The nights he spent in the cemetery were filled with the songoma’s words. It was also during these nights, surrounded by nothing but the unknown dead, white people he had never met and would never meet until he entered the underworld, the world of spirits, that he remembered his childhood. He saw his father’s face, his smile, and heard his voice. It also occurred to him that the spirit world might be divided, just like South Africa. Perhaps even the underworld consisted of a black and a white world? He was filled with sorrow as he imagined the spirits of his forefathers being forced to live in smoky, slummy townships. He tried to get his songoma to tell him how it was. But all he got was the singing hounds, and their howls he was unable to interpret.
At dawn the second day he left the cemetery after hiding his sleeping bag in a tomb where he had managed to pry open an air vent. A few hours later he stole another car. It all happened very quickly: an opportunity arose, and he grasped it without hesitation. Once again his judgment was beginning to assist him. He had turned a corner onto a street where he saw a man leave his car with the engine running and disappear into a doorway. There was nobody around. He recognized the make, a Ford; he had driven lots of them before. He sat behind the wheel, threw a briefcase the man had left behind onto the street, and drove off. He eventually managed to find his way out of town and had searched for a lake where he could be alone with his thoughts.
He could not find a lake, but he came upon the seashore. Or rather, he thought it had to be the seashore. He did not know which sea it was or what it was called, but when he tasted the water it was salty. Not as salty as he was used to, from the beaches at Durban and Port Elizabeth. But there could hardly be salt lakes in this country? He clambered over a few rocks, and imagined he was gazing into infinity through a narrow gap between two islands in the archipelago. There was a chill in the air and he felt cold. Even so, he remained standing on a rock as far out as he could get, thinking that this was where his life had taken him. A very long way. But what would the future look like?
Just as he used to do in his childhood, he squatted down and made a spiral-shaped labyrinth from pebbles that had broken loose from the rock. At the same time he tried to delve so deeply into himself that he could hear the voice of his songoma. But he couldn’t get that far. The noise of the sea was too strong and his own concentration too weak. The stones he had arranged to form a labyrinth did not help. He just felt scared. If he could not talk to the spirits, he would grow so weak he might even die. He would no longer have any resistance to illnesses, his thoughts would desert him, and his body would become a mere shell that cracked the moment it was touched.
Feeling uneasy, he tore himself away from the sea and returned to his car. He tried to concentrate on the most important things. How was it possible for Konovalenko to trace him so easily to the disco recommended by some Africans from Uganda he started talking to in a burger bar?
That was the first question.
The second was how he could get out of this country and return to South Africa.
He realized he would be forced to do what he wanted to do least of all. Find Konovalenko. That would be very difficult. Konovalenko would be as hard to track down as an individual spriengboek in the endless African bush. But somehow or other he would have to entice Konovalenko. He was the one with a passport, he was the one who could be forced to help him get away from this country. He did not think he could see any alternative.
He still hoped he would not need to kill anybody, apart from Konovalenko.
That evening he went back to the disco. There were not many people there, and he sat in a corner, drinking beer. When he went to the bar with his empty glass for another beer, the bald man spoke to him. At first Victor Mabasha did not understand what he was saying. Then he realized that two different people had been there the day before, looking for him. He could tell from the description that one of them was Konovalenko. But what about the other one? The man behind the bar said he was a cop. A cop with an accent that showed he came from the southern part of the country.
“What did he want?” wondered Victor Mabasha.
The bald man nodded at his filthy bandage.
“He was looking for a black man missing a finger,” he said.
He drank no more beer, but left the disco without more ado. Konovalenko might come back. He was still not prepared to face him, even though his gun was at the ready, tucked into his belt.
When he came out onto the street, he knew right away what he was going to do. This cop would help him find Konovalenko.
Somewhere or other there was an investigation going on into the disappearance of a woman. Maybe they had found her body already, wherever Konovalenko had hidden it. But if they had managed to find out about him, they might know about Konovalenko as well?
I left a clue, he thought. A finger. Maybe Konovalenko also left something behind?
He spent the rest of the evening hovering in the shadows outside the disco. But neither Konovalenko nor the cop showed up. The bald man had given him a description of the cop. It occurred to Victor Mabasha that a white man in his forties was not going to be a regular customer at the disco.
Late that night he went back to the tomb in the cemetery. The next day he stole another car, and that evening he hovered once more in the shadows outside the disco.
At exactly nine o’clock, a cab came to a halt at the entrance. Victor was in the front seat of his car. He sank down so that his head was level with the steering wheel. The cop got out of the taxi and disappeared into the underworld. As soon as he had vanished, Victor drove up to the entrance and got out. He withdrew to the darkest shadows, and waited. His pistol was in his jacket pocket, within easy reach.
The man who emerged a quarter of an hour later and looked around vaguely or possibly lost in thought was not on his guard. He gave the impression of being completely harmless, a solitary, unprotected nocturnal prowler. Victor Mabasha drew his pistol, took a few swift strides, and pressed the gun against the underside of the man’s chin.
“Not a move,” he said in English. “Not a single move.”
The man gave a start. But he understood English. He did not move.
“Go to the car,” said Victor Mabasha. “Open the door and get into the passenger seat.”
The man did as he was told. He was evidently very scared.
Victor quickly ducked into the car and punched him on the chin. Hard enough to knock him out, but not hard enough to break his jaw. Victor Mabasha knew his strength when he was in control of the situation. Something that did not apply that catastrophic last evening with Konovalenko.
He went through the cop’s pockets. Oddly enough, no gun. Victor Mabasha was even more convinced he was in a very strange country, with unarmed cops. Then he bound the man’s arms to his chest and taped over his mouth. A narrow trickle of blood was seeping from the side of his mouth. It was never possible to avoid injuring somebody altogether. The man had presumably bitten his own tongue.
During the three hours available to Victor Mabasha that afternoon, he had memorized the route he intended to take. He knew exactly where he was going and had no desire to risk a wrong turn. When he stopped at the first red light, he took out the man’s wallet and saw he was called Kurt Wallander, forty years old.
The lights changed, and he moved on. He kept a close eye on the rear mirror the whole time.
After the second red light he started to think he had a car on his tail. Could the cop have had a backup? If so, there would soon be problems. When he came to a multi-lane highway, he stepped on the gas. He suddenly felt he could have been imagining things. Maybe they were on their own after all?