The Satanic Mechanic

by Sally Andrew

  ‘Thank you, Doctor Walters.’ I felt tired and hungry.

  ‘I wish you all the best, Mrs van Harten.’

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was closing a folder on his desk.

  ‘Does this mean I can stop the diet now?’

  ‘Hmm. You certainly won’t cure your problems with a diet,’ he said. ‘Addictive eating could be part of the PTSD profile, but it’s a symptom rather than a cause. Of course, there’s no harm in losing a bit of weight.’ He kept his eyes on my face, not the rest of me. ‘I’m not a dietician, but different diets go in and out of fashion. If you apply common sense, you should be fine. Obvious stuff: exercise, eat healthy food, only eat when you’re hungry.’

  The problem is, I thought as I left his office, I am always hungry.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  If Henk knew how badly Hattie drove over those steep passes he might not have been so quick to tell me to go home. It might’ve been safer to stay and look for a murderer and then ride back on Jessie’s scooter without a helmet.

  Hattie dropped me in my driveway. ‘Toodle-oo,’ she called, as she skidded off, taking some bark from the eucalyptus tree with her.

  I walked between the peach pips, up my pathway of flat stones.

  ‘Kik kik kik,’ I called, as I reached the garden.

  All five of my brown hens came rushing towards me, their reddish neck feathers fluffing as they ran. I was glad that the rooikat or the leopard had not taken any of them. There was a bucket of crushed mielies on the stoep, and I threw them a handful of corn before I let myself in. I had not returned from Oudtshoorn empty-handed. Tannie Rosa had given me her mosbolletjie rusk recipe and a Tupperware of raisins. I’d hoped for some muscadel must wine from her brother, but she wasn’t able to get any in time so had given me some muscadel raisins still on the stalk. I’d ferment these in water to make the sourdough.

  I phoned Rita, my neighbour, to thank her for looking after my chickens, and she thanked me for the eggs. It was almost time for lunch. I looked at the diet sheet. The recipe (if you can call it that) was for a very boring salad. I threw the sheet of paper in the bin. Then I took it out again. I would eat that blooming diet food, but I’d improve it with a little something extra. I prepared the cucumber, tomato and lettuce salad, then added some grated mature Gouda and a dressing with macadamia nut oil and naartjie juice. I ate it on the stoep; it was very good.

  As I looked across the veld, I saw a kudu come out from behind the gwarrie tree. A beautiful big male with a black face and long spiral horns. You do sometimes get trek kudu in our area – buck that like to travel far across the veld and won’t be stopped by the fences – but I hadn’t seen one for years. Steenbuck and springbuck, ja, even the occasional grysbok, but not a kudu. Such a big one too. I looked away for a moment, and when I looked back it was gone. I waited for it to appear again from behind the gwarrie tree, but it didn’t.

  I spent the afternoon doing my laundry and hanging it on the line. Everything dries so quickly in the Karoo. I made an early supper. Again I ate the diet meal, but with something extra. The recipe said steamed vegetables, which I did: beetroot and butternut. Then I fried them lightly in olive oil and added macadamia nut butter and dates and chopped naartjies and feta. I ate on the stoep in the evening light. Delicious. No, really it was. You wouldn’t believe it was diet food. I watched out again for that kudu, but there was no sign of it.

  The problem with good-tasting food is it leaves you wanting more, so I took a couple of diet pills and my antidepressant for pudding.

  That night I was woken from a deep sleep by the noise of hooves, and there it was, that big kudu. Standing right next to my bed. I could see its black eyes glistening in the moonlight. Big pupils, like Slimkat’s. I closed my eyes and opened them again, and it was still there. It was a gentle creature, and I did not feel frightened.

  ‘Slimkat?’ I said.

  The kudu was not looking at me but at the window, as if it was thinking of going out. The sash window was only a little bit open at the top. Even if it was wide open, it would be too small for the kudu to fit through. A steenbokkie, ja, but not a kudu, not even a small kudu.

