The Serpentine Road

by Mendelson, Paul

  The street scene is illuminated by four quick flashes of lightning, raucous thunder following. He walks briskly back down to the main drag, finds another of his favourites, buys a tall glass of East Coast Ale, saunters to a grill of home-made boerewors, orders a coil in a huge soft bun. The hot sausage and cold beer make for a perfect combination. He struggles to eject some Mrs Ball’s Chutney onto his plate from the sticky bottle on the trestle table and settles for a dab. He stands amongst a group listening to an accordion player. He looks beyond the musician, sees the same man as before, still staring in his direction. He understands what is bothering him: on each occasion he has seen him, he has not had a drink in his hand. He swallows hard, fights for a breath as he feels food stuck in his gullet, thumps the centre of his chest with his fist; De Vries places his food and beer glass on a low wall, trots around the crowd towards the man. When he reaches where he thought he had been, he sees no one like him. He stands on a plastic chair, looking over the revelry, sees no one walking away, no one suspicious. As he stands there, he hears a noise like a wave washing onto a beach, its volume increasing until the first huge drops hit him. He steps down, walks determinedly back towards his food and drink, already feeling water dripping down the back of his neck. The music has stopped and people are beginning to hunt for shelter. Within one minute, the drops have turned into a deluge. The storm rolls down the slopes of the mountains and onto the main street, pushing ahead of it the scent of steaming tarmac. He reaches his drink, feels the bread soggy on top of his boerewors, discards the top of the bun in the street, munches at what remains, ambling towards one of the side-street cafes with a deep awning, and joins the crowd pressed under it. He continues to eat and drink, to shelter with everyone else, his contentment stolen from him by the feeling that he is being watched, being stalked.

  Just after 11 p.m., De Vries finds the white minibus where he was dropped off and, along with half a dozen others, is driven back to the Travellers’ Haven. The bus smells of damp dog and belched beer, but his fellow passengers are happy despite the rain, warmed by much ale. They wait in the road, engine idling, for the gates to open, the remote control in the van failing to shift them. The driver stands hunched over the intercom, the rain falling like a heavy curtain over him and everything around. Finally, they draw inside and disembark. As Vaughn reaches the shelter of his room, he looks around the quadrangle, sees the flicker of televisions behind net curtains, wonders who would be watching television after a night of drinking and eating. He checks the window fastening, dead bolts his door, and then showers and gets into bed. He is not drunk; he is happy but for his watcher, tired yet grateful for a half day’s respite from the stresses of his work. Just as he has dismissed the threat, his mind starts whirring again and he lies staring at the ceiling, resolutely awake, listening to the sound of the rain on the tin roof, cacophonous and unrelenting.

  De Vries dozes sporadically, his room still sultry. He smiles to himself that he has transformed this visit into a part of his necessarily clandestine investigation. Anyone scrutinizing him must believe that the case is virtually closed. He gets out of bed, uses the toilet, switches off the rasping air-conditioning, so loud that it dominates even the sound of the rain.

  As he finally loses consciousness, he hears the sound of the minibus with its rattling engine, delivering the last of the revellers back to their quarters. He hears the clang of the main gates as they close, then nothing but what, to him, now seems to be the soothing rhythm of the rain, lighter but insistent, for so long hungered after.

  The minibus driver visits the reception, returns to his vehicle, drives it away. As the gates close behind him, three men jog into the quadrangle. Two wait in shadow by the main gate, the third runs to the reception area. A minute later, he rejoins the others, exchanges information and signals the direction they should travel. In a compact triangle, they trot across the centre of the car park between the two lines of parked cars, past the three pine trees. Each man wears a balaclava, dark clothes, gloves. They move in synch with one another, say nothing. They are almost invisible.

  De Vries finally finds a depth of sleep which often eludes him at home. He dreams of climbing a tall wooden ladder to sever the tops of hop vines, watching them fall, heavy with warm, scented flowers. It is sunny, he is in the English countryside and, in the evening, he drinks dark, thick beer in the tiny saloons of ancient public houses; the image segues – goes home to a glamorous apartment overlooking Clifton Beaches, a tall and slender black African woman waits in the bedroom. The bed is big and soft, and he feels as if he is swimming in cool, clear water, until he pulls her towards him, feels the warmth that emanates from her, holds her in his embrace.

  * * *

  They collect at the doorway, eyes alert, bodies stiff, primed. One positions himself with his back to the chalet, pistol at his side: a lookout. The second man prepares to insert a short, stout crowbar level with the lock; the third waits, knife drawn, back to the left of the door, ready to spin inside. The lookout meets the eyes of both the men, signals; the crowbar rises to horizontal, gouges into the softwood door-frame, cracks open the door with ease. The knife man spins into the dark, humid room.

