He pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. This was the recipe he had chosen after a review of several on the Web.
Humming “La donne è mobile” from Verdi’s Rigoletto while he worked, Kubu first cut the pork into cubes. At least that is what the recipe called for; for the most part, the pieces looked more like bricks. He chopped an onion, causing his eyes to smart, then turned his attention to slicing a ginger root. I assume you take off the skin, but how much to use? he wondered. The recipe didn’t specify, and he had bought a large root, about six inches long—with arms! He decided to take about a quarter of the root, since he loved ginger so much.
Next the recipe called for a minced garlic clove. Now he was stumped. Obviously the skin had to come off the clove, but how did you mince it? Joy had a grater, but he was scared he would grate the tips off his fingers if he used it with something that small. Perhaps I can chop it finely enough that it’ll be the same as mincing? His humming stopped as he concentrated on making the little pieces of garlic even smaller.
Kubu surveyed the small piles of ingredients and was satisfied with his progress. Glancing over to Ilia, who was curled in the corner observing his every move, Kubu said, “This isn’t so hard, Ilia. I’ll have supper ready in no time. And you can have some too.” Ilia wagged her tail enthusiastically.
Kubu took the bottle of wine from the fridge and went to see whether Joy and Pleasant needed a top-up. They did.
“How is it going, Kubu?” Pleasant asked as he filled her glass.
“Fine, thanks. Everything’s under control.” He looked a little smug as he returned to the kitchen. I know they think I won’t be able to do this, he thought. I’ll show them.
He scrutinized the recipe again. “Toss the pork with one tablespoon of sugar and the soy sauce.” He found sugar in a cupboard and took a tablespoon from the cutlery drawer. Level or heaped? Hmm. He compromised by taking more than a level tablespoon, but not as much as he could have piled onto it. Now, how much soy sauce? He looked back to the ingredients—one tablespoon. He pulled a soy-sauce bottle from the paper bag on the counter and carefully dispensed one tablespoon into a large bowl. Then he tossed the pork into the bowl, splashing soy sauce all over the counter and onto his khaki shorts.
“Damn!”
He found a rag, wet it, and rubbed his shorts. It only made the stain bigger. Then he wiped the counter. Better add some more sauce, he thought. He estimated that half had fled the bowl, so he added half a tablespoon to make up for it. He looked at his watch: 6:25 p.m. The pork has to stand for ten minutes. Remember to take it out, he admonished himself. At 6:35 p.m.
As he contemplated his next culinary step, he recalled his mother cooking for him as a boy. It had seemed to be a joy to her rather than a chore. He remembered the pride on her face as he and his father wolfed down her food. And a few times Khumanego had been there too. That thought brought back sad memories which, he was sure, would never leave him. Kubu shook his head, grateful to bring himself back to the moment and to the next step in the recipe.
“Dip the meat in the egg and cover with cornstarch.” Kubu read the next stage of the recipe aloud. Gazing back at the ingredients, he realized that he had to beat the egg. He found a bowl, broke the egg shell on its edge and poured the egg into it. It took him a couple of minutes to fish some shell remnants from the bowl. It was very difficult to catch them with a spoon, so he removed them with his fingers. Nobody will notice, he told himself a little guiltily.
He threw the egg shells into the garbage, and paused as he watched them leak over the scraps of his torn-up resignation letter. I suppose Mabaku will take me back, he wondered. I suppose I owe him an apology too. But that is for Monday. Today I have work to do.
He measured out half a cup of cornstarch and removed a tablespoon’s worth, again compromising between a level and heaped spoon, which he put in a coffee cup for safekeeping. He poured the rest on the counter so he could roll the pork in it.
“Kubu! Could we have some more wine please? And more snacks?”
Kubu took the wine bottle out of the fridge, poured a packet of chips into a bowl, and went to the veranda.
“How is it coming?” Pleasant asked. “I’m starving.”
“Everything is under control. Thank you. I just wish people would write clear directions!” The two women had noticed that Kubu had stopped humming about fifteen minutes earlier.
“What’s that on your shorts?” Joy asked.
