by Deon Meyer
‘I grew up in Seapoint.’
‘It must have been wonderful.’ What an interesting assumption. ‘You’ve lost the accent.’
‘That’s what twenty years in the public service does for you.’
‘Brothers and sisters?’
‘No.’
Some part of me enjoyed this, the attention, the interest. I felt like her equal.
‘And your parents?’
I merely shook my head, hoping it would be enough. It was time to shift the focus. ‘What about you? Where did you grow up?’
‘Johannesburg. Linden, in fact. Then I went to Stellenbosch University. It was such a romantic idea, compared to Pretoria and Johannesburg.’ She stopped for a second, thoughts drifting off. ‘Afterwards, I stayed in the Cape. It’s so different from the Highveld. So much … nicer. I don’t know, I just felt at home. As if I belonged. My dad used to tease me. He said I lived in Canaan while they were in exile in Egypt.’
I couldn’t think what next to ask. She got in first. ‘I understand from Jeanette Louw that you live in the country?’
My employer would have had to explain why it would take six hours for me to report. I nodded. ‘Loxton.’
She reacted predictably, ‘Loxton …’, as if she ought to know where it was.
‘In the Northern Cape. Upper Karoo, between Beaufort West and Carnarvon.’
She had a way of looking at you, a genuine, open curiosity. I knew what the question on her tongue would be. ‘Why would you want to live there?’ But she didn’t ask it. She was too politically correct, too aware of convention.
‘I wouldn’t mind having a place in the country one day,’ she said, as though she envied me. She waited for my reaction, for me to tell her the reasons, the pros and cons. It was a subtle way of asking the ‘Why would you live there?’ question.
I was rescued by the steward, who passed out blue cartons of food – a sandwich, a packet of savoury snacks, a fruit juice. I avoided the bread. Emma only drank the juice. While she forced the straw through the tiny foil-sealed hole with her delicate fingers she said: ‘You have a very interesting job.’
‘Only when I can squeeze the Stoffels of the world against a pillar.’
She laughed. There was also a touch of something else, faint surprise, as if seeing something contradictory to the image she had built up of me. This average man who had been a disappointment in the conversation department had a sense of humour.
‘Have you guarded any famous people?’
That’s what everyone wants to know. For some of my colleagues, interaction with celebrities gives them valuable attention currency. They would answer ‘yes’ – and deal a few names of film stars and musicians like cards on the table. The questioner would pounce on one name and ask, ‘Is he/she nice?’ Not, ‘Is she a good person?’ or, ‘Is he a man of integrity?’ But nice – that all-inclusive, meaningless, lazy word South Africans just love to use. What they really want to know is whether fame and fortune have turned the subject of the discussion into a self-centred monster, news that they can pass on as part of the eternal market forces of information that determine social status.
Or something like that. The standard answer of B. J. Fikter, the only other Body Armour employee that I can work with tolerably, is, ‘I can tell you, but then I’d have to shoot you.’ It was an affirmation that still afforded status, but the worn-out joke avoided revealing any details.
‘We sign a confidentiality clause,’ I told Emma.
‘Oh’
It took a while for her to come to the realisation that she had tried all the possible subjects without success. A merciful quiet descended. After a while she took out the magazine again.
6
Kruger Mpumalanga International Airport was a surprise, despite the pretentious name. The airport building, set between green hills and chunky rock formations, was modern and new. And attractive. It had an African theme of giant thatched roof and ochre walls, yet was not kitsch. The heat out on the runway was oppressive, the humidity high. I switched on my cell phone as we walked to the arrivals hall. There was an SMS from Jeanette, FILE EXISTS.
Inside the terminal it was cooler, quite bearable. We waited for our luggage. I stood half behind Emma. There was a sensual curve to her jeans and the slope of her lovely neck and shoulders which set off the powder-blue camisole to best advantage. But shifting my focus away, to compare her to the larger, coarser people surrounding her, I noticed that she seemed vulnerable. She had a tender fragility that cried out for protection, or at least compassion, despite the subtle self-assurance of the beautiful and wealthy career woman.
