by Deon Meyer
When he’d finished, the fountain pen’s top was replaced and carefully returned to the inner pocket. The glasses were folded, put into the case, the trembling hand returning it to the pocket. The right hand took the slip, the left hand the walking stick. He began the weary walk to the cashier.
The Heerengracht branch of Premier Bank was not its largest. But to compete with all the other banks in the immediate vicinity, this branch was a flawless example of Premier’s corporate identity: mauve carpets, wooden furniture painted pale gray, white walls decorated with advertising posters.
Joyce Odendaal’s uniform was equally correct—a mauve jacket and skirt (trousers in winter), a white blouse with a frilled collar, and a silver brooch that represented the logo—a sans serif PB. Joyce was twenty-two, attractive, and the cashier of the month.
She saw the old man’s jerky walk, the brown suit from another era, the gold watch chain that stretched from the vest to the trouser pocket, the tie that the rheumatic hands hadn’t been able to knot properly.
She sighed. She didn’t like old people. They were deaf and stubborn and checked each transaction as if it was the bank’s intention to cheat them. And they often made an unnecessary fuss about the smallest little mistake.
Nevertheless her “Good morning, sir” was friendly and she smiled. There was a slight gap between Joyce’s front teeth. She saw the food stains on the tie and vest and was grateful that she wouldn’t have to watch him eating.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said, and she thought that the voice sounded youthful. And the blue eyes set among the wrinkles also looked young.
“What can we do for you this morning?”
“A girl like you can help a man like me with many things,” he said in his youthful voice. “But let’s concentrate on what’s possible right now.”
Joyce Odendaal’s smile didn’t waver for a second, because she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Get one of those large money bags and fill it with fifty-rand notes. I’ve got a big old revolver under my jacket which I don’t want to use. You have such an attractive branch here.”
He opened his jacket to show her the weapon.
“Sir?” said Joyce, the smile uncertain.
“Come on, sweetheart, keep your foot off the alarm and let’s get on with it. This old man is in a hurry.” He smiled. Joyce’s right hand moved slowly toward her face. A forefinger slowly rubbed the skin under her nose, her mouth by now agape. Then her hand started shaking. She lowered it again. The alarm button was four centimeters from her foot.
“What perfume do you use?” the elderly man asked in a calm, interested voice.
“You’re the Fire,” she said without thinking and took a money bag. She opened her cash drawer and began taking out notes.
Joubert came back from the bank robbery and had to run to pick up the telephone in his office.
“Hold on for Dr. Perold, please.”
He waited.
“Captain?”
“Doctor?”
“I don’t have good news, Captain.”
Joubert’s stomach muscles contracted. He wondered whether the doctor was staring at the telephone now with eyes narrowed over his reading glasses. Joubert waited.
“Your cholesterol, Captain. I sent the report to your commanding officer but I want to speak to you as well.”
“Yes.”
“It’s high, Captain. Very high.”
“Is that bad?”
The doctor made a curious sound at the other end. “That’s an acceptable description of your condition, Captain. Combined with the smoking, the excessive weight, and the family history, yes, I would describe it as bad.”
Should he tell the doctor that he had begun swimming on Saturday mornings?
“We must put you on medication. And a diet. Immediately.”
Joubert sighed. “What must I do?”
He bought a collection of short stories, The 1990 Hugo Award Winners, and a novel by Spider Robinson, strongly recommended by Willy. Children were playing cricket in the street in front of his house. He had to wait until they moved the cardboard box that served as wickets before he could get into his driveway.
The morning’s swim had given him an appetite. There was a lonely tin of baked beans in tomato sauce in a corner of the cupboard. He wondered whether it was bad for cholesterol. Tomorrow the dietitian would be able to tell him. He took a Castle from the fridge. He had read somewhere that beer was full of healthy vitamins and minerals. He unscrewed the top, took the plastic holder with the cholesterol pills out of his jacket pocket, put a pill on his tongue, and swallowed it with a swig of beer. The beer was cold and made him shudder slightly. He walked to the living room. He sat down and lit a Special Mild. The cigarette didn’t satisfy him. Maybe he should go back to Winstons, only smoke less. Or did smoke also have an effect on cholesterol? He dragged deeply at the cigarette but it made no difference. He opened the paperback at the first story, by Isaac Asimov.
