a skinny towel and a bar of soap. Like a prisoner.

"I have to take a leak," Dell said.

"Piss in the sink." Goodbread went out, shutting the squealing door.

Dell drilled a stream of urine into the plughole. Zipped himself and heard a soft knock on the metal door. Froze.

"It's me." The blonde woman's hoarse voice.

"Come in," he said.

The woman entered, bringing with her a momentary blast of hard daylight before she shut the door. She carried two plates covered with metal foil. A plastic shopping bag dangled from her arm. She set the plates down beside the sink.

"Your dad in the shower?" She wore no make-up this morning and she looked old and used up.

"Yes."

"I brought youse some breakfast." He could smell sausages and eggs. Made him want to puke. She took the bag from her arm and held it up. "There's some clothes in here. My husband's. He was about your size." Put the bag down on the sofa. "Don't worry, I washed them."

"Thank you," he said.

She looked at him. "How you feeling?"

"I'm okay."

"Those cops last night . . . Hope they didn't scare you?"

"I nearly shat myself," he said.

She laughed, showing yellow teeth. "Don't worry with them. They're useless. They know bugger all."

Dell nodded and sank down onto the bed. The old blonde sat on the sofa, unpacking the contents of the bag. Pants. Shirt. Underwear. A pair of heavy work shoes. She looked up at him through tired eyes. "I heard what happened. That the
kaffirs
killed your family."

There it was. The word that had defined his life as a white South African.
Kaffir
, from the Arabic
kafir.
Unbeliever. But taking on a whole new meaning in apartheid South Africa. Hate speech. Way worse than nigger, or coon or any of the others. Using the word branded you a white racist. Simple as that. Dell had got into countless fist fights with those who used it. Usually got the shit beat out of him, but still. And here he sat, saying nothing.

"They killed my husband too, you know?" The woman laid the khaki pants over the back of the sofa, picking a piece of lint from one leg. "He went up to the Free State, to his brother's farm, to help with the harvest. The
kaffirs
came with guns and shot him and his brother. Stole their truck. We buried the two of them on the same day. Cops did nothing. Just two white men dead. Just another farm murder."

"I'm sorry," Dell said.

She shrugged, moving a strand of dry yellow hair from her face. Got to her feet, wincing as a pain in her back caught her. "It's a war. No matter what they say. There's still some of us fighting." The woman walked to the door, limping slightly and turned to face Dell, a hand on the doorknob. "God bless you," she said.

A smile touched her thin lips, furrowed from years of smoking. She opened the door and stepped out in the light. Closed the door and he heard her feet crunching on the gravel as she walked away.

Sunday walked up the hill toward the hut, balancing a plastic water container on her head. The container was heavy, holding three gallons, but she moved with surefooted grace, only occasionally having to lift her hand to steady her burden. She had been down to the communal tap, twenty minutes away. Had to wait in line while the women filled their buckets and gourds. Listened with half an ear to their laments about taxi wars and sickness and poverty. Relieved when she heard the water drumming into her container.

With each step she took her mood lightened. Today was the day she would be free. Free of the aunt who had used her as a servant these last ten years. Free of the old dog who had bought her for his bed.

She passed three scrawny goats, legs grown uneven from having to cling to the slopes as they foraged for food. Made her think of her aunt who had suffered revenge after meddling in the affairs of a neighbor. The woman had paid a witchdoctor to curse Ma Beauty and her leg had withered almost overnight. Or so she said.

Today was the day Ma Beauty went down to Bhambatha's Rock, to collect her disability grant. Sunday had hoped she would already be gone, but when she saw smoke curling from the chimney of the hut she knew her aunt was still at home, making herself the thick brew of tea she drank every morning. Threw in stinking herbs and powders from her own witchdoctor, to protect her from evil spells.

Sunday would have to see Ma Beauty one last time.
One last time
. The three words made her smile as she looked out over the dry and torn valley. Tomorrow she would wake in Durban. By the ocean. She had never seen the ocean. Never been farther from here than Dundee, an hour's drive away.

Sunday felt a mix of terror and excitement. Especially when she thought of Sipho. She saw his long fingers on the wheel of the car, saw his smile. He looked so healthy. He'd told her he took medication, the pills the people of her area were so superstitious about, and ate clean food. Said that if a person was careful they could live to be old.

And he practiced what he called "safe sex". Had explained this to her earnestly, as he translated one of his pamphlets from English, showing her the pictures of the plastic things like balloons. She had felt her cheeks grow warm and she'd had to look away.

Sunday felt a confusion of feelings when she thought of him. Like she wanted to laugh and run and hide at the same time. She wondered whether he felt the same way about her. He sought her out, didn't he? Every time he was up from Durban.

As she neared the hut she told herself to stop being stupid. She wasn't running away with Sipho, he was helping her to escape from the old dog. That was all. She had to focus her mind. This was no time for daydreaming.

Sunday ducked into the hut and placed the water container on the floor. Her aunt sat huddled beside the fire, iron teapot bubbling.

"Morning, Ma," Sunday said.

The woman grunted, rubbing at her withered limb. "My leg it is paining. You must come with me to town."

Sunday felt a hollow space open up in her heart. "But Ma, I have to work."

Her aunt shook her head. "These are your last few days before your wedding. They will expect you to be busy."