by Deon Meyer
At home another letter had been pushed under his door.
Why don’t you reply?
The discomfort was back in his belly. By now he recognized it. There was a lane in Goodwood, behind the cinema on Voortrekker Road. They said that was where motorcycle riders did stuff. He was eight or nine. And every Saturday night he stared down the dark of the lane with a curiosity that threatened to consume him. Run, his mind told him. Run down it like the wind, just once. But the fear, the uncertainty about his own bravery, lay like a weight in his stomach. He had never risked the lane. He drove to Blouberg, bought chicken at Kentucky, and ate it in the car while he stared at the wind-flattened sea. Then he drove home to read his book.
Late in the evening the telephone rang. He put William Gibson on the table next to the armchair, answered. It was Cloete of public relations.
“Are you still working on the Yellow Peril or can I feed the newspapers something else tomorrow?”
8.
Cape town — Up to now the police have been unable to establish any connection between the Tokarev murder and Chinese drug syndicates.
De Wit read the report in a soft voice, a thin smile on his face. He put down the newspaper and looked at Joubert.
“Must we differ about this case in public, Captain?”
“No, Colonel,” said Joubert and saw that the no smoking sign had been moved from the coffee table in the corner to de Wit’s desk next to the family photograph.
“Did you provide the information?” De Wit’s voice was conversational, almost jolly.
“Colonel,” said Joubert tiredly, “as investigating officer I reacted to a query from a colleague at public relations. It’s in line with the procedures and regulations of the service. I gave him the information in the light of the way I see the murder investigation at this stage. It’s my duty.”
“I see,” said de Wit and again smiled slightly. He picked up the newspaper and slid his eyes over the report. “You didn’t deliberately make a fool of your commanding officer?”
“No, Colonel.”
“We’ll never really know, Captain Joubert. But in the long run it probably won’t matter. Thank you for coming by.”
Joubert realized he was being excused. He stood up, uncomfortable, uncertain about the other man’s calmness, already aware that it meant something, predicted something.
“Thanks, Colonel,” Joubert mumbled at the door.
He was behind with his paperwork. He pulled the adjutants’ files toward him but found it difficult to concentrate. He lit a Winston and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. He wondered whether he’d deliberately made a fool of his commanding officer.
And he thought about the cunning of his subconscious and knew that he was not entirely innocent, Your Worship.
Dragging footsteps moved down the passage. Griessel walked past, his head bowed. There was something in his carriage that disturbed Joubert.
“Benny?”
The footsteps returned. Griessel’s face appeared around the door. He was pale.
“Benny, is everything all right?”
“I’m okay, Captain.” The voice was remote.
“What’s the matter, Benny?”
“I’m okay, Captain.” Slightly more expression. “Probably something I ate.”
Or drank, Joubert thought but said nothing.
Griessel’s face disappeared. Joubert lit another cigarette. He forced himself to concentrate on the work in front of him. Dossiers about death. An elderly couple in Durbanville. An unknown black body next to the train tracks in Kuilsriver. A woman in Belhar murdered with a screwdriver by her drunken husband.
Then he heard someone clearing his throat. Bart de Wit stood in front of his desk. Joubert wondered how he managed to move like a cat over the tiled floor. He saw that de Wit wasn’t smiling. His face was serious.
“I’ve got news, Captain. Good news.”
Joubert ground the gears of the Sierra and drove jerkily through the afternoon traffic. He wished he could express the astonishment and indignation that clung to him like a too tight piece of clothing.
De Wit had told him he had to see the psychologist.
“Your file has been referred.”
The passive form. Too scared to say: I referred your file, Captain, because you are a loser. And I, Bart de Wit, don’t need losers. I want to get rid of you. And if I can’t do it with the medical report, I’ll do it in this way. Let’s dig around in your head, Captain. Let’s thrust a spoon into the stew of your head and stir it a little. Stand back, folks, because it might be dangerous. This man in front of you is slightly . . . off. Not all there. Mentally unbalanced. On the surface he looks normal. Somewhat overweight, somewhat untidy, but normal. But inside his head it’s something else, ladies and gentlemen. Inside that skull a few circuits have shorted.
“Your file has been referred. There are appointments available”—he’d checked the green file—“this afternoon at sixteen-thirty, tomorrow at oh nine hundred, fourteen hundred —”
“This afternoon,” Mat Joubert had said hurriedly.
De Wit had looked up from the file, somewhat surprised, appraisingly. “We’ll arrange it.”
And now he was on his way. Because somewhere in a gray office with a couch for his patients, a bespectacled psychologist had had insight into his file. Had begun setting up the scorecard of Freud or Jung or whomsoever. What have we here? The death of his wife? Minus twenty. Disciplinary hearing? Minus twenty. And the slump in his work. Minus forty. He could have done something about that. Grand total minus eighty. Bring him in.
“We’ll keep an eye on the situation, Captain. See whether the therapy helps.” A covert threat, concealed. But obviously de Wit’s trump card.
