When he went back to the house in Bezuidenhout at 10 a.m. the next day, Miranda answered the bell, but it was Matilda who would take him to the man who had said he would talk to him. He felt he had been granted a great privilege. Matilda was as beautiful as her mother. Her skin was lighter, but her eyes were the same. He had difficulty making out any features of her father in her face. Perhaps she kept him at such a distance, she simply prevented herself from growing to look like him. She greeted him very shyly, merely nodding when he offered his hand. Again he felt insecure, in the presence of the daughter as well, though she was only a teenager. He felt uneasy too about what he had let himself in for. Perhaps Kleyn's influence over this house was altogether different from what he had been led to believe? But it was too late to back out now. An old rusty car, its exhaust pipe trailing almost to the ground and the fenders missing, was parked in front of the house. Without a word, Matilda opened the door, and turned to him.
"I thought he'd be coming here," Scheepers said, doubtfully.
"We're going to visit another world," Matilda said.
He got into the back seat and was hit by a smell he only later recognised as reminiscent of his childhood's henhouse. The man behind the wheel had a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. He turned and looked at him, but said nothing. Then they drove away, and the driver and Matilda started a conversation in Xhosa, which Scheepers recognised but did not understand. Scheepers thought the man was driving much too fast. Soweto, Scheepers thought. Is that where they're taking me?
But they were not headed for Soweto. They passed Meadowland, where the choking smoke lay thick over the dusty countryside. Not far beyond the sea of crumbling houses, dogs, children, hens, wrecked and burned-out cars, the driver slowed down and came to a halt. Matilda came to sit beside him in the back seat. She had a black hood in her hand.
"You're not allowed to see from now on," she said. He protested and pushed her hand away.
"What is there to be afraid of ? " she asked. "Make up your mind."
He took hold of the hood. "Why?" he asked.
"There are a thousand eyes," she said. "You are not to see anything. And nobody's going to see you, either."
"That's not an answer," he said. "It's a riddle."
"Not for me it isn't," she replied. "Make up your mind now!"
He pulled the hood over his head. They set off again. The road was getting worse all the time, but the driver did not slow down. Scheepers rode with the bumps as best he could. Even so he banged his head on the car roof several times. He lost all track of time. The hood was irritating his face, and his skin started to itch.
The car slowed down and came to a halt. Somewhere a dog was barking furiously. Music from a radio was coming and going in waves. Through the hood he could smell smoke from wood fires. Matilda helped him out of the car. Then she removed the hood. The sun shone straight into his unprotected eyes, blinding him. When his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he could see that they were in a mass of shacks cobbled together from corrugated iron, cardboard boxes, sacks, sheets of plastic, venetian blinds. There were huts where a car wreck formed one of the rooms. There was a stink of garbage, and a skinny, mangy dog was sniffing at one of his legs. He observed the people who lived out their lives in this destitution. None of them seemed to notice he was there. There was no threat, no curiosity, merely indifference. As far as they were concerned he did not exist.
"Welcome to Kliptown." Matilda said. "Maybe it's Kliptown, maybe it's some other shantytown. You'd never find your way here anyway. They all look the same. The destitution is just as bad in all of them, the smells are the same, the people who live here are the same."
She led him into the cluster of shacks. It was like a labyrinth that soon swallowed him up, robbed him of his past. After a few paces he had lost all sense of direction. He thought how absurd it was that he was here with Kleyn's daughter. But absurdity was their inheritance, something that was about to be disturbed for the first time, and then destroyed.
"What can you see?" she said.
"The same as you," he said.
"No!" she said sternly. "Are you shocked?"
"Of course."
"I'm not. Shock is a staircase. There are many steps. We are not standing on the same one."
"Maybe you're at the very top?"
"Nearly."
"Is the view different?"
"You can see further. Zebra grazing in herds, on alert. Antelopes leaping and leaving gravity behind. A cobra that has hidden itself away in an empty termite mound. Women carrying water."
She stopped and turned to face him. "I see my own hatred in their eyes, but your eyes can't see that."
"What do you want me to say?" he said. "It's obviously sheer hell, living like this. The question is, is it my fault?"
"It might be," she said. "That depends."
They continued deeper into the labyrinth. He would never find his way out alone. I need her, he thought. As we have always needed the blacks. And she knows it.
Matilda halted outside a shack that was slightly bigger than the others, even if it was made from the same materials. She squatted by the door, which was roughly made from a sheet of hardboard.
"Go on in," she said. "I'll wait here."
Scheepers went in. He had difficulty distinguishing anything at all in the darkness. Then he made out a simple wooden table, wooden chairs, and a smoking kerosene lamp. A man detached himself from the shadows. He gazed at him with a hint of a smile. Scheepers thought he must be about the same age as himself, but the man facing him was more powerfully built, had a beard, and radiated the same kind of dignity he had found in both Miranda and Matilda.
"Georg Scheepers," said the man, bursting into laughter. Then he pointed to one of the chairs.
"What's so funny?" Scheepers said. He had trouble concealing his growing unease.
"Nothing," the man said. "You can call me Steve."
"You know why I want to meet you," Scheepers said.
"You don't want to meet me. You want to meet somebody who can tell you things about Kleyn you don't know already. That person happens to be me. But it could as easily have been somebody else."
"Can we get to the point?"
"White men are always short of time," Steve said. "I've never been able to understand why."
"Kleyn," Scheepers said.
