Chapter 31

August 2019

‘I still don’t understand!’

Bongi did not look at Jerry where he stood on the opposite side of the bed. She kept her eyes down to the travelling bag she was packing, carefully tucking two pairs of panties into a corner. ‘You still don’t understand what, Jerry?’ She laid a pair of slacks, folded precisely, in the bag and moved back to the cupboard behind her.

‘Why you have to accompany Vladimir.’

‘I told you, Jerry ... I’m not accompanying Vladimir; he’s accompanying me!’

‘Same thing.’

‘No, it’s not, Jerry. The cover story is centred on me. He’s going to be the hanger-on.’

Jerry didn’t respond. Bongi looked up. He was looking at her with a sorrow she could not fathom. Or was it sorrow? It was not a look she associated with Jerry. She smiled. But he turned away, stood looking out the window at the wintered garden, then left the room.

Later, on the N4 east in Vladimir’s near-silent A4 hovering around the speed limit, she looked across at Vladimir, his eyes narrowed on the road, his forehead furrowed, the late-winter sun painting shards of light on his shaven scalp. She had always thought that he had an innate look of wisdom; in fact, not so much a look as an overall demeanour. In his speech, his body language, his eyes, he was the calm, reasoned one. Jerry was the fervent one; not unreasoned, not unreasonable, always just hovering on the edge – in work, in life, in love, in his appetites, always edging it.

Vladimir turned suddenly to her, caught her gaze. ‘What?’ he asked with raised eyebrows before turning back to the road.

‘Nothing, Vladimir. Just thinking.’

‘About?’

‘I was comparing you and Jerry – the Jekyll and Hyde of intelligence.’

Vladimir turned briefly again. ‘Oh, really? Which one am I?’

She turned away, to the window to her left, eyes blinking at the sun and the blur of the passing fields. ‘Actually, I don’t remember which character is which. But, anyway, it’s an inaccurate comparison. Life is not that dichotomous.’ Speaking to the window, she continued. ‘Jerry and I had a bit of a fight this morning.’

Vladimir did not turn this time. He too looked out the side window. ‘Oh? About what?’

‘I think he’s jealous of you.’

‘Of me?’

‘Of us.’

He took his foot off the accelerator as if he was going to stop, then pressed it down again, going well past the speed limit, overtook a truck on a solid line, and pulled sharply back into lane. ‘Of us? Should he be?’

Bongi regretted starting this conversation. ‘I don’t know. Should he?’

Vladimir didn’t reply. He didn’t look at her. But his mouth appeared to twitch, in and out of a smile.

Bongi looked back to the window and the passing scene, mountains emerging around them, replacing the spreading fields. They were coming down the hill now towards the Watervalboven tunnel. She turned the dial on the radio up. Pop music. She turned it down again, turned to Vladimir, put her hand on his thigh and took it back again. ‘I think my perfect man would have been an amalgam of you and Jerry. You can’t always get want you want, but if you try sometime, you just might find, you get what you need.’

Vladimir laughed. ‘Hawu, sisi, you quoting the Rolling Stones! I would never have imagined.’

‘That’s Jerry’s influence. I’m into all kinds of music, and literature. I’m a multiculturalist. Jerry calls me an eclecticist.’

‘A what ...? Oh! Yebo, I get it. Eclecticist.’

They went quiet. She turned up the radio again. It was news. The end of the news. Exchange rates and weather. The rand was going down; the markets didn’t like the new president much. The weather news was good – spring approaching; the gods, it seemed, liked the new president. She ran her hands down the top of her slacks, shifted her legs, held out the coffee flask to Vladimir. He refused. She poured herself a cup, bending forward and pouring between her legs to avoid a spill on the slacks. She sipped at it, rehearsing their story in her head.

Their hands touched as they pushed simultaneously at the small metal gate to the front garden of the house in this suburb of the provincial capital, formerly known as Nelspruit, then as Mbombela, now more recently re-renamed after a former, late provincial premier who had died under suspicious circumstances two years before. It suddenly occurred to Bongi, as she quickly removed her hand from the gate, that it was quite likely the town would soon get a new name. The former premier was not a loved one of the new administration. Vladimir ushered her through the gate and followed behind her. The garden was all lawn – scrawny kikuyu grass – dry, patchy and ashen. There were no beds, no trees, no shrubs – just the poorly paved path to the front door. The house itself was box-like: square whitewashed face, square windows, square front stoep; the front door was rectangular, but only just.

