by Fred Khumalo
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
FICTION
Seven Steps to Heaven (2007)
Bitches’ Brew (2006)
NON-FICTION
#ZuptasMustFall and Other Rants (2016)
Zulu Boy Gone Crazy (2010)
Touch My Blood (2005)
Published in 2017 by Umuzi
an imprint of Penguin Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd
Company Reg No 1953/000441/07
The Estuaries No 4, Oxbow Crescent, Century Avenue, Century City, 7441, South Africa
PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa
www.penguinrandomhouse.co.za
© 2017 Fred Khumalo
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
First edition, first printing 2017
ISBN 978-1-4152-0949-3 (Print)
ISBN 978-1-4152-0914-1 (ePub)
Cover design by Fire and Lion
Author photograph courtesy of the Khumalo Family Collection
Text design by Fahiema Hallam
Set in Minion Pro
This book was printed on FSC® certified and controlled sources. FSC (Forest Stewardship Council®) is an independent, international, non-governmental organisation. Its aim is to support environmentally sustainable, and socially and economically responsible global forest management.
Also published in the United Kingdom by Jacaranda Books Art Music Ltd
To unsung heroes and heroines throughout history, in all wars known to man. But more specifically to those gallant souls who were aboard SS Mendi when she went down.
CHAPTER 1
France, 1958
When the two men entered the restaurant that afternoon, Jean-Jacques Henri, head waiter at the Tour d’Argent, was gazing out at the river, daydreaming about his impending retirement.
Quickly regaining his composure, Jean-Jacques took their coats and ushered the men to a table with a view of Notre Dame and the Seine flowing nearby. They oohed and aahed in appreciation. Although he exchanged pleasantries with the two diners in impeccable French, Jean-Jacques never tried to make eye contact with them. Some would have considered it rude; others would have thought he was shy. They would be wrong on both counts. Jean-Jacques had an embarrassing secret: his left eye was artificial. Because it had spooked some attentive diners in the past, he’d since contrived to avoid all eye contact while at work. This manoeuvre had worked perfectly, saving all parties concerned unnecessary discomfort. In all the years he’d spent at this establishment, he could remember only about six, seven faces that he had looked at intently. And these had been exceptional diners: Greta Garbo, who’d remarked on his expertly groomed moustache; General Charles de Gaulle, who’d mentioned he looked and walked like a soldier; Miles Davis, who’d told him in his raspy voice, on one of his early visits to Paris, ‘I ain’t gonna ask you how you lost that eye ’cos I know you ain’t gonna ask me how I lost my voice!’
These were just some of the faces that Jean-Jacques remembered distinctly. Most of the others were blurs, silhouettes of stolen glances. To compensate for his failure to look patrons in the eye, he regaled his guests with saucy tales, and sometimes bowled them over with outrageous claims: ‘I’m going to get you to try a special entrée that I had the chef create at the behest of Coco Chanel the last time she dined with us.’
Now, Jean-Jacques was just months away from retirement. It gave him joy that his forced daily interaction with people would be coming to an end. He was only fifty-seven, but he had had a long and eventful life. He needed the break, the solitude.
‘Are you from Algeria?’ asked one of the two gentlemen, breaking into his thoughts.
‘Algeria is my original home; France is where I earn my bread, such as it is. But how did you make the connection?’
‘Ah, with a complexion and hair like that …’ the man said, admiring Jean-Jacques’ caramel skin. ‘And also, Algerians are considerate people. Unlike the Europeans and the Americans, they don’t look a stranger in the eye. It’s considered rude in many parts of Africa. To look a person in the eye, I mean. I respect that attitude.’
Ignorant chatter like that drove Jean-Jacques up the wall. He could hardly wait for his early retirement in December – just eight months to go.
A few minutes later, he brought their drinks – two German beers. He poured these into tall, frosted beer glasses. The talkative man adjusted his monocle and then reached for his glass.
