An icy blanket of frost greeted the few brave souls who had camped in the church’s large grounds in anticipation of the Saturday’s festivities. By the time the sun decided to illuminate the ice-covered town, the first fires were already crackling, and the aroma of brewing coffee filled the morning air. There was not a cloud in the sky, nor a whisper in the air; it promised to be a cold day, but a wonderful one. A day where a symphony of people would share food and company, putting aside their quibbles over a drink or two, if only for a few hours.
The sun had not even started melting the frost when the roar of vehicles woke Dannhauser. Cars, bakkies and even a few small lorries began entering the church grounds, disgorging people who started setting up their stalls in the pre-designated areas. Like ants with one clear goal in mind, they offloaded, arranged, carried tables, pitched gazebos, only occasionally stopping for a sip or two of piping-hot coffee, lovingly prepared by the ever-dutiful sisters of the congregation.
These sisters were the true heartbeat of the church bazaar, but they were not to be messed with – they ran a tight ship. Everything went through them: from the allocation of stalls to the decorations, tokens, and how much and what type of oil would be used to fry the koeksisters. “This is purely to keep everyone happy,” they would say, outwardly smiling but unable to hide the ill-disguised threat.
It would all culminate in the day’s grand finale: the bazaar concert. This year, Deanne de Lange, along with the dominee’s wife, was responsible for the concert. It wasn’t just a role, but an announcement that one had made it to the very top of the sisters of the congregation hierarchy. Deanne had earned her stripes flipping pancakes for ten straight hours at every bazaar for more years than she cared to remember. She had run the stall with military precision, and every year it was one of the most successful at the bazaar. This year, with her elevation to the dominee’s wife’s right hand, Eunice, a spinster with an insatiable appetite to please, was to be the new leader of the pancake brigade.
Pete was proud of his mom. She worked so hard in preparation, and especially on the day of the bazaar, that every year, without fail, she would be in bed with a terrible cold almost as soon as the last person left.
This year she seemed a little more relaxed. The dominee’s wife had developed the concert into a fine art over the years, so there was very little to do. Every concert followed the same format, starting with a hymn performed by the pre-primary kids and finishing with a rousing rendition of “Die Stem”. She told Pete’s mom that it didn’t really matter what happened in between, as long as no one was on stage for longer than ten minutes. To her, losing the crowd to boredom was the eighth and deadliest of all the sins.
Like most teenagers, Pete hated the bazaar It was the same every year. The same people sold the same things in the same stalls year on year. There was very little to keep teenagers occupied once the gluttonous safari around the food stalls had brought them to the point of near nausea. The little kids had a jumping castle and treasure hunt and an array of other games, but the teenagers had only two things: target shooting with air rifles, and target throwing with knives. Although it was fun, it never lasted. It was never long before a few of the farmers, having warmed themselves up nicely at the mampoer stand, took over the air rifles and knives to prove once and for all who was the best, or something. For the teenagers, that meant going back to overeating and hanging around on the bales of hay.
This year was going to be different, though. As always, Pete was there early to help his dad set up the braai stand, at which Rikus worked every year. But his mind was only on one thing: the concert. He was happy to help his dad as it kept him busy, but he knew that as soon as all the stalls were set up, and the bazaar officially opened at ten, his day would be a long tedious one, waiting for the evening’s event.
Then, of course, there was Barend. Although school had started again on Wednesday, they had not spoken a word to each other. Barend had returned to the junior bus, and at school he was always on Philippa’s arm. It was as if he was trying to punish Pete. But, having replayed that awful Sunday over in his mind a million times, Pete knew Barend was at fault, and he had prayed that his friend would come to the same conclusion during the holidays – so that they could just move on, be best friends again.
As predicted, the minutes and even seconds crawled by. From the moment the dominee opened the bazaar with a scripture reading and prayer, it felt like time was going backwards. People started eating as if they had been starving themselves for weeks. There was a lot of handshaking, back-slapping, and the usual array of old ladies prowling in search of children to plant sloppy wet kisses on.
It was nearly midday when Pete first spotted Barend. To his surprise, Philippa was by his side, and he wondered if she would still be considered cool if she was seen in Dannhauser – for a second time, no less! With them was Renate, who now seemed closer to Philippa than ever, which was far too confusing for his brain to understand, after their supposed spat. He wasn’t even going to attempt to make sense of it: some intricacies of the female species were beyond all male comprehension. On Renate’s arm was a boy he had never seen before, and he wondered if that was the one from the city, her first. He decided to avoid them until he could speak to Barend alone, but the four of them paraded around like show horses, always side by side, never separating – they even went to the toilets in pairs.
* * *
Venny shut the shop a few minutes early. Luckily, Achala’s fabric shop shut at twelve, so she was busy cooking at home with Sarita and there was no risk of her usual interference. At exactly 13:00, the four men knocked on the door. There was an eagerness in their eyes that told him everything he needed to know about what they would choose if this was a democratic decision.
He put out his half-smoked cigarette and took a sip of the cold tea that he’d left on the counter. It tasted vile.