"A dangerous man," Steve said. "Everybody's enemy, not just ours. The ravens cry in the night. And we analyse and interpret and think we know something is going to happen, something that could turn the country upside down. And we wouldn't want that. Neither the ANC nor de Klerk. That's why you must first tell me what you know. Then perhaps we can combine to illuminate some of the darkest corners."
Scheepers did not tell him everything. But he did divulge the most important points. Even that was a risk. He did not know who he was talking to. But he had no choice. Steve listened, stroking his chin slowly the while.
"So it's gone that far," he said when Scheepers had finished. "We've been expecting this. But we really thought some crazy
Boer
would first try to slit the throat of the traitor de Klerk."
"A professional killer," Scheepers said. "No face, no name. But he might have cropped up before. Perhaps working for Kleyn. Those ravens you were talking about could perhaps do some listening. The man could be white, he could be black. I've found an indication that he could be due for a lot of money. A million rand, possibly more."
"It ought to be possible to identify him," Steve said. "Kleyn only picks the best. If he's a South African, black or white, we'll find him."
"Find him and stop him," Scheepers said. "Kill him. We have to work together."
"No," Steve said. "We're meeting now. But this is the only time. We're going from two different directions, on this occasion and in the future. Nothing else is possible."
"Why not?"
"We don't share each other's secrets. Everything is still too unsure, too uncertain. We avoid all pacts and agreements unless absolutely essential. Don't forget we're enemies. And the war in our country has been going on for a very long time. Although you don't want to recognise that fact."
"We see things differently," Scheepers said.
"Yes," Steve said. "We do." He got to his feet. The conversation had lasted only a few minutes.
"Miranda exists," Steve said. "You can contact my world through her."
"Yes," Scheepers said. "She exists. And we both have to stop this assassination."
"Right," Steve said. "But I guess you are the ones who are going to have to do it. You are still the ones with the resources. I have nothing. Apart from my tin hut. And Miranda. And Matilda. Just imagine what would happen if the assassination came off."
"I'd rather not think about it."
Steve stared at him for a moment in silence. Then he disappeared through the door without saying goodbye. Scheepers followed him into the bright sunlight. Matilda led him back to the car. Once again he sat in the back seat with a hood over his head. In his darkness he was already preparing what to say to President de Klerk.
De Klerk had a recurring dream about termites. He was in a house where every floor, every wall, every piece of furniture had been attacked by the hungry insects. What he was doing in the house, he had no idea. Grass was growing between the floorboards, the windowpanes were smashed, and the furious chewing of the termites was like an itch in his own body. In his dream he had a very short time in which to write an important speech. His usual secretary had disappeared, and he had to do the work himself. But when he started typing, termites came pouring out from under the keys.
At that point he usually woke up. He would lie in the dark, thinking how the dream might anticipate coming reality. Maybe everything was too late already? What he wanted to achieve - to rescue South Africa from disintegration while preserving the influence and status of the whites as far as possible - could well be already beyond black impatience. Only Mandela could convince him there was no other course to take. De Klerk knew they shared the same fear. Uncontrolled violence, a chaotic collapse that no-one could manage, a familiar pre-condition for a military coup intent on revenge, or various ethnic groupings that would fight each other until nothing was left.
It was 10 p.m. on Thursday, May 21. De Klerk knew that the young lawyer Scheepers was in his anteroom. But de Klerk did not feel ready to receive him just yet. He was tired, his head bursting with the problems he had to solve. He got up from his desk and went to one of the high windows. He was sometimes petrified by the responsibility resting on his shoulders. Too much for one man to bear. He sometimes felt an urge to run away, to make himself invisible, to go straight out into the bush and simply disappear. But he knew he would not do that. The God he found increasingly difficult to talk to and believe in was maybe still shielding him after all. He wondered how much time he still had. His mood was constantly changing. From being convinced he was already living on borrowed time, he could start believing he had another five years after all. And time was what he needed. His grand design - to delay the transition to a new kind of society, and meanwhile to encourage more black voters into his own party - needed time. But he could also see that Mandela would refuse to allow him time that was used other than to pave the way for the transition.
It seemed to him there was an element of artificiality in everything he did. I too am really an upholder of the impossible dream, that my country will never change. The difference between me and a fanatic madman who wants to defend the impossible dream with open violence is very small.
Time was running out for South Africa, it seemed to him. What was happening now ought to have happened many years ago. But history does not follow invisible guidelines.
He returned to his desk and rang the bell. Scheepers came in. De Klerk had come to appreciate his energy and thoroughness. He overlooked the streak of naive innocence he also detected in the lawyer. Even this young Afrikaner had to learn that there were sharp rocks under the soft sand.
He listened to Scheepers's report with half-closed eyes. The words that got through to him piled up in his consciousness. When Scheepers had finished, de Klerk looked searchingly at him.
"I take it for granted everything I've just heard is true," de Klerk said.
"Every word of it, sir."
De Klerk thought for a moment before proceeding. "So they kill Mandela," he said. "Some miserable contract killer selected and paid by this secret committee. The murder to take place in the near future when Mandela is making one of his public appearances. The consequence will be chaos, a bloodbath. A group of influential
Boere
waiting in the wings to take over the government. The constitution will be overturned, a regime imposed, equal parts from the military, the police and civilian interests. The future will be one long-drawn-out state of emergency. Is that right?"
"Yes," Scheepers said. "If I may venture a guess, I would say the assassination attempt will be on June 12."
"Why then?"
"Mandela is to speak in Cape Town. I have learned that the army information office has been displaying an exceptional interest in the plans for dealing with the occasion by the local police. There are other indications. It is a guess, but it's an informed guess."