by Deon Meyer
Short, sharp and cold.
Now Griessel remembered yesterday afternoon, how he had been sent home. He was suddenly overcome with nausea. He hurried to the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid and retched, but nothing came out, just raw sounds from his throat. His stomach contracted again and again.
The waves subsided, but the nausea remained. And the self-hatred. He was disgusting.
He rinsed his mouth out again, drank more water. Walked to the bedroom window to see if his car was down there in the street.
It wasn’t there.
Where was his car? Where was Alexa. How the fuck was he going to get to Stellenbosch?
He picked up his phone, rang Alexa’s number. It rang, then went over to voicemail. He left her a message. ‘Alexa, I’m sorry.’ A too-long silence before he added, awkwardly: ‘Do you know where my car is?’
He swallowed a couple of headache pills and was on his way to the shower when he heard the beep of an SMS.
Your car is at The Dubliner.
Just that.
65
Transcript of interview: Advocate Susan Peires with Mr Francois du Toit
Wednesday, 24 December; 1604 Huguenot Chambers, 40 Queen Victoria Street, Cape Town
FdT: My mother . . . She’d always been strong. She was always the one who held everything together – like Ouma Hettie before her. But with Pa’s death . . . The thing was, she was devoted to Pa. It was the sort of love that . . . I don’t know, it’s impossible to describe. She felt she had to protect Pa from the world. Her quiet, gentle husband who had had such a difficult life, for whom the stars . . . She . . . I know I’m speculating, but it seemed like Pa was the sort of man that she wanted all men to be. Loving and fair and . . . unchauvinistic. I can’t think of another word now. She felt responsible for Pa, and she was angry that he’d said nothing to her, of his plan to take Paul . . . away. And she admired him for it, because she knew exactly why he did it.
It was a terribly difficult time for both of us. With the funeral, and the will, and the winding up of the estate.
Ma inherited everything.
But she was through with the farm. She didn’t want to be there. She wanted to move to town. She was fifty-nine years old, she said she could still lecture or something. Or get involved with a charity.
She said we could sell the farm. It was the sensible thing to do. It was worth an enormous amount of money, which she didn’t need – the life insurance and Pa’s pension would take care of her until she died. But I was the one with the dream of making wine. I could take the money for the farm and start somewhere else, because the whole concept of a family farm was a medieval, feudal concept. Out of date.
But it was my choice. If I wanted the farm she would give it to me immediately.
I was very emotional. I said I wanted to make a success of Klein Zegen. For Pa’s sake. For all the blood and sweat and tears of my ancestors.
They are all dead, she said. And there is no capital. Not a cent.
I said in two months we will get the money for the harvest from Oom Dietrich Venske. That was all I needed.
You’re making a mistake, she said.
I still don’t know whether she was right. But I do know that if we had sold the farm I wouldn’t be sitting here now.
I asked her to transfer Klein Zegen into my name – actually to a family trust, because that was the best way to do it.
But I forgot about the curse. About the stars, about giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel. I thought my life, our family’s life, that farm, was a story, and I was the one who would give it a happy ending.
I was wrong.
66
Benny Griessel was familiar with this sweat, the product of three days of boozing, with last night’s relapse as the final straw. It was a sour sweat; your whole body stank of stale booze. The more you perspired, the more you stank.
He walked in the scorching heat of Saturday morning, jacket over his shoulder, his tie loose. The headache pills weren’t working and the hangover sweat flooded from his pores. He could smell himself, all the way from Alexa’s house to Long Street. But he had no choice. He had called a taxi company, who’d wanted to charge him a ridiculous amount to take him just three kilometres. And his wallet was completely empty after last night.
His head as well. Empty. And hurting. Empty of the justifications and excuses. Empty of clever drinking plans.
He didn’t want to think, or feel, he just wanted to walk and get his car.
