Those Who Love Night (7 page)

For most of his adult life, Yudel had worked for the Department of Correctional Services in a segregated prison system in which black prisoners were sometimes hired out at slave wages. Down the years he had been asked on many occasions how he squared working in such a place with his conscience. It was a question to which he had never found an answer to satisfy even himself. He imagined that it probably had to do with the fact that the prison system had an endless supply of criminals with which to satisfy his curiosity about this subgroup of humanity.

He also told himself that his presence there and his well-known readiness to rock the departmental boat was a threat to that category of warder who was attracted to the prisons for the chance to employ violence against men who could not retaliate. But most of all, he knew that his presence in the department had to do with the sheer stimulation of it. He was fascinated by the forces that turned men into criminals. Yudel hated the thought that he loved it all, but he loved it all the same.

He also knew and understood the longer-term prisoners better than anyone else in the service. An hour before, a lockdown had been initiated, because, after the prisoners had been returned to their cells, one had seemed to be missing. Yudel had directed the search to cell
D
22, where the warders found an extra prisoner. “He just wanted to be with his wifey,” Yudel had told the warders. “He'll go back without any rough treatment.”

The pile of paper in his in-basket was topped by a few requisition forms which, when signed, would go to admin to be processed. He expected to see the required equipment some time within the next eighteen months. They were followed by a letter from the director of human resources, telling him that he was owed ten days' leave. The letter went on to add that his contract was due to expire in three months. If he had not taken his leave before that date, he would forfeit it. It ended in capitals:
NO LEAVE CAN BE PAID OUT
!

After the admonition from human resources, a pile of self-evaluation forms of staff members were clipped together by a large paper clip. Yudel had to assess the way they had evaluated themselves and give his opinion. He lifted what remained in the pile and slid the self-evaluations to the bottom.

The next item was a letter to him personally, from the minister. She wanted him to shed light, if any light could be shed, on the matter of allegedly terminally ill prisoners being released on compassionate grounds and recovering to such an extent that they returned to their former criminal activities. One had even been released twice on compassionate grounds and the police were looking for him, because his trademark way of entering a safe had been used on a big job in Cape Town, a city he was known to favor. The minister went on to add that only thirty percent of compassionate parolees had the good grace to die within six months of release. It was shocking. Did Yudel have any suggestions?

The letter was irresistible. Yudel started his response immediately.

Dear Madame Minister,

May I suggest reinstating the death penalty for the limited use of dealing with these problem cases. Any of these allegedly terminally ill parolees still alive after six months could be picked up and brought to Pretoria Central for administering the coup de grace. Their prompt demise would, after all, be an element of the agreement we had reached with them. A short period of the zealous implementation of this policy should have the effect of limiting frivolous claims of terminal illness.

Your avenging and enthusiastic servant, Yudel Gordon.

The temptation to print the letter was almost overwhelming. He would have referred to such an urge in others as a pocket of immaturity. A more sensible and sober part of his personality intervened. He reached for the delete button and dispensed the message to cyber heaven. Then he took the tried-and-tested civil-servant route of passing the responsibility to someone else.

The reply he sent to the minister read like this:

Dear Madame Minister,

My own concern for this phenomenon is, if possible, as intense as your own. Accordingly, I have forwarded your letter to the two functionaries whose signatures appear on these parole documents, the head surgeon of our department and the District Surgeon for Tshwane. I shall insist on speedy replies from these gentlemen and will forward them to yourself as soon as I receive them.

Yours faithfully, Yudel Gordon.

He was answering a mail from the department's director general, wanting his opinion of stun belts that temporarily disabled the wearer, when a knock on the open door of his office revealed a young warder, carrying a box file. “From the Department of Justice for you, sir,” he said.

Yudel reached for it. “What's it about? Any message?”

“No message. Only that it comes from the Department of Justice and that it's urgent.”

Yudel put the director general's mail aside. He would deal with it later. Receiving the file had surprised him. He had few dealings with that department.

Yudel was a man who, for all his many eccentricities and his readiness to champion unpopular cases, was concerned that in certain matters people should think well of him. First among these was in his relationships with younger women. He could not tolerate the idea that he might be thought of as an old fool who chased after any woman young enough to be his daughter. He also prized his relationship with Rosa, his wife of many years, and was determined to do nothing to upset that. Despite all that, he was pleased, too pleased for his own peace of mind, to see that the file had come from Abigail.

He had only had dealings with Abigail once, some years before, over a period of little more than a week. But the period had been so intense and the stakes so high that it had brought them closer than they would have been had they been lovers; far closer than either expected. Yet, when it ended, neither had made any attempt to contact the other.

Dear Yudel,

How are you? It's been a while. I trust that both you and Rosa are in good health. I have a little matter that interests me and I hope may interest you. This file contains some of the writings of a Zimbabwean relative who is in trouble with their authorities. I discern personality elements in his writing that surprise me and that I do not understand. Please have a look and tell me what you think.

Love to Rosa—Abigail.

After years of silence she wants me to be her literary critic, he thought. Nevertheless, he turned the page to the first of Tony Makumbe's writings, read it slowly, then read it again.

Yudel knew something about the state of Zimbabwe's prisons. He also knew that almost all the waiters in restaurants in the province he lived in came from Zimbabwe's Ndebele minority. They had flooded across the border in their millions to escape the political and economic devastation of their own country. Nurses, journalists, businesspeople, hotel night managers and whatever other kind of occupation they held back home, they had found a living of sorts in South Africa's restaurants. At least in their adopted country they could afford food. Beyond that, what he knew about Zimbabwe came from newspaper reports and the occasional professional tidbits reaching him from its prisons. It was a place to avoid.