Kubu didn’t answer and stalked back to the kitchen. Joy and Pleasant looked at each other and burst out laughing. Kubu was not amused.
Kubu glanced at his watch. Damn! Ten to seven. He hoped it didn’t matter if the pork marinated too long. He grabbed a fork, pierced a piece of pork, dipped it in the egg and rolled it in the corn starch. Then he had some difficulty taking the fork out and ended up using his fingers once again. About five minutes later, he had finished coating the pork, which was now in a large bowl.
“Let the meat stand until the starch is absorbed.” How long was that? How would he tell?
How do you tell anything? Kubu mused. How do you tell if someone is trustworthy? How do you know what is fair and what is unfair when dealing with criminals? And had they made the right decision about his job? His stomach began to hurt. It needs food, he thought. I’d better get a move on.
“Fat for deep frying.” The man at the butchery, noticing Kubu’s bulk, had told him to use oil instead of fat. “Heat the fat to 360˚.” Fahrenheit or Celsius? The recipe came from an American website. What would they use? It must be Fahrenheit. So what is 360˚ Fahrenheit in Celsius? Kubu couldn’t remember how to convert from one to the other, but remembered that 20˚ Celsius was about 70˚ Fahrenheit. How far off could he be if he divided by seven and doubled the result? If I make it 350, dividing by seven gives fifty. Fifty doubled is one hundred. Kubu frowned. There was something wrong. He knew that water boiled at 100˚ Celsius. That wasn’t hot enough. Well if I double that to 200˚ Celsius, it should be hot enough, he thought in desperation.
Kubu poured some oil into a pot, hoping it was enough. He turned on the front element of the stove, but couldn’t find a way to set the temperature. Perhaps he should put the pot in the oven to heat it—he could see how to set the temperature there.
Kubu was getting flustered. Now he understood why he preferred sitting on the veranda sipping chilled wine. There he could relax and ponder his cases. If he cooked every day, he’d have no time to think.
Where was a thermometer? He pulled all the drawers out but couldn’t find anything that looked useful. He looked on the counter and in the cupboards. Nothing. So how do you tell the temperature?
After a few minutes, he swallowed his pride and went to the veranda.
“Everything okay?” he asked nonchalantly. “More wine?” Joy and Pleasant both accepted. “By the way,” Kubu said as he headed back inside, “where’s a thermometer I can use for the oil?”
“When you think it’s hot enough,” Joy said, “just spit on the oil. If the spit dances and fizzes, it’s hot enough.” Kubu gaped at her. Was she serious, or was she having him on? Perhaps he could use water?
It was twenty to nine when a disheveled Kubu invited Joy and Pleasant in to dinner. They had already finished more than a bottle of wine and were giggling at everything. Kubu on the other hand had not even sipped a drink, though on several occasions he had wanted to take a large swig from the bottle of brandy in the liquor cupboard.
When the ladies were seated, he poured red wine into the three clean glasses on the table and proposed a toast: “To restaurants! We should visit them more often!” Joy and Pleasant laughed uproariously.
“To the chef!” Pleasant was getting very loud. The glasses clinked loudly, and Kubu was worried that they might break.
“To my loving husband!” Joy leaned over and kissed Kubu on the cheek. “I’m looking forward to more of your wonderful creations in the future.” Kubu glared at her and drained the rest of his wine in
a single gulp.
“Hear, hear!” Pleasant lifted her glass for another toast.
Kubu refilled his glass and raised it once more. “To us,” he said quietly.
Hunger took over, and the three set about the sweet and sour pork. Kubu was so ravenous that he was pleased he hadn’t insisted on chopsticks as the butcher had suggested.
Pleasant looked around the table. “Where’s the rice?”
Kubu groaned. The rice was still soaking; he had forgotten to cook it.
Joy saw his discomfort and put her hand on his arm. “Darling, you’ve done a fantastic job. Relax and enjoy yourself. The pork is delicious.”
Kubu looked at his wife and saw she meant it. He put his hand over hers. “Thank you, my dear. I didn’t imagine cooking could be so stressful.”
