The Monster's Daughter (51 page)

Jakob held out one of the Black Labels. “Boss says everybody has to stay out tonight.”

“Up to no fucking good.” Trivedi took the beer from Jakob. He flopped down on one of the benches next to the
braai
pit, leaning back against the wall. The pitch black around them was relieved only by stars, their glow unnaturally bright away from the city. Jakob sat down as well, though he was not sure that he wanted to stay. Trivedi was the most vocal of the
askaris
. It wasn't a good idea to be associated with him.

“So what do you make of it?”

“What's that?” Jakob feigned ignorance.

“The crunchies getting together all hush-hush in the middle of the night?”

“Don't know.” Jakob tipped the beer can up to his mouth. “Maybe he wants us to nail more monkey fetuses to someone's door.” He giggled, remembering all the “missions” Mynhardt had sent them on for so-called “intimidation tactics.” The man was a buffoon, full of dumb buffoon ideas. Unfortunately, he was greedy too, making them run dangerous errands to buy diamonds across the border or fence stolen cars. Mynhardt claimed it was government business, but everybody knew in whose bank account the money ended up.

“You think that's all?” Trivedi fidgeted with the ring of the beer can.

Jakob shrugged. It was hard to believe that anything would ever really change. If anything, Mynhardt and Berg and all the others seemed even more manic in dealing with “the threat” these days.

“It's all well for them,
bra
, but either way the shit strikes in the end, we're the ones who are fucked.”

“How so?”

“You never thought of it? If they win an election, they keep their thumbs on us. If they lose, what do we tell the new black government when they ask why we fight against them, kill our own people?”

“You think the ANC will win?” The idea seemed strange to Jakob, exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

“Numbers,
bra
! There's a shitload of us, not so many of them. And the referendum—”

“Bah!” Jakob crushed his beer can and reached for the next one. “Blacks are killing blacks now. It's worse than before. Look at Boipatong.” Nearly forty black men, women, and children had been killed there, and many others maimed, when members of the Inkatha Freedom Party attacked ANC supporters.

“You're not stupid, Jim-boy. You know what's been going on. Those right-wing AWB Afrikaners have been training Inkatha, giving them weapons, promising the sun and moon, and we all live happily ever after if they fight the ANC. Their own Zulu territory? Inkatha didn't just think of that by themselves. Divide and conquer, see? No way a Zulu wants to be ruled by a Xhosa, and those white bastards are working it.”

“So the whites will win,” Jakob said. A part of him secretly hoped for change, a new tomorrow. But hope was dangerous. It made you second-guess what the bosses told you, made you wonder if you could stand up to them. That's the kind of thinking that got you killed.

Trivedi leaned in. “Eventually,” he said quietly, “they will run out of bullets.” He stood up, his head tilted to one side. “Gold Mercedes by the sounds of it.”

Jakob had also become aware of the engine noise in the distance. That was one thing about being out here in the middle of nowhere: you could hear trouble coming. Trivedi's lips curled into a snarl. He tread unsteadily to the
askari
quarters at the back of the house without
another word. Jakob finished the rest of his beer, heading back when he could put it off no longer.

Agitated voices came from inside the rec room. Jakob hesitated at the door. Tokkie Mynhardt gave him a sideways glance. Berg didn't acknowledge his presence at all, a stream of profanity continuing from his mouth, his face growing redder by degrees. Jakob had rarely seen Berg like this. He usually had an exterior of detached calm, the Devil slithering under the surface, but tonight he raged out of control.

“What are you standing there for,
kaffir
?” Berg suddenly focused on Jakob, as if he was seeing him for the first time. Jakob's limbs felt numb. “I don't keep you around so you can stare at me like a bloody baboon.” Berg slapped his hand down on the bar. “I said!”

Jakob snapped out of it, his sense of self-preservation kicking in. “Is right,
Baas
.” He smiled, his lips straining against his teeth. Something had changed. He prayed that his usual clown act would get him through the night. “You tell me. You the boss man, I say. What can Jakob do?” He slipped behind the bar, grateful to have something between him and Berg. “A Chivas for the pain?
Lekker
.” Jakob slid the glass of whiskey and Coke over to Berg, trying to contain the trembling in his hands. Berg inhaled the dark liquid, emptying the glass in one go. Jakob refilled it, making the drink stiffer than before.

