The lump was back in Caz’s throat. “Lilah, I just want to tell you, you’re truly exceptional. Not because you’re beautiful or smart or funny. Or because you’re black and have a mother who is white but has just found out she isn’t. You’re just exceptional, full stop.”
“I’m your daughter, MaCaz. With a mother like you ... how could I be anything but exceptional? And by the way, we’re multiracial, not just plain black or white. Multiracialism is also an identity.”
Looking out on the lake over which the deck of the restaurant was suspended, Caz allowed the silence to lengthen. “I think Ammie is right,” she said at last. “I have murderous genes. If I thought anyone wanted to hurt you, I would kill him with my bare hands.”
“No, that’s not murderous genes. I feel the same about you. But I do think there’s a spell on you. It must originate from those kissy things Grandma Ammie carried with her while she was pregnant with you. Your kind of bad luck doesn’t come naturally. Perhaps we should consult a witch doctor the next time we’re in Cape Town together.”
“Witch doctor isn’t a politically correct term.” The reprimand came automatically, though she knew, as always, Lilah was masking gravity with humor. It was a defense mechanism. One she sometimes took too far.
Lilah grinned. “I don’t have to be PC. I’m black ... multiracial.”
“Lilah.” Caz peered over the rim of her glass like a schoolteacher over her spectacles.
“Okay. Let’s be both politically and ethnically correct. We’ll get a sangoma. Not one of those who can lengthen a man’s penis. Aubrey already ...”
“Too much information! Especially for an old hag who hasn’t had sex in years. Spare me, Lilah.”
“Years? Sheesh, MaCaz, that’s not healthy. If fifty is the new forty, as they say, you’re at your peak.”
Caz shrugged.
“There must have been sex somewhere along the line?”
She knew Lilah was trying to distract her from the things Ammie had said. And, yes, maybe they could just sit back and play at being mother and daughter, like they used to before this hornet’s nest was uncovered. Before she heard she had a black half-brother who was probably an accessory to her foster sister’s murder. Before she ... Enough!
“Pretoria, 2004. Before I decided to go to the Cape. It lasted three months.”
“Then he found out about me?”
“Then I told him about you. Proudly. It was his reaction that made me decide to take a month’s leave and find somewhere else to live, shake the dust of the north off my feet. I arrived in Stanford and saw the estate agent advertising the smallholding. The rest is history.”
Lilah sighed. “Was the sex at least good while it lasted?”
“Average.”
“Hell. And before that?”
“Shortly after you went overseas the first time. Two months.”
“Then he found out.”
“Hmm. No loss. Great sex, but the man wasn’t exactly a nuclear physicist.”
“And before that?”
“Nada. Only your father.”
Lilah mused for a moment. “We must find you a man before you’re over the hill. Not to marry, just for fun. This time intelligence is a prerequisite. You deserve a smart man.”
“He must be taller than me,” Caz played along.
“And something for the eye.”
“And unmarried.”
“And he must be able to handle the fact that your daughter is black.”
“And that I have murderous genes. That I might even be bewitched.”
“Sheesh, MaCaz, it’s a tall order.”
“Never mind, maybe my peak will soon be over. Cheers.”
Thirty-seven
Saturday, October 11
Caz
Ghent
Caz couldn’t remember when last she’d had a hangover, but she knew she had definitely never had such a bad one.
She looked up with bleary eyes when Lilah breezed in, holding two glasses of orange juice. “Come, get yourself out on the terrace. You need fresh air. And vitamin C.”
“Toilet,” Caz mumbled, dragging herself out of bed and into the bathroom. She realized she had left her toothbrush behind. Fetched it. Stumbled back to the bathroom.
Lilah put out her cigarette when Caz came out onto the terrace. “Welcome to the hereafter. Come, drink your juice so that you can get your strength back. And take two painkillers, while you’re at it.”
Caz sank into a chair and gulped down half the orange juice. It was too sweet and not cold enough, but it helped against the dry mouth. She swallowed the tablets with an effort.
Lilah had her iPhone in her hand. “Here’s an update. It’s not kissy-something, it’s nkísi. Nkísi are spirits. Or objects, like figurines or a variety of other thing that contain spirits. They are linked to the ancestral spirits.
“Wikipedia is a bit muddled, but it looks as if these nkísi become nkísi nkondi once the spirits are activated. This is done by hammering metal tacks into the object. They reckon this is where practices like voodoo originated. Nkondi originally meant hunter, but nkísi nkondi are used for various purposes, like vengeance, the swearing of an oath or to provide protection.”
“Lilah, I don’t have the mental energy. Not this morning. And by the way, how the hell did you get us home after all that wine?”
“Sheesh, you really overdid it if you don’t remember. In the first place, I drank a lot less than you and I stuck to water for the last hour or two. The pasta also helped.”
Caz had only a dim recollection of food.
“Do you remember we’re going to Damme today?”
Caz made the mistake of shaking her head. She shut her eyes tightly. “No, I don’t remember. Why Damme?”
“We googled Tijl Uilenspiegel and we came across Damme. The Belgians claim it’s where he’s buried.”
