Zondi was uncertain what his day would bring, and anxious to ensure missed meals would not trouble him. He would have lit a fire for the meat, but farmers could be trigger happy at this time of year. To be sure, the grass was very dry, and one ember could easily have the low hills of grazing swept black in minutes. A bleak, blond land, with scattered thornbush making smudges of dull green like white women’s eyeshadow, and bare patches of earth the pinky red of their sunburn. A hard land, too, that gave nothing for nothing. A good place for puff adders and lizards and the shrikes that hung their prey on the barbed-wire fences. His watch had stopped and the car had no radio. But judging by the sun, it was still before eight. Plenty of time to smoke a Stuyvesant and take another look at the map. At least the car, a beaten-up Anglia, had this much that was useful in it. Zondi had about another ten kilometers to do on the tar, then he turned right and carried on along a district road—its number was illegible.
