The Satanic Mechanic

by Sally Andrew

  I am asking your help to cook pudding with milk. I did get a cow as payment from a very satisfied customer. I gave the cow rainbow water to drink and it makes too much milk. I can make nice sour cream and cream cheese, but I want some sweet things also. You Afrikaans mamas know how to make nice milk and cheese puddings. Tell me some.

  Thank you and God bless you

  MAMA BOLO

  EXPERT AND QUEEN OF MUTI

  I gave the Queen of Medicines Tannie Kuruman’s melktert recipe. I’ve tasted many milk tarts, and Tannie K’s is the most excellent. And I also gave Mama Bolo the recipe for the best cheesecake in the world – which my friend Candy from New York had sent me. Just thinking about it made my tongue want to melt in my mouth.

  ‘Jessie!’ said Hattie.

  I looked up, but there was no sign of Jess; Hattie was talking to the page on her desk.

  ‘Are you trying to get us sued for libel?’ She turned to me. ‘Jessie is insinuating that Slimkat was poisoned by the diamond miners.’ She shook her head. ‘We don’t even know if he was poisoned.’

  ‘Well, actually the tests now show he was,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ said Hattie.

  I put my hand to my mouth, but it was too late, the words were out.

  ‘That is off the record, though,’ I said.

  ‘Well, off the record means off the record,’ Hattie said, diving down with her pencil.

  ‘When’s Jessie back from Oudtshoorn?’ I was a little nervous about going to the satanic mechanic’s farm and wondered if Jess could be my back-up.

  ‘Sunday. She’ll be in the office Monday morning.’ Hattie made short sharp marks all over the page in front of her. ‘Honestly, Jessie. Are you off your rocker?’

  ‘Hattie. I’m going to a meeting this afternoon. A therapy group. It’s a bit out of town . . .’

  ‘Goodness gracious,’ said Hattie. ‘That’s jolly good.’

  ‘I’m a bit worried . . . um, about my car.’

  ‘I’ll take you then, no problem.’

  ‘No,’ I said. I couldn’t handle any more of her driving. ‘No, thank you. I’d rather go alone. But I just want to give you the address of the place.’ I wrote it down and handed it to her. ‘I’ll call you when I get home. If you haven’t heard from me by, um, eight o’clock, send Henk, Detective Kannemeyer, out to come and get me.’

  ‘I do wish you’d get a cell phone,’ she said. ‘We are in the twenty-first century, you know. And why don’t you tell your hunk yourself?’

  ‘I don’t want him to worry.’ I looked at the office clock. Cheesecake takes a while to bake and then ages to cool to the right texture.

  ‘Hey,’ said Hattie, as she read the address I’d given her. ‘Isn’t this the farm bought by that new mechanic?’

  ‘Um, yes. He’s also a counsellor.’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ said Hattie, looking down again at her editing, ‘that he’s a psychic mechanic. He can diagnose what’s wrong with your car before you tell him. Will he fix you and your car for the price of one?’

  I stood up and put some envelopes in my bag, saying, ‘I’m taking my letters home with me.’

  Hattie made a final pencil stab onto Jessie’s page, then put it in her out tray and picked up her cup of tea. She looked surprised that it was cold.

  ‘I’ll hear from you later,’ she said as I left.

  I hope so, I thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I stopped at the Spar for some oranges, sour cream and cream cheese for the cheesecake. There I bumped into Tannie Elna le Grange from the shoe shop, and Tannie Kuruman from the Route 62 Café. I tried to be quick with my catch-ups, because I needed time for that cheesecake. But it was difficult, with all the talk about Slimkat’s death in the beer tent at the KKNK, and the woman who’d stabbed her boyfriend in the heart in Barrydale. Elna said she’d heard the woman had said, ‘The devil made me do it.’ Then I chatted with Anna Pretorius, the mielie farmer. Ag, shame, she was still lonely after losing her friend, Martine. Anna told me all about the suspension problems of her bakkie. She’d heard about the new mechanic just outside of town.

  ‘He uses voodoo to fix your car,’ she said. ‘And he fixes people too. With fire and voodoo. They call him the satanic mechanic.’ She snorted and shook her head. ‘I think I’ll get HiWay Tyres to do the job.’

  Marietjie, at the till, was quick and quiet. I think something was troubling her, but I didn’t ask what.