Caz shuddered to think why they had googled Tijl Uilenspiegel. Especially after Lilah’s decision that she needed a man in her life.
“Oh, and I found your phone in the car, where it must have fallen out of your handbag. You didn’t even notice it was gone. There are a few missed calls. From TU2 and DB. Whoever they may be.”
“Oh, shit. De Brabander. The detective.” Caz sat up. “Where’s my phone?”
“I put it next to your bed a while ago. I’ll fetch it.”
“Never mind, I’ll get it.” Gingerly Caz got to her feet, fetched the phone and moved to the corner of the terrace. No Grevers, she noticed while the phone was ringing.
“Ms. Colijn, at last.”
“Good morning, Commissioner. Sorry, I mislaid my phone. I’ve only just seen you’ve been looking for me.”
“Yes, initially to tell you you may have your passport back. Then to tell you unfortunately that’s no longer possible now I’ve learned that Erevu Matari is most likely your half-brother.”
Caz’s heart sank. She should have phoned him, told him herself what she had found out. Immediately. But she had been in such a bloody state and ... No, damn it. What business was it of anyone? “How did you find out if I heard it only yesterday myself?”
“Professor DeReu phoned me with the interesting scrap of information. And of course we don’t know whether you really found out for the first time yesterday.”
Caz chose to remain silent. Her mind wasn’t as clear as it could be.
“Ms. Colijn, when are you going to tell me what you’re hiding? What is it that you’re not telling me?”
That there was a spell on her and that she had the key to a strongbox in a South African bank, which contained wooden objects imbued with ancestral spirits? Objects you could hammer nails into to activate the spirits in order to take revenge or seek protection? No, surely she couldn’t tell that to a detective born in a country that supposedly invented French fries?
“M
s. Colijn?” he reminded her that she hadn’t answered.
“Commissioner, whether we’re related or not, I don’t know Erevu Matari from Adam and I give you my word that yesterday was the first time I heard he might be my half-brother. I was not involved in the murder. That’s all that’s important. I want to go home. My flight has been booked for the fourteenth. Could you please arrest me for whatever it is, or return my passport? I don’t want to play this game any more.”
There was a long silence on the other end. “It’ll be on your conscience if you allow a murderer to go free. The way things look now, he might be sentenced to a few months in prison. There’s not enough evidence. But okay, you may have your passport back. I’ll ask Grevers to bring it to you. If he’s allowed to intrude during your daughter’s visit, of course.”
“As long as it’s before eleven. We’re going out.”
“So noted, but it will depend on Inspector Grevers’s schedule. If he can’t make it before eleven, he’ll leave your passport at your guesthouse. Your phone as well. We removed the spyware. Good day, Ms. Colijn.”
Caz couldn’t care less about his bad mood. She considered listening to DeReu’s message, but decided against it. Bloody snitch. Her brain was too fuzzy anyway. To find out whether Ammie had got over her distress as well. Besides, Ammie had chased them away. She doubted a call to enquire about the state of Ammie’s health would be welcomed.
“And?” Lilah asked when she turned.
“I can have my passport back, but I think the detective is cheesed off with me. Most likely because he doesn’t have enough evidence to arrest me. I think he’s still convinced I’m the mastermind behind Tieneke’s murder.”
“Well, he’s wrong. Besides, a life without enemies is boring. Cheer up. Take a shower, put on some make-up. We’ll paint the town of Damme red.”
Luc
Damme
Thanks to his cleaning spree last Saturday there was little to do today. Outside it was misty, with an occasional light shower, alternated by slivers of blue sky and a few rays of pale sunshine doing their best to break through the clouds. Hopefully the blue sky would get the better of the drizzle in a while.
His frame of mind wasn’t exactly sunny either. According to Lieve, Ammie was back where she had been before. Behind veils. She seldom spoke, slept a lot, barely ate. The doctor reckoned the cause was psychological rather than physical. If she was no better by Monday, the doctor wanted Lieve to make an appointment with a psychiatrist.
The matter of Matari being Caz Colijn’s half-brother was now in De Brabander’s hands. He would have to determine whether there had been a conspiracy or not. What the connection was between the two.
Caz Colijn had ignored his message. She probably didn’t want to admit she had pushed Ammie over the edge. Or maybe she didn’t want to face the fact that she was related to a murderer. Okay, alleged murderer. Well, actually, alleged accomplice of an alleged murderer.
Whatever the case, he was definitely not going to call her again. It wouldn’t be wise anyway. He was way too angry. He might say something that was better left unsaid.
It wasn’t just about Ammie either. He was tired of racking his brains about the woman. Tired of trying to work out why he should care about her at all, except where Ammie was concerned.
He was a fool, but even fools sometimes had insight into their own foolishness.
He blamed the year he had spent in South Africa. The country—problems and all—had got under his skin. The splendor, the natural beauty, the weather and, yes, the people as well. Their approach to life, which was so much less conventional than over here.
Caz Colijn represented that incomprehensible and romanticized longing that had stayed with him after his return. A longing not only for the country and its people, but for the man he had briefly thought he might be if he could break his ties with the nonentity he had become.
Moments later, when the sun broke through the clouds again, Luc put on his windbreaker and went out. A long walk might clear his head. Get rid of the worst of his frustration.
