by Jon Zackon
We jived to One O’Clock Jump and then found ourselves trapped between other couples as the beat slowed for East of the Sun. A vocalist called Sandy slipped on to the bandstand to make like Sarah Vaughan on an off night.
I could smell Ruth’s hair and feel her light, fragile frame in my arms and even detect that her breasts were just, only just, touching me. My throat constricted. If she’d spoken to me at that moment all she’d have got in reply would have been a croak.
We returned – reluctantly, on my part – to the table.
“What about me?” said Steven. So he and Ruth jived around for a while.
The session ended and we made small talk.
“They only allow dancing at weekends,” said Steven. “Draws a bit of a crowd. Frankie says they wouldn’t be able to make ends meet otherwise.”
“Are you good at tennis?” asked Ruth.
“I played for the school first team,” I replied.
“Oh, good. The other two are really good. Moira had coaching when she was a kid. And Conrad played for his school too. We’ll be lucky to beat them.”
I placed my hand next to hers. “Look at that,” I said. “You must play with a child’s racket.”
“Is that some kind of criticism?”
“No, no, your hands are very nice, thank you. Healing hands, for sure. Just a little small for tennis.”
She made a fist and said, “You’d be surprised how tough I am.”
I didn’t argue. I’d already detected a degree of steeliness in her make-up.
She looked at me mischievously. “Do you really like jazz, or do you just come here for the company?”
“Loaded question. If I say it’s the jazz, it sounds like I’m dismissing the company, and I’d never do that.”
“No, I’m sorry, but I was being serious. I won’t be offended, I promise.”
“OK, I like the company a lot, but I love jazz with a passion.”
“I’m pleased to hear that. So do I.”
“I’ve never met a girl before who really liked it. Tolerated it, yes. Liked it, debatable. How did you get into it?”
“I learnt the piano as a child. I reached quite a high level, despite my tiny hands, as you’ve noticed, and I only listened to classical music. When I was fifteen or sixteen a boy who was also taking lessons introduced me to Marian McPartland. Then Oscar Peterson and Mary Lou Williams. I just fell for it. Do you play, Danny?”
“If only. I also took piano lessons but hated practising. Hated it. Then I bought a sax but that drove my mother mad. Also, I think there’s some sort of discrepancy in my hearing. I really think I hear better with my right ear than my left. Is that possible? Anyway, I lack perfect pitch and am for ever condemned to be a listener.”
I tried but failed to stop myself sighing. Then I asked, “Do you still play?”
“No, not really. Well, yes. Occasionally. At parties.”
“Don’t listen to her. She’s brilliant,” said Steven. “Definitely the best pianist in the family.”
“That’s not saying much,” said Ruth. “I’m the only one. But I haven’t got time to practise these days. You know, people don’t realise how hard medical students have to work. And that reminds me, cousin Steven, I have an early shift tomorrow so we have to go.”
I remembered there was something else I had to ask. “Er, I don’t suppose Moira mentioned that there’s a top entertainer coming to the Eden Roc?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Would you like to go, Ruth, you know, with me?”
“That’s sweet of you to ask, Danny, but I can’t say yes. Not yet. It doesn’t help that Moira will also be off. I’ll try to get the night off and let you know.”
She reached up and gave me a peck on the cheek.
As she and Steven set off I called out, “See you Tuesday for tennis.”
I walked home at a brisk pace and was glad to see my block looming ahead of me. Quite a well-run place, almost like a hotel, I reflected minutes later as I said goodnight to James, the night watchman. I pressed the lift button for the third floor. There was even a lift attendant in the daytime. A maid came every morning to clean and make my bed. She changed the sheets and towels on a regular basis and even did the dishes in my kitchenette. I was being spoilt.
The flat comprised a large living room, an alcove that did for a bedroom and a bathroom. The furniture was old but serviceable – a dining room table and chairs, a settee and an armchair. A switchboard telephone system added to the feel of a hotel.
Even the cockroaches, smaller and less numerous, were in a different class to the low-caste brutes that plagued me in my first Durban abode.
All in all, a terrific set-up for your average bachelor playboy. I was entitled to congratulate myself. Instead I was suddenly gripped with a feeling of unease. But what was troubling me – the poverty and race hate that marred the face of this lovely city? Or the sinister presence of one Koos van Blatter? Or the fragility of my relationship – what relationship? – with Ruthie Fall? Or all these things put together?
At least, for once, I had a few rand in my pocket. I silently thanked Freddy the Flyer and hoped I wouldn’t lose it all in tomorrow night’s poker game.
Chapter 12
THE BOYS arrived in a large old Buick with Theo at the wheel. Koos sat beside him and Marty was in the back. I could see them beaming from fifty yards off.
“Hey, Danny,” said Koos as I got in. “So you backed the King?”
“I certainly did, Koos. When I saw you at the course I guessed you were also on it.”
“On it? This bugger here won two thousand fucking rand,” said Theo, gesturing towards Koos.
“And you, Theo?” I asked.
“Couple of hundred.”
“What about you, Marty?”
Marty scratched his throat and said, “Koos rang me in the morning and I managed to get a little on. But I couldn’t get to the course. How did you know about it, Danny?”
