by Deon Meyer
Keep me informed.
I will.
Benny?
Yes, Matt?
Are you okay?
Silence. He could not lie to Joubertthey had too much history.
Come and talk to me, Benny.
Later. Let me finish up here first.
It dawned on him that Joubert knew something. Had Anna . . .
She was serious. This time she had even phoned Matt Joubert.
* * *
He rode the motorbike to Alice, to see the man who made weapons by hand. Like their ancestors used to.
The interior of the little building was gloomy; when his eyes had adjusted to the poor light, he looked through the assegais that were bundled in tins, shafts down, shiny blades pointing up.
What do you do with all of these?
They are for the people with tradition, said the graybeard, his hands busy shaping a shaft from a long sapling. The sandpaper rasped rhythmically up and down, up and down.
Tradition, he echoed.
They are not many now. Not many.
Why do you make the long spears too?
They are also part of our history.
He turned to the bundle with shorter shafts. His finger stroked the bladeshe was looking for a certain form, a specific balance. He drew one out, tested it, replaced it and took another.
What do you want to do with an assegai? asked the old man.
He did not immediately reply, because his fingers had found the right one. It lay comfortable in his palm.
I am going hunting, he said. When he looked up there was great satisfaction in the eyes of the graybeard.
* * *
When I was nine, my mother gave me a set of records for my birthday. A box of ten seven-inch singles and a book with pictures of princesses and good fairies. There were stories on them and every story had more than one endingthree or four each. I dont know exactly how it worked, but every time you listened to them, the needle would jump to one of the endings. A woman told the stories. In English. If the ending was unhappy I would play it again until it ended right.
She wasnt sure why she had brought this up and the minister said: But life doesnt work that way?
No, she said, life doesnt.
He stirred his tea. She sat with her cup on her lap, both feet on the floor now, and the scene was like a play she was watching: the woman and the clergyman in his study, drinking tea out of fine white porcelain. So normal. She could have been one of his congregation: innocent, seeking guidance for her life. About a relationship perhaps? With some young farmer? He looked at her in a paternal way and she knew: he likes me, he thinks Im okay.
My father was in the army, she said.
He sipped his tea to gauge the temperature.
He was an officer. I was born in Upington; he was a captain then. My mother was a housewife at first. Later on she worked at the attorneys office. Sometimes he was away on the Border for long stretches, but I only remember that vaguely, because I was still small. I am the oldest; my brother was born two years after me. Gerhard. Christine and Gerhard van Rooyen, the children of Captain Rooies and Mrs. Martie van Rooyen of Upington. The Rooies was just because of his surname. Its an army thing; every other guy had a nickname. My father was good looking, with black hair and green eyesI got my eyes from him. And my hair from my mother, so I expect to go gray earlyblonde hair does that. There are photos from when they were married, when she also wore her hair long. But later she cut it in a bob. She said it was because of the heat, but I think it was because of my father.
His eyes were on her face, her mouth. Was he listening, really hearing her? Did he see her as she was? Would he remember later, when she revealed her great fraud? She was quiet for a moment, lifting the cup to her lips, sipping, saying self-consciously: It will take a long time to tell you everything.
That is one thing we have lots of here, he said calmly. There is lots of time.
She gestured at the door. You have a family and I
They know I am here and they know its my work.
Perhaps I should come back tomorrow.
Tell your story, Christine, he said softly. Get it off your chest.
Sure?
Absolutely.
She looked down at her cup. It was half full. She lifted it, swallowed the lot in one go, replaced it on the saucer and put it down on the tray on the desk. She drew her leg under her again and folded her arms. I dont know where it went wrong, she said. We were like everyone else. Maybe not quite, because my father was a soldier, and at school we were always the army kids. When the
Flossies
flew out, those airplanes to the border, the whole town knew about itour fathers were going to fight the Communists. Then we were special. I liked that. But most of the time we were like all the others. Gerhard and I went to school and in the afternoon our mother was there and we did homework and played. Weekends we went shopping and barbecued and visited and went to church and every December we went down to Hartenbos and there was nothing odd about us. Nothing that I was aware of when I was six or eight or ten. My father was my hero. I remember his smell when he came home in the afternoon and hugged me. He called me his big girl. He had a uniform with shiny stars on the shoulders. And my mother . . .
Are they still living? the minister asked suddenly.
My father died, she said. With finality, as if she would not elaborate further.
And your mother?
Its a long time since I have seen her.
Oh?
She lives in Mossel Bay.
He said nothing.
She knows now. What kind of work I was doing.
But she didnt always know?
No.
How did she find out?
She sighed. That is part of the story.
And you think she will reject you? Because now she knows?
Yes. No . . . I think she is on a guilt trip.