Caz
Damme
“You have no idea why we’ve come here, right?” Lilah asked as they covered the last few kilometers to Damme.
“Something to do with the professor?”
“The prof? Hell, no, why would it have anything to do with him?” Lilah glanced briefly at her. “Does he live here?”
Caz shook her head. “I have no idea where he lives, but I assume it’s in Ghent. He lectures there, I believe.”
“So?”
“His alias was Tijl Uilenspiegel. That’s where TU comes from.” Hopefully it would satisfy her.
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“Last night you rattled on about Tijl Uilenspiegel who said the things that happen to you are your own fault. When I asked who the hell Tijl Uilenspiegel was, you told me about the medieval trickster and all the stories about him. Then you said you’d like to meet Tijl Uilenspiegel. So I googled and read about Damme. And I teased you and said we could visit his grave. That’s when we decided to come here.” Lilah glanced at her again. “Actually I thought you were going on about the storybook character. That it was the trickster himself you were after. But now I’m wondering.”
“Of course I was talking about the storybook character.” Had to be.
“You remember that, but you don’t remember the rest?”
“I remember now. Let it go, will you? Look at the beautiful scenery. The canal on one side, the avenue of trees on the other. Oh, and look at the windmill!” She meant what she was saying, though she was also trying to change the subject.
“And there’s a canal boat.”
“Lamme Goedzak,” Caz read out the name of the boat. “Tijl Uilenspiegel’s friend, if my memory serves me right. Lilah, this place speaks to me.”
“You said it about Bruges too.”
“Yes, but this is different. Bruges is a city. Damme is a village.”
Lilah turned right onto the bridge over the canal.
Caz looked down the street as they got out of the car. The medieval houses and street cafés with their steep, rusty-red tiled roofs on either side, the flags fluttering in front of the sedate town hall, everything struck a chord with her.
It was exactly the right place to forget about cold-blooded mothers, evil fathers and enigmatic nkísi and ancestral spirits. At least acting like a tourist was less harmful than succumbing to alcohol.
While Lilah was collecting brochures at the tourist office, Caz glanced at the books on the shelf. Wherever she looked, she saw Tijl Uilenspiegel.
“Pick one,” Lilah spoke behind her. “You spoiled me with Afrikaans books and CDs, I want to buy you a book to remind you of today.”
She selected one by Henri van Daele. The illustrations were too modern for her liking, but the quotation on the cover was the deciding factor.
“Let us drink to the lark that sings the song of freedom!” said the skipper.
“To the cock, that crows the war cry!” said Uilenspiegel.
She found it suitable for someone from a continent where the cock’s crow so often drowns out the lark’s song.
Luc
Damme
After coffee in Lapscheure, Luc decided to walk back. It was no good. If he had to keep walking to improve his mood, he would end up in Knokke.
An hour and a half later, perspiring inside his rain-soaked windbreaker, Luc was back in Damme. Not ready to go home, he stepped into a small restaurant. It was too stuffy inside for his overheated body, so he ordered a kriek and sat down on the veranda.
Totally unfit, that was him. He used to walk for two or three hours without breaking a sweat. He liked cycling, but today it wouldn’t have been enough of a challenge.
“Alstublieft.” The glass of kriek and a book were placed in fron
t of him. “Thanks for this. A thrilling read. Something to eat?”
“Not just now, thanks. First I’ll quench my thirst.” He smiled at the woman who was the life and soul of the restaurant. One of the few people he lent his books to, precisely because she always returned them promptly.
“Shout when you’re ready.”
Just as he was raising the glass to his lips, he noticed the woman approaching in the distance. He forgot to take a sip. He gazed at the breathtakingly beautiful creature, taller than tall, with the figure of a supermodel, a bubbly laugh, and African braids that bounced as she walked. She put her arm around the shoulders of the woman by her side and kissed the top of her head.
That was the kind of spontaneity he’d so often seen in South Africa.
It was only when he raised his glass again that he glanced at the companion. Just in time he stopped the glass from slipping through his fingers. That hair could belong to only one woman. Only one known to him, at any rate. He swallowed hastily, grabbed the book, opened it near the middle and held it in front of his face while trying to peer over the top.
Caz Colijn in Damme. Probably with her daughter. Was it bloody well possible?
Evidently. And they had to go and pick this restaurant. He slumped lower in his chair and raised the book to hide his face. He didn’t think she knew what he looked like, but he wasn’t going to take a chance.
After all the dithering about a possible meeting with her, it was the last thing he wanted to happen now. His thoughts would just start seesawing all over again.
The next time he took a cautious look, Caz was seated with her back to him, a good distance away. But the daughter looked him in the eye and smiled. A breathtaking smile.
Caz
Damme
“Are you sure it’s not too cold? I can skip the smoke.”
Caz shook her head. “I’m not cold and I know you want that cigarette after all the walking we did. I’m just glad we could find a place under cover—the only one it seems. It looks as if it’s about to start raining again.”
“We smokers have an eye for a place that’s sheltered from the wind and weather. More or less, anyway. What are you drinking?”
Sacrificed Page 39