  I sat up, wanting to explain this to the kudu, and my blanket knocked over the glass of water on my bedside table. I leant down to see if it had broken, but it hadn’t. When I looked up, the kudu was gone. I guess I was wrong about the window. I lay down and quickly fell asleep.

  The next morning, I thought it must have been a dream, but there was my glass on the floor. I looked for spoor of the kudu, but of course a buck would leave no tracks on the wood. It had felt so real. But then my nightmares felt real too.

  I took my pills again before breakfast and ate boiled eggs on the stoep while my hens scratched on the compost heap and the sun lit up the veld and the distant Langeberge. A Karoo robin was making a lot of noise that morning, flying between a thorn tree and the gwarrie tree, swooping towards the ground.

  ‘I wonder if there’s a snake about,’ I said to my boiled egg.

  I did the washing up, then called Jessie on her cell.

  ‘Tannie M,’ she said. ‘I’m at the hospital, hoping to meet Ystervark. He’s coming to take Slimkat’s body back to Kuruman.’

  ‘Ag, shame . . .’ I said. ‘Have you spoken to the people who work at the Kudu Stall?’

  ‘Some, ja,’ she said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not much, but I’ll tell you when I see you. I must run; there he is.’

  ‘Sorry I’m not there—’ I said, but the phone had already disconnected.

  I wished I was there, at her side.

  I put my lipstick on and was just setting out for work when the phone rang. It was Henk. He was the reason I wasn’t with Jessie.

  ‘Just checking you’re okay,’ he said.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, feeling a bit cross with him.

  ‘I’m coming back this evening,’ he said. ‘Be nice to see you.’

  It was hard to stay cross with him.

  ‘For supper?’ I said.

  ‘That would be lekker.’

  I wondered what I should cook.

  ‘It’s important you interview the people at the Kudu Stall,’ I said.

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘Have you spoken to them all?’

  ‘I can’t discuss it.’

  ‘Have you got results from the sauce?’ I said. ‘Was it poisoned?’

  ‘You agreed to stay out of it,’ he said.

  ‘I agreed not to stay there and investigate,’ I said. ‘But I still want to know. I was there when it happened. He looked me in the eyes.’

  ‘When there’s official news, I will tell you.’

  ‘I must go now,’ I said.

  ‘Maria . . .’

  ‘What?’

  I could hear his breathing, and for a moment I was scared he was going to say he loved me again.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Your lamb,’ I said. ‘Who’s looking after Kosie while you’re away?’

  ‘One of the guys from the station is staying at my house.’

  ‘Maybe ask him to stay one more night.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As I drove my blue Nissan along the dirt road to Route 62, I thought it was probably crazy to invite Henk to stay the night again so soon. But I’d been to see a counsellor and a doctor, and started two sorts of medication and a diet. And now I had the phone number for a satanic mechanic. So maybe I was ready.

  I turned onto the tar. There were three other cars ahead of me on the way in to Ladismith. Morning rush hour. I wondered what I would cook for my Friday night with Henk.

  Hattie’s Toyota Etios was already under the jacaranda, so I parked a little further away in the broken shade of a thorn tree. In the autumn weather, it would be cool enough.

  I walked up the path lined with pot plants to the office of the Karoo Gazette. Hattie’s fingers were running around her keypad like mice, and she paused for only a second to greet me.
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  I went to my desk and the pile of letters that was waiting for me.

  ‘Tea?’ I asked Hattie, as I prepared my own coffee and rusks.

  ‘Hmm? No thanks. Just finishing off some last-second copy.’

  I looked through my letters; there were quite a few new ones. Including some email printouts. I didn’t have my own email address, but they were sent to the Gazette for my column. Most people send letters; they’re more anonymous.

  I reread that letter I hadn’t answered, from the teenager whose boyfriend wanted sex. I wrote:

  If he cares about you, he will wait until you are ready. If you care about him, you will move gently in the direction of getting ready. It’s not something you must force yourself to do. Your heart and your body must both be happy.

  In the meantime, you can make him the Venus Cake. Made with coffee and peanut butter and melted chocolate. It is very satisfying and will keep him interested for quite a while. If the waiting goes on a long time, let me know and I will think of something else. Though you can’t get much better than this cake.