  At home, I picked a lemon from my tree as I passed through the garden. I made the crust first: Candy’s recipe called for crushed digestive biscuits and butter, but I added in some desiccated coconut, crushed brazil nuts and orange zest too. And then I prepared the creamy citrus filling. Candy used lemon and orange rather than the usual vanilla flavouring. Once the cake was in the oven, I took my letters outside to the stoep table and opened the one that looked familiar. It was written on that thin paper by the mature Scottish woman who fancied the younger man. She wrote:

  Thank you, dear Maria, for the wonderful recipes. The young man is visiting me more often now. Three times a week. He is such a strong fellow and he has been helping me about the house.

  I did love your story about mature cheddar being more delicious. But I am wondering . . . Perhaps age is just a number, but is race just a colour? He has a lovely big white smile, but the rest of him is a very dark brown. I am a pale-pinky colour.

  Some more of your wonderful recipes would be fine. Maybe something that lasts so I don’t need to be baking every day.

  Yours sincerely,

  Delicious Lass

  I sat thinking about her letter for a while. Apartheid was dead in South Africa, but we all knew racism wasn’t. Especially in small towns. What would be most helpful to her? I wondered.

  Heart-shaped chocolate brownies? Rainbow layered cake? Or a dark chocolate cake with pale-pink strawberry icing?

  In the end I wrote:

  Dear Delicious Lass,

  The skin is just a thin layer on the outside. Your hearts are the same colour.

  Here is a prize-winning recipe for a special fruitcake. The different ingredients (dark: coffee, cocoa, dates – and light: almonds, sultana, butter) join together to make something more delicious than you can imagine. This fruitcake matures with age. It will have him coming back for more.

  Everything of the best,

  Tannie Maria

  The recipe had a very long list of ingredients, so it took a while to write up and made me quite hungry.

  I added a layer of sour-cream topping to the cheesecake and put it back to bake a little longer. I studied my diet sheet. Boiled eggs for lunch. I sighed and swallowed my diet pills. I must’ve had the satanist on my mind, because I made devilled eggs, using Dijon mustard, cream cheese and red pepper. The eggs looked and tasted fantastic. As I sat at the stoep table, chewing my last mouthful, I saw that kudu again, at the gwarrie tree, nibbling on some leaves. It turned and stared at me. I went and switched the oven off, then phoned Jessie in Oudtshoorn, on her cell.

  ‘Jess. Any news on the Slimkat story?’

  ‘Yes! Ystervark saw the medical report. It definitely was poisoning. Hemlock.’

  ‘Hemlock?’

  ‘Ja, it’s quite a common plant. Grows all over South Africa. I googled it. It was used when that famous philosopher, Socrates, was given the death sentence. And the symptoms fit. Trembling, vomiting, dilated pupils, paralysis. Just like what we saw.’

  ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Are you all right, Tannie M? You sound a bit funny.’

  ‘I’ve had Slimkat on my mind. I keep seeing . . . his eyes. Looking at me.’

  ‘Ja. He was a good guy. I wish I could stick around here longer, find out what happened. But Hattie says I must be back Monday morning. I hope the Oudtshoorn police get on top of it. They’re not sharing much with me, I tell you.’

  ‘You’re not coming back today?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Is there something wrong,
Tannie M?’

  ‘I have to go to counselling.’

  ‘Jinne.’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘I went for counselling once; it’s not so bad.’

  ‘It’s with a group outside of town,’ I said. ‘Run by a mechanic.’

  ‘Ricus? The satanic mechanic?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘No ways! He helped out my cousin, Boetie, big time. Remember what a daggakop he used to be, a real marijuana addict?’

  ‘Ja?’

  ‘Well, Boetie found a snake that had been run over but was still alive. He put it in a sack and took it to this guy, Ricus, the mechanic. Ricus loves snakes, collects them.’

  ‘Is that why they call him a satanist?’

  ‘Ag, you know how people talk. I’d heard he used to do drag racing; his car was painted with flames and the words “bat out of hell”. Anyway, Boetie visited him – and the injured snake – a few times. I gave Boetie a lift there once on my scooter. I tell you, he became a different guy. Boetie’s got self-respect now. He left those scallywags he used to hang out with. He stopped smoking dope, and he’s just got a promotion at work.’

