by Deon Meyer
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. He realised she could see the frown on his face, his discontented body language.
She walked towards him self-consciously, with that odd long, loping stride of hers, and held something out to him. Paper, an envelope. A letter. ‘I am no threat to you,’ she said, her voice rich and full, as you would expect from a tall woman, one who was almost as tall as he was.
She waited for him to take it from her outstretched hand. He hesitated. He didn’t want her here, hadn’t wanted to see her ever again. She was a risk: she knew something about him that he wanted to keep hidden.
‘Please,’ she said.
If she was a pretty woman, sensual, or sly and self-confident, he might have turned and walked away. But precisely because she was so maladroit – clumsy and ill at ease, ordinaire, tall and gangly – his heart opened to her, an impulse of generosity, and he took the envelope.
All she said was ‘Merci’, then turned and walked away, her heels click-clacking over the cobbles that in ages past had been ballast for British ships, he the one left standing awkwardly now, with a feeling of guilt for treating her as Lefèvre would. As he looked up he saw Wackett stalking away from the doorway, a look of reproach on her face.
He waited till he was back in his little kitchen before opening the letter. The paper was expensive. Her handwriting was beautiful, artistic curves and curlicues, like something from the Middle Ages. There was an address. Rue Montesquieu. He knew the street. It was in the so-called Golden Triangle, an area of expensive shops and the swish apartments of the rich.
A day, date and time was noted on the page: Thursday evening, seven o’clock. A faint trace of perfume with it.
He swore, first in French and then in the language of his birth. He would have to go.
At the very bottom she had signed off: Élodie Lecompte. An elegant name.
He tucked the letter back into the envelope, and tossed it angrily into the green pottery bowl on the mantelpiece of his unused fireplace.
The eighteenth-century edifice was built of sparkling-clean restored limestone, stately and beautiful. There were only three bells beside the large door facing the street. Which meant that her apartment occupied an entire floor.
He rang the top bell. It was sixteen minutes past seven; he wanted to make clear that he was there under protest, through sheer force of circumstance, in no mood for trouble, not intimidated by her wealth or her apparent status. His deliberately casual outfit said it too: white T-shirt, laundered jeans, black Nikes.
The door growled open electronically. He climbed the wide limestone stairs, three floors. He lifted a hand to knock on the attractive wooden door, but it opened immediately. She was barefoot, in long black trousers and white blouse, looking self-conscious again. He greeted her, and she greeted him, then waved him in and closed the door behind them.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, and led the way through the entrance hall where a large portrait hung, a playful vision of a tall, elegant woman, her headscarf reddish brown, her gown festooned with fairies and butterflies.
He gazed at it.
‘Sniege,’ she said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Sniege Navickaite. The artist. She’s from Bordeaux.’
‘Oh,’ he said. He felt a sense of compassion because the painting was, in a way, another version of Élodie Lecompte, tongue-in-cheek, a prettier, leaner interpretation, with self-confidence and style. He wondered if she had been aware of that when she bought it. A kind of self-parody.
The ceiling was high, the sitting room spacious, walls covered with art. He didn’t know much about art, but he recognised a variety of styles from different eras. He did know antique, expensive, quality furniture very well and he could see much of that here. Deep, rich hues in the soft late-afternoon light shining through the large, high window.
She invited him to sit, barely looking at him as she asked him if he would like something to drink. Wine, perhaps? Red? White?
‘Red wine, please.’
She nodded as though that choice bore her approval. She walked to a beautiful drinks cabinet where bottles and glasses were ready on the shelf. He chose a chair opposite her, in gilded oak and cotton; he thought it might be the work of Jean-Baptiste-Claude Sené from the late 1700s. He wondered if Lefèvre had ever worked on it – it looked in perfect condition. Then he wondered what she wanted, this peculiar woman who could afford a Sené. Did she want to thank him, reward him? Or was it a need for something more sensual, the experience of the big black man? These were the only logical conclusions he had reached since she had delivered the letter to him.
She drew the cork and poured; he stood up to take the glass.
‘What is your name?’ she asked, and sat down opposite him.
‘Daniel.’
‘Daniel, I have Spanish ham and cantaloupe. And a baguette and cheese. It’s so hot, I didn’t think . . . I’m not a cook.’ She was grave and formal. Shy. ‘If you wish to eat,’ she said. ‘I . . . If you don’t want to be here, you can leave. You won’t hear from me again. You have nothing to fear.’
‘Why would I have something to fear?’
‘The way . . . That night . . . You were in such a rush . . . I think you are . . . Excuse me, but I think you are an illegal immigrant. Or perhaps the police . . . I . . . It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t want to blackmail you.’
‘I have all my documents. A passport.’ One interpretation of the truth.
She nodded apologetically.
‘My record is clean.’
‘Bien sûr.’
He looked at her. She sat on the edge of the chair, tensely leaning forward, waiting in expectation for his answer. ‘Is that what you want from me?’ he asked. ‘To eat with you?’
‘No.’
She sipped from her glass. He tasted his. It was good wine.
He waited.
She stood up. It was a process, like a complex toy unfolding. She walked to one of the big doors. ‘Come and see.’