It was down in Kloof Street, close to the crossing with Buitensingel, that it happened. It was pure chance, a freak of light, the incidental angle of the sun with the reflection in the window. The name of the shop was o.live. There was a mirror in their window display, ornate, gold-framed. When he walked past, he saw the movement in the mirror, a fleeting reflection of a pathetic figure, brightly lit. And he registered that it was himself. He halted, turned on his heel and walked back to take a better look.
Earlier, in Alexa’s bathroom, the light had been soft and his thoughts elsewhere. But now in the merciless sunlight, he saw the wreck he was: the messy, greasy hair, sweat dripping from his face, sweat stains under his arms, dark shadows under his bloodshot, vacant eyes, the fine network of blue alcoholic veins over his nose and cheeks. His sloping shoulders, shirt hanging out on one side so that his navel and a small triangle of belly hair was visible.
Christ.
Where will the booze take you? Cupido had asked.
Now he could answer: Here, Vaughn. One Alexa-bought shirt and tie away from being a bergie, one drink away from destruction.
His empty head was suddenly crowded. Vaughn had sent him home. Vaughn Cupido, of all people. Vaughn, who continued to protect him, despite the fact that he had gone on a bender yesterday, despite the fact that he could damage his colleague’s career.
Alexa was gone. She’d left him. Just like Anna before her. And there was a gaping hole inside him. He missed her, everything about her. Her exaggerated love and attention, her soft touch, her voice, her full body, her presence, her scent.
He saw the truth, in that moment in front of the mirror: if he had another drink today, he would never stop. His body wouldn’t be able to handle it. He felt it in all the pain and nausea. His body telling him, now you’re drinking to drink yourself to death. He saw that future, and he saw himself with no Alexa, no children, no car, no job. Anxiety overwhelmed him. His life was totally out of control. He was completely helpless in the face of alcohol. And this time it was final.
As though he had only one chance left.
He knew what he had to do, even if it seemed impossible now. He had to overcome the desire to drink. The thirst. That was the root of the evil. Get his head right, drive out the demons. He had to have Alexa in his life, he knew now he couldn’t live without her. He had to try and keep his job, with or without the respect of his colleagues. He didn’t want his children to know how he looked and where he was now.
But could he? Could he really?
Jissis, he was so fucking scared.
He would have to try. One last time.
He tore himself away from the mirror.
Stinking and sweating, he reached his car, and the first thing he did was to send Alexa an SMS. Just tell me you’re safe. He couldn’t ask her if she was okay, he knew what the answer to that was.
And then he phoned Doc Barkhuizen, his sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous.
‘Benny,’ Doc greeted him as always, no judgement in his voice, because he was addicted to alcohol too, though he hadn’t drunk for many years.
‘Doc, I’m fucked.’
‘Do you want me to book you in?’
‘Not now.’
‘What’s wrong with now?’
‘Work. I can’t now. Genuine.’
‘Do you want to come and talk?’
‘Firs
t I have to fix things at work.’
‘Come and get medicine then.’
‘Okay.’ He knew the Ativan would help with withdrawal, would calm his spirit and lessen his anxiety and the trembling of his hands. And it would help to see Doc.
‘I’m on my way.’
He wanted to phone the psychologist, but at that moment his phone vibrated and beeped in his hand. Alexa: I am safe.
I phoned Doc, he wrote back. I want to see the psychologist today.
He waited for a few minutes, but she didn’t reply. Then he called the shrink.
Just after nine Mooiwillem Liebenberg and Frank Fillander knocked on the door of Mrs Bernadette Richter’s house in Schoongezicht, Durbanville.
It was only after the second knock that she came to the door. She was still in her dressing gown in spite of the day’s heat, and she looked confused and neglected, unkempt. Liebenberg had to introduce himself before she remembered him. She kept looking nervously at Fillander. They didn’t know if it was because of the knife scar or because he was coloured.
She led the way to the sitting room. Sit, she said, while I get ready. Liebenberg said it’s really not necessary.
Sit, please, she said, with such an air of vulnerability that they felt guilty.