On the plane she had been charming, correct, humble, an altruist. I am interested in you as a person, Lemmer, even though you are a hired hand.
So many facets.
Lemmer’s Law of Small Women: Never trust them. Not professionally, nor personally. From an early age they learn two Pavlovian tricks. The first is a product of people’s reactions: ‘Ah, aren’t you a cute little thing,’ especially if the little face is round and the eyes large. People treat them like precious little pets, so they learn to exploit that with mannerisms and gestures that emphasise their cuteness, and allow them to sharpen their manipulative skills into a social blade. The second is the feeling of physical helplessness. The world is big and powerful; they are delicate and relatively weak. The bigger, fuller woman’s curves of breast and thigh are beacons for male interest; the silhouettes of small women attract less attention. For survival, self-defence and to stand their ground, they are forced to resort to other means. They learn to use the power of their intellect; they learn to manipulate, to play a continuous mental game with the world around them.
Jeanette had confirmed the existence of the case file. There was truth in Emma’s story. But how much truth? Did it answer enough of the questions? If her life truly was in danger, why had she opted for Body Armour’s cheapest option, when, according to Carel, she had inherited grandly?
Should I give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that Carel had been exaggerating? Or didn’t Emma believe that she was in real danger – despite being a small woman with a predisposition to that? Perhaps she was financially conservative. Or just stingy. Or too modest or self-conscious to bear the presence of two to four men with firearms around her.
Or she could be playing a game.
Our luggage arrived. We went over to Budget Rent-A-Car. My phone rang while Emma was completing the forms. I recognised the number, moved a distance away and answered.
‘Hello, Antjie,’ I said.
‘Where are you?’ said Antjie Barnard in her deep, incredibly sensual voice.
‘Working. I’ll be away a week or so.’
‘That’s what I thought. What about your turn for irrigation? It’s hot here.’
‘I’ll have to ask you to do it.’
‘Then I will. If I don’t see you before then, Happy New Year.’
‘Thanks, Antjie, same to you. Look after yourself.’
‘What for?’ She laughed and rang off.
When I turned, Emma was right behind me, with the light of new information shining in her eyes. I said nothing, just took the key of a white BMW 318i that she held out to me. It was parked outside in the sun. I loaded our bags in the boot and did a 360-degree reconnaissance. Nobody was interested in us. I got in and started the engine so the air conditioner could kick in. Emma unfolded a map on her lap.
‘I thought we should go to Hoedspruit first,’ she said. Her index finger sought out the road. I noticed that she wasn’t wearing nail polish. ‘Here, past Hazyview and Klaserie, it looks like the shortest route. Do you know this part of the country, Lemmer?’
‘Not well’
‘I’ll navigate.’
We drove. There was more traffic than I had expected, pickups, 4 × 4s, trucks and minibus-taxis. No sign of anyone following. Through White River the contrast with the Cape was sharp – here the colours of nature were bright and over the top in the foliage of the
endless trees, the blood red of nearly every flower, the deep dark mahogany of the people manning stalls along the roadside. Ugly, amateurish signs shouted names, prices and directions to campsites, guest houses and private game farms.
Emma gave directions; we found the R538 and drove on, initially in silence.
When the question eventually came, it was no surprise. No woman can suppress her curiosity over certain things.
‘Was that your …’ An instant of hesitation to indicate that the term would be broadly inclusive: ‘friend?’
I knew what she meant, but feigned ignorance.
‘The one who phoned just now?’ Emma’s tone was in chit-chat mode, that neutrally friendly style that indicated mere curiosity, a matter of interest. It was not necessarily untrue. That is how women’s brains work. They use such information to colour in the picture. If you have a girlfriend, you can’t be a total psychopath. The art is to answer them in such a way that you avoid the annoying follow-up questions. What does she do? (To determine your and your girlfriend’s status.) Have you been together long? (To gauge the degree of the relationship.) How did you meet? (To satisfy their craving for romance.)