Sanity restored, the three ate in silence, the only sounds those of cutlery on plates. And an occasional growl from Ilia to remind them that she too liked Chinese.
It was now after 10:00 p.m. Pleasant had left for home, sternly admonished to drive carefully; the table had been cleared, and the dishes were stacked in the kitchen. Kubu and Joy strolled onto the veranda.
“Come and sit on my lap, dear.” Kubu patted his leg as though Joy didn’t know where his lap was. “Are you sure we’ve made the right decision, my darling? No second thoughts?”
Joy shook her head. “I watched you as we discussed it, Kubu. We can’t be happy if you’re unhappy. Apart from Tumi and me, your whole life revolves around being a detective. You love your work. And when you started talking about working in security for Debswana, I could see how much you’d hate that. The routine, the boredom, the admin! After all, I don’t want you to change. I want you as you are.”
“You are the most amazing woman in the world,” said Kubu, wanting to say something much less trite, but finding himself suddenly tongue-tied.
Joy curled up, put her arms around Kubu’s neck, and gave him a deep kiss. “You are amazing too,” she whispered. “I never thought you would do it. Cook a whole complicated meal. And it was so good. Thank you, my love.”
Hmm, thought Kubu. This cooking business has some payoff after all. With one hand he stroked her back; with the other he pulled her head toward him. As their tongues explored each other, their breathing became short. Kubu shifted his hand to stroke her breasts. Joy groaned softly and pushed herself against him. She kissed him on his cheek, on his forehead, on his eyes.
“I love you,” she murmured.
Kubu felt his eyes moisten. He loved her so much. He took her face between his hands and kissed her gently on the mouth. “Let’s go to bed. The dishes can wait.”
They stood up, held hands, and walked inside.
They stopped just inside the bedroom for their third long kiss since leaving the veranda. When they could stand it no longer, they separated, giggled, and headed for the bed, shedding clothes.
At that moment, Tumi started to cry.
Author’s Note
Although this is a work of fiction, we have tried to depict traditional Bushman cultures accurately. This has not been easy. Much about the Bushmen is uncertain. The cultures are difficult to research, partly because the Bushmen have oral histories and, in some cases, contradictory traditions, so that even authorities disagree on many points. Furthermore, these are diverse cultures with their own languages. Some of the languages are similar; others are not mutually understandable. The multiple clicks and tonal emphases make the languages very hard for outsiders to learn, and thus much of the information obtained by researchers is through interpreters, opening the possibility of questions (and answers) being misunderstood.
We have chosen to use the word Bushman for the people of our story. Even this decision was not easy, because all the names used for the Khoisan peoples are controversial. Bushman has been commonly used for many years and is derived from a Dutch phrase, but some people regard it as pejorative. In academic circles, San is widely accepted, but it derives from a derogatory word used by the farming Khoi groups to describe their hunter-gatherer cousins. And Basarwa, which is commonly used in Botswana, also has negative connotations.
Unfortunately the Bushmen seem to have no specific name for themselves; they refer to themselves just as “the people,” and all other groups as “the others,” whether white, black, or even Bushmen. Political groups have sometimes used the term “First People of the Kalahari,” alluding to the Bushmen’s long tenure in the area.
In the end we settled for Bushmen simply because it is easier for the Western reader, and because no other name is broadly accepted.
An important personality in Bushman mythologies is Kaggen (sometimes written /Kaggen), a god with awesome powers but with the character of a trickster. In some stories, Kaggen is described as a mantis, giving the latter a special role in Bushman mythology. The face of a mantis is said to resemble that of a Bushman.
We found the Bushman quotes at the beginning of each part in Customs and Beliefs of the /Xam Bushmen, edited by Jeremy C. Hollmann (Wits University Press). The quotes themselves are originally from the remarkable work of Wilhelm Bleek and Lucy Lloyd, who recorded the stories of /A!kuηta (Klaas Stoffel), //Kabbo (Oud Jantje Tooren), Diä!kwain (David Hoesar), /Haη≠kass’o (Klein Jantje Tooren) and ≠Kasiη (Klaas Katkop) between 1870 and 1880 in Cape Town.