“Just as Protea Seven promised, I received orders this morning at 07:30,” he said and took another sip of the tea – it was even worse than the previous sip. The same nausea of the night before hovered in his throat. But the men’s eyes were so full of hope, so full of pure, unquestioning commitment, that they repressed the urgency of his queasiness. He looked them in the eye, one by one.
“We got the green light. The church bazaar is ours.” He could feel his right leg shaking a little bit and started pacing to hide it. “The concert starts at 18:00 and goes on until about 20:30. There is a break at 19:00, so we want to strike before the break, at 18:40. Meet me here at 17:00. I’ll brief you on the building and all the details. In essence, it will be the same plan as last night; we just have a bigger hall to contend with and multiple entrances, so it will be high risk. There are a lot of people, so I repeat, it will be high risk. Does anyone feel uncomfortable with this?” Venny asked.
The men shot a quick glance at one another and then their leader simply said: “We’re in.”
The men left and Venny closed up. He walked to his car and sat behind the wheel. He had gloves on, but his hands were shaking so much that he struggled to grip the steering wheel.
He replayed Protea Seven’s monotone message in his mind.
“Negative, Protea Eight, the operation is cancelled in its entirety. Release the team, go dark. Command does not consider religious targets viable at this point.”
What did they know? It was okay to blow people’s brains out in a shopping centre, but not in a church hall? What was the difference? This would rattle the whites in bones they didn’t even know they had. No, history wasn’t made by those who followed orders; it was made by those who made decisions, and lived by them. He was doing the right thing. Protea Seven might disapprove, but once Command had seen the impact his decision made, any minor disregard for Protea Seven’s order would be forgotten and he would be hailed a hero. Something like this could spark the end of the whites, drive them back to their European pig farms. He lit a cigarette but just watched as the heat burned away the paper until a long ash cylinder fell at his feet.
History was made by those who made hard decisions. History was made by those who made hard decisions, he repeated over and over in his mind.
* * *
Barend finally separated from the herd. While the other three entertained themselves with knife throwing, he left to replenish their pancake supplies. Pete intercepted him just as he joined the queue.
“Howzit,” Pete said.
“Hey,” Barend said, looking away.
“How was the holiday?” Pete asked.
“Nice.”
“Cool,” Pete said and slipped his hands into his pockets.
“So, did you and Philippa ... you know?” Pete asked with a teasing smile.
“It was a good holiday, okay,” Barend said.
“What, are you just going to leave me hanging?”
“Yes, that’s the way it is now.”
“The way it is now? What are you talking about?” Pete asked, but Barend’s head was completely turned away from him, like he was too detestable to look at.
“Ah, look who’s here,” Philippa called out from behind them. “Everyone’s favourite little kaffirboetie.” Renate and her new boyfriend stood beside her and burst out laughing.
“So, this is the oke?” Renate’s new toy asked Barend.
Barend glanced at him quickly and then looked Pete straight in the eyes.
“Yup, that’s the one,” he said. Barend’s eyes had no life in them except loathing, and that hurt more than his words. Pete had nothing. No words would form in his mouth, just a dry, bitter taste.
“Let’s go look for the white queue, it smells like a mud hut here,” Philippa said. The other two laughed as they walked away. Barend turned to follow them and bumped his shoulder against Pete’s. He glared Pete up and down and then wiped his shoulder as if a bird had soiled it, to the great delight of the others. Pete was left standing in the queue, those around him looking at him as if he had suddenly contracted leprosy. He walked away to the far corner of the grounds and sat on a tower of hay bales. People went about their business, people he had known his whole life, but they all looked like strangers, like he had parachuted into a foreign country or planet, and he was the only one of his kind.
In the distance, he saw a familiar face in the ocean of strangers. His dad walked up to him with two boerewors rolls in his hands. He climbed up the bales of hay, balancing carefully, sat next to Pete, and handed him one of the rolls.
“It has everything on, onions, tomato sauce and mustard,” Rikus said.
“Thanks,” Pete said and took a bite.
“Quite a view from here,” Rikus said. Pete just nodded, looking at the people who now appeared faceless, almost shapeless.
“I heard you and Barend had a bit of a scrap. Do you want to talk about it?” Rikus asked.
“Not really,” Pete said.
His dad took a bite and chewed for a long time.
“You know, people say things they don’t mean all the time. Mostly because they don’t understand and then they react in the only way they know how; by saying something stupid, hurtful. It’s the way we’re brought up. From a very young age you are taught two things: to be proud, and not to question things. Things are there for a reason, and it is not our place to challenge them. I was brought up that way, and I’m afraid I’ve brought you and your brothers up the same way. So, we end up with a nation that is too proud, or stubborn, to change. You can change a house; it takes planning, hard work and lots of money, but it can be done. A mind, on the other hand ... is not so easy.”
Rikus put the rest of his boerewors roll down next to him and turned slightly towards Pete.
“Tell me what happened? You guys have been best friends for so many years, inseparable. I really would like to know why he attacked you like that out of nowhere? Friends fight, that is normal, but not like that.”
The boerewors roll lost all its taste, but Pete held on to it and focused his eyes on the white bread of the roll wrapped around the blackened sausage, covered in blood-red tomato sauce. He drew a deep breath and started telling his dad about that Sunday, about the old man and about how Barend had called him a kaffirboetie.
