"Achala, I am not asking. If we want to move the business forward, we need to continually renew. Look at the paint, it’s peeling everywhere.”
Venny stood in his shop opposite Achala, who was shaking her head and looking at him as if he made her sick. He hated that look but saw it often these days.
“We will lose a whole week’s business – how will we afford that, and the materials and these men? They don’t even look like decorators,” Achala said.
“So, what do decorators look like according to you? Huh? This is not a discussion, it’s happening. Your shop will trade. I will put a sign up, and we will make the money back through new customers in no time. The shop will be open again on Friday.”
“You know—” She stepped closer to ensure the men walking in and out of the shop bringing in their gear wouldn’t hear her. Then she whispered, “Boys are notoriously slow. Who says you will be open on Friday? I’m worried this will go on for weeks and they will rob us blind in the process.”
“These ones are different. We can trust them. I’ll make you a deal: if this shop is not open for business again on Friday, I will stop smoking.”
“Ha! You will never stop. But accepted, it’s a deal. If for nothing else, I would like to see you suffer ...” She paused, and Venny wondered what was going on in her head. “… trying to quit,” she finished.
“Dad, Mom, what’s going on? I thought you were on your way to Dādī?” Sarita said, standing in the doorway. “And who are these men?” she added, as if trying to hurry everyone up.
“Sarita, we are not going to Dādī today,” Venny said.
“But it’s Sunday?” Sarita said.
“Your wonderful father here has decided to waste his meagre profits on this bunch of decorators that look like they have just escaped from prison, to redo his beautiful shop, in lovely shades of purple.”
“Achala, enough now!” Venny said.
“Sorry, is it pink, not purple?” Achala said, biting the corner of her bottom lip.
“As you can hear, your mother is not happy. In business, we need to look fresh, so there will be a little bit of renovation this week. But Friday it will be business as usual, with a new look.”
“I thought you always said people didn’t care about what shops looked like; they only cared about products and price?” Sarita said.
“Times are changing, child. One day you’ll understand.”
“I’m not three years old, you know. I take business economics at school, I’m not a complete idiot,” Sarita said.
“Don’t talk to your father like that.” Achala tilted her head towards Sarita.
“But you ... ag, what does it matter.” Sarita sighed and swung her head away. She looked up at the clock and her whole face turned a greyish colour.
“Um, I’ll take the rubbish out,” she said, grabbing the black bag next to the counter and disappearing out of the shop.
“She is right, you know. She is smarter than both of us. You can’t treat her like a child any more,” Achala said.
“She’ll always be my little girl,” Venny said, a smile threatening under his moustache.
“Your little girl is almost grown up now – you need to get that into your thick head.”
“I’m not ready to let go yet. As long as she is under my roof—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Same old story. I’m going home.” Achala threw her right hand in the air and walked out of the shop.
Venny studied the four men carrying paint and crates into his shop. They were large men. Their faces told a story of bitter battles and suffering, and Achala was right, they didn’t look a thing like decorators, but for redecorating the Lion’s Club hall with blood, they were perfect.
* * *
“I can’t believe it’s less than a week to go,” Petrus said as they walked away from the Eating House.
“It’s crazy, isn’t it, the way time has flown by,” Pete said.
“Do you think ...?”
“It will be ready? Yes. If it will work – who knows?” Pete said.
“I guess this time next week, we’ll know,” Petrus said.
“Yeah,” Pete replied, staring out towards the Naidoo and Sons sign in the distance. “How do you feel? Do you think you will be—” Pete started but his train of thought came to a screeching halt as they saw Sarita race around the corner with a black bag in her hand. She was quite clearly distressed and kept looking over her shoulder.
She dropped the bag near some bins and jogged towards them, her plait swinging like a pendulum behind her.
“You have to go,” she whispered, not looking at them, but looking over her shoulder, as if she was being chased.
“What’s wrong?” Petrus asked.
“My parents are here. You have to go. Turn around now, go!” She waved them away with both hands.
