methodically through the steak. Covered in the sweet sauce the whites loved, hoping it didn't trigger the sickness that lurked out in the shadows.
Theron switched off his smile. "I want half a million. Cash."
Inja stared at him, speaking around his food. "You are mad. And where must I get such money?"
"Come, Shaka. Don't play coy with me. Talk to the minister." Inja chewed, saying nothing. "I know you and him go way, way back. You guys were in exile together, running around in the bush with your AKs." Filled his mouth with steak, pointing his fork at Inja. "Down here in the Cape he can't throw his weight around like in the rest of the country. You fucken need me."
Inja knew the white bastard was right. In this province run by whites and half-breeds, they scorned his chief. Mocked his many wives and Zulu customs. Thought of him as a savage. Inja's appetite was gone. He pushed his plate away.
Theron puffed on his cigarette, leaking smoke through his nostrils like a donkey on a cold morning. "This is a nice meal and I don't want to ruin it with threats. But you know what I know. Tell your minister he's getting a bloody bargain." Washed the meat down with his Irish coffee.
Inja watched as the dead man wiped cream from his lip.
Dell lay on a bare mattress in the dark. The two drunk farm laborers who'd shared the holding cell with him had been kicked loose. One of them'd had diarrhea and the stench of the blocked toilet hung in the air, acrid and dense.
A lawyer had come up from Cape Town a few hours back. The son of a friend of Dell's from the old days. The father, a political activist who'd morphed into senior partner at a massive legal firm, hadn't bothered to come himself. The boy – Jeremy? Jerome? – told Dell to "chill" until the bail hearing in the morning. Like he was talking about catching a wave at Clifton. Assured Dell he'd be kicked loose after the hearing.
"A no-brainer," the kid had said.
Dell was exhausted but when he closed his eyes he saw the black truck. Saw the Volvo tumbling into space. Heard the screams from inside. He sat up, holding his bandaged head.
A car sped by outside, pumping Bob Marley's Redemption Song and Dell was back in 1994, at a party the night of the elections, South Africa caught up in the fever of freedom. Apartheid was officially dead. Nelson Mandela was in power. Dell was joyous and optimistic for his country, but felt sorry for himself.
His marriage had ended. A love affair that had been fueled by student politics and rebellion had run out of gas in sight of the finishing line. So, standing among a crowd of revelers on the lawn of a house in a Cape Town suburb, he felt sour and a little old, at thirty-three, to be single again.
Dell went into the house to help himself to a glass of nasty boxed wine from a table lit by melting kitchen candles. He found himself staring at a big oil painting. Presumed it was oil, the meaningless swirls applied to the canvas in thick gouts.
"Like it?"
He turned to see a girl of maybe twenty, breathtakingly beautiful, her skin the exact color of caramel, he remembered thinking. Wild hair halfway down her back in black curls.
"No, I don't actually," he said. "I think it looks like fecal matter." Trying to impress her, knowing he sounded like a dickhead as he said it.
"That means shit, right?" Rrrright . The accent neutral, except for the roll of the 'r' .
"Yes. And you? Do you like it?"
"Oh, I hate it." She sipped her wine. "But it paid my student loan for a couple of months."
"Jesus. Sorry."
Laughing, the candle flames repeated in miniature in her almond eyes. "Don't be." She was leaving him, and he didn't want her to go. She cast a last look over her shoulder. "I like your critique. I'll use it." Crrritique.
He saw her at an exhibition the following summer. Took her for a drink. They moved in together three months later. Married the next year. Dell had thought of himself as a happy man. Had thought his wife was happy, too.
He lay
Theron switched off his smile. "I want half a million. Cash."
Inja stared at him, speaking around his food. "You are mad. And where must I get such money?"
"Come, Shaka. Don't play coy with me. Talk to the minister." Inja chewed, saying nothing. "I know you and him go way, way back. You guys were in exile together, running around in the bush with your AKs." Filled his mouth with steak, pointing his fork at Inja. "Down here in the Cape he can't throw his weight around like in the rest of the country. You fucken need me."
Inja knew the white bastard was right. In this province run by whites and half-breeds, they scorned his chief. Mocked his many wives and Zulu customs. Thought of him as a savage. Inja's appetite was gone. He pushed his plate away.
Theron puffed on his cigarette, leaking smoke through his nostrils like a donkey on a cold morning. "This is a nice meal and I don't want to ruin it with threats. But you know what I know. Tell your minister he's getting a bloody bargain." Washed the meat down with his Irish coffee.
Inja watched as the dead man wiped cream from his lip.
Dell lay on a bare mattress in the dark. The two drunk farm laborers who'd shared the holding cell with him had been kicked loose. One of them'd had diarrhea and the stench of the blocked toilet hung in the air, acrid and dense.
A lawyer had come up from Cape Town a few hours back. The son of a friend of Dell's from the old days. The father, a political activist who'd morphed into senior partner at a massive legal firm, hadn't bothered to come himself. The boy – Jeremy? Jerome? – told Dell to "chill" until the bail hearing in the morning. Like he was talking about catching a wave at Clifton. Assured Dell he'd be kicked loose after the hearing.
"A no-brainer," the kid had said.
Dell was exhausted but when he closed his eyes he saw the black truck. Saw the Volvo tumbling into space. Heard the screams from inside. He sat up, holding his bandaged head.
A car sped by outside, pumping Bob Marley's Redemption Song and Dell was back in 1994, at a party the night of the elections, South Africa caught up in the fever of freedom. Apartheid was officially dead. Nelson Mandela was in power. Dell was joyous and optimistic for his country, but felt sorry for himself.
His marriage had ended. A love affair that had been fueled by student politics and rebellion had run out of gas in sight of the finishing line. So, standing among a crowd of revelers on the lawn of a house in a Cape Town suburb, he felt sour and a little old, at thirty-three, to be single again.
Dell went into the house to help himself to a glass of nasty boxed wine from a table lit by melting kitchen candles. He found himself staring at a big oil painting. Presumed it was oil, the meaningless swirls applied to the canvas in thick gouts.
"Like it?"
He turned to see a girl of maybe twenty, breathtakingly beautiful, her skin the exact color of caramel, he remembered thinking. Wild hair halfway down her back in black curls.
"No, I don't actually," he said. "I think it looks like fecal matter." Trying to impress her, knowing he sounded like a dickhead as he said it.
"That means shit, right?" Rrrright . The accent neutral, except for the roll of the 'r' .
"Yes. And you? Do you like it?"
"Oh, I hate it." She sipped her wine. "But it paid my student loan for a couple of months."
"Jesus. Sorry."
Laughing, the candle flames repeated in miniature in her almond eyes. "Don't be." She was leaving him, and he didn't want her to go. She cast a last look over her shoulder. "I like your critique. I'll use it." Crrritique.
He saw her at an exhibition the following summer. Took her for a drink. They moved in together three months later. Married the next year. Dell had thought of himself as a happy man. Had thought his wife was happy, too.
He lay
Similar Books