“I really thought he would have calmed down over the holiday, so I went to him today to make peace, but then he and his girlfriend called me all sorts of names ... treated me like I had the plague. Now everyone is staring at me like I’m some sort of freak.”
“That arsehole. Sorry,” Rikus said, clenching his jaw, before taking a deep breath. “Pete, no one who looks at the world with kindness will ever be seen as a freak. At least not in the eyes of the Lord. Unfortunately, the same cannot always be said of people. I’m sorry you had to go through that. I wish I could take it away.
“I want you to know that Mom and I are so incredibly proud of you. You are such an amazing son – we’re very proud.” Rikus’s voice broke a little, and he reached for his roll and took a large bite. Pete felt like he wanted to hug his dad. He had never looked stronger than in that moment.
“You know, only yesterday, I saw a girl who was first grabbed and then slapped by someone right there in the street outside Kismet, in broad daylight. This guy didn’t give a damn, like he was untouchable. I shouted at him, and he made up some story that she stole his cigarettes. Ha! Like she was even capable of smoking, never mind taking something from his oversized, grubby paws.
“Of course, like the coward he is, he walked away. I had to help her up. It was this Indian girl, long black hair – sweet looking, probably not much older than you.”
A piece of the bread got stuck in Pete’s throat; it was dry and heavy. Sarita?
“She’s a slight little thing, but a tough cookie, let me tell you. She got up and thanked me and apologised for the inconvenience. Imagine that, apologising for being attacked!
“But that wasn’t the end. That bloke who attacked her wanted to finish what he started. Thankfully, we’re not talking about the sharpest tool in the shed here. He must’ve thought I’m blind or an idiot, or both, because he just parked his car down the road in a small car park. I saw him drive in there and I could still see the hood of his bakkie. He just waited for her.” Rikus rolled his eyes. “Lots of plans in that piece of trash’s head. Nasty plans.
“So, I took her to her home. Crazy thing is, even though there weren’t many people on the street, I still got a few colourful glances because I had dared help an Indian girl up, comforted her, opened the door for her, and – heaven forbid! – let her sit in the front with me. Today I actually heard one snide remark about my misdeed. Mixing with them. Getting chummy-chummy with them. But what are we supposed to do?” Rikus shot a quick glance at Pete before he focused all his attention on his hands, rubbing them together more for inspiration than for warmth. “Should you have left Barend to abuse that old man, should I have left the girl in the claws of that monster? No, Pete, we couldn’t. Doing the right thing isn’t always the acceptable thing in the eyes of the world, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I think so,” Pete said, picking at the hay and trying to hide the panic in his voice. “Um, what happened to the girl?”
“I took her home. I must say, they have a very nice house. Her dad is a shop owner, I believe. She is really sweet, there is something almost ... I don’t know ... something about her – she is one of those people who oozes happiness. I know it sounds odd, especially after she was attacked,” Rikus said and shook his head. “Strange.” He seemed to be far removed all of a sudden.
A long pause followed and then Rikus said: “Sarita.”
“What?” Pete almost shouted.
“Her name is Sarita. You know what’s funny? In a small town like ours, an attack on the street like that is supposed to be a big thing, but I haven’t told anyone about that here today, because I can’t trust them enough to look beyond the fact that she is an Indian and I gave her a lift and let her sit next to me. Never mind the fact that a rabid wolf like Rudie is prowling the streets. And it’s not even their fault – it is how we are brought up. We make such a big deal about the little things that the herd of elephants in the room is just ignored, even though they are destroying everything.”
“Did you say Rudie?” Pete asked.
“Ja, you know Uncle Rutger’s son, the guy that was in the army for a long time?”
“Yes, I know him,” Pete said, biting hard on his bottom lip.
“You know, with people like him, what he did yesterday and the stories about him killing farmworkers and who knows what else, there are moments when I almost understand the anger of these so-called freedom-fighting terrorists. If we were subjected to that kind of thing long enough, maybe all of us would change,” Rikus said.
“I much prefer the Martin Luther King school of peaceful demonstrations and non-violence,” Pete said, but his mind could only see Rudie’s yellow moustache in Sarita’s face.
“Mmm, I suppose these guys are just so fed up with being kicked around that something in them snapped. But how can you ever justify gunning down innocent people like that day in Newcastle? Or blowing up restaurants and offices? It’s all a bit of a mess, Pete, but all we can do is the right thing. We can’t change the world, but we can make sure we’re not part of the problem. We’ll get our reward. Most probably not anytime soon, but sometime in the future it will be waiting for us.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. The sun was starting to wilt as the evening approached and the day’s meagre warmth was fast being replaced by a tangible coldness.
“I’d better go. We’ll have to finish up before the sun goes down,” Rikus said.
“Can I help?” Pete asked. His dad seemed shocked by the offer but accepted gratefully. They climbed down the bales of hay and Pete helped dispose of all the rubbish, wiped down the tables and packed away the half-empty bottles of condiments – anything to take his mind off the devil.