They turned, tails between their legs, and started walking, but Pete stopped and looked back at her.
“Saturday?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, I know what to do, everything. Just go,” she said and jogged back towards the shop.
“That was weird,” Pete said.
“I think if her parents are around, we should probably not be seen together,” Petrus said.
“Yeah, the last thing we need now is tongues wagging, hey?” Pete said. The mere thought made him shudder. He shook his head quickly and then asked: “How about a run Wednesday?”
“I’ll be there,” Petrus said and sprinted away from Pete.
Pete ambled back home. All the energy he had earlier had all but vanished. He was tired, weary. Everything in his week was geared towards their Sunday get-together, most waking moments consumed by things he wanted to say, things he wanted to ask. And he wanted to see her. That smile. Feel her softness against him when they hugged. And Petrus. He hadn’t even asked him whether he’d had the talk with Uncle Gerrit, as was his plan. The sadness growing in him ground him down, and when he finally reached home, he collapsed onto his bed and slept, a dreamless gloomy afternoon sleep, which brought no rejuvenation.
Friday, 18th July
Venny had never felt so warm in his life. He turned off the heater behind the counter, took off his sweater and rolled up his sleeves, but the sweat kept coming and the heat rose as if he had lava in his core. Outside, the easterly wind was particularly biting, slicing right to the bone, but even standing outside the shop for a few minutes didn’t cool him down. He looked at the clock above the door like he had been doing all day. It was 16:41. All around the clock, the walls featured a fresh coat of paint his pretend decorators had applied in between preparing the Soviet-manufactured explosives. The shop didn’t look that much better in his opinion, but it did appear brighter, and several people had complimented him on it, but not Achala, of course. She’d referred to it as an embarrassment to the painting profession, but he knew that even if Michelangelo himself had painted it, she would have complained about the amateur he’d hired.
The team of decorators was due to arrive at 17:00, just as the shop closed. They would then get everything together and leave for the Lion’s Club hall at 18:45. It was a three-minute drive, so that would give them roughly seven minutes to set up, and then brighten the dark night at 18:55. Everything had gone well, everything was ready; it was going to be perfect.
“Pappa, what else do you need me to do?” Sarita walked out of the storeroom with a broom in her hand. Crap, he had forgotten all about her.
“I’m having a meeting with someone at five. Could you please go to Kismet before they shut and buy me a carton of Gunstons, and then go straight home from there?”
“But Pappa, it’s so cold. Can’t we take the car?”
“I’ll need the car later. Just do as I ask, Sarita, don’t be difficult. Here, that is more than enough, and bring the change and receipt.” Venny slapped a twenty-rand note in her hand. “And go straight home afterwards, okay. It’ll be dark soon.”
“Yes, Pappa.” She took the money, shoved it in her jacket pocket and left without looking at him.
He looked up at the clock again, and then outside. Dark shadows ushering in the night shifted across Dannhauser. His mouth was dry, and when he tried to light a cigarette, he couldn’t, his hands were shaking too much.
“Take control, Venny, you can do this, you were born to do this,” he muttered to himself. He shook his hands and rolled his neck, then tried again. This time he just about managed to keep his hands steady enough to light his cigarette, albeit only on one side. He dragged hard on his Gunston, and the tip glowed bright orange. The smoke swirled inside him, and he could feel the courage swell up and the fear subside.
He exhaled slowly.
He was ready.
* * *
A frigid gust sliced right through Sarita as she stepped out of Kismet. The flurry of cold pricked her cheeks like dozens of small needles. Sometimes she didn’t understand her dad – correction: most of the time she didn’t understand him. It would have only taken him a few minutes to take her home; it would have made no difference to him whatsoever. He would have been back well before his “five o’clock meeting”. Just some excuse, she was sure.
The gust tugged at the carton of Gunston plains she had bought for him. The smell of those cigarettes was like an oil stain at the back of her nose; it was always there. She promised herself she would never smoke and never ever marry someone who did.