They waited twenty minutes before she emerged again. She looked better, hair brushed, lipstick on, wearing a dress and sandals. She offered them coffee. She said the doctor had given her tranquillisers so she could at least sleep a bit, but when she woke everything was so hazy. All in one long, rambling sentence.
They said no thanks to the coffee, and that they understood.
‘Did you have anything . . . ?’ She let the sentence hang.
‘No, ma’am, but we think we’re making progress at least. A case like this, it takes time to eliminate all the possibilities one by one. We’re here because we just want to get your son’s complete history, if that’s all right with you, of course.’
Fillander heard the genuine compassion in Liebenberg’s gentle voice, and he thought, here was the source of his reputation. It was his colleague’s great talent.
‘Of course,’ she said, and stood still, looking about her as though she was lost. Then she seemed to realise where she was, and sat down. ‘If I can help . . .’
‘We want to talk about the time Ernst went travelling.’
She looked at Mooiwillem, and he could see how she remembered, how her eyes went out of focus. Tears welled. ‘Ai,’ she said. ‘Excuse me . . .’
‘We understand, ma’am, and we are really sorry to have to bother you.’
‘You’re just doing your job. Let me just get some tissues,’ she said. She stood up and disappeared down the passage. She stayed away so long that they exchanged meaningful glances. ‘She’s not well,’ Liebenberg said. ‘She was a lot better yesterday.’ But then she was back, with a handkerchief under her watch strap and a bunch of tissues in her hand.
‘Excuse me,’ she repeated, ‘did I offer you coffee?’
Again they said, thank you, but no thank you.
‘Very well. Ernst’s travels,’ she said and wiped her nose. ‘It was some time ago. I was . . . The child deserved it. He had worked so hard. It was difficult for me, you can imagine, the first time in my life truly alone; he was such a caring son, even when he lived in the city, he was here two, three times a week, phoned nearly every day. And then suddenly he was gone, overseas, it felt like an eternity. Of course I didn’t say anything, I didn’t begrudge him the chance . . .’
‘What places did he visit?’
‘Oh . . . He went to the East. He was crazy about the East, about their art. He always said the Eastern scripts are graphic design, they are so much lovelier than ours.’
‘What countries in the East, ma’am?’
‘Now you’re asking me. So many of the Eastern countries: Thailand, China, that one where the Americans were given a hiding . . .’
‘Vietnam?’
‘That’s right. Vietnam. Ernst was crazy about Vietnam. Such a simple lifestyle, he said. Friendly people. And beautiful art.’
‘Was it just those three countries, ma’am? Thailand, China and Vietnam?’
‘No, I’m not sure now. There might have been more. Korea? Was he in Korea? I don’t really think so . . . What other countries are in that part of the world? Japan? I think . . . Yes, yes, he went to Japan as well. Tokyo, oh, he sent me a postcard from Tokyo, there’s such a multitude of people there, I remember he wrote about the hordes of people . . .’
‘You don’t perhaps still have some of his letters?’
‘No, Ernst wasn’t one for letters. He phoned every other week, from the most exotic places. And sent postcards. And the SMSes. He always used to say that it was a disgrace that he owned a technology company but his mother couldn’t use email. He bought me a computer, but I could never get my head around it.’
‘Do you still have any of the postcards?’
‘Yes, I have . . . But you won’t take them away, will you?’
Liebenberg looked at Fillander and said: ‘If we could just look at them here first?’
67
Transcript of interview: Advocate Susan Peires with Mr Francois du Toit
Wednesday, 24 December; 1604 Huguenot Chambers, 40 Queen Victoria Street, Cape Town
FdT: In that time immediately after Pa’s death . . . Oom Dietrich Venske, I don’t know what we would have done without him. He was very supportive. He offered to buy the entire crop, at a very good price.
