The two men drove through the night, their laughter trailing behind them, lighting the way for Eskia’s car.
INFERNO
Midway through his life, Dante realized that he had strayed into the dark wood of error. From the look on your face I would say that you have just made the same realization.
Sunil turned to the person who had just spoken. He saw a middle-aged man with a bit of a paunch and large square glasses in thick plastic frames that he kept pushing up his sweaty and blotched nose.
Eugene, the man said, extending his hand.
Sunil.
They shook hands, Sunil trying not to pull away from Eugene’s strong but damp clutch.
I know, welcome to Vlakplaas. I am sorry that this was your welcome, Eugene said, waving at the group of men huddled around a barbecue pit on the hillside, drinking beer from bottles, smoking and razzing one another.
Sunil said nothing. He was struggling not to look at the dead man on the ground by the fire pit. The policemen he had ridden up with dragged him from the jeep and took his hood off, throwing it into the fire. Now he stared at Sunil with fish eyes.
Do you read much Dante, Eugene asked.
Sunil shook his head, taking in for the first time the well-read paperback copy of Inferno that Eugene clutched in one hand, a beer in the other.
You should, you know. Smart man, Dante; between him and the Bhagavad Gita, I have pretty much found the answers to most of my questions. But Dante holds a special place for me. That tortured descent, all that Catholic imagery of misery and suffering that passes for religiosity. It braces the spirit, enlivens one to the possibilities of life. Are you a philosophical man, Sunil?
Not particularly, Sunil said, taking a swig from the beer he’d been given. He couldn’t wrap his head around this bizarre conversation. An hour before he’d arrived at the dusty farm entrance, which was down an unpaved road that led to a dirty, mottled, once-white circular guard hut. Sunil had at first taken the big stain on the side to be a mud splatter, but it soon became evident that it was blood — a big spray of dry and now faded blood. Where had it come from?
The Land Rover he was traveling in also held two white plainclothes officers of C10, and a handcuffed, hooded black prisoner. He had sat next to the hooded figure for the one-hour drive from the police station in Pretoria, where he had been told to wait for pickup. All through the drive, the hooded man sniffled and moaned and cried out: jammer baas, jammer. The two officers in the front drank their beer and turned up the radio, as if no one was in the backseat. Occasionally one would yell over his shoulder, Agh, man, shut up! I don’t want any kak from you.
Now, through the gate, the Land Rover rolled into a compound with a paved road lined by trees and well-kept lawns. Several brick buildings with army regulation green doors and trimming sat behind hedgerows and flowerbeds. It was hard to imagine this place was a death camp so famous its name could make a full-grown man piss himself.
The Land Rover pulled up in front of what looked like the main building.
Listen, boy, go get set up there, one of the officers said to Sunil.
Sunil stepped out and shouldered his army regulation duffel bag. As he did a three-sixty and took the place in, flagpole and flag fluttering in the breeze, he wished that White Alice had never come into his life. Because of her he’d met Bleeker, who gave him the army scholarship to college. This he guessed was what they meant by serving the army in return for five years in an area they felt would benefit from his skills. Fuck this, his father had died fighting these people and now here he was working for them. Not for the first time, he was glad his mother was dead. Sunil had been requested especially by the commanding officer of Vlakplaas, a man whose nickname was Optimum Evil, to help reform the death camp. He couldn’t see the cells or torture rooms from where he was, but he knew they were there.
Vlakplaas in Afrikaans meant “the flat place”; a farm twenty kilometers from Pretoria, the capital, it served as the headquarters for the South African Police Counterinsurgency Unit, C10—a paramilitary hit squad that killed enemies of the state in neat, efficient operations, as far afield as Angola. Suspected terrorists were captured and brought to Vlakplaas to be tortured for information, and even turned. Those who couldn’t be turned were executed, their bodies disposed of somewhere on the beautiful grounds of this farm.
As Sunil came in the door, a pretty blond woman in khaki fatigues rose from behind a desk and approached him.
Dr. Singh, I presume, she said.
Yes, I am.
Come in, come in, we’ve been expecting you. Did you have a nice ride over? It is a beautiful drive, even though I don’t get to do it enough. I just don’t like the city, you know, all that violence. She waved him to a chair by her desk. Please sit, sit. Drink?
No, thank you, he said.
Okay, well, here’s what we need, she said, putting a pile of papers in front of him. I need you to sign and initial everywhere you see a red mark; no need to read it all, it’s standard counterterrorist issue contracts and stuff like that. Life insurance — you know, if you get killed in the line of duty. Your family will get the money. You do have a family? No? What a shame, a nice young man like you should have a family. Oh well, maybe soon. Here’s a pen.
It took Sunil ten minutes just to wade through and find all the red marks to sign next to.
All done? Good, good. Leave your bag here and I’ll have it sent to your quarters. You will be sharing with the other blacks here; their quarters are at the back. But for now, you are to go to Shed 10, which is over there, she said, pointing, and join the officers you came in with. They will take you to meet Eugene. He runs this place and he is eager to meet you.
Shed 10 was easy to find. He just followed the screams and the subsequent three gunshots. As he got to the front of the shed, which was more like a barn, the two white officers were loading the body of the hooded man onto the front of a jeep, strapping him down like an antelope carcass.
There you are, one of them said. Get in. Eugene wants to meet you.
The Land Rover roared over the rough terrain, heading out behind the farm, across a stretch of hills littered with stubby grass and rocks. The compound fell away behind them, lost in a cloud of dust and debris. Sunil noticed the ribbon of water to his left. Idyllic willows, drooping gracefully over the river, lined the entire length of it.
Vlakplaas River, the driver said. Good, eh?
Yes, Sunil said to be polite.
And now here, over beers, Eugene was asking him if he was philosophical only ten feet away from the body of the hooded man.
You like the more practical things? Maybe love? Do you have a stukkie, Eugene asked.
No, I don’t have a girlfriend, Sunil said.
More of a one-night-stander then, eh, love them and leave them, Eugene pressed on. No judgments from me.
None of that, Sunil said, taking a swig of beer.
So what do you believe in then?
I don’t know, Sunil said.
The fire in the pit was going strong and the men were roasting kudu steaks on a grill placed at an angle over the fire. The gamey smell was nauseating to Sunil.
I like you; you’re an honest man. I can see we are going to get along. When I was a child, I used to believe in God, but as the Bible says, when you become a man you must give up your childish ways, Eugene said.
So what do you believe in now, Sunil asked.