Thoughts of her dad and his cigarettes fluttered away with the next gust. The freezing nip reminded her of the night when they saw Halley’s Comet. Her mind replayed every part of that night, the sounds, the smells, the cold, the warmth, Petrus ... Pete. Before she knew it, a smile had wiped away any trace of resentment and irritation she’d felt since leaving the shop. Joy filled her. It warmed her. She was no longer on a quiet street in Dannhauser, but on a cloud that was as far away as it was tangibly close.
She did not hear it until it was too late. The bakkie’s door swung open. That very familiar door. Familiar seat. Familiar face. Familiar yellow moustache. Familiar malevolent eyes. That door which she had escaped once, but which she always feared harboured promises of an inevitable return. She had prayed it wouldn’t but she’d somehow always known this day would come.
It was the end.
He was upon her. His strength and speed surprised her as much as it did that day in January. Rudie’s grip was impossible to break. She kicked and writhed as best she could, but he was a lion and she a hare. There would only ever be one winner. And one loser.
It was the end.
* * *
The fear was still there, but it had turned into the most incredible sense of euphoria he had ever experienced. It was as if he had a power so great in his hands that he could tear up streets and rip buildings from their foundations. The feeling gave him focus, certainty, and he knew without any consideration of doubt that they would succeed. They weren’t going to become gods, they already were.
Around the shop everything was ready. Venny was impressed by the attention to detail this thuggish-looking team of his gave to everything. Every device was checked five times, every gun cleaned and loaded – it was a thing of beauty. They were all dressed in black, with black balaclavas tucked into their pockets for the operation. Venny declined the offer to carry a pistol like the others. Once, four years ago, he had attempted to shoot a gun for the first time, but he was terrible at it. Tonight, his wit, leadership and, above all, the explosives would be his bullets. Besides, the guns were only ever meant to be a contingency, and tonight, nothing would go wrong.
“Five minutes, gentlemen,” Venny said before lighting a final cigarette. It tasted sweet, and he tried to imagine just how spectacularly sweet the first one after their success would taste. He licked his lips.
The men loaded everything into black sports bags and kept their pistols hidden inside their jackets. It was a cold night but the air was filled with adrenaline, and he could see pearls of sweat on the foreheads of all the men.
“Remember, there is a State of Emergency in the country. The police are a little edgy. Luckily in Dannhauser the police are probably a few beers strong by now, and I don’t expect any of them on patrol. But just in case, lay low in the car. We will park half a block away in Palmiet Street; from there it’s an easy escape out, in any direction. Any questions?” Venny asked.
The four men shook their heads as one. There was a dullness in their eyes, a kind of knowing, and Venny knew there was no turning back; they were prepared to die tonight.
Out of nowhere, a loud knock rattled the door. Venny almost fell on top of one of the sports bags holding the explosives. The four men drew their pistols. Then another knock followed, louder, more urgent.
Venny’s breathing was shallow. He was a little lightheaded but realised his obvious fear would be a sign of weakness to the others. So, he lifted his hands as if to say they should calm down and crept to the door. He peeped outside, but he couldn’t make anything out in the darkness.
“We’re closed,” he said, his voice trembling.
Another knock followed, and this time he was more assertive in his “We’re closed”.
“Protea Eight,” a voice whispered from behind the door.
Venny looked at the men behind him. Their pistols pointing at the door.
“Protea Eight,” the voice called again.
“We don’t sell proteas, this is not a flower shop,” Venny said.
“Open up, this is Protea Seven. I have urgent instructions regarding tonight.”
“Protea Seven?”
“Affirmative, now let me in.”
Venny’s mind raced. What if this was a trap, and twenty soldiers stood outside? There would be a firefight, but it would be over in no time, and he would be shredded like a block of Swiss cheese standing in the middle.
“Password?” Venny asked.
“Bulawayo. Open up.”
Venny looked back to the men and gave them a reassuring nod. He then slowly unlocked the door and opened it a fraction. To his relief, there was no squadron, only one very short black man with thick glasses and a patchy beard.