But nothing is ever straightforward. That year . . . 2012 was an exceptional vintage; the entire wine industry was excited about it, the weather was just perfect. It was a winemaker’s dream year. The temptation was so great to . . . to take those grapes, and make a plan. Borrow money, anything to get that harvest into a bottle.
I couldn’t do it on Klein Zegen, the cellar that Pa had built years back – it wasn’t in decent working condition. I would have to renovate it first. Buy new vats, and see if I could get used vats. I had a very specific idea for a Bordeaux blend, about 50 per cent Cabernet Sauvignon, 40 per cent Merlot, and the rest just enough Petit Verdot, Malbec and Cabernet Franc. We had all the grapes for it.
But I decided, no, I must do the right thing. I must sell the harvest to Oom Dietrich. There would be other good years, I must think long-term. And we wanted to use Oom Dietrich’s money to set up San’s restaurant. We wanted to convert Ouma Hettie’s little house: nothing big, just ten tables or so, a bistro with traditional French cuisine.
We did our sums. If she could also generate an income, we could make this thing work . . .
In any case, we were on the point of talking business with Oom Dietrich. Then a man arrived on the farm with an offer. One that was so incredibly tempting.
68
Doc Barkhuizen’s consulting rooms were in Bellville, in one of the old renovated Boston houses.
He didn’t see patients on Saturdays, because he was seventy-two years old now and the only reason he was still practising was so that he wouldn’t be idle. The devil makes work for idle hands.
‘You stink,’ he said to Griessel.
‘I know.’
‘And you look like a dog’s breakfast,’ he said as he counted out the pills and tipped them into the neck of the bottle with a sweep of his hand.
‘I know.’
‘I hear it was that thing Wednesday, with your colleague . . . the family murder.’
Griessel did not respond.
‘I told you I could see a booze-up coming. But you don’t listen.’
He shoved the pills across to Benny. ‘You know you can’t drink and take these pills.’
‘I know.’
‘Tell me what you’re going to do.’
‘I’m seeing the shrink this afternoon.’
‘That’s good.’
‘How do you plan to achieve that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If you can stay sober till tomorrow, I will try to help. It will be tough; you’ve done a great deal of damage . . . but you leave her alone until I tell you. You hear?’
‘Thanks, Doc.’
‘“Thanks, Doc.” It’s no good thanking me. You should have phoned me before you went off on a bender. What use is a sponsor if you don’t use him? You’re a rotter and a bliksem. And if I were Alexa Barnard I would tell you to go to hell. You hear?’
He only nodded.
‘You can’t go to work with that smelly body. Do you want to shower?’
‘Please, Doc.’
‘I hope it helps.’
It was difficult for Liebenberg and Fillander to track the long-ago travels of Ernst Richter. His heavily medicated mother took out the postcards one by one, and was overcome with emotion as she read them. She wanted to tell them stories, sometimes disjointed, of her late son and his wanderings, and she was reluctant to hand the postcards over to them.
Fillander sat with notebook and pen trying to catalogue Richter’s movements back then. Liebenberg studied dates and postage stamps so that they could arrange them according to time and country. It took more than two hours to put it all together:
Richter arrived in Bali, Indonesia late in February 2011, where he stayed for approximately three weeks. After that he was in Bangkok, Thailand for more than a month. Early in April he visited a number of other destinations in that country, before he went to Vietnam in May, for six weeks. After that Hong Kong. In September he travelled in China, and in October he began his return journey – Bangkok again, then Kathmandu in Nepal, then Kolkata. New Delhi and Mumbai in India, before he came back home via Mauritius in November.
Ernst Richter’s correspondence was clearly focused on letting his mother know he was doing well. Short, hurried messages that said the places and people and food and art and the natural beauty were ‘awesome’ and ‘cool’ and ‘lekker’ and ‘cute’. Sometimes he complained about the weather. ‘Raining constantly’ or ‘The humidity is so high’ or ‘Scorching hot’. And he hoped everything was fine with his mother, and ‘Will phone next week from . . .’ and ‘Lekker to hear your voice, Ma’.