  De Vries wakes shocked, throat dry, tongue working against the roof of his mouth, instantly alert to the screaming – heart-stopping, animal-like. He falls out of bed onto unsteady feet, ankles cracking; he grabs his gun from under the bed, stumbles to the door of his chalet, throws the bolt, barges open the door. He sees three dark figures sprint across the car park, through the open gates, disappearing from the arena of dim light into complete darkness. He exits, weapon drawn, following his line of sight as he scans the area. He sprints down the line of chalets to a door which hangs half off its hinges, to the source of the moaning, whining, begging, praying – voice high-pitched and plaintive. Two men stand outside their doors, other windows flicker light as curtains are teased open just enough to see out.

  De Vries walks into the dark room, weapon drawn, fumbles with the switch until the grey ceiling light illuminates, and sees a big black African man on the bed – naked but for a pair of white Y-fronts, blood down his middle from his chest to the now stained material – clutching his torso, eyes wide, whimpering. The man sees him, cowers.

  ‘I’m police.’

  The man whispers, voice breaking: ‘They stabbed me . . . I’m stabbed. Help me.’

  De Vries checks the bathroom, goes to the man, pulls his hands from his chest, examines the wound.

  ‘You’re okay. You’re grazed. You’re okay.’

  Blood oozes slowly down the quivering black flesh; the man’s limbs shake.

  De Vries hears scurrying footsteps outside, turns to the door. Benny Louw stops perhaps five metres from the doorway.

  ‘What’s happened? Who’s there?’

  De Vries calls out: ‘Louw. Call an ambulance. This man’s been attacked. He needs medical help. Go now.’

  He hears the footsteps retreat, hopes that Louw will act calmly, not panic. De Vries grabs a towel from the bathroom, bundles it up, pushes it against the wound in the centre of the man’s torso.

  ‘Hold this tight . . . You’re all right. You are not in danger now.’

  The man pants, grasps the shirt to himself, eyes wide.

  ‘Masked man, had a knife. I wake up. He has this knife right here. He curses, stabs me, runs away. There were others . . .’

  ‘Tell the local police when they come . . . I’m on vacation . . .’

  He sees the man frown, close his eyes, teeth gritted.

  Benny Louw comes back across the car park, peers inside the chalet.

  ‘They’re coming. What happened?’

  De Vries jumps up, nods to the victim on the bed, turns away and leads Louw outside, a few paces from the chalet. The rain has dissipated, but it’s still spitting. He looks around, sees a chalet door closing, mumbled sounds from within darkness, curtains twitch.

  ‘Three men . . . I saw them escaping through the gate . . . That guest
was attacked by a guy with a knife . . .’ He faces Louw. ‘How did they get through the gates?’

  Louw swallows, knows that De Vries is studying him.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Why are they open?’

  Louw glances behind him, sees them open to the road. De Vries takes a step towards him.

  ‘Don’t know . . .’

  ‘You’re sure? You’re sure you don’t know, Benny?’

  Louw cowers.

  ‘Three men run all over your place, go to that chalet and nearly fucking slit that guy head to dick, and you don’t know?’

  Louw stands rigid, rooted, his eyes unable to meet De Vries’, mumbles: ‘Who is he? What did they want with him?’

  De Vries laughs, shoots out his hand and grabs Benny Louw by the collar, drags his face up to his, smells brandy on the man’s breath, oozing out of his pores.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about him . . . And nor did they. Until I changed it for somewhere I could smoke, that fucking room was mine.’

  PART THREE

  The ambulance takes the victim away, curtains close, lights are switched off. It is nearly 1.30 a.m. when the local police get to talk with De Vries. Already, they have decided that it was an attempted robbery, and De Vries sees no reason to tell them differently. When the officer discovers his rank and standing, he defers to him entirely. What De Vries says, goes.

  Eventually, the local officers amble away, seeming tired and aimless; there is no sign of Benny Louw. De Vries lies on his bed, gun in hand, dozing uneasily until about 6 a.m. He packs, walks around to reception, finds it deserted. He enters the office in the back. There is no one there either, but he sees that the phone to the gate intercom is there, as well as a button to open and close the gates. He drops his key on the desk, returns to the front desk, then out into the courtyard. He looks over to the room adjoining the one where the man was attacked. His acquaintance, Richard Wessels, never appeared during the night; he wonders whether he slept through the attack or was in the arms of his Flamkuchen companion under a feather duvet.

  Now, the rain is light and misty, cloud cover low and dark. The main gates are still open. He walks onto the side of the road, begins to pace towards the village. Within two minutes, a van driver pulls over, offers him a lift. He takes it, feels immensely grateful to the man who does not ask him questions, drops him off outside the one café open.

  De Vries finds that they have been open all night, dispensing coffee to the night owls, preparing cooked breakfasts for those camping out in cars and in the gardens of volunteer residents. De Vries accepts a full English and eats gloomily, still disorientated from his shattered night. When he has woken up some more, he sends an SMS to John Marantz, requesting information as soon as possible, hinting that he is in danger. Minutes pass with no reply, and he realizes that Marantz could have been playing poker until 4 a.m., and may not wake for hours yet.

  His spirits are raised when his neighbour’s son and his girlfriend walk through the door of the café, still more when they tell him that her work will end at 9 a.m., and they can then drive back to town.