* * *
The men stood in front of him. They no longer looked like oversized thugs, but like soldiers – his soldiers. They wore their black uniforms, and they lived and breathed every word he said. He knew now these men would die for him, they would die for Venny Naidoo.
Venny’s right hand kept fiddling with the pistol that rested in his jacket pocket. On this day he couldn’t show any weakness, and if that meant carrying a gun, so be it.
“The church hall itself has two double-door entrances on either side of the building. The one faces the church and the other the field, where most of the stalls will be. At the rear of the building, there are two toilets. People will have to walk around the outside of the building to get to them because the only other way is across the stage, which wouldn’t happen during the concert.
“The toilets are our biggest risk: some baby or kid that needs to piss could expose us. For that reason, we will only plant one explosive on that side. We’ll split into five groups, each covering a specific section. Spade, you will take the front right; Axe, you will take the front left; Bull, you will take the back right and you will plant two mines next to each other. I want that to be the core of the blast. Bones, you will take the back left, and I will plant one in between the toilets at the rear.
“There should be a window of about ten minutes between 18:30 and 18:40, from when the slow ones finally make their way into the hall and before the ladies who make the refreshments pop out. That’s our slot. We will be waiting nearby at 18:25, at 18:31 plant the mines, and then five minutes later – we’ll light up the sky. Questions?”
Venny almost felt as though someone else was talking, like he was a general and his troops were about to embark on the final battle for earth. The feeling was indescribable.
Spade raised his hand. “Will there be a hiding place for us after planting the bombs, before detonation?”
“Spade, you and Axe will hide in the street, as you are at the front of the building on the street side. It will be too dangerous to join us. Try to get a little further away, closer to the car. The rest of us will hide behind the cars parked opposite the toilets, on the church’s side. After the blast, we will sneak away using the cars as cover. There will be so much chaos that I am confident we can get away unnoticed.
“Remember to activate the timer on the explosives as soon as they are planted, that will give us five minutes to get away from the blast zone.” Venny smiled. “And then they all go boom!”
“Shouldn’t we just plant them and go, why wait for the blast?” Bones asked.
“You guys can go, but I want to be close in case there is a detonation issue,” Venny said, but he knew they could see that he just wanted to be there, a first-hand witness of his handiwork.
“I’ll wait with you,” Bull said.
“Good, so Bull and I will meet you at the car. If we are not there within five minutes after the explosion, just go. Park the car at my house and disappear,” Venny said.
The four men nodded, happy with the plan. Venny looked at his watch; it was 17:57. A knot of excited terror churned in his gut. He did feel a little sick, but also like he could run outside, spread his arms, and fly.
* * *
“You’re going to be great, I know it. Break a leg, okay,” Deanne said, squeezing Pete’s hand.
“Thanks, Ma. And thanks for the sheets.”
“I have been looking for a reason to get rid of them for a long time. Besides, Christina did all the hard work – you should thank her.”
“I did. She’s quite something,” Pete said.
“That’s for certain,” Deanne said, smiling a bittersweet smile.
“What time am I on?”
“Six-thirty. I will see you afterwards. I have to get things started, otherwise the poor dominee’s wife’s heart won’t take it. I love you,” Deanne said. She brushed her hand over Pete’s cheek and paced towards the stage.
Pete looked at his watch but didn’t register the time. His mind was riddled with doubt and fear, and everything in between. He walked outside into the cold evening air. It was pitch dark, and the cool air in his lungs calmed him somewhat.
“Good evening, Pete,” Captain Burger said, standing right next to him.
Pete forgot how to speak. He wanted to hold his wrists out so that he could just be arrested and forget about the world in the sanctity of a prison cell.
“Have you seen any good crimes lately?” Captain Burger said with a broad smile, revealing too many wrinkles to count. Pete was sure he would either vomit or faint, most likely both, and then he would choke to death on his vomit and he would die without anyone ever knowing.
“Rudie kidnapped an Indian girl called Sarita and tried to rape her and when we tried to stop him, he shot at us. It happened in January. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—” Pete’s mouth suddenly lost all moisture, and his eye was itching like it had never done before.
“Slow down, Pete. What?” Captain Burger placed his hand on Pete’s shoulder and leaned closer. “Those are serious allegations. Are you talking about Uncle Rutger’s Rudie?”
“Howzit, Captain, howzit, young Petrus.” Rudie walked towards them from the bright lights of the hall’s stoep, cupping a cigarette between his thumb and middle finger.
“I must go,” Pete said and walked away as quickly as he could without running. He could hear Captain Burger calling after him, but soon he was in the toilet, standing over the bowl waiting to throw up. But nothing came.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats; the concert is about to begin.” His mom’s voice echoed over the microphone. He could hear the shuffling of people and chairs, coughing, kids calling out, and he knew he had to pull it together. He’d have to deal with Captain Burger later.
* * *
The dominee’s wife appeared on stage and welcomed all with her usual array of well-crafted adjectives. She told everyone that this was the most successful bazaar ever, like she did every year, and she was particularly proud that in a tough year, a year of drought and terrorist attacks, people still came together and poured their effort and hard-earned money into the church. It was a touching speech, and more than a few damp eyes shimmered under the fluorescent lights.