“Conrad. He came back from his rounds and after several hours told me Freddy the Flyer was sleeping it off in a cell. You know what Conrad’s like – took him another few hours to tell me about the horse. But what a fantastic tip. You should have seen Freddy at the furlong pole. He was going to kill the buggers if they didn’t let him through.”
“You know, quite a few of those sad bastards at the station didn’t trust Freddy so they didn’t have a bet,” said Koos. “Can you believe that?”
King Boyd was the only subject under discussion until we got to Nico’s house. I kept thinking about how Koos the killer had made two thousand rand to my hundred and twenty.
Nico ushered us in and announced that Jock and Hymie weren’t coming. He introduced us to the only newcomer, an elderly man he called “The Mayor.”
“So why are you called The Mayor, sir?” asked Koos.
The man, who was small and wiry with a deeply lined face, replied in Afrikaans that it was just Nico being silly. His real name was Paulus de Book and he had once been deputy mayor of a dorp in the Orange Free State.
“But we can call you The Mayor?”
“Ja, ja.” Then, in English, “I don’t mind Nico’s nonsense. I’ve put up with it for years.”
“He’s Veronica’s uncle,” Nico explained. “He’s bad through and through but she always forgives him.”
Half an hour after the game started Veronica came in from the kitchen and sat in, so we had a full school.
“I’m only playing until eleven, so go easy on me, boys,” she said. She had a warm smile and obviously thought of herself as a bit of a sport. Nico was a lucky man.
“I heard,” said Veronica in a conspiratorial whisper, “that congratulations are in order, ja?”
“Ag, yes, I suppose so, doll,” said Theo coyly.
“So from now on it’s Captain Theo, isn’t it?”
“Don’t forget Lieutenant Van Blatter,” said the ingratiating Marty.
“Hang on, people. Not yet,” said Theo. “Nothing happens until December at the earliest. Jeffries doesn’t retire until January. And Koos might even have to wait a bit longer.”
“Well, it will soon come round,” said Veronica. “I thought we’d have a sip of Champagne later, if no one objects.”
“Yes, congratulations, kerels,” said Nico. “Does this mean that you two will be working separately from now on – the end of a beautiful friendship?”
“We’re already working independently some of the time,” said Theo. “A lot of my work is going to be behind a bloody desk from now on.”
“Don’t worry yourself, boss,” said Koos, exposing his gold tooth. “Some of us will still be doing the real detective work. Out there on the frontline.”
No one seemed to have much interest in the game. Veronica obviously wanted to turn it into a social occasion. She and the Mayor chatted more than they played and even when they did call, they hardly made a bet. As usual, I won no more than one or two hands and my cash began to dwindle.
Koos looked bored and shifted about in his chair. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out an object that glinted in his fingers.
“What the hell is that?” asked Marty. I was beginning to realise he could always be relied upon to play Koos’s straight man.
Instead of replying, Koos placed the object on the baize tablecloth for us all to see.
It was a knife. Perhaps an antique, with a gently curving handle. The blade was about six inches long.
“That’s beautiful,” said the Mayor.
“It looks cruel,” said Veronica.
Koos seemed delighted with their reactions. “The handle’s carved from an antler,” he said. “It’s probably Indian. Could be ceremonial, although it’s also a nasty little weapon. I don’t really know much about it, but I’m sure it wasn’t made here in SA.”
“Where did you get it from?”
“I found it, Marty. I was investigating an assault in the Grey Street area and I was walking through this empty lot when I saw it. It was just lying there, on the ground. I’d love to know who owns it. Have a word with him. I bet he’s used it for criminal purposes.”
Veronica went off at eleven to warm our late supper. After a while the smell of meat pies began to permeate the room and by the time we adjourned I was ravenous. One pie and one steak sandwich later, I stood sipping Champagne next to the Mayor, who had decided to converse with me in English.
“The trouble with the English press,” he said, “is that you do not tell both sides of the story.”
He’d spoken nothing but Afrikaans at the table, in breech of a school rule, and now he was breaking another.
“Er, sorry Paulus,” I said, “but I’ve been told we don’t discuss politics at poker.”
“No, no, man, just hear me out.” He was obviously spoiling for a fight and I was trapped. Marty and I were probably the only big paper journalists he’d ever met and he didn’t want to let the opportunity slip by.
Whether he was putting on an act or not – it was difficult to say – there was anger in his eyes and a grim expression on his wrinkled face as he continued. “Our beloved Prime Minister, Hendrik Verwoerd, is doing a great job for this country. Look how prosperous we are. And look how he is keeping the black man in his place … and yet you attack him all the time. Why? What is it you want, for the Bantu to take over? To destroy our great country? You know as well as I do that the black man is not fit. He is a child. Just a child.”
He paused, waiting for me to answer. But I’d seen and heard it all before and took the only sensible path possible in the circumstance. I said nothing.
Instead of pacifying him, this ratcheted up his anger and he began to wave his finger at me.
“Calm down, Oom Paulie,” said Nico. Theo looked on sullenly but I noticed that Koos and Marty were grinning hugely.
