“Right, Mr. Ferreira,” he said, rising in sudden restlessness. “Tell me all about the wops at your hotel.”
“What I remember best was my dad kicking up hell over having them to stay-I mean, he’d been sticking bayonets in their backsides not so long before-but my mum liked the lady and really put her foot down.”
“She had a son?”
Ferreira glanced at Willie, then went on: “Ja, and a husband. I played with the boy quite a bit, showed him round-y’know? He wasn’t bad for a banana boy; quite daring, in fact. Usually the kids we got were skits of horses and all that, y’know? And Jesus, could he swear! Which is why I nearly peed myself at the barbecue that Saturday night-when him and his uncle started singing.”
“Really?” said Kramer, sitting down again. “His uncle, you say? What was so funny?” He’d said nothing about an uncle to either of them.
“You had to be there, man! You know how soft these bloody farmers get? I mean, they all took it so seriously some even got tears on their cheeks; first stood as if they were in church on Sunday, then they started swaying-like this. I had to run with the coons to the peach tree by the barn or they’d have seen us laughing. Naturally, it was in Italian, being opera or something, and there these old fools were saying he was just like a little angel and pretending they knew the words. It was Ava-something-can’t remember, although I’ve heard it on the radio. Him a little-”
“Italian?”
“Of course,” said Ferreira, looking puzzled. “I mentioned they were wops at the beginning. This bloke off a ship, his sister, the husband, and the kid. There’s always a sing song once the party gets warmed up.”
Kramer nodded. “I see. Is it possible to say why they’d chosen Witklip of all places?”
“That’s what my dad kept on asking!” said Ferreira with a fond laugh. “While my mum kept on telling him it was the uncle-him and his sister looked like twins, hey? — who wanted to give the family a treat, show the kid what the country was like and all that. My mum said if you put adverts in all the papers, you had to take what you got-especially if you were just starting up and trying to make a go of it.”
“Off one of those Itie ships that used to go up the coast to Egypt?” Willie wanted to know. “Did he work on it?”
But Kramer cut across: “So you’re saying it was simply a matter of chance that they came here?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant?” Ferreira glanced again at Willie, who shrugged. “Isn’t that how they all come, one way or the other? Even if it’s only a friend making a personal recommendation?”
“True,” said Kramer, after a pause. “How very, very true.” He felt sick.
And saw nothing to laugh at when Goodluck Luthuli, in all seriousness, placed three spoons of Nescafe and three empty cups before them. That seemed to sum it all up.
14
Despite all Zondi’s attempts to jog the memories of the women by the river, the white tramp had remained a total mystery. The witch doctor, however, had been immediately identified from his photograph with some cries of amazement. He was that old rogue Msusengi Shezi, the women had said, better known by his nickname of Izimu-and it had been years since anyone had last seen him.
From that moment on, Zondi had felt certain he was earning his keep: Izimu was Zulu for “cannibal.” Dozens of slanderous stories had then been told to him about Izimu, but he’d begged off after hearing one about a child who had gone missing, and now, in order to have the same story from a more reliable source, he was making for the kraal of the local headman. The upward path was steep, and loose pebbles caused it to be slippery in parts.
“Hau, rat,” he said vindictively, correcting a stumble. “This is not going to be a good day for you, which gives me much pleasure.”
Then he turned his attention to the cattle being herded on the slopes above him, picked out the finest beast, and memorized its characteristics. Higher up, the young herdboys were practicing two-stick fighting, prancing about with a fine show of aggression, yet pulling their head blows rather clumsily; soon someone would get more than a bump to rub if they weren’t more careful. The pasture was fair to poor, he noticed.
Absalom Mkuzi proved to be a headman of the old school. Although none too well off, to judge by the patched raincoat he wore without a shirt, his hospitality was as carefully observed as the dignity of his position. After an exchange of compliments lasting several minutes, he summoned his wives to the squatting place outside his hut and ordered them to bring refreshments for the visitor. The sour milk was excellent, having curdled to just the right thickness, and Zondi was most grateful for it after his walk.
By way of getting down to business, a certain brindle cow was mentioned. Zondi confessed to having never seen a finer animal, and-so that the headman would be able to seek it out for his own eye’s delight-he went into the finer detail of its haunches, its horns, its broad belly, and its left foreleg, which was marvelously marked. And when the headman admitted, with all due modesty, his ownership of the beast, Zondi gasped enviously. This rigmarole, in which the deceit involved was understood by both sides and welcomed for its civility, brought the inviting pause that begged the visitor to speak his mind.
“I have heard it said, my father,” Zondi began, taking a little snuff from the proffered gramophone-needle tin, “that there was once a witch doctor in these parts known to your people as Izimu. It is also said that he stole children to take their fat. These are matters which concern me.”
Mkuzi’s rheumy eyes narrowed as they tried to see him better. “You are police?”
Zondi said nothing. He sniffed up his snuff.
“They come and they shout at me,” Mkuzi said angrily. “They pull open my door, they grab my youngest wife. They say they will shoot my dog if it does not cease barking. Hau! And what is the reason?”
After a moment’s thought, Zondi still said nothing.
“The reason is that they want me to report any stranger to them. There has been a farmhouse broken into, they say, and the white boss is very angry. Is this a thing to come and tell me in the middle of the night?”
Mkuzi took the sour milk and drank deeply from the pot.
“Luthuli and two Xhosa baboons from Brandspruit did this to me,” he added, wiping his lips. “They gave me these orders.”
A smugness sweetened the old man’s wrinkled face, and Zondi knew that had six Zulu regiments been discovered lurking about Witklip and the reserve, not a word of this would have reached the appropriate authorities.
“You ask about Izimu,” said Mkuzi, settling down comfortably on his haunches again, and passing the pot back. “He was a fool, that one. He could not give you a medicine to take without making false claims about it-or, if they were not false, then he was encouraging you to imagine terrible things about himself. I, of course, would never use his medicines; instead I have always gone to the nuns’ clinic and to Jafini Bhengu, a very fine witch doctor to the south.”
“Was it child’s fat that he spoke of?” Zondi inquired.
“Never spoke, young man; with Izimu it was always the words he did not say-they rang loudest in the ear. He would lead you to form these words on your own lips, as when an old crone is becoming tedious with her tales and you know, when she stammers, what is to come next. But with a name such as the people gave him, need I say more? How proud he was of it, too, for it undoubtedly gave him more power and influence among the stupider types. Then came the time when he wished to be known as Izimu no longer.”