After her address, the lights went out and the curtains opened. A bright spotlight illuminated the twenty tiny kids on stage, each cupping their hands like the sopranos of old, exactly as they had been told.
Like every year, they received a standing ovation. People loved them. However, the same could not be said of Auntie Nelia who came on after them. She was doing some Italian operatic piece a grave disservice. A few men tried to slip away to have a cigarette but were stopped by threatening glances from their wives.
Thankfully, a comedy sketch by five primary-school boys lifted the mood. The crowd loved it and roared with laughter, cheering excessively as the curtains were drawn.
When the laughter subsided, the dominee’s wife took to the stage again, praising the wonderful comedic talents of the young stars.
* * *
There was no one around. The streets were deserted. Not a car could be heard, and no lights were on in any of the houses. The only beacon of brightness was the light streaming out of the church hall.
They left the car a block away, behind a few trees, out of view. Now they were walking in the darkness with their sports bags in hand, pistols on the hip, with complete focus. They stopped just outside the church. Venny gave the signal and they all covered their faces with balaclavas. He pointed to Spade and Axe to go around on the right, to the front of the building. He shook both their hands before they set off, shoulders low like foxes.
The other two followed him as they snuck from car to car, to just outside the church hall. They could hear the laughter inside, but there was not a soul in sight. The toilets were no more than twenty metres from them. He pointed Bull and Bones to the sides they needed to go to, and then jogged with his back stooped low towards the toilets. The only thing he could think of was how much he wanted a cigarette. He could almost taste the sweet Gunston perfume stroking his insides, but he had to remain focused, ready, alert.
There was an outside light above the men’s toilets, but as luck would have it, a wonderfully dark patch above the ladies’. It was as if his senses had become heightened. Everything around him disappeared. His ears pricked for the faintest creak, but all he could hear was a woman making some announcement inside the hall.
He lifted the explosive out of the bag. His hands were surprisingly steady. He stuck the device right in the heart of the dark patch and, with great care, let go. He took a step back. It stuck.
He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His thoughts took him to the newspaper clipping above his desk in his operations room, of the Indian woman being beaten by a policeman. He thought of her face: the absolute despair. Then he remembered what she really looked like when she wasn’t being beaten by police. He recalled her near-blue eyes that could scan every millimetre of his soul with one glance. He could feel her touch, her smile. It was his most precious and wonderful Ruhi. He should have been there that day when she protested; he should have been there to protect her, to save her from being taken away like an animal. To die.
“This is for you, Ruhi,” Venny whispered and pulled the wire on the side of the device. He looked at it one last time and then ran, without looking or seeing anything around him. He ran with everything his short legs had until he flopped down behind a blue 1978 Ford Cortina. It took him a few moments before he realised Bull and Bones were there too. They gave him the thumbs-up and Bones slipped away, leaving him and Bull to be spectators of their own concert.
* * *
“Next up is a performance simply titled Shadows. I for one am very excited, so please put your hands together and give a warm Dannhauser welcome to our young performer. Shadows, ladies and gentlemen.” The dominee’s wife waved to the stage as if she was a magician’s assistant, and she was rewarded with a half-hearted round of applause.
The curtains opened. The front of the stage was completely covered by a few sewn-together white bedsheets. A bright light illuminated the bedsheet canvas, making it seem as if it was the source of the light. A few heads turned, a few questions whispered, a few shoulders shrugged: this was not one of the usual items in the concert, and a buzz of excitement grew as the canvas stood blank for a few moments.
“Tonight, I am going to reveal one of the world’s greatest secrets,” Pete de Lange’s voice cut through the expectant silence. He was nowhere to be seen; it was just the illuminated white canvas on stage.
“All these years they have been among us, since time began, yet we have never known their secret. Until now. When you walk down the street, have you ever noticed your shadow?”
A few kids in the crowd excitedly whispered stories about their shadows to one another until their parents hushed them.
“Of course, you have seen them, but have you ever asked yourself what happens to them while you are safely tucked away in your bed at night and sleeping peacefully?” The children were quieter now, their eyes glued to the canvas.
“Last night, I woke up in the middle of the night. All was quiet, everyone asleep. I needed fresh air, so I stepped outside, but something moved, and I ran, fearing the worst but knowing that if it was an intruder he had to be chased away. Ladies and gentlemen, it wasn’t an intruder.
“Behind the back wall of our garage, with the stars sparkling in the sky, I saw a shadow, hiding. I looked around but there was no one, just a shadow. I called out: ‘Hey!’ But it remained unmoving. So, I stepped closer.”
The kids were now sitting on the edges of their seats, and a few adults too. There was not a sound to be heard, except the buzzing of the speakers.
“All of a sudden he jumped up!” A shadow appeared behind the canvas – it looked like it was inside the sheets. People gasped and a few children shrieked. A man-sized broad-shouldered shadow filled the stage, standing nervously, twitching, as if it wanted to run away.