There was a knock at the front door.
Joubert put the beer behind his chair and got up. He opened the front door.
Jerry Stoffberg stood on the stoop. And behind him Yvonne hovered.
“Evening, Mat.” Stoffberg wasn’t as cheerful as usual.
Joubert knew why Stoffberg was there and he felt pressure building in his chest and for a moment wondered whether this was the first sign of a heart attack.
“Hello, Stoffs,” he said, his voice strained.
“May we come in, Mat?”
“Of course.” Joubert held the door for them. He noticed that the girl wouldn’t meet his eyes and he knew what he had to say to Stoffberg. Nothing had happened. Stoffberg had to realize that. Up to that moment nothing had happened—yet.
They walked to the living room in silence. Joubert’s cigarette was still smoking in the ashtray.
“Do sit down,” he said but Stoffberg was already seated on the couch. His daughter sat down next to him as if she needed support. Joubert swallowed. The pressure in his chest increased.
“Mat, I’m sorry to bother you but an unfortunate thing has happened in our family.”
“Nothing happened,” said Joubert apprehensively and heavily swallowed the excess saliva in his mouth.
“Sorry?” Stoffberg obviously didn’t understand. Joubert saw Yvonne frowning angrily at him.
“My sister’s brother-in-law died last night. In Benoni. Heart attack. At thirty-eight. In the prime of life. Tragic.” He looked at Joubert’s cigarette in the ashtray. “He also smoked heavily, you know.”
A light went on for Joubert. For the first time he understood Stoffberg’s present attitude. It was the man’s professional face. The undertaker on duty. The pressure in Joubert’s chest disappeared.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Yvonne’s frown vanished.
“They want me to bury him, Mat.” Stoffberg was quiet for a moment. Joubert didn’t know what to say. “It’s a great honor for me. Not a pleasant task. But an honor. The funeral is Wednesday. But we have a problem. I need your help, Mat.”
“I’ll do anything I can, Jerry,” he said feelingly.
“You see, Bonnie starts at the Technikon on Wednesday.” Stoffberg put his arm around his daughter and looked proudly at her. His voice lost some of its gravity. “Ja, Mat, pa’s baby has grown up. She’s going to study public relations.” Yvonne Stoffberg turned her face into her father’s shoulder like a little girl and smiled sweetly at Joubert.
Stoffberg’s voice regained its professionalism. “She can’t go with us, Mat. And all her friends are still on holiday. I can probably ask Mrs. Pretorius on the corner if she can stay with her, but that redheaded son of hers . . .”
Stoffberg pressed the palms of his hands together in a pleading gesture. “Then Bonnie suggested we come over and ask you whether she can stay here, Mat.”
He didn’t realize immediately what Stoffberg was saying because he was considering the irony of Stoffberg’s apprehension about the re
dheaded boy. Stoffberg interpreted the silence as hesitation.
“You’re the only one we can trust, Mat. After all, you’re a policeman. And it’s only for a week. Bonnie said she could cook for you and keep house. And stay out of your way. It’s only in the evenings, really. During the day she’ll be at home. I’d really appreciate it, Mat.”
“Hell, Jerry . . .”
“Tell Uncle Mat you won’t be in his way, Bonnie.”
She said nothing. She merely smiled sweetly.
Joubert knew what his reply was going to be. But he fought for his integrity.
“I often work at night, Jerry . . .”
Stoffberg nodded in grave agreement. “I understand, Mat. But she’s quite grown up, after all.”
Joubert could think of no other excuse. “When are you leaving, Jerry? I’ll have to give her a key.”
“Tomorrow morning.” Yvonne Stoffberg spoke for the first time, her eyes chastely fixed on the carpet.