  As I wrote out the recipe, I wondered if a teenager was ready for the responsibility of an out-of-this-world cake. Should I make that same cake for Henk tonight? I hoped we wouldn’t be needing it. The problem with the Venus Cake was it disagreed too much with my diet. And my diet was moving me in the direction of getting ready.

  I picked up another letter on the pile, one that looked impatient to be opened. It was a plain white envelope with a George postmark. George was quite a big town, further away and bigger than Oudtshoorn.

  Dear Auntie Maria,

  My boyfriend says he wants to have two girlfriends. He has a story about how he loves me but you can never find everything you want in one person. He wants us all to have dinner together some time (me and his other girlfriend). What should I do?

  Miss Helpme

  I finished my coffee, and answered:

  Dear Miss Helpme,

  Tell your boyfriend that is fine, so long as you have two boyfriends as well. And each of your boyfriends has two girlfriends. And those girlfriends need two too, and so on. It will be like a chain letter.

  The problem will be having dinner together. How do you plan numbers for catering? It would be safest to have a picnic in the park or on the beach and ask everyone to bring their own food.

  Not far from George is a nice beach called Herold’s Bay. I pictured them all on this beach and smiled.

  ‘Rightio,’ said Hattie, brushing her hands together with a clapping sound. ‘Done and dusted. I’d love that cup of tea now. And how are you doing, Maria darling? Have you heard from Jessie?’

  ‘Just a quick call,’ I said, putting on the kettle. ‘She was meeting Slimkat’s cousin, Ystervark, at the hospital.’

  ‘She has a nose for news, does our Jessie.’

  ‘She spoke to the people at the Kudu Stall. But it sounds like it wasn’t much help.’

  ‘Of course we want a good story, but I do hope she doesn’t end up in trouble again. Don’t think I could bear another kidnapping or coma.’

  I hoped the same, but I also wanted Jessie to find out what happened. Slimkat’s eyes might haunt me for ever if she didn’t. I gave Hattie her tea and offered her a rusk.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t been proven yet, has it, that Slimkat was poisoned?’

  ‘No results on the sauce bottle yet,’ I said. ‘Well, nothing official anyway.’

  ‘Do you know something unofficial?’ asked Hattie. ‘You or Jessie, through one of your saucy sources?’ She laughed at her own joke.

  I shook my head and settled back down at my desk. I thought I’d better write a bit more to Miss Helpme. She might not have found the chain letter idea that funny.

  It may be true that you cannot find everything you want in one person. But it’s also true that your most important needs must be met by yourself.

  If your boyfriend does not like the chain-letter plan, and does not want to be faithful to you, you may find you can meet your needs better without him. It is more lonely to be with someone who cannot love you right, than to be on your own.

  I though about giving her a cold picnic recipe, but instead gave her Annemarie’s amazing brandy tart recipe, which should be eaten hot and at home. I wondered again what I should cook for Henk that night.

  ‘I’ve got some errands to run,’ said Hattie. ‘Toodle-oo.’

  I couldn’t decide which letter to open next, so I shuffled them and just picked one. I got a fright when I read it.

  Dear Tannie Maria,

  My new boyfriend and I have been getting on very well for a few months. Then he told me he loved me. It scares me! Does this mean there is something wrong with me? Or that he is the wrong one for me?

  He is coming for lunch this weekend. I don’t know what to do.

  Mariana

  The woman’s name even sounded like my own. Had I written a letter to myself? The postmark on the letter was from Ladismith. Was I going mad? No, I couldn’t have written it myself, because Henk was coming for supper not lunch.

  I made myself a cup of coffee and went and sat outside on a chair in the shade of a karee tree and looked at the pots of succulents. They were not flowering yet, but their leaves had such interesting fat shapes. I don’t know their English names, but their Afrikaans names describe them nicely: toontjies – little toes, and worsies – little sausages, and bababoudjies – little baby bums.

  When I’d finished my coffee, I went back inside and wrote my reply.