I just grinned and made a non-committal noise. It worked every time, because it said to them she was not the sort of friend they had in mind and that it actually was none of their business. Emma took it bravely.
We drove through Nsikazi, Legogoto, Manzini, little villages, a continuous monotony of poor houses and restless people wandering about in the incredible baking heat, children squatting on their haunches beside the road, swimming in a river under a bridge.
Emma looked to the left, at the horizon. ‘What mountain is that?’ She was determined to pursue a conversation.
‘Mariepskop,’ I said.
‘I thought you didn’t know this area.’
‘I don’t know the roads.’
She looked at me expectantly.
‘When the ministers come to the Kruger Park for a weekend, they fly into Hoedspruit. There’s a military airport.’
She looked at the mountain again. ‘How many ministers have you guarded, Lemmer?’ Carefully adding: ‘If you can talk about it …’
‘Two.’
‘Oh?’
‘Transport and Agriculture. Mostly Agriculture.’
She glanced back at me. She didn’t say a word, but I knew what she was thinking. Not exactly high risk. Her bodyguard – an unarmed former minder of the Minister of Agriculture. I knew she felt really safe.
‘I’m looking for Inspector Jack Phatudi,’ Emma said to the constable in the Hoedspruit charge office.
The hefty policewoman had an inscrutable expression. ‘I do not know that man.’
‘I think he works here.’
‘No.’
‘He is investigating the Khokhovela murders.’ Emma’s voice was light and friendly, as if she were talking to a loved one.
The constable looked at Emma without comprehension.
‘The traditional healer and three other men who were killed.’
‘Oh. That one.’
‘Yes.’
The policewoman moved slowly as if the searing heat were holding her back. She pulled a telephone closer. The phone might have been white once. It was battered and coffee coloured now. She tapped in a number and waited. Then she spoke in staccato sePedi – phrases like bursts of machine-gun fire. She put the phone down.
‘He is not here.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No.’
‘Will he be coming back?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Is there somewhere I can find out?’
‘You will have to wait.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’ Still without inflection.
‘I … uh …’ Emma looked at the hard wooden bench against the wall, then back to the constable. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘They will phone,’ the constable said.
‘Oh?’
‘To say where he is.’
‘OK,’ said Emma with relief. ‘Thank you.’ She went over to the bench. Her skin had a sheen of perspiration. She sat down and gave the constable a smile of patient goodwill. I stood beside the bench and leaned against the wall. It wasn’t as cool as I had expected. I watched the constable. She was busy writing up a dossier. She did not perspire. Two black men came in and went up to the desk. They spoke to her. She scowled and upbraided them in short bursts. They answered apologetically. The phone rang. She held up a hand. The men stopped and looked down at their shoes. She answered the phone, listened and then replaced the receiver.
‘He has gone back to Tzaneen,’ she said in Emma’s direction. But Emma was gazing out through the door.
‘Lady!’
Emma jumped and stood up.
‘He has gone back to Tzaneen.’
‘Inspector Phatudi?’
‘Yes. That is where his office is. Violent Crimes.’
‘Oh …’
‘But he will come tomorrow. Early. Eight o’clock.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emma, but the constable was busy with the two men again, talking to them as if they were boys who had been up to no good.
She navigated the way to the Mohlolobe Private Game Reserve with a printout of their web page in her hand. ‘There are so many places here,’ she said as we passed the dramatic entrance gates of the Kapama Game Reserve, the Mtuma Sands Wildlife Lodge and the Cheetah Inn, each a variation on the postmodern Lowveld theme of rough stone, thatched roof, animal motif and fancy lettering. I suspected that the room rates were directly proportional to the subtlety of these portals to Eden.
Mohlolobe’s unique selling point was a pair of slender, tasteful elephant tusks moulded from concrete to guard the entrance. There was a gate guard wearing a uniform of khaki and olive green. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that was marginally too big for him and carried a clipboard with a couple of sheets of paper. On his chest was a metal name tag. It read Edwin. Security Official. ‘Welcome to Mohlolobe,’ he said on my side of the BMW with a glittering white smile. ‘Do you have a reservation?’