Protea Seven pushed him out of the way and entered the shop. Venny shut the door behind him.
“Abort, gentlemen, abort,” Protea Seven said.
“What do you mean, abort?” Venny asked.
“I mean there will be no operation tonight.”
“Why not?”
“The Afrikaner Broederbond meeting was cancelled. If we strike tonight, we’ll blow up an empty hall. It will attract unwanted attention without any significant impact. Therefore, we must abort.”
“Do we know why the meeting was cancelled? Was there a leak?”
“We’re working on it. Currently, intelligence suggests the district leader is in hospital, but that could just be a front. We are trying to ascertain whether our plans were intercepted. So, men, get rid of everything. You’ll need to leave tonight.” He straightened his back and turned to Venny. “Protea Eight, there will be radio silence until this has been investigated. The search will start for a new target. It is a shame about this one; it would have been perfect, but now we’ll have to start from scratch. From what I’ve heard, the focus will shift to the Free State. Operation-wise, Northern Natal will go dark for a while.”
Venny thought the sky was going to shatter and crush him to death. His moment was being taken away from him. Stolen. And to top it all, he might never have another shot. If they were transferring their focus to the Free State, Northern Natal would be forgotten, his days of freedom fighting would be over. He looked at the men in the team, the dull determination that filled their eyes now replaced with dejected, lost stares.
“What if there was another target?” Venny asked, his lips pursed.
“Another target? Here? Nothing of significance ever happens in Dannhauser. This was a one-time opportunity, and it’s gone now. Move on, Protea Eight.”
“Isn’t the purpose behind all we are trying to achieve to bring fear and terror into the hearts and minds of ordinary whites? To show them nowhere is safe? That change is the only way, and death awaits them if they try to fight it?” Venny asked.
“Well, yes, but there’s nothing here. How will we ever send a big message like the one you’re talking about, out in a place like this?”
Venny inhaled as deeply as he could. “There is one thing,” he said and exhaled.
“Don’t waste my time. We are all vulnerable standing here among the merchandise. I only came to deliver the message. So, you have thirty seconds.”
“In small towns, nothing is more sacred to the whites than their annual bazaars. Everyone is there, every white face in the area. They braai and laugh as if life is one long party. In the evening they have a concert. I can only imagine that it must be a breeding ground for their white propagandist crap, but the point is, they will all be crammed into one building. If we strike—”
“A church bazaar?” Protea Seven asked. He realised he’d raised his voice and quickly pretended to clear his throat.
“Yes, imagine, we are talking about hundreds of people. It will send a message to every white community in the country that they are no longer safe, no matter where they are.”
“But we need to get out of Dannhauser, especially if we’ve been compromised,” Protea Seven said.
“Dannhauser’s church bazaar is tomorrow. We’re ready. Look at us: we have the team, we have the merchandise. Just say the word and it’s done. Tomorrow night this time, we will make the biggest statement yet,” Venny said.
“It’s risky. Very risky. With so many people ... Let me have a word with those further up the chain. For now, stay put, await instructions. Protea Eight, be at your radio at 07:30 tomorrow. I will confirm then,” Protea Seven said. He turned and slipped out of the shop.
A dull ache shot up Venny’s spine and nestled at the base of his skull. He felt nauseous and scanned the room for a bin to throw up in, but then he saw the four men in front of him, waiting for instructions, and something in their eyes suggested respect, respect for him. He fought back the sick as best he could.
“Hide the merchandise in the back, then disappear. Come here just after 13:00 tomorrow, which is when the shop closes. I will have the instructions then,” Venny said, his nausea still hovering. The men went about their business swiftly and left in silence. Venny was alone in his shop. A sudden cramp tugged at his gut. He ran outside and vomited a few times until there was nothing left. The cold air burned his lungs, and he looked up at the star-clad expanse above him. It looked as though the stars were all watching him, judging him. Had he lost his mind?