to the male eye. The Gentlemen’s Lodge charged the sort of prices that they could only get away with if the ladies they employed were exceptional. ‘You’ll see them when you get there. You start tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll do my duty, sir.’
‘You’ve already told me that, Lieutenant. Good evening.’
Moloi stopped in the doorway. ‘Brigadier General?’
Freek had gone back to packing his briefcase. He looked up. The damned kid looked so pleased with himself he could have won the national lottery. ‘Yes?’
‘Am I permitted to test the staff to see that they have the requisite skills?’
‘Good night, Lieutenant.’
THIRTEEN
BY EARLY EVENING , Robert Mokoapi had finished his meeting with the editor of the group’s Sunday newspaper. The meeting had taken place in his downstairs study. Thandi had brought supper to the men, knocking softly then waiting to be invited in, not wanting to disturb them. She did not know what they were talking about and she did not expect Robert to share any part of it with her.
After bringing them supper, Thandi would go upstairs to the bedroom to wait for him. She might read, but most often she would look for a movie or one of her favourite series on television. Everything she did was designed to please him. She had completed her degree in journalism and media science because her father, a country schoolteacher, had told her that this was the course she should take. She had no ambitions in the field she had studied or in any other field, but she was delighted with the result of her studies. They had brought her to Robert’s attention.
She had never expected to be the wife of a man like Robert, and she had never expected to live in a house like this one. The five bedrooms, two studies, both of which Robert used, the two-acre garden, the domestic staff of four, her own 3-series BMW , her credit card with a limit of a hundred thousand: none of this had ever been part of her expectation of life. She still had difficulty accepting that it was real. She would have loved Robert anyway, but she loved him all the more because he had given her all of this. On top of everything, he was both a great lover and a good man.
Thandi did not expect Robert to give her explanations as to what he did when he was not with her or where he went or why. Where she had grown to maturity in rural Zululand no self-respecting man explained anything to his wife. Thandi knew that there were women who demanded more of their men, but she was not one of those and did not expect ever to be one. Had Robert chosen to take a second wife, according to tribal custom, he would have had no complaint from her.
From the study, Robert saw his editor’s car drive away and the gates open to let him out. On his desk was the file of clippings from three of his own papers and the private notes of two of his journalists and one photographer. The combined weight of the information in the file was to him deeply disturbing. It was not only clear that in Mpumalanga province one wing of the ruling party was killing opponents from another wing. It also indicated that the killings were being directed from high up within the party. Even more disturbing was the fact that neither he nor the paper’s editor had heard from the lead journalist in forty-eight hours.
To Robert, the entire matter was a betrayal of the country’s revolution. He had told Yudel he wanted to hand the file to someone he could trust, someone with whom it would not just be shelved and forgotten. Yudel had agreed that Abigail was the one, but since the divorce Robert had not once spoken to her. Why he was embarrassed to be in contact with her was something in himself he did not understand. He thought it may have something to do with Thandi. He was certainly not ashamed of his charming young wife. She had accompanied him to lunch with the president, she had been seated next to him when he gave the keynote address at the annual banquet of the Black Management
‘I’ll do my duty, sir.’
‘You’ve already told me that, Lieutenant. Good evening.’
Moloi stopped in the doorway. ‘Brigadier General?’
Freek had gone back to packing his briefcase. He looked up. The damned kid looked so pleased with himself he could have won the national lottery. ‘Yes?’
‘Am I permitted to test the staff to see that they have the requisite skills?’
‘Good night, Lieutenant.’
THIRTEEN
BY EARLY EVENING , Robert Mokoapi had finished his meeting with the editor of the group’s Sunday newspaper. The meeting had taken place in his downstairs study. Thandi had brought supper to the men, knocking softly then waiting to be invited in, not wanting to disturb them. She did not know what they were talking about and she did not expect Robert to share any part of it with her.
After bringing them supper, Thandi would go upstairs to the bedroom to wait for him. She might read, but most often she would look for a movie or one of her favourite series on television. Everything she did was designed to please him. She had completed her degree in journalism and media science because her father, a country schoolteacher, had told her that this was the course she should take. She had no ambitions in the field she had studied or in any other field, but she was delighted with the result of her studies. They had brought her to Robert’s attention.
She had never expected to be the wife of a man like Robert, and she had never expected to live in a house like this one. The five bedrooms, two studies, both of which Robert used, the two-acre garden, the domestic staff of four, her own 3-series BMW , her credit card with a limit of a hundred thousand: none of this had ever been part of her expectation of life. She still had difficulty accepting that it was real. She would have loved Robert anyway, but she loved him all the more because he had given her all of this. On top of everything, he was both a great lover and a good man.
Thandi did not expect Robert to give her explanations as to what he did when he was not with her or where he went or why. Where she had grown to maturity in rural Zululand no self-respecting man explained anything to his wife. Thandi knew that there were women who demanded more of their men, but she was not one of those and did not expect ever to be one. Had Robert chosen to take a second wife, according to tribal custom, he would have had no complaint from her.
From the study, Robert saw his editor’s car drive away and the gates open to let him out. On his desk was the file of clippings from three of his own papers and the private notes of two of his journalists and one photographer. The combined weight of the information in the file was to him deeply disturbing. It was not only clear that in Mpumalanga province one wing of the ruling party was killing opponents from another wing. It also indicated that the killings were being directed from high up within the party. Even more disturbing was the fact that neither he nor the paper’s editor had heard from the lead journalist in forty-eight hours.
To Robert, the entire matter was a betrayal of the country’s revolution. He had told Yudel he wanted to hand the file to someone he could trust, someone with whom it would not just be shelved and forgotten. Yudel had agreed that Abigail was the one, but since the divorce Robert had not once spoken to her. Why he was embarrassed to be in contact with her was something in himself he did not understand. He thought it may have something to do with Thandi. He was certainly not ashamed of his charming young wife. She had accompanied him to lunch with the president, she had been seated next to him when he gave the keynote address at the annual banquet of the Black Management
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