‘Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen,’ said Jean-Jacques, before remembering something. ‘As a matter of courtesy, gentlemen, I am required to inform you that we’ll be hosting Miss Édith Piaf this Saturday. She’ll sing a song or two, as is her wont. Dinner time. Table reservation essential.’
Without lifting his eyes, he bowed and turned to go.
Jean-Jacques glided towards the kitchen. After a decent interval, he returned to ask if they were ready to order. The raconteur’s order was simple: medium-rare steak with vegetables on the side. His mate ordered the restaurant’s signature dish, canard au sang.
‘What’s that you just ordered?’ asked Talkative One.
‘It’s literally pressed duck, where the bird is cooked in its blood.’
Jean-Jacques then asked if they wanted to select a wine from the cellar. Talkative One sighed and said, ‘Well, well, well. Do we have the time to get up, walk to the cellar and explore its secrets? It could take us at least a year to view and understand the riches of your cellar, from what I’ve heard. A nice Burgundy will do. I think I can trust your judgement.’ He spoke good French, but with an accent Jean-Jacques couldn’t place.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Jean-Jacques. He proceeded to clear the table of their empty beer glasses.
Later, Jean-Jacques returned with their food, piping hot and aromatic. A wine steward stood aside while he put the food on the table. Jean-Jacques accepted a bottle of wine from the steward, who then disappeared back to the cellar. Having been instructed to go ahead and pour the wine, no ceremonial tasting, thanks very much, Jean-Jacques carried out the task.
Talkative One complained, ‘This steak looks overdone.’
‘But you haven’t even touched it, monsieur,’ Jean-Jacques said softly. He was so absorbed in the act of pouring wine he didn’t realise that the man’s face was gradually turning red, and that his monocle had fallen off. Jean-Jacques continued, ‘I suggest you cut it, if that pleases you, monsieur. That way you’ll see how pink it is on the inside. Delectable, if I have to say so myself. Just let the blade of your knife rest on the meat, and it will simply and effortlessly slide through. That’s how tender it is. Please try it.’
‘A waiter doesn’t remonstrate with a paying customer,’ the man said, slamming his fist on the table, startling his dining partner.
Still refusing to look the man in the eye, Jean-Jacques said, ‘I’m sorry, monsieur. I can take it back to the kitchen. Ask them to give you something else, if that’s what you would prefer.’
The man sighed, then sliced the steak open. The knife did glide through the piece of meat as if it were a slab of soft butter. Just one bite and his eyelids fluttered in appreciation. He cut another piece, shoved it into his mouth and chewed slowly, rolling his food around his tongue to make the moment last longer. He let out an involuntary moan.
‘See? I knew you would enjoy it, monsieur,’ Jean-Jacques said in a soothing voice. ‘It’s done just the way you wanted.’
The man put his knife on the table and glared at the waiter. ‘You may go now.’
Jean-Jac
ques bowed respectfully. He was in the process of removing an ashtray from the table when the talkative man turned to his mate and spoke contemptuously in Afrikaans, saying, ‘Kaffirs are the same all over the world. Bloody cheeky, that’s what they all are. Always backchatting their bosses. Look at this monkey, for example. Yackety-yack, yackety-yack! Thinks he’s better just because he’s a light-skinned houtkop. What’s the fucking world coming to?’
It was at this moment that Jean-Jacques, the bile rising inside him, felt compelled to look at the man whose words were like a hot poker in his heart, words spewed out in a language he hadn’t heard in more than thirty years.
Immediately, his knees buckled. His ears buzzed, his head felt as if it was about to explode. Holding on to the back of the quieter man’s chair, he inhaled deeply, his heart thudding violently, his eyes brimming with tears. That face mirrored terrors of his past. Had he made eye contact with the men when they walked in, he would have recognised the face instantly, a face, monocle or no monocle, that had remained etched in his mind for over three decades.