She rang the bell. Silence. Vladimir stepped forward and rapped hard. It echoed into the house, followed by footfalls limping down a passage. The door opened. The man before them was tall and stooped, tight grey curls forming a crescent around a wrinkled bald patch on his head, the skin of his face folded over itself, his lips large and wan, his eyes much younger than the rest of him.

‘Ah, Miss Nkambule, I presume. And ...?’ He turned to Vladimir,

Bongi put out her hand. He took it with hesitation, looking at Vladimir for permission. ‘Doctor, actually, Mr Dlamini. Dr Nkambule. But you can call me Thando.’ She retrieved her hand and gestured to Vladimir. ‘This is my colleague, Professor Manzini.’

Dlamini took Vladimir’s hand and shook it with some vehemence. He looked long at him, some effort etched on his face. Silence for a moment, then he looked beyond them to the street, stepped back and ushered them through the door much like a butler. ‘Ngicela ningene.’

They walked past and then stepped aside to allow him to lead them into the lounge and point them to two armchairs as he sat on the sofa. There was something about the furnishing of the room that irritated Bongi – heavy, light-coloured wooden frames to the seats with purple upholstery, uncomfortable lumps in the wrong places; scattered cushions of devious colour; imitation ceramic statuettes, large and small, on a cluttered mantelpiece, dark-wooded side tables and a bookshelf empty of books.

Baba Dlamini stared long at Vladimir again, rose suddenly and, without a word, left the room to busy himself, Bongi assumed from the emanating sounds, in the kitchen. He returned with a tray with china teapot, cups, saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug that Bongi later described on the drive home as English daintiness. He poured without offering, held out a cup to each of them and pushed the sugar and milk first toward Vladimir.

‘You look familiar ... so familiar. But my old brain. My old head.’

Bongi leaned forward, pushing away the sugar and milk that Vladimir proffered. ‘Professor Manzini here is retired now. He is supervising my research. He is quite a well-known academic. Perhaps you’ve seen him on TV? He used to be their favourite expert on historical things.’

Dlamini sipped his tea and looked at them over his cup. ‘Yes, perhaps, on TV. Yes. Professor, eh? Which university?’

Bongi answered. ‘Wits. As I explained on the phone, Mr Dlamini, I am with the History Workshop at Wits. Professor Manzini is an associate now. I am doing research, collecting narratives, about the resistance to apartheid in local communities. My current project is focused on the former Eastern Transvaal. Mpumalanga.’

‘Yes, yes, Mrs Nkambule, I understand. Funny thing ... In my long life – I am seventy-nine now – I have not met many professors. Funny. You might be only the second ... yes, the second one. I knew one, a while ago. But he was a white man. Yes. I don’t think there were any black professors in those days. Yes.’ He sipped at his tea.

Vladimir leaned forward to speak, but Bongi motioned to him to sit back. She took a digital recorder from her handbag. ‘May we start the interview, Mr Dlamini? Do you mind if I record?’

He looked at her as if surprised to be called back from his reverie. ‘Yes, yes. Of course, Madame Nkambule. The interview. Go ahead. More tea?’

‘No thanks, Mr Dlamini. If we can begin?’ She switched on the recorder. ‘Why don’t you start with a brief summary of your life ...? Perhaps start with the present, what you are doing now.’

He suddenly preened, back up straight, as straight as it would go, chest out. Bongi only noticed for the first time that he was wearing a sports jacket and tie. She was reminded of the old men of the village of her childhood, on a Sunday late afternoon, sitting around the fire, drinking the brew, dressed as if for the city far away. She nodded her readiness.

‘Yes, well, now I’m retired. Yes, sometime now. Was a director in the province’s education department under the old premier. Yes. I miss him. Good man. Tragic ending. He was assassinated, you know.’

Vladimir spoke. ‘I thought it was suicide.’ Bongi glared at him. ‘Sorry, Dr Nkambule. Sorry.’ He sat back.

‘No, no, sir. It was murder. His political enemies.’ Dlamini paused, looking to Vladimir for a response. Bongi spoke. ‘Please continue, Mr Dlamini.’