*   *   *

Yudel was surprised to find Rosa waiting for him in his study when he came in. It was the one room in the house that she rarely visited. “Abigail phoned,” she said, rising to meet him.

He offered the usual perfunctory kiss. “She sent me a file that she wants me to read.”

“Yudel, what does she want this time?”

Yudel knew that his wife's anxiety had nothing to do with Abigail's charms. “It won't be like that this time,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

“What, then?”

“I thought you liked Abigail.”

Rosa lifted a threatening finger. “Yudel, don't you try to dance around me that way. You know that this has got nothing to with what I think of Abigail. I think she's a wonderful person, but what does she want?”

“As far as I can see, she wants me to analyze someone by reading his writing.”

“His handwriting?”

“No, his prose.”

Rosa's puzzlement showed on her face. “Why? Shouldn't the person be present when they're being analyzed?”

“As far as I can make out, the person is not available. Abigail wants my opinion.”

“I hope that
is
all she wants.”

“I'm sure it is,” Yudel said. Perhaps not, he thought, but that is what you need to believe.

After she had left, he opened the file again. During the next four hours, stopping only for a half-hour break during which he consumed in silence the dinner Rosa had prepared, he read everything in the file. Then he paged back, searching again for the sections that interested him most and reading them more slowly. Of those passages, he studied every word, looking for a meaning that, he was aware, may not be there. A section that seemed to be photocopied from a book drew his attention:

Never pausing, never yielding, the arm of night sweeps across the city. The people would rise, but they are smothered by the cloud that comes with darkness. There is no sight. There is no thought, no gentleness in this our lovely land. We live within the depths of this fortress of dusk.

A passage printed directly from a computer had a theme with some similarities:

I have no life, but the life of this darkness. I have no light, but it is covered by the cloud of this reality. I see no stars, no moon, only the blankness of this fog, only the blank, featureless cloud. Even by day, the fog haunts me. Trees and mountains disappear, friends fade into its depths, only fear remains.

On the next page another paragraph needed rereading:

All of life is a pretense. We spend every hour of every day pretending to others that we are more than we really are. Everything we do, every word we speak: all are aimed at misleading others as to our virtue, our bravery, our competence, our attractiveness. Truth and honesty are beyond the grasp of any human being.

On the very last page he found something altogether different, and lingered over it longer than he had over any other section:

The fertile seed brings forth much fruit. The corrupt seed too results in a harvest, but what is the value of such a harvest? Only death, decay and fear are the fruits of the evil seed. The failing harvest is not to blame. The decaying fruit is not at fault. Nor should the dead growth stand accused. Look only to the seed for that is where the guilt lies.

At the back of the file, lying loose inside the back cover, was the photograph of a young African man. It was the photograph Abigail had studied the night before. Extreme leanness, slightly bulging eyes and hollow cheeks gave the impression of malnourishment. The whites that were visible right around the pupils gave his face a startled look. His forehead was broad, his cheekbones high and his jaw firm. Despite everything, it was a strong face. Yudel believed that the state of mind of any person was reflected on that person's features. The slight smile reflected a self-assurance that stood in contrast to the rest of the face.

He looked at the back of the photograph. Someone had written his name, Tony Makumbe, there. He thought about the young man's state of mind and what the contents of the parcel revealed. It was possible that the photograph could be deceiving. He believed that the writing could not.

He remained motionless behind his desk for longer than he had intended. Eventually he reached for the phone to call Abigail.

Robert Mokoapi answered. There had been occasions in the past when he had called Abigail later than Robert had considered appropriate—or reasonable—or both. Yudel paused too long before speaking. “Is that you, Yudel?” Robert asked.

It's been years and he still remembers that episode, Yudel thought. “Yes, I wondered…”

“She's still awake. I'm passing the phone to her.”

“Yudel,” Abigail said.

He was surprised at the joy he felt at hearing her voice. “Yes, it's me.” To find some pleasantry as an introduction to the conversation was not within Yudel's scope. “Your man…” he began. “I believe he could be a schizophrenic.”

“My God. Are you sure?”

“No, I'm not sure. Who is he?”

“He seems to be a cousin of mine.”

“Let me meet him. I'll be able to make a better assessment.”

“That won't be possible. Listen, Yudel, I need to speak to you to discuss this—soon, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow's not possible, I've promised Rosa…”

“It must be tomorrow.” There was still the same insistence on getting her way that he remembered. Perhaps that was not fair. Perhaps it was simply her determination to get things done. And they were always important things. “Tomorrow evening. Robert and I have been invited to the Tikkun SA launch of an art exhibition to support a project of theirs. Will you be there?”

“No.”

“But you're Jewish. Didn't they invite you?”

“I didn't respond to the invitation.”

“Come anyway. Please come. It'll be the only chance I have to speak to you.”

“I don't know.” The thought of the meaningless chatter of a cocktail party and the speeches that were bound to be made was too much. He had done what she asked, spent hours on it, and told her what he thought. Was that not enough? “I don't think I…”

“Please, Yudel, please. You and Rosa come. I have to speak to you. Say you will.”

“I…” It was almost impossible to avoid her.

“Say you will.”

“I…”

“You will come.”

“All right, Abigail. I'll come.”

Rosa was usually a good sleeper, but tonight when Yudel entered the bedroom she was in bed, but not asleep. “You're still awake,” he said.

“Tell me what's in that file.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and took one of her hands in his. “Just the writings of a very disturbed boy. Nothing else.”