cross.’
Shabalala was full of surprises. The Zion Church mixed Christian and traditional African beliefs. Men like Shabalala, who operated in the white world, generally did not admit to an association with a church that allowed polygamy and practised animal sacrifice.
‘I thought you were Anglican,’ Emmanuel said. He remembered the Zulu detective standing outside a red-roofed church in the town of Jacob’s Rest.
Shabalala closed in on the group huddled around the fire. ‘I belong also to the Anglican Church,’ he said.
‘Laying a bet both ways.’ Emmanuel couldn’t resist the chance to get under the Zulu policeman’s skin. ‘That’s cheating, my man.’
‘God in his infinite wisdom understands all and forgives all, Sergeant,’ Shabalala answered with a smile. ‘That is what makes him great.’
‘And here I took you for an Old Testament guy.’ Since returning from the war, Emmanuel had kept almost completely to himself except for his odd three-way friendship with Shabalala and the Jewish doctor Zweigman. He’d met them both a little over a year ago during an investigation into the murder of a corrupt Afrikaner police captain. Together they’d faced violence and almost certain death and remained close even after the case was shelved and forgotten.
Just for a moment, while they walked and worked by the river, Emmanuel allowed himself the illusion that he and Shabalala were two ordinary cops with no barriers of place or race between them.
‘Now I see that you’re strictly New Testament,’ he continued. ‘With a god that lets you slip out the back door of the church and run barefoot across the veldt like a heathen; I’m not sure I trust you any more, Constable.’
‘Two churches are better than none,’ Shabalala said.
Emmanuel laughed at the deadpan comment and the sound disturbed the sudden quiet. The recently baptised Zionis huddled silently around the fire like a flock of white-feathered birds banding together before a storm. One day, Emmanuel supposed, he’d get used to the hunched shoulders and the averted gaze of non-whites about to be questioned by the police but today it still made him uncomfortable.
He caught the attention of a man who looked up from the flames. ‘Baba Kaleni,’ Emmanuel said. ‘Where is he?’
‘Ah . . .’ The man squeezed water from the sleeve of his damp gown, playing for time. ‘Ah . . .’
‘I am Kaleni.’ The words came from the far right of the fire. A Zulu man shrugged on a dry robe with the help of a young girl. His beard was dazzling white but his age was impossible to tell. His sagging right shoulder and arthritic fingers indicated long years lived under harsh conditions, but his clear brown eyes and smooth round face gave the impression of a child.
‘You are the police,’ Baba Kaleni said and smiled a greeting.
‘That’s right.’ Emmanuel introduced them both and puzzled over Kaleni’s beaming expression. Back in the city, only gangsters, prostitutes and simpletons smiled at the police.
Kaleni pointed to a rock protruding from the veldt more than a hundred yards away. ‘That is a quiet place to sit and to talk.’
The shivering band of True Israelites bunched around the flames had all perfected the subtle African art of looking away while listening in.
‘After you,’ Emmanuel said.
‘ Yebo, inkosi .’ Baba Kaleni started out across the grasslands with slow deliberation, the muscles of his right shoulder slumped. The young girl who’d helped him into his robe ran up and held out a tattered Bible, as if it were a shield and the old man poised to enter a mighty conflict.
‘ Ngiyabonga , Sisana. You are a fine child.’ Kaleni patted the girl’s braided hair and gripped the good book awkwardly in his left hand. ‘Go now. All is well.’
The girl returned to the embrace of the True Israelites and inserted herself between two large women. Kaleni struck out again towards the rock without glancing back.
‘I will walk with
Shabalala was full of surprises. The Zion Church mixed Christian and traditional African beliefs. Men like Shabalala, who operated in the white world, generally did not admit to an association with a church that allowed polygamy and practised animal sacrifice.
‘I thought you were Anglican,’ Emmanuel said. He remembered the Zulu detective standing outside a red-roofed church in the town of Jacob’s Rest.
Shabalala closed in on the group huddled around the fire. ‘I belong also to the Anglican Church,’ he said.
‘Laying a bet both ways.’ Emmanuel couldn’t resist the chance to get under the Zulu policeman’s skin. ‘That’s cheating, my man.’
‘God in his infinite wisdom understands all and forgives all, Sergeant,’ Shabalala answered with a smile. ‘That is what makes him great.’
‘And here I took you for an Old Testament guy.’ Since returning from the war, Emmanuel had kept almost completely to himself except for his odd three-way friendship with Shabalala and the Jewish doctor Zweigman. He’d met them both a little over a year ago during an investigation into the murder of a corrupt Afrikaner police captain. Together they’d faced violence and almost certain death and remained close even after the case was shelved and forgotten.
Just for a moment, while they walked and worked by the river, Emmanuel allowed himself the illusion that he and Shabalala were two ordinary cops with no barriers of place or race between them.
‘Now I see that you’re strictly New Testament,’ he continued. ‘With a god that lets you slip out the back door of the church and run barefoot across the veldt like a heathen; I’m not sure I trust you any more, Constable.’
‘Two churches are better than none,’ Shabalala said.
Emmanuel laughed at the deadpan comment and the sound disturbed the sudden quiet. The recently baptised Zionis huddled silently around the fire like a flock of white-feathered birds banding together before a storm. One day, Emmanuel supposed, he’d get used to the hunched shoulders and the averted gaze of non-whites about to be questioned by the police but today it still made him uncomfortable.
He caught the attention of a man who looked up from the flames. ‘Baba Kaleni,’ Emmanuel said. ‘Where is he?’
‘Ah . . .’ The man squeezed water from the sleeve of his damp gown, playing for time. ‘Ah . . .’
‘I am Kaleni.’ The words came from the far right of the fire. A Zulu man shrugged on a dry robe with the help of a young girl. His beard was dazzling white but his age was impossible to tell. His sagging right shoulder and arthritic fingers indicated long years lived under harsh conditions, but his clear brown eyes and smooth round face gave the impression of a child.
‘You are the police,’ Baba Kaleni said and smiled a greeting.
‘That’s right.’ Emmanuel introduced them both and puzzled over Kaleni’s beaming expression. Back in the city, only gangsters, prostitutes and simpletons smiled at the police.
Kaleni pointed to a rock protruding from the veldt more than a hundred yards away. ‘That is a quiet place to sit and to talk.’
The shivering band of True Israelites bunched around the flames had all perfected the subtle African art of looking away while listening in.
‘After you,’ Emmanuel said.
‘ Yebo, inkosi .’ Baba Kaleni started out across the grasslands with slow deliberation, the muscles of his right shoulder slumped. The young girl who’d helped him into his robe ran up and held out a tattered Bible, as if it were a shield and the old man poised to enter a mighty conflict.
‘ Ngiyabonga , Sisana. You are a fine child.’ Kaleni patted the girl’s braided hair and gripped the good book awkwardly in his left hand. ‘Go now. All is well.’
The girl returned to the embrace of the True Israelites and inserted herself between two large women. Kaleni struck out again towards the rock without glancing back.
‘I will walk with
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