‘Yes, well, I retired – had to retire ... Age, you know. But I’m still active in my branch – ANC, you know. I’m branch chairman. But not happy, no. Not happy with this new ANC, this new leadership. I miss the former president, the premier. They were for us rural folk. Yes, us out here in the bushes. This new lot is for the city folk, the workers, the lazy workers – always striking ...’

‘And before that?’ Bongi poured herself another cup of tea. ‘Before the provincial department.’

‘Before that? Yes, I was a teacher, a headmaster.’ He named the school. Vladimir took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and wrote it down. Dlamini stared at him. Bongi glared. Vladimir lifted his shoulders in part apology: ‘Old habits. Bad memory. I don’t trust technology.’ He pointed at the recorder. ‘She does.’ He pointed at Bongi.

And so the interview continued, Bongi allowing the old man to ramble, her own mind drifting too, back to the tiff with Jerry that morning, the discussion in the car with Vladimir, and back, now and then, to the obvious fabrications of his past by Baba Dlamini – well, if not quite fabrications, at least a re-remembering in deference to the required narrative that the present demanded of the past, of him, his past. Now and then, she prodded with a question, but there was hardly need. He seemed flattered with the interest in his history. She almost felt a little guilty for the deception.

At last his voice slowed and quietened. He paused, looked at her. She thanked him, promised him a copy of the transcript and the final research. She looked to Vladimir for small talk. There was more, she thought.

Vladimir obliged. ‘Baba, you said I’m only the second professor you’ve met. Who was the first?’ Bongi pretended to switch the recorder off.

‘The first? Yes. I said, didn’t I? A white man, Afrikaner actually ... From Unisa, the University of South Africa.’

‘Oh? How did you meet him?’ Vladimir wore a look Bongi recognised – disinterest in his own question, more like feigned politeness, pretended interest. He was good at that.

‘He was one of those, you know ... Liberal whites. His university was looking for bright students – yes, that’s right – exceptional students.’

Vladimir looked out the window, then lazily back at Dlamini. ‘I see. Exceptional students, hey? Why was that?’

Dlamini seemed flustered. ‘They wanted to support them. You know, to study further after matric, sponsor them for university studies. Yes.’

Bongi stepped in. ‘That’s interesting. I never knew about that. And? Did you recommend anyone?’ She saw Vladimir turn away again to hide a smile.

Dlamini scratched at the crescent of hair. He looked into his empty teacup. ‘Oh dear, now you’re asking things of an old man, an old brain. I can’t remember. I might have. There were so many pupils over the many, many years.’ He trailed off, looking to Vladimir for support.

Vladimir put on his smile, his famous smile. ‘Very nice. Very good. Is he still alive, that professor? You remember his name? We should look him up. It will be very good for our research.’

Dlamini seemed to warm to the smile and the question. Bongi wondered why. ‘Oh yes. Very good, yes, but I think the professor is late. I believe so. I forget his name. I used to call him Prof. He called me Headmaster. Very polite man. Very polite.’

Later that evening, in Vladimir’s room in the rustic lodge he had chosen, he and Bongi sat at the small round table just inside the wood-and-glass French doors, listening to the recording of the interview with Dlamini. On the table between them the bottle of Glenfiddich Vladimir had retrieved from his overnight bag, as well as two glasses. They sipped as they listened, both taking occasional notes. Every now and then Vladimir looked up at her, his eyes narrowing quizzically. She pretended not to notice. The recording finished. They sat in silence for a while, each going through their notes, Vladimir with a yellow highlighter.

He spoke first. ‘It’s him, I’m sure. The same one.’

Bongi looked up, pulled her glass closer. ‘Who is him?’

‘This so-called Professor. I’m sure it’s the same Bester or Bekker I asked you to look up ... I’m sure.’

‘But you never told me why I should look him up.’

Vladimir looked at her over the rim of his glass. He rubbed his scalp vigorously. ‘I got information that there was a Bester or Bekker in the security police here in the old Eastern Transvaal who boasted about having sources high in the ANC.’

‘You got information? From who? How reliable?’

‘Does it matter from who? Very reliable. I was also told that he later left the police and joined the old NIS. That’s why I asked you to check, to see if he was amalgamated in ’95.’

Bongi pushed her glass away. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘I’ll order some hot chips, and a bottle of wine.’

Bongi laughed. ‘Hot chips? You wanting to fatten me up?’