Suddenly the man’s eyes lit up in a jolt of recognition. ‘You! It’s you!’ He rose, his hand reaching for a knife on the table. Panicking, Jean-Jacques grabbed the diner’s steak knife and plunged it twice – firmly, viciously – into the man’s heart. Crimson ribbons of blood criss-crossed the white tablecloth. The man fell off his chair, thudding onto the floor. When the other man pulled a gun from his boot and tried to take aim, the waiter intercepted him, slashing his throat open in one move befitting his hefty size. The gun clattered to the floor. The man opened his mouth, but his scream was muffled by the gush of blood and air hissing out of his exposed oesophagus. Even as he went down, the man clawed the air in front of him, ripping the front of Jean-Jacques’ white shirt with his sharp nails.
Jean-Jacques looked at the knife in his hand, the blood on his torn shirt. He dropped the weapon on the floor as if it had turned into a venomous snake. Turning on his heel, he walked calmly towards the kitchen. Some diners who’d witnessed the brief but vicious slaughter cowered behind their tables. Waiters and kitchen staff who had been brought to the scene by the screams of shock watched from a distance. No one tried to stop Jean-Jacques as he walked to the bathroom.
He stood in front of the mirror and stared hatefully at his face, his jaw muscles bunched. There was a distant, vacant look in his eyes. He did not recognise the man that stared back at him. Thinking the illusion would disappear, he blinked. But the stranger stared back at him defiantly, his eyes blank. As if mocking him. There was a large spot of blood on his left cheek, and a smaller fleck on his chin. His hands were caked in drying blood. He turned on the tap, then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to wash his hands, his face. He then turned off the tap and straightened up. His gaze remained blank, pitiless. He spat at his mirror image. Once, twice, thrice. His spit slid down the face of the mirror. He reached out a hand to wipe the glass with his open palm, but then changed his mind.
Jean-Jacques sighed and trudged back to the kitchen, where he sat down heavily, buried his face in his hands, and waited for the police to arrive.
CHAPTER 2
As soon as the gendarmes were alerted, the place was crawling with reporters, who descended on Jean-Jacques’ co-workers like vultures. They wanted to know what exactly had happened, chronologically, from the time the diners sat down. Was there a verbal altercation before blood started flowing? Were the diners loud and drunk? Were they belligerent in any way? What about the waiter himself? Where was he from originally? Algeria? Uh-oh! The Algerian War of Independence had moved to French soil.
Jean-Jacques’ co-workers spoke about how shocked they were by the violence of it all, the suddenness. They spoke kindly of Jean-Jacques – a courteous gentleman, hard-working, focused – and, most of all, of his quirky, understated sense of humour. Even in the face of provocation by some of the restaurant’s more famous patrons, who sometimes enjoyed throwing their weight around, making impossible demands on the staff, Jean-Jacques was always calm under fire, they said.
The gendarmes took a cooperative Jean-Jacques into a waiting police car. No scuffle, no tantrums, no raised voices.
When the other reporters had left the scene, Thierry Bousquet, a journalist on one of the lowbrow newspapers, stayed behind. He was a famous crime reporter, on first-name terms with many policemen. Even those who had never encountered him knew of him and his work, which is why the policemen at the scene tolerated his presence, even though the drama was over. Thierry overheard the officer in charge instructing two of his juniors to proceed to the waiter’s house. When the officer in charge started his car, Thierry tailed him on his motorcycle.
The police car arrived at the apartment on Rue de Seine only a few minutes later. The two officers assigned to the task left the car in no hurry, taking their time as they fumbled for keys, and pushed opened Jean-Jacques’ apartment door. They searched the apartment, with Thierry skulking in the shadows, until, as if only just made aware of his presence, one policeman asked him to leave. Thierry pretended to, but instead sneaked into the lounge, where his attention was immediately drawn to an easel, with a painting, a work in progress of some sort on it. Was Jean-Jacques a painter? What kind of paintings was he interested in? Thierry looked around the room for more evidence that the murderous waiter was also an artist. There was a cluster of artwork – charcoals, watercolours, linocuts – in a corner. Riffling through this treasure trove, he saw that most of the work was signed Jerry Moloto, explaining why it had attracted his attention. Thierry, an amateur painter himself, was familiar with Moloto’s works which he had seen at some small, obscure exhibitions in Paris.