“I said, ‘Wait, don’t run. How do you do that? Where is your ... person?’ He looked afraid and I walked closer, as slowly as I could. He bent down a little, petrified, then I said, ‘What’s your name?’ The shadow stood up again and he whispered so softly that I had to ask again. He said, ‘Iri, my name is Iri.’ I said to him, ‘How could it be?’ And this is what he told me ...
“He said that late at night, when people are asleep, shadows are set free. They always feel, and they always know, even when people do horrible things, but at night, they are free, and life is worth living. I asked him where he was from and what he was doing there, and then he told me his story.”
The crowd stared at the statuesque presence of the shadow on stage. No one moved and suddenly everyone wanted to hear Iri’s story.
“Iri comes from a place far away. It is called Dann-Bauser.” The crowd laughed, thankful for some release of tension.
“It is a strange place, everyone has grey skin and massive eyes. There is a river that runs through the town, called the Tupela.” A few people chuckled.
“On the one side of the river all the rich people live in big fancy houses. They drive cars similar to what we know as Mercedes-Benzes. They don’t do much work, but they have always had money, passed on from generation to generation. They are known as the Luteras. On the other side of the river live the Kuttas. They live in tents and sleep under trees. There is no money and very little food. They work from morning till night for the Luteras, but often for little more than a piece of bread.
“This is the way it has always been, since the day before forever began. Luteras and Kuttas never mix, never speak, unless a Lutera gives a Kutta an order.”
For a moment it was so quiet in the hall one could hear a pin drop.
“On a lovely bright summer’s day, Iri was casting a shadow for his person, a Lutera man named ...” Pete hesitated for a moment. “Rudie,” he said, his voice muted, as if asking for permission.
“They strolled along the edge of the river towards the only bridge that connected the two parts of town.” Pete’s voice had regained its power. “Rudie was a bad man, but he was big and strong, and everyone feared him.” The crowd laughed as the shadow flexed his muscles like a bodybuilder. Sitting right in the middle of the audience, Rudie slid down in his seat, peering around, spotting one or two people looking at him. He pulled his cap lower over his brow.
“In the corner of his eye, he saw a beautiful Kutta girl picking flowers on the opposite side of the river.” The shadow of a girl appeared in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas, pretending to pick flowers. The man’s shadow turned towards her.
“Iri glanced at the magnificent shape of the girl’s shadow and wondered if one night he would be able to find her. But Rudie, big, bad, evil Rudie, had other plans. He wanted to steal her, make her his slave, make her work in his cellar all the hours of all the days until her beauty was no more. Kuttas did not deserve beauty, and he would take it away.
“So he snuck across the bridge so that no one saw him.” The male shadow hunched and crept melodramatically. But the crowd didn’t laugh; they were too anxious to learn what was going to happen.
“She was singing a song, mesmerised by the beauty of the wildflowers.” A girl’s voice started humming a melody that no one in the crowd knew. It was as haunting as it was beautiful.
“She didn’t see Rudie until it was too late. She tried to run but he had her. He grabbed her tight, and regardless of how much she kicked, this evil man was just too strong for her.” One of the moms contemplated whether her five-year-old daughter might be too young for this story as the shadow of the girl kicked out at the air behind the canvas, but she remained put, unable to move.
“The girl’s shadow pleaded with Iri in their secret language, which people can’t hear, ‘Please do something, please do something!’ But what could he do, he was only a shadow?”
After a moment’s silence, Pete continued: “Shadows have to follow every single movement of their people, no matter how bad, or how much they don’t want to – they have no choice. Iri became so frustrated and mad that he wanted to scream, but all that came out were his shadow tears, dripping on the ground. You might have seen them; when they fall to the ground they turn into prickly thorns. He cried and cried but nothing helped. Rudie carried the girl towards the bridge. The girl’s shadow kept pleading: ‘Help, help, please help.’
“But what could he do, he was just a shadow?
“At that moment the sun was directly behind them and Iri saw himself against the bridge. For once he was bigger than Rudie! He looked at the girl and then at her shadow, and something deep inside him stirred, something he had never felt before. With everything he had in him, he clenched his shadow teeth, and closed his shadow eyes and pulled, and pulled. When he opened his eyes, he was shocked: he stood apart from Rudie, free. He waved and flapped his arms like a madman. His arms looked like giant eagle’s wings spread against the bridge. Rudie was startled and dropped the girl as he searched the skies in confused terror for this evil winged monster. Then he spun around and ran as fast as he could, across the bridge and straight into his house where he locked the door behind him.
“Iri was there, back with Rudie, his freedom short-lived. But it didn’t matter, he had saved her.” A few moments of silence followed, the audience’s hearts racing.
“Now Iri and the girl’s shadow, Suri, are best friends. Every night when Dann-Bauser is asleep, they run to the bridge where they smile and weep together.
“That, ladies and gentlemen, is Iri’s story. So tonight, when you’re cosy in your beds, and sleep takes you away, dream about your shadows, as they go out and play. But just remember one thing, and this Iri asks: When you cast your shadow, do what’s right and don’t be like Rudie who leaves a trail of prickly thorns in his wake.” Behind the illuminated bedsheets, the two shadows moved to the centre of the stage holding hands and then bowed twice.