He gave her a brief glance, saw her looking up quickly and smiling at him. He looked back at Jerry Stoffberg but avoided the man’s eyes.
11.
The water was as smooth as glass. Again he was the only member of the business club swimming that morning. He dived in and began with a breaststroke, slowly. He was looking for his rhythm. He didn’t know whether he would ever find that old rhythm again. It was too many Winstons and Castles ago. A lifetime.
He tired more easily than on the previous two occasions. At least he had an excuse, he thought. A night of tossing and turning. Of wrestling with his conscience, caught between desire and a heavy feeling of guilt.
With his head on the pillow he could hear the beat of his heart. An increased rate. He had risen sometime after one and fetched the poem in the spare bedroom, under the William Gibson on a pile of paperbacks.
Taste me, touch me, take me . . .
He had to lie on his back and concentrate on other things. His work. De Wit. What was de Wit’s agenda? Eventually sleep had overtaken him.
But he felt the tiredness in the morning. After two lengths of breaststroke he was finished.
De Wit came to Joubert’s office, a green file in his hand. Joubert was on the phone to Pretoria.
De Wit knocked on the doorpost and waited outside. Joubert wondered why he didn’t come in but finished his call. Then de Wit walked in. He had a smile on his face again. Uncomfortable, Joubert stood up.
“Sit down, Captain. I don’t want to keep you from your work. Is Pretoria giving you problems?”
“No, Colonel. I . . . They haven’t sent the ballistics report yet. About the Tokarev. I was chasing them.”
“May I sit down?”
“Of course, Colonel.” Why didn’t he simply sit down?
“I want to discuss your physical health today, Captain.” Joubert understood the smile. It was one of triumph, he realized.
De Wit opened the green file. “I’ve received your medical report.” He looked Joubert in the eye. “Captain, there are matters here you have to solve for yourself. I have no right to speak to you about your high cholesterol or your smoking habits. But I have the right to discuss your fitness. This report states that you’re fifteen kilograms overweight. You don’t have as many problems as some of your colleagues but it’s still fifteen kilos too many. And the doctor considers you to be seriously unfit.”
De Wit closed the green file.
“I don’t want to be unreasonable. The doctor says five kilograms every six months is not unreasonable. Shall we give you until this time next year, Captain? To monitor the progress? What do you think?”
Joubert was annoyed by the man’s superior tone of voice, by his attitude of feigned friendliness. “We can make it six months, Colonel.”
Because de Wit didn’t know he had started swimming again. Joubert experienced a feeling of purpose. The long muscles of his legs and arms were pleasantly tired after the morning’s swim. He knew he could keep it up. He would rub old Two Nose’s face in it.
“We can make it six months. Definitely.”
De Wit was still wearing the small smile, almost a grimace. “It’s your choice, Captain. I’m impressed by your determination. We’ll make a note of it.”
He opened the green file again.
The day took on its usual shape. He drove out to Crossroads. The mutilated body of a baby. Ritual murder. The radio on his hip scratched and buzzed and called him to Simons Town. The owner of a shop selling military artifacts had been shot with an AK. The splashes of blood and brains looked depressingly apt on an American army steel helmet, a Japanese officer’s sword, and a captain’s cap from a sunken U-boat.
In the afternoon he was five minutes late for his appointment with the dietitian. He stopped in the parking area of the clinic. The woman was waiting for him.
She wasn’t pretty but she was thin. Her fair hair curled about her head but her nose was crooked, her mouth small and humorless.
She shook her head in disbelief when Joubert told her about his eating habits. She used flash cards and posters to explain about fatty acids—saturated and unsaturated—about fiber and bran, animal fats and vegetable fats, calories, vitamins, minerals, and balance.
He shook his head and said that he lived alone. His stomach contracted when he thought about Yvonne Stoffberg, who would be waiting in his house that evening, but he told the dietitian that he couldn’t cook, that he didn’t have the time to maintain a healthy diet.