  Dear Mariana,

  Maybe he said it too soon. Time will tell.

  Maybe you feel you do not deserve love. This sometimes happens if you have not had good love before. Or if you have done something you are ashamed of. Is there something hiding in your past?

  You might need to decide if you really love him.

  One way to decide this is to see whether you feel like making him a toasted sandwich or a three-course meal that takes half the day to prepare. Although if you choose the sandwich it could just be that you don’t like cooking, in which case you need to sit quietly and look inside your own heart.

  Yours,

  Tannie Maria

  I gave her recipes for a delicious toasted sandwich (with cheese, tomato paste, sliced biltong, banana and peppadew) and for a three-course meal. The toasted sandwich I would make for myself for lunch, and the three-course meal is what I planned to prepare for Henk that night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The meal I prepared was butternut soup with sour cream, my ouma’s Karoo lamb pie and buttermilk pudding.

  When the soup was in the hotbox, the pie in the oven and the pudding in its dish, I washed and dressed. First I put on my lacy white underwear, then the special cream dress that my friend Candy had sent me from New York, and the matching shoes with low heels. I thought about painting my toenails with pearl nail varnish but decided that was going too far. I brushed my hair and put on fresh lipstick and sat on the stoep and watched the sky turn from pale turquoise to pink to purple. The soft green shapes in the veld became silhouettes. There was no sign of the kudu at the gwarrie tree, but I saw a small grysbokkie moving through the bushes.

  Henk was late. We hadn’t said a time, it just felt late. I watched the first planets appearing in the big Karoo sky. Before the stars appeared, I heard his bakkie pulling up, into my driveway.

  I sat very still and watched his dark shape move up the pathway towards the stoep. He only saw me when he was quite close.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Kosie needed settling.’

  I was still a little cross with him, not for being late but for convincing me to leave Jessie in Oudtshoorn. I was cross with myself, really; I shouldn’t let a man tell me what to do.

  He stepped onto the stoep and gave me that big smile, and his neatly waxed chestnut moustache smiled too. I stood up.

  ‘Hello, Henk.’

  He pulled me against his warm chest, which smelt like a hot cross bun, and my anger melt
ed away. He made me feel hot, not cross.

  He breathed out a sigh, and I felt it go right through me. I looked up to see what was going on, but he was staring out into the darkness.

  ‘Would you like a beer?’ I said.

  I fetched a Windhoek Lager from the fridge, then I lit a lantern on the stoep table and went back inside to get the soup from the hotbox. We had a few courses to get through before we could go to bed.

  We ate the soup in silence, and I wondered if he even wanted to go to bed. He hadn’t kissed me hello and wasn’t looking into my eyes. He didn’t look at me much at all. I was glad I hadn’t painted my toenails.

  ‘Venus is bright tonight,’ he said, gazing out at the night.

  ‘Ja,’ I said, because it was. ‘Are you okay?’

  He looked at me and gave a sad kind of smile.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘A bit tired. Sorry.’

  ‘I’ll get the pie,’ I said.

  I put the buttermilk pudding in the oven and brought out Ouma’s Karoo lamb pie with peas and potatoes (mashed with butter and cream).

  ‘That smells good,’ he said.

  He ate without his usual appetite, although it was an excellent dish.

  ‘It’s my ouma’s recipe.’ I said, ‘You stew the lamb first, with onion, bay leaves and peppercorns . . .’

  ‘Mm,’ he said.

  Not Mm mmm like when something is yummy, but Mm like his thoughts were somewhere else. Something was wrong. Maybe he didn’t want to spend the night with me; he remembered what a mess it had been last time. Maybe he wanted to break up with me; he’d made a mistake saying he loved me. I was maybe-ing myself into knots. What I liked about Henk was I could be myself with him.

  ‘This is good,’ he said, after he’d eaten some buttermilk pudding.

  Which was rubbish. It was not good – it was perfect. The best buttermilk pudding that had ever been made.

  ‘If you don’t want to be with me,’ I said, ‘maybe it’s better you just say so.’