The crowd sat in silence for a few moments before Deanne jumped to her feet and applauded with great vigour, followed by Rikus and Auntie Eunice, the dominee and then everyone else. The only two people who remained seated were Captain Burger and Rudie. Captain Burger glanced across to a stark-looking Rudie, their eyes meeting briefly before Rudie looked down at the drink in his hand and took a large sip.
The curtains were drawn and Pete pulled down the sheets as quickly as he could, rolled them into a makeshift ball and cast them into the corner of the stage. He handed the microphone back to the dominee’s wife, who gave him an approving smile, and then raced behind the stage, dancing down the steps that led to the corridor behind the toilets.
His two shadows waited for him there. They were covered from head to toe in suits made with great skill by Christina out of old bedsheets. The only things visible were their eyes, and in them, Pete could see both shadows were smiling gleefully – the one very dark pair of eyes, and the other the most amazing, translucent hazelnut, which took his breath away every time.
“We did it,” Pete said.
“It was so amazing,” Petrus whispered.
“You guys were sensational, thank you so much,” Pete said.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. I think, along with the Halley’s Comet night, this must be the best day of my life,” Sarita said.
It was funny to see only their eyes sticking out. They looked so different, yet unmistakably them, unmistakably his friends.
“Do you think anyone could tell who we were?” Petrus asked.
“No chance, they were captivated. That’s the beauty of small towns, it doesn’t take much to amuse people,” Pete said, smiling.
“You are too hard on yourself. That was brilliant. You are a genius, seriously,” Sarita said.
Petrus looked over his shoulder. “We must go before people see us,” he whispered.
“I know, I wish you could stay, but I know,” Pete said and looked at his watch. “Thank you for taking this massive risk for me. I wish I had the words to express how much this means to me. You guys are amazing.”
Petrus raised his hands. “That’s what friends are for.”
“It was more than a pleasure, it was a privilege. And to do this with you two, my best friends, is something that will live inside me forever. I’m going to cry,” Sarita said.
“Don’t cry, you’ll wet your bedsheet,” Pete said, and the three of them chuckled in muffled silence.
Petrus stuck out his hand and Pete grabbed it. They shook hands and spent a silent moment looking at each other. Pete nodded.
“I asked baas Gerrit about doing matric,” Petrus said as an afterthought.
“What?” Pete called out a little louder than he should have and looked behind him guiltily. “That’s great! What did he say?”
“He said yes. I’m doing matric. It’s going to be through the post, but he said that would be a better-quality matric anyway. I’m doing it.”
“That is the best news! Well done,” Pete said.
“I’m so proud of you, Petrus, you are going to do so well,” Sarita said.
“Oh, before I forget,” she added, “here.” She took two folded pieces of paper out of a hole in her sheet and handed one to each.
“What’s this?” Petrus asked.
“Just something small. Read it later.”
“Okay, I’ll see you outside,” Petrus said to Sarita. He curled his hand around the piece of paper and slipped through the men’s toilet to the outside.
Pete put the piece of paper in his pocket and stepped closer to hug Sarita, but she stopped him. She pulled off her white face-hugging mask and smiled at him, her dimples even more beautiful than usual. His heart was racing. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and kiss her until the universe ceased to exist. But he fought the urge as best he could.
“You are beautiful, you know? Absolutely beautiful,” Pete said and tried to swallow. “I heard about yesterday, about him, I’m so sorry.”
“It was your dad who saved me, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“A family of heroes, it seems. My heroes.”
Her eyes fixed on his. “Pete, yesterday, I was afraid, but now I’m not afraid any more. He is just a big ugly monster, and I think somewhere between Halley and the white sheets tonight, I finally locked him away in a cupboard. And I threw away the key. Life is so much better without fear. Besides, I now have a father-and-son team of heroes to protect me.”
She smiled shyly, casting her eyes to the floor.
“I ... I, you are just so ... I think you are the ... I think I am ... I am ...” Pete tried, but Sarita shuffled closer, so close that it felt as if she was part of his skin.
“Me too.” She smiled. Their eyes met, the world shut down, noise, colour, everything except her. His hand searched for her face, then his fingers pulled her closer. He could no longer contain the yearning inside, like a fire, igniting everything around it. Her eyes shut, but he kept his open. He did not want to miss any of this. Their lips met. It was like an electric shock, not one that hurt, rather one that brought you back to life. It sent blazing bolts of energy to every cell in his body. Her lips were soft, sweet like plums, and warm. They quenched a deep thirst he did not know he had. She pushed her body into his and he pulled her even closer. The earth stopped turning. He was a hot-air balloon and she the fire. He was ready to lift off. And never come down.
Footsteps.
They ignored them. Locked in the moment. So close that Pete thought they could never be split apart. Forged together, there behind the stage, she dressed in white sheets, he overcome by her.
The footsteps became louder, urgent, from the stage heading towards them. They pulled apart, gobsmacked. Her face was glowing, and she was short of breath. She jumped forward and kissed him again. Lingering. His heart stopped. When she slowly released her mouth from his, she gently stroked her fingers over her lips as if she wanted to capture him there for all eternity. She whispered a barely audible “wow”, a look of complete wonderment on her face, her eyes almost questioning whether this had truly happened. Pete smiled back, filled with the same wonderment, and nodded as if to confirm to both of them that this wasn’t a dream. Then, as the footsteps reached the set of four steps leading to the passageway where they stood, she winked, pulled her mask over her head, turned and disappeared through the ladies’ toilet.