She asked him whether he had the time for a heart attack. She asked whether he realized what his cholesterol count meant. She asked how much time it would take to stop at a vegetable market, to put some fruit in his attaché case every morning.
Detectives don’t carry attaché cases, he wanted to say but didn’t. He admitted that it wouldn’t be difficult.
And sandwiches? she asked. How much time did it take to wrap a whole wheat sandwich in foil for the following day? And to swallow a plate of bran with skim milk in the morning? And to buy artificial sweeteners for all the tea and coffee in the office? How much time could it take?
Not much, he admitted.
Well then, she said, we can start working. She took out a form that read THE DIET OF . . .
Her pen poised above the open space, she was the epitome of efficiency. “First name?”
Joubert sighed. “Mat.”
“What?”
The entrance hall of the Bellville South Murder and Robbery Squad had an area where visitors could wait. The walls were bare, the floor was covered with cold gray tiles, and the chairs were civil-service issue, made to last and not necessarily for comfort.
Those who waited there were the family, friends, and relatives of murder or robbery suspects. So why offer such people comfort and amusement in a waiting area? After all, they were probably blood relatives of suspected criminals. This might well have been the thinking of the architects and administrators when the plans were being discussed.
But Mrs. Mavis Petersen didn’t agree. The entrance hall was part of her kingdom, adjacent to the reception desk where she held sway. She was a Malay woman, slender and attractive and a beautiful shade of light brown. And she knew the pain of a criminal’s nearest and dearest. That’s why there were flowers on the reception desk of the Murder and Robbery building every day of the week. And a smile on her face.
But not now.
“Sergeant Griessel is missing,” she said when Joubert came in and walked to the steel gate that gave access to the rest of the building.
“Missing?”
“He didn’t come in this morning, Captain. We phoned but there was no reply. I sent two constables from the station in the van, but his house is locked.”
“His wife?”
“She says she hasn’t seen him for weeks. And if we find him we might as well ask him where the alimony checks are.”
Joubert thought it over, his fingers drumming on the desk.
Mavis’s voice was suddenly low, disapproving. “The Colonel says we don’t have t
o look for him. He says it’s Adjutant Griessels’s way of answering him.”
Joubert said nothing.
“He’s very different to Colonel Theal, hey, Captain?” Her words were an invitation to form an alliance.
“Very different, Mavis. Are there any messages for me?”
“Nothing, Captain.”
“I’m going to try the Outspan. That’s where we found him the previous time. And then I’m going home. Tell radio I want to know immediately if they hear anything about Benny.”
“Very well, Captain.”
Joubert walked out.
“Such authority,” Mavis said with raised eyebrows to the empty entrance hall.
The Outspan Hotel was on Voortrekker Road between Bellville and Stikland, a hotel that had acquired its one star under another management.
Joubert showed his plastic identity card and asked for the register. Only two rooms were occupied, neither by a Griessel. He walked to the bar, a dark room with a low ceiling and somberly paneled in wood.
The first early evening clients were already leaning against the long bar counter, singly, uncomfortable, uncamouflaged by the anonymity conferred by numbers.
The smell rose in Joubert’s nostrils. Liquor and tobacco, wood and people, cleaning materials and furniture polish—decades of it. It reached a tentacle deep into his memory and brought forgotten images to the surface: He, aged nine, ten, eleven, was sent to call his father. Ten o’clock at night. The bar was filled with people and smoke and heat and voices. His father sat in a corner surrounded by faces. His father was arm wrestling against a big man with a red face. His pa was playing with the guy.
“Ahhh, my son’s here. Sorry, Henry, I can’t look bad in front of him.” And his father pushed the man’s arm down flat on the wooden table. The faces laughed amiably, full of admiration for the strong man, the keeper of law and order in Goodwood.
“Come on, Mat, let me teach you.” He sat down opposite his father, shy and proud.
Their hands clasped. His father acted, pretended that his son could easily beat him.
Again the onlookers laughed loudly.