And the old fanatic would not by quelled. “Let me tell you something, young man,” he said, still wagging his finger, “before we Afrikaners give up one inch of this land of ours, I promise you this – we will ride in blood up to our stirrups.”
He spat out every syllable of the apocalyptic allusion; his voice rising and falling in imitation of the fire and brimstone style of a Dutch Reformed minister.
“In blood,” he repeated. “Up to our stirrups. You just tell that to your editor, my boy.” Then, in a quieter voice, “It’s time for the Engelse mense to face reality.”
The old bugger had obviously rehearsed his chilling little speech many times and had finally been able to deliver it. At my expense. As the anger drained from his eyes, someone, probably Marty, broke the tension by muttering something. I never quite heard what the snide bugger said, but it made the others laugh. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted me to hear.
With the exception of Veronica, we resumed our places at the table. For my part, this was a stupid thing to do. I should have gone home there and then, even if it meant walking. But I wanted to regain my losses. Nor did I want the old viper to think he’d won.
The game hardly improved. I lost a little more and it should have been obvious that I was never going to recoup my losses. Sadly, we live in hope and eventually I was dealt aces. I raised and only Koos called. I duly bought three cards, while he bought two. I now had aces with a pair of fours. I bet. Koos gave me a look that veered between condescension and pity.
“Go on, Danny, I’ll just call,” he said.
I laid out my aces and fours. He opened his cards. Four eights.
“Wow! Good hand,” I said. “Why didn’t you raise?”
“You know, I thought, you’ve lost enough. You always want to bet and raise, don’t you, Danny? It gets you into trouble, man.”
So I’d not only lost the hand but for my troubles had also been given what poker players call a “rub down” – a gratuitous insult made to sound like a bit of advice. He was also lying about the way I played but no one would have listened had I protested. And worst of all, in the guise of being generous Koos had humiliated me yet again.
“Yeah, well guys, sorry to break up the game, but that’s enough for me,” I said.
They were all looking at me, with Marty, Koos and The Mayor displaying varying degrees of amusement. Marty was scratching away.
“Tell me something, Paulus,” I said, leaning towards the little shit. “Marty works for The Messenger – you know, that repository of English-speaking evil – so why didn’t you have a go at him as well? Hey? Why just me?”
I could see the stunned expression on Marty’s face. It took him a second or two to recover his equilibrium. Then he half-shouted, “Oh, come on, Danny, what the hell do you mean by that? What the fuck are you playing at?”
“That’s just it, Marty. I don’t know what the hell it means.”
As I moved off Koos said, “Where are you going, Danny? Look, I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“Where I’m going is home, Koos.”
I was fed up with his ill-concealed scorn as well as Marty’s constant smirking. Why had Marty invited me here in the first place? Just to be baited by Koos?
I went into the kitchen and thanked Veronica. As I moved through the hall towards the front door Nico intercepted me.
“Look, Danny, I’m really sorry about what’s happened.” He sounded sincere enough. “Not just for what happened with Koos but with that old idiot Paulus. I’ve lived among the English in Durban all my life and I promise you, I’m not like him.”
“Nico, you and Veronica are a lovely couple and, believe me, this has nothing to do with you. Thanks for your hospitality. It was terrific.”
We shook hands and I left.
I’d walked for four or five minutes in the general direction of the main road into the city when the old Buick drew up alongside.
“Come on Danny, hop in.”
Theo was on his own. I hesitated. But I definitely hadn’t been looking forward to navigating my way back to the city centre. It was al
so drizzling. So I got in. We sat in silence all the way.
As I got out of the car I said, “Thanks Theo, you’re a gent.”
“Danny, you’re a stranger in town. Our town. Try to be a bit more careful in future. You know what I mean? Just take care, all right?”
***
I put on an LP, poured myself a beer and reflected on a disastrous night. Played twice, lost twice, humiliated twice. Warned about my attitude by Theo, who was about to become one of the city’s senior CID officers. Almost certainly an enemy now of Marty, a Messenger colleague. Quite possibly an enemy, too, of Koos, a killer and definitely the most sinister man I’d ever met. You’re doing just great Danny, I told myself. The diplomatic service surely beckons.
There was one consolation in all this. I wouldn’t be losing any more money in their rotten little poker game.
Chapter 13
I PUT MY fears to Conrad. I knew he would react badly but he’d become a firm friend and I needed an ally in The Messenger office.
We were in tennis whites as we sat in his car outside Addington nurses’ home, which also housed radiographers, physios and female junior doctors. Conrad griped that Moira always kept him waiting so I took the opportunity to tell him about my latest squabbles.
He didn’t say anything for a while, just sat shaking his head. Eventually he gave an ironic little laugh and said: “So far, in a matter of what – less than three months? – you’ve managed to antagonise two of the city’s finest …”
“This isn’t New York City, Conrad.”
“… Two of the city’s finest, one of your fellow reporters, plus various other people.”
Moira appeared at the door of the nurses’ home, then went back in.
“Probably gone to fetch Ruth,” said Conrad.
“Just one thing before they come out. Do you remember Harland Mayfield warning us about spies in our midst, as it were?”
“Yeah. So?”