A couple of boys almost ran him over, but he hardly noticed. He was certain he was going to lift off and float to heaven. Her taste lingered in his mouth, all the way back across the stage and out the other side, where he joined his mom and dad in the fourth row from the front. They both smiled at him with pride, but all he wanted to do was shout his unbridled joy to the mountaintops. He wanted to grab the microphone and proclaim what magic had just happened. But he sat quietly, smiling, carefully touching his lips every few seconds – recalling the moment she had whispered “wow”, recalling every single aspect of the most enchanting moment the world had ever known – and watched as the Koekemoer family performed their annual Sound of Music tribute.
* * *
“Shit! Why is it taking so long? They should have gone off thirty seconds ago,” Venny whispered to Bull.
“Let’s give it a minute – perhaps the timers aren’t too accurate,” Bull said.
“We don’t have a minute; soon people will start coming out, and then they might notice the devices, evacuate, call the army, and all will be in vain.”
Venny was now so desperate for a cigarette he was willing to blow his cover.
“Patience, Protea Eight,” Bull said.
“Don’t talk to me about patience. I’ve waited for this moment for over five years. I cannot accept failure, it has to happen and it has to happen now!” Venny stood up, but Bull pulled him back down with such force that he landed on his backside.
“You’re going to get us killed. Look.” Bull pointed towards the toilets. A figure wrapped in a white sheet stood outside, pacing anxiously.
“Who the hell is that, some Ku Klux Klan wannabe? What are we going to do now?” Venny asked.
“We wait till he disappears, then we go.”
“No! I will not go until that bloody bunch of white racist scum is blown to pieces,” Venny said.
“We’ll be in pieces if we don’t get away right now. These devices are old Soviet-issue mines that have been passed from one country to the next for who knows how long; perhaps they don’t even work any more. It’s better to get out now and live to fight another day.”
“There won’t be another day. Not for me. The Struggle will continue, but Dannhauser will be forgotten; it will just be another small shithole full of pricks like me.”
“Crap, I think people are starting to leave. There’s another one,” Bull said. Venny watched as another figure dressed in white walked out of the toilets, the ladies’ this time.
The two figures talked and then hugged, before the one that had come out first ran towards the darkness of the field on the opposite side of the church hall. The other figure ran towards them.
“If he gets too close, I’ll have to shoot,” Bull said, resting the shaft of the pistol against his forehead.
“It’s a she,” Venny said, watching as the figure ran towards him. There was something familiar in the unrestricted, joyful, childlike run of this woman. He knew it, he knew it well.
“Sarita?” he whispered.
She came closer, her arms swinging freely, and although her face was covered, he could sense her smile, her unbridled joy. The world slowed. Bull and his gun faded, so did the car behind which they were hiding, the church, the hall; it was just him and his little girl and she was running towards him.
Then an immense, all-engulfing light flashed behind her like a moon exploding. He knew it must have been loud, but he didn’t hear it. He watched as the wall where he had placed the mine slowly disintegrated and bricks, mortar and glass were discharged into the cold winter air like arrows of hate.
He wanted to call out, but his mouth had no feeling. He wanted to jump up and run to her, but his legs lay lifeless under him.
A single red brick appeared out of the blinding light.
It shot through the darkness like a rocket. He had to stop it, but his voice was mute, his body lame. He couldn’t stop it. Even though he could see its target, he couldn’t. Mute. Lame. The brick piercing the darkness struck its white, sheet-clad target, and then fell to the side. As if it was innocent. Harmless.
“We have to go.” Bull pulled on Venny’s arm, but he could not look away. The bedsheet had a red spot now and the colour was spreading.
“We have to go!” Bull plucked him off his feet and ran with him draped over his shoulder. Venny looked back, his senses flickering, sounds slowly filling the night – screams, cries, shouts. And a bedsheet stained with blood.
“It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her,” Venny kept mumbling all the way to the car.
* * *
“Are you unharmed, are you okay?” the dominee asked as he made his way through the stunned mass of people standing outside the church hall, bunched close together.
He saw the white-and-red figure lying under a tree, and he saw one of his elders running towards it. Then he started running too, for the first time in twenty years. Seconds later and completely out of breath, he dropped to his haunches next to his elder who kneeled beside the body.
The elder looked at him as though asking permission. He nodded. Then, as gently as he could, the elder removed the bloodstained mask. Blood was like a sticky syrup in the person’s long black hair. With shaking hands, the elder slowly rolled the body over.
“Oh, it’s a coolie,” the man said with a sigh of relief.
“There are more bombs. Get out! Everyone, get as far away as possible,” Captain Burger shouted from the hall. People scattered like a herd of impala chased by lions. The dominee looked in shock at the elder as he jumped up and ran away. Then the dominee bent down, took the lifeless body of the young Indian girl in his arms, and ran for the second time in twenty years.