“When are they back?” Berg picked up the conversation he was having with Tokkie as if they hadn't been interrupted.

“Tomorrow.” Mynhardt's speech was thick, his eyes dull. He put his right hand on Berg's shoulder. “The delivery was made. Don't worry,
Broer
. A minor
fokop
. We'll make it right.”

Berg stood up suddenly, his bar stool teetering for a moment. He kicked at it and it toppled, hit the floor and bounced once. His eyes flashed black as he took a step toward Mynhardt, his voice seething. “We are hanging on by our fingernails. Let me tell you that if it was up to a
fokop
like you, we would have lost this war already.”

“Take it easy, Adriaan.”

“Your unit got snagged by MK, because they were trying to sell a target's car. Did you know about that? They are on TV telling the world what we're up to.”

“Nobody will listen—”

“You shut your mouth, you flat-faced
kak
.” Berg spat the words in
poison salvos. “The general is riding me because of you. We're losing our country to those Communist bastards. Do you know what they will do to us? They will murder your children in their beds and
naai
you up the ass before they slit your throat.” Mynhardt shook his head. It fueled Berg's rage, his tanned skin flushing dark, the veins on his temples bulging as if they might burst at any moment. Berg grabbed Mynhardt behind his neck and drove the man's head against the bar with a dull thump. “We can't afford your minor
fokops
.” Mynhardt slumped to the ground.

“Is okay,
Baas
.” Jakob jumped out from behind the bar, sure that Mynhardt would die that night if he didn't do something. “He heard you. Sorry for sure,
ja
. Hey? We'll fix it, we'll fix it.” He squatted next to the disoriented Mynhardt. “No worries. Is going to be sharp-sharp,
Baas
.” He stood up, his lips quivering. “I'll get you another
dop
, I say. No pain.” As Jakob tried to go around Berg, they locked eyes, the cold hate sending a shock through Jakob's core.

The first blow came fast and hard, catching him under his right eye. He had trouble seeing. The next one caught him in the stomach. Berg grabbed him behind his head with both hands, repeatedly driving Jakob's face into his raised knee. Jakob thought he had lost consciousness, because the next moment, he was up in the air, the rec room spinning below. He felt his stomach dip as Berg flung him to the ground. The breaking of bones echoed in his ears, too many shards of glass tearing through his body for him to pinpoint what was hurting.

Berg wasn't done. “Think you're going to be my
baas
, huh? Take away everything that I've worked for? That's what you scheme, all of you, fucking up on purpose so we fail. Think when this is all over you're going to sleep in my bed and fuck my wife? Is that what you think? You and all your little
kaffir
brothers?”

“Not me,
Baas
. Please.” Jakob's voice drowned in a gurgle.

“I will kill you first, hear? I will kill the fucking lot of you.”

Jakob tried to lift his arm to fend off the next blow, but he couldn't move it. Berg's boot was in his face, kicking at his mouth, pressing down on his face. The smell of cow dung on Berg's sole was the last thing Jakob remembered.

At night the past haunted him. It drove him into the damp streets, and he walked for hours, trying to think of anything but Tessa. How long had his soul been in this abyss? He had been so close to her that time in Johannesburg, so close to making himself known, but all he could do was watch her at a distance, too scared that it was the wrong time, that God wasn't finished with him yet. The longing had gnawed at him, the memory of her body ghosting his nerve endings until he thought he would lose his mind. When he gave in at last she was gone, and Berg was waiting. Did she know that he was watching? Did Tessa betray him? In the end it didn't matter. If it wasn't for the cruel hope that he'd find her again, he'd have walked into the freezing ocean at the base of Table Mountain, one of the many who disappear, mistaken for a seal in the shark-infested waters. But that was not God's way. Benjamin was being tested.

The fog hung thick over Table Mountain, its tendrils trailing into the city. Benjamin buttoned his jacket and turned onto Adderley Street, weaving his way past the holidaymakers, some of them shouting lewd one-liners at one another. Tomorrow they'd be in church, condemning lesser men. A voyeuristic fascination pricked Benjamin as he watched them. There was a man among the rowdy group, large, fair, barely able to stand. He separated from them, slinking into an alley. Benjamin made eye contact as he walked past, the man leaning precariously as he urinated against a wall. Benjamin's initial disgust gave way as recognition sparked. He stopped, turned back.