  ‘Sjoe. And the snake?’

  ‘The snake got better; they released it back into the wild. And Ricus sorted out my scooter brakes too. Don’t worry about him, Tannie M. He’s a cool guy. Good at fixing things.’

  ‘Thanks, Jess.’

  I felt a bit better after talking to Jessie. I put the cheesecake in the fridge while I got ready to go out. I ironed my blue dress and wore fresh socks with my veldskoene.

  I was deciding whether to call Henk when the phone rang and it was him. That sort of thing happens a lot, you know. I think about something, and then there it is. It makes me wonder if my life is neatly woven, instead of the tangle it looks like. If I could just follow all the threads, maybe I’d see a nice pattern.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he said.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘A bit tired.’ Sometimes I only realise how I am feeling when I speak to Henk.

  ‘I’m working late,’ he said, ‘but maybe I’ll pop round later.’

  ‘I’m going out,’ I said. ‘To a therapy group.’

  ‘Good. Where?’

  ‘It’s just outside town. In a . . . centre. I may be back late.’

  ‘Counselling on a Saturday night?’

  ‘It’s a kind of social thing, supper and that.’

  ‘Maria . . . I hope it helps. I spoke to a policewoman here. There are also counsellors for women who have been . . . abused.’

  ‘Ja. Well, let’s see how this goes . . . Maybe you can come after supper,’ I said. ‘For pudding.’

  ‘Oh. Lekker.’

  ‘I have made some cheesecake.’

  ‘Phone me when you get in.’

  ‘Henk . . . Hattie knows the place I am going to. And Jessie. If, if anything goes wrong . . . with my car or anything.’

  ‘Where is this place? What’s wrong with your car?’

  ‘No, nothing, I’m just saying, in case.’

  ‘Okay. See you later, bokkie.’

  I cut the cheesecake into pieces and packed half into a Tupperware to take with me. The consistency wasn’t quite right; it still needed to cool some more, so I didn’t taste it. But I was glad to have the cheesecake for company when I drove off from my house.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m feeling nervous,’ I said to the cake. ‘I’m glad you’re coming with me.’

  There was movement in the veld next to me, and there I saw the kudu, bounding through the bushes, parallel to the road. I was worried it would swerve into the road, and I slowed down. It slowed with me, keeping pace with my little blue bakkie.

  I stopped and rolled down the window. The kudu came towards me, and I could see into its dark eyes.

  ‘Please,’ I said to the kudu, ‘stay further away from the road. I’m driving, and I don’t want an accident.’

  It flicked its ears as if it understood. And as I drove off again, it moved deeper into the veld. It stayed at the same distance and speed all the way. Following me the way the moon follows when you drive at night.

  I got used to the kudu, and my mind returned to my fears about the group. Who else would be there? I wondered if the guy from the Ostrich Supper Club with the angry eyes would come. What would we be expected to say or do? Would I have to diet some more, or take other pills? I didn’t want any more pills.

  I carried on driving along Route 62, parallel to the long range of Swartberge to the north. I passed the road with a signpost to the Laingsberg and the Moordenaars Karoo. The Murderer’s Karoo is in the Groot Karoo. Then a little bit further on, a black raven was perched on the chassis of a tractor. A number plate said Ricus 10810.

  I turned onto the dirt road, and the kudu turned too. The big buck was a comfort, even though I knew it wasn’t real. The cheesecake beside me was real.

  I got to the entrance to Ricus’s farm and stepped on the brakes. There was a giant arch made of whale ribs and wood, decorated with zebra skulls and wildebeest horns. My heart was beating very fast.

  ‘I am scared,’ I said to the cheesecake. The kudu came and stood by the window, its ears pricked up, spiral horns pointing towards me. ‘Ek is poepbang,’ I told the kudu.

  It twitched its ears and walked ahead of me with its long legs and graceful swaying neck. It jumped over a cattle grid, then carried on walking down the road.

  The cheesecake should be almost right by now, I thought. I tasted a piece. It was pure pleasure, melting in my mouth. The sweet lemony cream-cheese flavour was like a balm. My heartbeat slowed.

  ‘You know,’ I said to the cheesecake, ‘it is not the satanist I am scared of. Or ravens, or pills, or diets. It is myself. It is the things I remember and the things I have done. And I can’t run away from myself for ever.’