Perhaps it was a good thing. God knows, his head had been muddled. Had been? Could one really judge the state of one’s own mind? How normal was he at Macassar when he’d looked at the burnt remains of the three, could hear their voices in his ears? The high, shrill, primal scream that the spirit utters when it reluctantly has to leave the body, the volume intensified by the screaming of flesh in the agony of death by fire, every pain receptor swamped by the intense heat.
Was that normal?
Was it normal to wonder then, for the umpteenth time, whether you shouldn’t take the trouble to join the dead? Wasn’t it better to have control over the when and the how? Was it wrong to be afraid of that unexpected moment when the mind realized it had a nanosecond left in the world? Afraid. Terrified.
And now de Wit was holding a sword above his muddled head. Let the psychologist fix the circuitry or . . .
He stopped in front of a tower block on the Foreshore. Sixteenth floor. Dr. H. Nortier. That was all he knew. He took the elevator.
Joubert was pleased that there was no one else in the waiting room.
It was different from what he’d expected. There was a couch and two chairs, comfortable and attractive, covered in a pink-and- blue floral. In the center a coffee table held six magazines, the latest editions of De Kat, Time, Car, Cosmopolitan, Sarie, and ADA magazine. Against a white-painted door, which presumably led to the consulting room, there was a neat sign that read DR. NORTIER WILL WELCOME YOU SOON. PLEASE MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME AND ENJOY THE COFFEE. THANK YOU. The same sign was repeated in Afrikaans. There were watercolors on the other walls—one of cosmos, another of the fishermen’s cottages at Paternoster. In one corner there was a table with a coffee machine. Next to it stood porcelain coffee cups and saucers, teaspoons, a jar of powdered milk, and a bowl of sugar.
He poured himself a cup and the filter coffee smelled good. Was the man a psychiatrist? Psychologists were “mister,” not “doctor.” Was he so batty that he needed a psychiatrist?
He sat down on the couch, put the cup on the coffee table, and took out his Winstons. He looked for an ashtray. There were none in the room. Irritation overcame him. How was it possible for a psychologist not to have an ashtray in his waiting room? He returned the pack to his pocket.
He wanted to smoke. He paged through the magazine. Nothing in it interested him. The woman on the cover of Cosmopolitan had big boobs and a big mouth. He picked up the magazine and flipped through it. He saw a headline. WHAT HE THINKS ABOUT AT WORK. He flattened the pages there but realized the doctor could open the door at any moment. He closed the magazine.
He was dying for a smoke. After all, cigarettes couldn’t harm the mind.
He took out the packet and put a cigarette between his lips. He took out the lighter and stood up. There must be a can somewhere he could use.
The white door opened. Joubert looked up. A woman came in. She was small. She smiled and put out her hand.
“Captain Joubert?”
He put out his hand. The lighter was still in it. He drew back his hand and shifted the lighter to his left hand. “That’s right,” he wanted to say but the cigarette was still in his mouth. He blushed, pulled his hand back, and removed the cigarette from his mouth, putting it into his left hand. He put out his hand again and shook hers.
“There’s no ashtray here,” he mumbled, blushing, and felt her hand, small and warm and dry.
She was still smiling. “It must be the cleaning service. Come in and smoke here,” she said and dropped his hand. She held the white door for him.
“No, please,” he said, indicating that she had to walk in first, self-conscious and uncomfortable after his meaningless remark about the ashtray.
“Thank you.” She went in and he closed the door behind them, aware of her long brown skirt, her white blouse buttoned up to the throat, her brown brooch, a wooden elephant pinned above one of the small breasts. He caught a hint of feminine odor, perfume or her own, noticed her grace, her fragility, and an odd beauty that he couldn’t identify as yet.
“Do sit down,” she said and walked around the white desk. A tall, slender vase with three pink carnations stood on it. And a white telephone, an A-4 notebook, a small penholder containing a few red and black pencils, a large glass ashtray, and a green file. He wondered whether it was his file. Behind her there was a white bookcase that almost filled the wall. It was full of books—paperbacks and hardcovers, a neat, colorful, cheerful panel of knowledge and enjoyment.
There was another door in the corner, next to the bookcase. Did the previous patient leave through it?
He sat down on one of the two chairs in front of the desk. They were television chairs, the adjustable kind, covered in black leather. He wondered whether he should’ve waited for her to sit down first. She smiled, her hands resting comfortably on the desk in front of her.
“I’ve never addressed anyone as ‘captain’ in consultation,” she said.
Her voice was very soft, as if she was speaking in the strictest confidence, but melodious. He wondered whether psychiatrists were taught to speak like that.
“I’m called Mat.”
“Because of your initials?”
“Yes,” he said, relieved.
“My name is Hanna. I’d be pleased if you called me that.”
“Are you a psychiatrist?” he asked nervously, impulsively.
She shook her head. Her hair was an almost colorless brown, tied back in a braid. The braid was visible with every movement of her head.
“An ordinary psychologist.”
“But you’re a doctor?”
She tilted her head, as if she was slightly uncomfortable. “I have a doctorate in psychology.”
He digested this information.
“May I smoke?”
“Of course.”