Moloto was a budding South African expat artist who’d been in France for a few years. Although not really a big name, he was one of the few African artists whose work serious Parisian collectors and appreciators of art were familiar with. Looking at the half-finished work on the easel, Thierry realised that the murderer had been trying to copy a famous painting by Moloto called Donkey Song.
‘You are still here,’ the policeman said in exasperation, startling Thierry.
‘Pardon me, sir, I was just about to leave, but as an art lover I simply couldn’t help myself. I just had to take a look at these pieces. I promise you I am not going to interfere with your work. I am just admiring the man’s efforts.’
The policeman shrugged. ‘Ah, suit yourself. But if the chief catches you here, you’re on your own.’
After some prodding, the policeman told Thierry that they had found stacks of musical scores and notes.
‘A very expensive-looking apartment,’ observed the journalist.
‘Grand piano, decent furniture. Hmm, all these unusual paintings and objets d’art. Decadent, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Especially for a mere restaurant worker.’
‘You’re reading my mind.’
‘Who could this gentleman be?’ asked Thierry, sensing the value of this story.
‘We shall soon find out. Man could turn out to be a prince in his home country.’
‘Bored out of his skull by Rich Father’s demands on him. When are you going to service your harem, Abdullah?’ Thierry said.
‘Then it turns out poor Abdullah is more interested in Rashid or Bilal or Ahmed or whatever their names are. Harem forsooth!’ laughed the policeman.
‘Then Prince Farouk runs away from home, comes to Paris. Changes his name to Jean-Jacques. Lives anonymously, but comfortably enough.’
‘There’s a thought.’
‘Just a shot in the dark, my friend,’ said Thierry.
‘Shall remember to mention that angle to my superiors.’ The policeman then seemed to remember something. ‘This fellow is somehow connected to a place called l’Échelle de Jacob. There are brochures from this Jacob place. Ever heard of it?’
The journalist had indeed visited this club about three months before, but he chose to plead ignorance. He wanted to be there first. It always helped to be ahead of th
e police.
He arrived at the club around 8 p.m. It wasn’t hard to spot Moloto; he was the only black person in the thin crowd, sitting in solitary splendour at the bar, nursing a bottle of cider. Thierry had seen a picture of Moloto in one of the newspapers, and he noticed now that in real life the man was much lighter in complexion. Anyway, much lighter than the average African he had seen at the docks.
‘Good evening, Mr Moloto,’ he said politely in French. ‘May I kindly have a word with you?’
‘Speak to me, my brother,’ Moloto said in English, showing the journalist a toothy smile, clearly happy to have company. He seemed to have had more than one cider already.
‘I believe you are acquainted with Jean-Jacques Henri …’ It was a shot in the dark.
Moloto looked at his interlocutor, sizing him up. Then he said, ‘Okay, let’s get some things out of the way. You can speak French to me, but I’ll respond in English. That fine by you?’
The Frenchman nodded.
‘See, my home language is Sepedi. If you want to speak to me, you would speak in French, then I would consider what you’re saying in English first. Then I’d translate from English to Pedi. Then my response would be formulated in Pedi, then translated to English. And from English to French. Tall order. I’ve never tried to translate from Pedi to French, in my head, that is. It’s always Sepedi to English, and from English to whatever European language I’m being spoken to.’
‘I see.’
‘Which makes me properly colonised property of the British Crown. My thought processes have to meet the approval of my British masters before they can be communicated to other Europeans. Ah, I’m losing the thread of what I was saying. What was your question again?’
‘I wanted to know if you were friends with Jean-Jacques Henri—’
‘Ah, yes. Jean-Jacques. That fellow is my bosom buddy, my intellectual sparring partner.’
The Frenchman leaned forward eagerly. Moloto frowned and got up, sensing the other man’s appetite for a juicy story. ‘Forget it, I shouldn’t be talking about this.’