He hesitated, but there was still an innocence about her, childlike.
He put down the glass, stood up and followed her. She walked into the next room and stopped, watching him.
The late-afternoon light shone through big windows. In the middle of the room an easel and a big canvas, white and bare. On the walls were paintings of people. Photo-realistic.
‘I want to paint you,’ she said. Under her breath, as if afraid of his answer.
He took another look at the people on the walls. White and black and brown, men and women, here and there a child. In modern, regular clothes. Good-looking people. Some seated on chairs or standing beside one. Others stood alone.
‘This is your work?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s amazing.’ He searched for the right word. ‘Magique. Sublime.’
‘Thank you.’ She waited for an answer.
‘How long does this take? How long would I have to come . . . and sit?’
‘Oh, no, if I can just take a few photos before it’s dark. Then you can come and look every now and then, if you want to.’
Relief. ‘D’accord,’ he said.
Chapter 11
August, Benny Griessel, Worcester
When they were beyond De Doorns, Griessel started going through the information that Vodacom had provided in connection with Johnson Johnson’s cell-phone number – the usual records of calls made in the last three months before his death, one list sorted according to date, the other according to phone number.
‘Spot anything?’ Cupido asked, as they crawled up a hill, stuck behind a heavy truck.
Griessel took out his notebook and double-checked Robyn Johnson’s number before he replied. ‘His ex . . . The calls she mentioned, when he phoned the children that Saturday night on the train, the fifth of August . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘They’re all here. But he called somebody else, later that night. Twenty-one oh seven . . .’
‘Whose numb
er?’
‘I don’t know.’ Griessel took out his phone, tapped in the number and called.
It rang twice, a man’s voice answered: ‘Yes?’
‘Hello,’ said Griessel, ‘who’s speaking?’
‘Who do you want to speak to?’ Irritated.
‘My name is Benny Griessel. I’m a captain in the South African Police Force, investigating the death of Mr Johnson Johnson—’
The call was cut off. Griessel examined his phone’s screen. ‘The signal’s disappeared,’ he said, and waved at the towering mountains on either side of the road.
‘Who was it?’
‘Don’t know yet. A man. I’ll call again soon.’ He kept an eye on the little signal bars on his phone.
‘So, Benna, when are you going to pop the question?’
Cupido knew that Griessel wanted to propose to Alexa Barnard. They had often discussed his struggle over the choice of place, the timing and the speech.
‘I thought Sunday.’
‘This Sunday?’
‘Yes.’ He felt a hollow in the pit of his stomach, and it wasn’t just because of the meat pie.
‘Brave, Benna. Brave. And where, if I may be so bold?’
‘Okay. I thought, Alexa loves good food . . .’
‘Check.’
‘And she loves atmosphere . . .’
‘Check.’
‘And she loves beautiful places . . .’
‘Check.’
‘So I looked at the best restaurants, the top-ten list . . .’
‘Cool.’
‘And I thought the Overture restaurant. It’s number six on the list, and close to Stellenbosch. I looked up the website. The view is spectacular, it looks romantic . . .’
‘I was wondering when you were gonna mention “romantic”.’
‘And I can just about afford it.’
‘Check. But you know it’s on a wine farm, hey? With both of you being alkies, I’m just saying.’
Griessel sighed. ‘Ja, I saw that. The thing is, it makes no difference where I take her. There will always be alcohol nearby.’
‘Except, just say, sunset on the beach at Cape Point. Little picnic basket, blanket on the sand, sea breeze in her hair . . . Chicks love that kind of thing. That’s what I scheme, when the day comes for me to propose to Desiree – if she and her boy still want a captured Hawk by then.’
‘I thought about a beach. Camps Bay, Clifton . . . But you know how the Cape weather is – that sea breeze will blow you and your blanket all the way to Robben Island. And I imagine dropping the ring and it disappearing into the sand. Fuck knows, I don’t have money for another. I’ve got fourteen months before I’ve paid off this one.’
‘Good point.’
‘Do you think Overture could work?’ Griessel asked.
‘Sounds great. Do you want me to check with Desiree? She knows all the larny spots in Stellenbosch.’
‘Please.’
They emerged from the pass and the Breede River valley opened in front of them. Griessel checked his phone again. The signal was back.
He called.
‘The subscriber you have dialled is not available at present. Please try again later.’
He tried another seven times before they got back to Bellville. The number stayed busy.
They were back in the office by seven. They updated the dossier.
Cupido phoned Stellenbosch, and reported to Griessel: ‘Desiree schemes the Overture is pure class, you can go ahead. And she says: “Good choice.”’
‘Thanks, Vaughn.’
‘Are you going to tell her tonight? About the Overture?’
He hesitated, then said: ‘Yes.’
He and Cupido heard the tone of his voice. Cupido put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Good luck, Benna.’ He said goodbye and left.
Griessel stayed behind alone. He unlocked the drawer where he kept the ring, right at the back, in the pretty black box. He took it out. Opened it. There it was, sparkling and beautiful.
Jissis.
He put it away again carefully. Locked the drawer. He looked up the number of the Overture restaurant. Found it. Stared at it.