He lit the cigarette. It had bent when he’d clutched it in his hand earlier and it drooped sadly between his fingers. He sucked in the smoke and unnecessarily tapped the ash into the ashtray. He kept his eyes on the cigarette, on the ashtray.
“This is only the second week that I’ve been working with the police,” she said. “I’ve already seen a few people. Some were unhappy because they had to come. I do understand that. It’s not pleasant to be forced into something.”
She waited for a reaction, got nothing.
“Psychological consultation doesn’t mean that there’s something wrong with you. Just that you need someone to talk to. Someone between work and home.”
Again she waited. Joubert kept his eyes away from her. Why did it sound like excuses to him? Why did it have to be a woman? It had caught him unaware.
“Your work creates a lot of stress. Every policeman should talk to a psychologist on a regular basis.”
“Was I referred because there’s nothing wrong with me?”
“No.”
“Who decided that I had to come?”
“I did.”
He looked at her. Her arms were relaxed, only her hands occasionally made small gestures to punctuate her words. And her voice. He glanced quickly at her face. He saw the line of her jaw, straight and delicate as if it was fragile. He looked away again. She didn’t look guilty. Only calm and patient.
“And my OC?”
“OC?”
“My commanding officer.”
“I get a whole pile of files every day from officers who think their men should talk to me. And only I recommend who should come.”
But it was still de Wit who had done the preliminary work. Filled in the forms. Written the motivation.
He became aware of the intensity of her gaze. He stubbed out the cigarette. He folded his arms and looked at her. Her face was serious.
Even more quietly than before she said: “It’s not unnatural to be unhappy about it.”
“Why did you choose me?”
“Why do you think?”
She’s clever, he thought. Too clever for me.
He knew he wasn’t mad. Or was that precisely what the crazies said? He was there because he was just a little crazy. The Great Predator was on his trail. And that sometimes made him . . .
“Because of my record,” he said resignedly.
She looked at him, a sympathetic half smile on her mouth. Her mouth was small. He saw that she wore no makeup. Her lower lip was a juicy morsel, a natural pale pink.
When she said nothing, he added: “It’s probably necessary.”
“Why do you think it’s necessary?” Almost whispering. Only the musicality of her voice made it audible.
Was this the way she worked? You came in, sat down and lanced your own abscess, releasing the pus in front of the good doctor, and she disinfected the wound and bandaged it. Where did he have to start? Did she want to know about his childhood? Did she think he’d never heard of Freud? Or should he start with Lara? Or end with Lara? Or with death? What about Yvonne Stoffberg? Do you want to hear the one about the detective and the neighbor’s daughter, Doctor? Screamingly funny story . . . Because the detective wants to but doesn’t know whether he can.
“Because my work is suffering.” A gutless reply. He knew it. And knew that she also knew it.
She was quiet for a long time. “Your accent. I’m from Gauteng. It still sounds strange. Did you grow up here?”
He looked down, at his brown shoes, which needed polish. He nodded. “Goodwood.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
Wasn’t that in his file as well? “An older sister.”
“Is she still in the Cape?”
“No. Secunda.”
Now he looked at her when he spoke. He saw the broad forehead, the big brown eyes, set wide apart, the heavy eyebrows.
“Do you resemble each other?”
“No . . .” He knew he had to say something more. He knew his replies were too brief.
“She . . . looks like my father.”
“And you?”
“Like my mother.” He was shy, uncomfortable. What he wanted to say sounded so commonplace. But he said it: “Actually I take after my mother’s family. Her father, my grandfather, was evidently also big.”
He took a de
ep breath. “And clumsy.” He was annoyed because he’d added the last two words. Like a criminal deliberately leaving clues.
“Do you regard yourself as clumsy?” She said it automatically, a reflex, and in an odd way it made him feel better. At least she wasn’t in complete control.
“I am.”
“Why do you say that?” More slowly, thoughtful now.
“I always was.” His eyes wandered over the bookshelves but he saw nothing. “Since I can remember.” The memories dammed up against the dike. He took out a finger to let a few drops through. “In junior school . . . I always came last in track events . . .” He was unaware of his wry smile. “It worried me. Not in high school, though.”
“Why did it worry you?”
“My father . . . I wanted to be like him.” He pushed the finger back. The leak was sealed again.
She hesitated for a moment. “Are your parents still living?”
“No.”
She waited.
“My father died three years ago. Of a heart attack. My mother a year later. He was sixty-one. She was fifty-nine.” He didn’t want to remember.
“What did your father do?”
“Policeman. For seventeen years he was the commanding officer of the Goodwood station.” Joubert could hear the wheels spinning in her head. His father was a policeman. He was a policeman. That meant whatever it meant. But she would be making a mistake.
“I didn’t become a cop because my father was one.”
“Oh?”
She was so clever. She had caught him out. But not again. He said nothing. He dug his hand into his jacket pocket looking for his cigarettes. No, it was too soon. He took his hand out, folded his arms across his chest again.
“Was he a good policeman?”
Why this obsession with his father?
“I don’t know. Yes. He was of another era. His people—the uniforms, white and brown—were fond of him.”