“What you looking at, mate? Never seen a man piss before?”

It was him. The man Tessa had been with the last time Benjamin saw her. Could it be? Had God sent him a reprieve? Benjamin nodded at the man and walked on, blending with the shadows ahead. He watched Wexler stumble out of the alley and cross the street, oblivious to the screeching tires and elongated horn blasts accompanying his progress. His friends had deserted him.

Benjamin followed as Wexler bumbled down the lane. Moonlight filtered through the fog, bathing the parliament gardens in diffused half-light that gleamed off garish Christmas decorations. Wexler lost
his footing on the cobblestones and fell down. He lay still long enough for Benjamin to wonder if he had passed out. As he stood over the man, trying to decide between reviving him or dragging him away, Wexler suddenly flipped over, his eyes focusing slowly. “I know! You're Ben.” Wexler stared at Benjamin with fascination. “I always thought she was taking the piss.”

Benjamin watched dispassionately as Wexler made several ungraceful attempts to get on his feet, his big frame awkward. Tessa had chosen this man above him, given herself to him, told him her truths. This laughable cliché of a low-class gangster.

Wexler's skin flushed pink once he got to his feet. “Fancy a drink, mate?”

“How do you know me?”

“No mistaking you.” Wexler patted his pockets. “Could you spot me a few quid, though?” He grinned. “I seem to have misplaced my wallet.”

“Where is she?” Benjamin frowned. “I can't find her.” The simple sentiment brought a familiar lump of panic to the surface.

Wexler's face pinched to a point. “You know, I don't think she wants you to, mate.”

Benjamin felt blood rushing to his face. He barreled toward Wexler, all his pent-up frustration and rage focused on this one man, the gatekeeper between him and what was his. He warded off Wexler's defensive blows without much effort, knocking the man back to the ground. “If Tessa told you about me, Jeffrey,” he said, “she must also have told you what I can do to you.”

“Sod off.” Wexler's drunken bravado did little to conceal his fear.

Benjamin straddled Wexler, his hands closing around the man's throat. Wexler kicked up and Benjamin fell back, misjudging Wexler's strength. Benjamin slammed his body down on Wexler with force, pinning him down, his face close to Wexler's, his thumbs applying pressure to Wexler's larynx.

“Tell me where she is.”

A grunt came from Wexler. Benjamin eased his grip.

Wexler coughed. “She's scared of you.”

“No. She just doesn't understand yet.” Benjamin could smell the sweat and beer seeping from Wexler's pores, the odor of smoke masking
that of a woman. Benjamin looked Wexler in the eye. “I see you've moved on.”

“She didn't want me.” Wexler crumpled. “I don't know where she is. I swear.”

Benjamin felt a strange empathy with the man, their proximity suddenly unbearably intimate. He let go of him. The man was willing to die to keep Tessa's secret. Or perhaps he really didn't know. Benjamin felt disappointed, confused by God's message. The city suddenly bore down on him, unforgiving of his failure.

“Wait.”

Benjamin turned around. Wexler was still on the ground where he had left him.

“Why not let her go, mate? There's plenty of girls, eh? Man like you can have his pick.”

“She is all I ever asked for.” It slipped out, this truth that Benjamin had held close. It felt as if his skin was chafing, his nerve endings raw. He wanted to take the words back, rip them out of Wexler's consciousness. The fearful child hiding inside of him was tethered to life by the smallest grace, a grace named Tessa, and the knowledge that she was out there in the world somewhere.

Wexler scrambled to get away as Benjamin advanced. “I'm sorry, mate.” His voice melted into Cape Town's noise, as if he was already being erased. “She left me too, you know.”

Benjamin stopped, the words resounding, landing in a part of him that wasn't numb, a knife twisting at the thought of what was. Of Tessa stealing off in the night. He nodded slowly, his rage deflating. Desolation weighed his steps as he left Wexler behind, faded into the city's streets, became one with its shadows.