  I drove under the arch, across the cattle grid and down the dirt road.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A little way down the road was a collection of panel vans, parked in a ring, like an oxwagon laager. Growing between the vans were three sweet-thorn trees with sketchy shadows.

  Further on, closer to the Swartberge, was an old farmhouse with a nice stoep, in the shade of some big karee trees. To the east of the house was a shed made of wood and corrugated iron. Its doors were open, and there were cars parked in there. To the west was a low animal kraal made of corrugated iron, thorn branches and rusted car doors. I drove to the ring of vans and parked my blue bakkie behind a yellow Combi panel van. On a nearby koppie, a small stony hill, some sheep were nibbling on the bushes.

  My cheesecake Tupperware and I got out of my bakkie, and I saw two pairs of veldskoene (brown and grey) sticking out from beneath a white Renault panel van. The brown shoes were attached to a thick pair of legs in a blue mechanic’s overall. They came wriggling out, along with the rest of the man – or was he a bear?

  His face and hands were covered in a thick golden-brown fur, and his body was round and strong. He stood upright, looking down on me, though he was not as tall as Henk. As he smiled, his eyes sparkled blue under bushy eyebrows, and his cheeks were round and rosy. His beard and moustache were a darker brown than his other fur.

  ‘Maria?’ I recognised his moerkoffie voice. He reached out a paw; a copper bracelet that looked like a snake spiralled from his wrist up his arm. ‘Welcome.’

  His fingers were covered in black grease, so I was slow to shake his hand. He looked down, said, ‘Sorry,’ and laughed. He pulled a rag from his back pocket. ‘I must just go wash up.’

  ‘I’m early.’

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Sit down. Let me introduce you.’ He pointed to the grey veldskoene under the white panel van. ‘This is Your Highness.’

  A little guy sat up, banging his head on the underside of the van. He also wore a blue overall. He gave me a polite nod before going back to his work.

  ‘Johannes is my apprentice. He works weekends to pay off his van.’ He nodded in the direction of the red Mini panel van.r />
  So, it was Johannes, not Your Highness. Ricus led me inside the van laager to a circle of white plastic chairs. In the centre was an old woman, squatting beside a ring of stones. She was making a fire.

  ‘This is Ousies, Johannes’s aunt. She’s visiting a while and helps out with the group.’

  She gave me a quick smile with warm eyes, but her attention was on the fire, which she now lit. It smelt of sweet veld leaves. Ousies had the golden skin and high cheekbones of a Bushwoman. Her body was small, strong and wrinkled, like a wild plum tree.

  ‘And here is Tata Radebe,’ said the mechanic. Father Radebe. ‘Tata, this is Tannie Maria.’ Xhosa people use the words tata and mama, and bhuti and sisi (brother and sister) in the same way we Afrikaners say tannie and oom. We show people respect by making them part of our family.

  Tata Radebe stood up as we were introduced: a clean-shaven black man with white hair at his temples. His dark suit was a little faded, but his shoes were as black and shiny as toktokkie beetles.

  ‘Molo, Mama,’ he said, greeting me with the African handshake where you hold hands and thumbs three times. His grip was firm; he was old but strong.

  ‘The others will come soon,’ said Ricus. ‘I’ll be back now-now. Please sit.’

  I sat down, leaving an empty chair between myself and Tata Radebe on my right. I smiled at him and at the panel vans. The vans were all sorts of makes, shapes and colours. I sat facing a black Land Rover panel van. On the ground between the vans were car parts: old doors, pipes and stuff. In front of a rusty grey Bedford van was a toolbox with a wrench and a hammer on its lid.

  I faced the soft, low hills to the west, with a view of the Swartberge on my right and the Rooiberg on my left. Tata looked at the fire, which was now roaring. Leaning against his chair was a wooden walking stick with a worn, round head – a knobkierie. Ousies carried a black enamel kettle to a tap on the outskirts of the ring. Ricus was at the same tap, washing his hands. He stepped back to let her fill the kettle, then unzipped his big blue overall and climbed out of it.

  Ricus wore khaki shorts and a short-sleeved brown top. His arms and legs were almost as furry as his face. He sat down on a chair, opposite Tata and me, and patted his hands on his knees. Around his ankle was a copper bracelet in the shape of a snake with its tail in its mouth.