‘Good afternoon,’ Emma answered. ‘It’s in the name of Le Roux.’
‘Le Roux?’ He consulted his list, eyebrows raised hopefully. His face brightened. ‘Indeed, indeed, Mr and Mrs Le Roux, you are most welcome. It is seven kilometres to the main camp, just follow the signs, and please do not leave the vehicle under any circumstances.’ He swung open the big gate and waved us through with a flourish of his arm.
The dirt road twisted through thick mopane forest, here and there a piece of open grassveld. A herd of impala trotted into the undergrowth in annoyance. ‘Look,’ said Emma. And then she inexplicably pressed her hand over her mouth, and stared, entranced. Hornbills swooped from tree to tree. A herd of buffalo chewed the cud and stared in boredom. Emma was silent. Even when I pointed at the heaps of digested grass and said, ‘Elephant dung.’
Mohlolobe Main Camp smelt of big money. The thatched roofs of the guest units were disguised along the banks of the Mohlolobe river, paved roads, hidden lighting, forced joviality from the staff in their khaki and olive uniforms. This was Africa for the rich American tourist, eco-friendly five-star luxury, an oasis of civilisation in the wild, cruel bush. I followed the signs to reception and we got out into a wall of heat, but inside the building it was suddenly cool. We walked down the passage to the reception desk. There was an Internet room on the left. They called it ‘The Bush Telegraph’. An expensive curio shop on the right was ‘The Trading Post’.
A pretty blonde waited at reception. On the olive green of her shirt was a name tag. Susan. Hospitality Official. ‘Hi. I’m Susan. Welcome to Mohlolobe,’ with a big smile and a well-concealed Afrikaans accent. Sue-zin, not Soe-sun as it would have been pronounced in Afrikaans.
‘Hi. I’m Emma le Roux and this is Mr Lemmer,’ she said, equally friendly, to Sue-zin.
‘You wanted a two-bedroom suite?’ the blonde enquired discreetly.
‘That’s right.’
‘We’re going to give you the Bateleur,’ as if she were doing us a big favour. ‘It’s right in front of the waterhole.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Emma, and I wondered why she didn’t speak to the woman in Afrikaans.
‘Now, I just need a credit card, please,’ she said, looking at me. When Emma took out her purse there was a little moment when Sue-zin looked at me in a new light.
The Bateleur suite was understated luxury, but all Emma did was nod in satisfaction as if it more or less lived up to her standards. The black porter (Benjamin. Hospitality Assistant) carried in our travel bags. Emma pushed a green banknote into his hand and said, ‘That’s fine, just leave them here.’
He showed us the secrets of the air conditioning and the minibar. When he left Emma said, ‘Shall I take this one?’ and pointed at the bedroom to the left of the sitting room. It was furnished with a double bed.
‘That’s fine.’
I took my bag to the other room, on the right, two single beds with the same creamy white linen as Emma’s. Then I took stock. The wood frame windows could be opened, but were kept closed because of the whispering air conditioning. Every bedroom and the sitting-cum-bar-room in the centre had a sliding door on to the veranda at the front. The locking mechanism was unsophisticated, not good security. I opened it and walked out on to the veranda. It had a polished stone floor, two couches and chairs in ostrich leather, two mounted binoculars and a view of the waterhole, now deserted apart from a flock of pigeons that drank restlessly.
I walked around the building. Three metres of lawn, then the bush. Designed and situated for privacy. Not a single other unit, each named for some kind of eagle, was visible. Bad news from a bodyguard’s perspective.
In theory, however, if anyone wanted to get at Emma, they would have to avoid the main gate, scale two metres of game fence and walk seven kilometres through the veld in lion and elephant country. Not much ground for worry.
I went back in; the cool was refreshing. Emma’s door was shut; I could hear the whisper of a shower. For a brief moment, I visualised her body under the stream of water, then went to seek out the cold water in my own bathroom.