It was a big step.
They had been together for nearly five years – he didn’t always know what that word meant. They had been living together for the last three years, in her house in Tamboerskloof. He’d met her when he was investigating the murder of her husband. She was a suspect, a wreck. She was a faded star, the once-famous singer Xandra, the darling of the nation way back when. They often played her old hit song ‘Soetwater’ on the radio:
’n Glasie vol sonlig,
’n soet kelkie klein.
Skink Soetwater.
’n Mondjie vol liefde
’n slukkie vol pyn.
Drink Soetwater.
A small glass of sunlight,
A goblet of rain
A small sip of worship,
A mouthful of pain
Drink sweet water.
Her sensual voice and that sultry stage persona, a future full of promise, all drunk away due to stage fright, self-doubt and a husband who kept fooling around with other women. Until there was nothing left of her career or herself. But then her husband was shot, and she inherited the record company and was forced to make a new start. Griessel fell in love with her because she was down-to-earth and honest, broken and brave, because of her naïveté and generosity, her compassion, her sense of humour and ability to laugh at herself. He loved her because of her simplicity, and the straightforward way she loved him. Just like that. And she admired and respected him. Him. Benny Griessel, former alky, at forty-six still just a captain in the police force, all because of his drinking. But she raised him up, made a fuss about him, her ‘master detective’, her ‘King Hawk’, her hero.
He played a bit of bass guitar in a four-man band called Roes (meaning ‘rust’), and they sometimes performed at dances and weddings. She would come and sing with them and say, ‘You’re such a talented man, Benny,’ when he knew damn well he was just another mediocre musician.
He couldn’t deny that he also loved her for the sweet sensuality that still survived beneath the scars of her life.
But, fuck it, it was a big step to take.
Because he had made a terrible mess of his first marriage. And because his sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous, Doc Barkhuizen, had told him two alcoholics together was a recipe for trouble. Because Alexa was very rich, and he didn’t even have the twenty thousand rand that the ring had cost him. He’d had to take out a bank loan for it, cash-strapped because of his police salary, a son at film school and all those years of throwing away money on booze and paying too much maintenance to his ex.
He sat looking at the number of the Overture restaurant. It was a very big step.
He had so little to offer her. But at least he could give her an unforgettable will-you-marry-me evening, a night with a beautiful story to retell. An evening worthy of her.
He took a deep breath.
He made the call.
They lived together in her house at 47 Brownlow Street, on the slopes of Signal Hill. The pretty Victorian double-storey had an upstairs balcony with a great view over the city.
Griessel parked in the garage, walked in through the kitchen door. Alexa was standing at the stove wearing her apron with You stir me! across the front. He’d come up with the words, and had the apron made for her. It had been his Valentine’s Day gift to her last year. She was fond of it. Cooking was not one of her talents. She was an exceptional businesswoman. And when she sang, as she occasionally did, she could still bring the crowd to their feet. Her piano-playing was still good. But she had zero aptitude for cooking, despite declaring it a ‘passion’. Her attention was easily distracted when the phone rang or a text message came through so she would lose track of the ingredients she had already added to the pot. And her sense of taste was pretty dodgy. She would close her eyes and taste a dish, smacking her lips and declaring it ‘perfect’. But on
ce she’d dished up and begun to eat she would frown and say: ‘Something’s not right now. Can you taste it too?’
And he would lie, saying: ‘No, no, it’s delicious.’ Well, if that was the greatest sacrifice required of him in this relationship, he was happy to make it.
Now he was faced with another necessary lie. A lie about Sunday week, as the restaurant was fully booked for this coming weekend. He’d have to get her to Overture without revealing his true plans.
It was cold outside, but the kitchen was cosy. Her face lit up when she saw him. ‘Benny,’ she said, with genuine joy, ‘you must be exhausted.’
He kissed her, held her tight. ‘Not too much.’
‘How was the Karoo?’
‘Vaughn says the Sweet Buggerall is growing pretty well, but I like the . . . space.’
She laughed. ‘I’m making tomato bredie.’
He sniffed the rich stew. ‘It smells good.’ Vaguely true at least.
‘Wait till you taste it! We can eat whenever you’re ready.’
‘Let me just wash.’ He stood in the doorway, turned round. He had to ask her. Now.
She looked back at him, her eyes so soft.
He turned and went to the room to shower, a quick four-minute one as the Cape had serious water restrictions, the worst drought in memory. There was talk of Day Zero, when the dams would be empty. Water Armageddon.
But that wasn’t what worried him. It was his dinner date with Alexa.
It was a very big step.
Chapter 12
August, Daniel Darret, Bordeaux
Six days after the meal and photo shoot with Élodie Lecompte he went back, driven by curiosity. Curious about ‘his’ painting, and about her. At seven p.m. he rang her doorbell with a hint of unease. Was it vanity that had brought him here? Or was he just searching for himself?
He heard the window open on the third floor. He looked up. She was checking who was there. She leaned out and raised her hand. Smiled. The window shut. She buzzed him in.
Upstairs at her door he found her more informally dressed this time, jeans and an olive-green T-shirt. Barefoot again. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said, and offered him wine.