  At 8.50 a.m., De Vries’s phone buzzes: a reply from Marantz.

  ‘Meeting arranged, tomorrow, 5 p.m.’, followed by an address in town he cannot visualize.

  De Vries persuades them to take the scenic Franschhoek Pass rather than the freeway. It is a little longer but a far more pleasant drive. They travel around the Theewaterskloof Dam – a vast inland lake – observing how low the water level is, then continue on the R45 through the mountains to the top of the pass. From there, the view of the Franschhoek Valley is usually spectacular, stretching out as far as the eye can see into the thin clouds on the horizon. This morning they see only a wall of grey Tupperware. They are above the cloud over the town. When they are almost at the bottom of the winding pass, they pass through the cover and the town is revealed, misty and dank. They pass La Petit Ferme restaurant where, at this time of year, they serve De Vries’s favourite pudding, ‘Plum Crazy’, fruit home-grown from the adjacent fields. He smiles in recognition as they sail down past the entrance, head towards the T-junction by the Huguenot Memorial.

  When they reach Main Road, De Vries asks them to stop outside a café and give him twenty minutes to do something. He gives them a 200 rand note, tells them to order whatever they want. He sees the teenagers glance at one another, but cannot discern whether they are frustrated by the delay or happy enough to sit outside in Franschhoek.

  He takes the bakkie, turns up Uitkyk Street, comes to a stop outside the two barns occupied by Dazuluka Cele. He winds down his window, presses the bell on the intercom. Only while he waits for an answer does he question why he is here, why he is checking on her.

  The same cheerful voice answers and he identifies himself. At the sound of her tone, he already feels he has made a mistake but, when the gates open, he drives in, parks in the same spot, car turned ready for his departure.

  ‘Tell me,’ Dazuluka Cele shouts as she approaches him, ‘that this is not police business and that you have come back to buy one of my paintings.’

  De Vries smiles.

  ‘As much as I would like that, I think they are out of my league.’

  Cele smiles. ‘Perhaps a deal can be done.’

  They shake hands warmly.

  ‘I came to speak to you about something. Is there somewhere private?’

  She leads him across what had been the baking gravelled courtyard but which now seems damp and cold, into the bottom of her studio barn. The space is almost deserted and he can see that she has been sweeping the floor with a traditional broom made of twigs.

  ‘It is good news: I am allowed to stay,’ she says. ‘Apparently Taryn left a trust to retain these buildings and allow artists to live and work here on long-term lets. I am preparing for another artist to come here too now. The lawyers say it will take time to sort everything out, but that I can remain at least until the end of the year and hopefully longer.’

  ‘I’m pleased you can stay.’

  ‘So am I.’

  He glances around the room to see if there is anywhere to sit but, apart from two wooden easels, there is no furniture at all. He feels awkward towering over her, wonders whether to squat but fears the cracking of ankles – the struggle to get up.

  ‘I came to check that you were okay . . .’

  She smiles again.

  ‘Yes. I am still upset about what happened to Taryn.’ She stops. ‘You know what did happen?’

  ‘We think we know but there is still some work to do. We’re close.’

  She nods uncertainly.

  He takes a deep breath, knows that he cannot waste more time, hopes that she will take his concern as a compliment.

  ‘When I left last time, I saw you talking with a man. He seemed angry and I didn’t know whether I should have intervened. I couldn’t help noticing that your leg was injured. I wanted to make sure that you were safe and well.’

  At first she laughs, then her expression darkens and he can see her eyes grow moist. She nods rapidly, says nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry if I have made a mistake.’

  She looks up at him.

  ‘The man you saw was my brother. He was visiting and we were angry with one another. He stays in Maputo and there is no work for him there. He came to Cape Town, found nothing and came to me. He thought that now I was an artist with an exhibition, I would be rich. I tried to tell him that I would receive no money for many months and that it would be needed for more canvases, more materials. He did not understand. He refused to go, began drinking and got angry. That was the day before you came. When you saw him that morning, he had just woken up and he was still drunk, still wanting to argue.’

  ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘No. I gave him money and told him to go home. Told him that I would send money when I received it myself.’

  ‘That is generous.’

  ‘That is what we do. I am sure that you would give anything to your fami
ly if they had nothing?’

  ‘If I can . . .’

  ‘And, as for my leg . . . That is a different story, but it is over now and the man responsible is gone.’

  ‘Then I shouldn’t have been worried.’

  She looks up at him.

  ‘I am glad you were. I am not used to that. What is your name? Your given name?’

  ‘Vaughn. I am Vaughn de Vries.’

  She takes his hand.

  ‘I want to give you something. Come . . .’ She leads him out of the ground floor and back up to her studio. As he follows her up the spiral staircase, he observes the deep scarring on her leg, but also the petite body ahead of him. On the landing’s left-hand wall, there is a block of twelve miniature oil paintings, a series of studies of the same small wooden carving. Each is viewed from a lightly different angle, the light casting shadows across her face, the contours of her carved body. The figure is very pregnant, but also strong. Her expression is one of confidence and health.