Because you became a prostitute?
Yes.
And is she to blame?
She couldnt sit still anymore. She stood up in a hurry, and walked over to the wall behind her to get more distance between them. Then she approached the back of the chair and gripped it.
Maybe.
Oh?
She dropped her head, letting her long hair cover her face. She stood like that, very still.
She was beautiful, she said at last, looking up and taking her hands off the chair-back. She moved to the right, towards the bookshelf, her eyes on the books, but she was not seeing them.
They were in Durban on their honeymoon. And the photos . . . She could have had any man. She had a figure. Her face . . . she was so lovely, so delicate. And she was laughing, in all the photos. Sometimes I believe that was the last time she laughed.
She turned to the minister, leaning her shoulder against the bookshelf, one hand brushing the books, caressingly. It must have been hard for my mother when my father was away. She never complained. When she knew he was coming home, she would get the house in order, from one end to the other. Spring-cleaning, she called it. But never herself. Tidy, yes. Clean, but she used less and less make-up. Her clothes became looser, and more dull. She cut her hair short. You know how it is when you live with someone every dayyou dont notice the gradual changes.
She folded her arms again, embracing herself.
The thing with the church . . . that must be where it started. He came back from the Border and said we were going to another church. Not the Dutch Reformed Church on the base anymore; we would be going to a church in town, one that met in the primary school hall on Sundays. Clapping hands and falling down and conversions . . . Gerhard and I would have enjoyed it if our father hadnt been so serious about it. Suddenly we had family devotions at home every day and he prayed long pray
ers about the demons that were in us. He began to talk of leaving the army, so that he could go and do missionary work, and he walked around with the Bible all day, not the little soldiers Bible, a big one. It was a vicious circle, because the army was probably understanding at first, but later he began praying for God to drive the demons out of the colonel and the brigadier and said that God would open doors for him.
She shook her head. It must have been hard for my mother, but she did nothing.
She walked back to her chair. Not even when he started with me.
7.
He drove the pickup to Cape Town, because the motorbike would be too conspicuous. His suitcase was beside him on the passenger seat. From Port Elizabeth to Knysna. He saw the mountains and the forests and wondered, as always, how it had looked a thousand years ago, when there were only Khoi and San and the elephants trumpeted in the dense bush. Beyond George the houses of the wealthy sat like fat ticks against the dunes, silently competing for a better sea view. Big houses, empty all year, to be filled perhaps for a month in December. He thought of Mrs. Rampheles corrugated iron shack on the sunburnt flats outside Umtata, five people in two rooms, and he knew the contrasts in this country were too great.
But they could never be great enough to justify the death of a child. He wondered if Khoza or Ramphele had passed this way; if they had driven this road.
Mossel Bay, past Swellendam and over the Breede river, then Caledon and eventually late in the afternoon he came over Sir Lowrys Pass. The Cape lay spread out far below and the sun shone in his eyes as it hung low over Table Mountain. He felt no joy of homecoming, because the memories this place brought lay heavy on him.
He drove as far as Parow. There was a little hotel on Voortrekker Road that he remembered, the New President, where people stayed who wanted to remain anonymous, regardless of color or creed.
That is where he would begin.
* * *
Griessel stood in front of the Serious and Violent Crimes Unit building in Bishop Lavis and considered his options.
He could take the suitcase out of the boot and drag it past Mavis in Reception, around the corner and down the passage to one of the big bathrooms that remained after the old Police College became the new SVC offices. Then he could shower and brush his teeth and scrape off his stubble in the bleached mirror and put on clean clothes. But every fucking policeman in the Peninsula would know within half an hour that Benny Griessel had been turfed out of the house by his wife. That is the way it worked on the Force.
Or he could walk to his office just as he was, smelly and crumpled, and say he had worked through the night, but that story would only maintain the façade temporarily.
There was a bottle of Jack in his desk drawer and three packets of Cloretstwo slugs for the nerves, two Clorets for the breath and he was as good as new. Jissis, to feel the thick brown liquid sliding down his throat, all the way to heaven. He slammed the boot shut. Fuck the shower; he knew what he needed.
He walked fast, suddenly light-hearted. Fuck you, Anna. She couldnt do this; he would see a fucking lawyer, one like Kemp who didnt take shit from man or beast. He was the fucking breadwinner, drunkard and all; how could she throw him out? Hed paid for that house, every table and chair. He greeted Mavis, turned the corner, up the stairs, feeling in his pocket for the key. His hand was shaking. He got the door open, closed it behind him, walked around the desk, opened the bottom drawer, lifted the criminal procedure handbook and felt the cold glass of the bottle underneath. He took it out and unscrewed the cap. Time for a lubrication, his oil light was burning red. He grinned at his own wit as the door opened and Matt Joubert stood there with an expression of disgust on his face.