The story that Khumanego tells of the arrest of Maauwe and Motswetla is essentially true, although presented from his perspective, of course. The case is described in detail in In the Shadow of the Noose by Elizabeth Maxwell and Alice Mogwe.
The story of Hans Schwabe’s search for diamonds and his lonely death in what is now the Kgalagadi Transfrontier National Park is also true and provided the idea for one of the strands of the plot. However, there was no suggestion of foul play or that he left behind a map.
Berrybush is a real bed-and-breakfast near Tsabong, and Jill Thomas is its amazing proprietor. The camels live there in peace.
The Place is completely fictitious. However, if it existed as described, it might well have become a sacred site. Tsodilo is just such a collection of koppies rising from the desert. It contains a rich variety of Bushman art—even including a drawing of a whale, although the nearest coast is hundreds of miles away—and is venerated by the Bushmen as the place of creation. It is a wonderful and moving place to visit.
Acknowledgments
With each new book we have more people to thank for their generous help and support, because we keep leaning on those who have helped us before while finding new ones to impose upon.
We are grateful to Claire Wachtel, senior vice president and executive editor at HarperCollins for continuing to support Detective Kubu. We also thank Ellen S. Leach for her careful copyediting. Kendra Newton has provided friendly and valuable publicity support.
As always we are grateful to our agent Marly Rusoff and her partner Michael Radulescu for their efforts on our behalf.
We were very fortunate to have a variety of readers of drafts of this book giving us input and suggestions, and catching errors. Our sincere thanks to: Linda Bowles, Pat Cretchley, Pam Diamond, Pat and Nelson Markley, Kit Naylor, Brunhilde Sears, and the Minneapolis writing group—Gary Bush, Maureen Fischer, Sujata Massey, and Heidi Skarie. With all their comments, it is hard to believe that the book still has mistakes. But it probably does, and we take responsibility for any that remain.
As always, many people in Botswana have generously given us their time to make the book as authentic as possible. We are always amazed by the kind and helpful reception two authors get when they arrive with odd questions about Bushman poisons, police procedures, and the like. We particularly want to thank Thebeyame Tsimako, commissioner of police in Botswana, for taking time from his demanding schedule to give us comments and advice, and for helping with our requests. Andy Taylor, headmaster of the wonderful Maru a Pula school in Gaborone, has been extraordinarily patient with all our questions and requests. On the question of the status of the Bushman peoples in Botswana, we were
most fortunate to meet Alice Mogwe, director of the human rights organization Ditshwanelo, and Unity Dow, former High Court judge of Botswana. Their input has been invaluable. Jill Thomas told us much about the Tsabong area and its past, let us stay at her guest farm nearby, and even let us use her as a character in the book.
Chief Inspector Ngishidingwa of the Windhoek police station was very helpful with Namibian police procedures, as well as with cross-frontier crime issues. Station commanders Marata and Modise of Tsabong and Tshane respectively also provided invaluable information about the Kgalagadi District.
Wulf Haake, an expert on the German explorers of Namibia, found us an early published version of the Hans Schwabe story in Afrikaans.
We were also most fortunate to spend time with Colonel Roger Dixon of the Forensic Science Laboratory of the South African Police Service, who gave us much valuable advice on forensic matters. Similarly, Botswana police pathologist Salvador Mapunda helped us understand the environment of forensic pathology in Botswana. Dr. D. J. H. Veale, director of the Tygerberg Poison Information Centre of the University of Stellenbosch, provided very helpful insights into the complexities of Bushman arrow poisons.
All of our books have benefited from the detailed reading and advice of our wonderful friends in Kasane, Peter and Salome Comley, and this one is no exception. It is a great sadness to us that Salome passed away at the end of 2010. This book is dedicated to her memory.
Michael Sears
Stanley Trollip
Glossary
bakkie South African slang for a pickup truck.
Batswana Plural adjective or noun, e.g., “The people of Botswana are known as Batswana.” See Motswana.
BDF Botswana Defence Force.
biltong Salted strips of meat, spiced with pepper and coriander seeds and dried in the sun.
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