Benny.
He stood transfixed, with the neck of the bottle fifteen centimeters away from relief.
Fuck it, Matt.
Matt closed the door behind him. Put that shit down, Benny.
He did not move, could not believe his bad luck. So fucking close.
Benny!
The bottle shook, like his whole body. I cant help it, he said quietly. He could not look Joubert in the eyes. The senior superintendent came and stood next to him, took the bottle out of his hand. He let it go reluctantly.
Give me the cap.
Solemnly he handed it over.
Sit, Benny.
He sat down and Joubert banged the bottle down. He leaned his large body against the desk, legs straight and arms folded.
What is going on with you?
What was the use of answering?
Now you are an abuser of women and a breakfast drinker?
She had phoned Joubert. To kick him out was not enoughAnna had to humiliate him professionally too.
Jissis, he said with feeling.
Jissis what, Benny?
Ah fuck, Matt, what is the use of talking? How does that help? I am a fuck-up. You know it and Anna knows it and I know it. What is there left to say? Im sorry Im alive? He waited for some reaction, but none came. The silence hung in the room, until he had to know whether he would find some sympathy. He looked up carefully to see his commanders expressionless face. Slowly Joubert narrowed his eyes and a red glow suffused his face. Griessel knew his boss was the hell-in and he retreated. Joubert grabbed him without speaking, jerked him out of the chair by his neck and arm and shoved him towards the door.
Matt, he said, jissis, what now? He felt the considerable power of the grip.
Shut up, Benny, hissed Joubert, and steered him down the stairs, the footfalls loud on the bare surface. Past Mavis and through the entrance hall, Jouberts hand hard between his shoulders. Then they were outside in the bright sunlight. Never had Joubert been rough with him before. Their shoes crunched over the parking area gravel to the senior superintendents car. He said Matt again because he could feel pressure in his guts. This mood had never been directed at him before. Joubert did not respond. He jerked open the car door, his big hand pressing the back of Griessels neck, shoved him in and slammed the door.
Joubert climbed in at the drivers side and turned the key. They shot off with screeching tires and this noise seemed to release a flood of anger inside Joubert. A martyr, he spat out with total disgust. I catch you with a fucking bottle in your hand and that is the best you can do? Act the martyr? You drink and hit women and all I see is self-pity. Benny, Jesus Christ, thats not good enough. In fourteen years, the fourteen fucking years I have worked with you, I have never seen a person so completely fuck-up his life without any help from outside. You should have been a bloody director, but where are you now, Benny? Forty-three and youre an inspectorwith a thirst as big as the Sahara. And you hit your wife and shrug your shoulders and say, I cant help it, Matt. You fucking hit your wife? Where does that come from? Since when? Jouberts hands were communicating too and spit sprayed against the windscreen while the engine screamed at high revolutions. Youre sorry youre alive?
They drove towards Voortrekker Road. Griessel stared ahead. He felt the Jack in his hand again, the desire inside.
When it was quiet he said: It was the first time, last night.
The first time? What kind of a fucking excuse is that? Does that make it all right? You are a policeman, Benny. You know thats no fucking argument. And youre lying. She says it has been threatening for months. Three weeks ago you shoved her around, but you were too drunk to do it properly. And the children, Benny? What are you doing to them? Your two children who have to see their drunkard of a father come home pissed out of his skull and assault their mother? I should lock you up with the scum, she should lay a fucking charge against you, but all that will achieve is more damage to your children. And what do you do? She throws you out and you run to a bottle. Just booze, Benny, thats all you think about. And yourself. What the fuck is going on inside your head? What has happened to your brains?
For an instant he wanted to respo
nd, to scream: I dont know, I dont know, I dont want to be like this, I dont know how I got here, leave me alone! Because he was familiar with these questions, and he knew the answersit was all pointless, it made no difference. He said nothing.
In Voortrekker Road the traffic was heavy, the traffic lights red. Joubert gave the steering wheel a slap of frustration. Griessel wondered where they were going. To the Sanitarium? It wouldnt be the first time Joubert had dropped him off there.
The senior superintendent blew out a long breath. Do you know what I think about, Benny? The whole time. His voice had mellowed now. Of the man who was my friend. The little sergeant who came here from Parow, green and full of go. The one who showed the whole bunch of arrogant detectives at Murder and Robbery how to do police work. The little guy from Parowwhere is he, where did he go? The one who laughed and had a clever answer for everything. Who was a legend. Fuck, Benny, you were good; you had everything. You had instinct and respect. You had a future. But you killed it. Drank it up and pissed it away.
