by Deon Meyer
“It’s curious that the Italians almost hissed the first performance of The Barber off the stage,” the speaker said. “What a humiliation it must’ve been for Rossini.”
Joubert smiled inwardly. Indeed, friend, I can understand it. I know humiliation.
The man spoke about the libretto. Joubert didn’t know what it meant. He absorbed each word, looked for clues. He decided it had to mean the story.
“We are privileged to have the well-known Italian tenor Andro Valenti as Figaro in this year’s production,” said the man with the soft voice and turned round. Behind him another man stood up. The people clapped and Valenti bowed. “Andro will sing the first aria, ‘Largo al factotum,’ for us. You all know it.”
The manner in which the audience applauded made it clear to Joubert that they all knew and liked it.
He watched the Italian. The man wasn’t tall, but he was broad in the shoulder and chest. He stood easily, hands relaxed at his sides, feet planted wide. A young woman had sat down at the piano. They nodded at each other. The Italian smiled when the notes sounded from the piano. He took a deep breath.
Joubert was startled by the intensity of Valenti’s voice. It was like a radio suddenly switched on, its volume turned up too high.
The Italian’s voice filled the room. He sang in his own language and often repeated the name Figaro. The music was light and rhythmical, the melody surprisingly pleasant to his ears. And Valenti sang with abandon.
Joubert was fascinated by the man’s attitude, his enthusiasm, his self-confidence, his voice, which made the wooden floor under Joubert’s feet quiver, the ease with which he sang. But there was something else, something that made him feel guilty, something like an accusation. He tried to identify it, had difficulty in ridding himself of the positive hold the music had on him.
The Italian was enjoying it. This was his profession and he did it well and he enjoyed it without reservation.
How very different from Captain Mat Joubert.
He was suspicious. Was this why Hanna Nortier had brought him here? Was this a secret, sophisticated form of therapy?
The man’s voice and the sweet exuberance of the melody invaded him again. It filled Joubert with a curious longing. He concentrated on the music, allowed the longing to grow in his subconscious, nameless and formless.
It struck him just before Valenti completed the aria. He also wanted to get up and sing, stand next to the Italian and roar so that he, too, could feel the euphoria. He wanted life to glow in him like a great burning brand. He wanted to do his work with the disdainful commitment of total efficiency. He longed for enthusiasm, for passion, for those rare moments of intensity when one felt that life was laughing with you. He longed for life. He was tired, and sick of death. He had such a yearning for life. Then the audience applauded. Mat Joubert also clapped. Louder than anyone else.
They had coffee at a restaurant.
“Did you like it?” she asked.
“I know nothing about opera.”
“One doesn’t have to know anything about something to enjoy it.”
“I . . . er . . .” He was very aware of the fact that she was the Psychologist, the Weigher of Words. He dropped his head and shoulders. “It was lovely, at the beginning. But later . . .”
“You felt like a child who had eaten too many sweets?”
He didn’t understand her immediately. She explained. The first one was delicious, sweet and tasty. But then it became too much.
“Yes,” he said, surprised that she understood it so well.
“It’s a sensory overload. You should be pleased that it wasn’t Wagner.”
“The name sounds vaguely familiar,” he said. “Has he got a criminal record?”
He surprised himself with his attempt at humor, the manner in which he handled his own ignorance and her superior knowledge.
She smiled. He caught a glimpse of her personality because the small smile was a mere movement of her pretty, delicate mouth. Her eyes wore the traces of a frown. There was a withdrawn quality about her, as if she was aware of every emotion and the reaction of others to her personality. He wondered whether this was the price she had to pay for the knowledge in her head. Every thought was measured against a paragraph in a textbook.
“I’ll lend you a CD of The Barber. If you listen to it and get used to the music and get to know it you’ll be able to bear more.”
“I don’t have a CD player.” Lara had bought the music center that stood in his living room, on a police salary. It had an unknown name, was a special offer at Lewis Stores, but it was good enough for Lara’s ABBA records and later BZN. Sometimes she turned up the sound to an ear-splitting volume and danced in the dark room, alone, while he sat in a chair and watched her and knew that when she had finished . . .
And he had wondered if the neighbors weren’t going to complain about the loud music, but he couldn’t wait for the energy in her body, absorbed through the music, to be unleashed on him. Later, after her death, he had wondered about those moments when she, filled with the rhythm of the music, had mounted him on their double bed. Was the man in her head and the one between her thighs the same person? Or was he the means with which she acted out a fantasy, her black hair with the auburn lights over her face, her eyes closed, her breasts shiny with the sweat of love, her hips heaving like the sea, ceaselessly, until deep sounds indicated the moment of orgasm, rhythmic, rhythmic, faster, faster, uhm, uhm, uhm, uhm, and she gasped and she came, unaware that his own climax had already been reached and that he was watching her with his consuming love, and gratitude for his luck, storing each millimeter of her unbelievably lithe body in his memory.
Hanna Nortier had said something he hadn’t heard and he blushed at his thoughts and his mouth, which hung slightly open because of the intensity of the memory.
She saw that he hadn’t heard. “I’ll tape it. You have a cassette player?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And a television.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.” He wasn’t going to tell her that he had given the television to his cleaning woman because he’d sat in front of it night after night, like a zombie, while one American sitcom after the other rolled across the screen and the canned laughter had rubbed his nerve ends raw, and each stupid story of each stupid program with its own stupid moral had been a rearrangement of his own stupid life.
“Then you didn’t see yourself on television on Friday night?”
“No.”
He didn’t want their meeting to turn into a therapy session. He and a pretty woman together in a restaurant. So different from last night. He wanted to keep up the appearance. What other people were seeing, a couple.
“The media are really giving it a run for its money,” she said, and he realized that she also wanted to avoid their professional status.
“Ja. Seems as if other news is low on the ground.”
“Did you see yesterday’s Burger?” He could just think that she must be desperate—because the man didn’t have either a CD player or a television.
“Yesterday’s, yes.”
“Do you think it’s the same person? The murderer and the robber?”
He took a deep breath, his uncertainty willing him to close the door in her face, to give her a brief reply, afraid that he might not be able to motivate it, afraid that he might make a fool of himself in front of this small, pretty woman.
“I doubt it,” he said and began speaking, slowly and carefully. He told her about the murders, one by one, about the suspects and the intrigues and the dead-end streets. He forgot about himself when he explained patterns and criminal behavior and his earlier experiences. His monologue became a proof of himself, an argument for the defense, that he was still worthy of his vocation. That he still had a reason for existence.
She asked questions, dared him in a subtle manner to answer questions, tested the validity of his arguments with slender fingers. His eyes remained on her face, on the cheekbones that seemed so fr
ail beneath the pale skin, on the eyes, the eyebrows, created to frown, the line of her jaw, immeasurably perfectly drawn.
“You read what they said? About the woman in the bank? About how brave she was? She’s a heroine. That’s not true. I think she was scared and the robber had a fright. The Mauser murderer wouldn’t have been frightened. He would’ve shot. It’s not the same person. To shoot someone at point-blank range with a large pistol needs . . . it needs a certain absence. Sometimes murderers and robbers are the same. But this robber is different. He’s a clown. The disguises, the sweetheart nonsense. I simply can’t believe it.”
“Are you going to speak to the criminologist?”
He was still too involved in his argument to grasp her meaning.
“The one they quoted? Who said the mass murderer’s acts were a revolt against society. Dr. Boshoff, I think.”
He shrugged his shoulders. He hadn’t considered it.
“Don’t you think it would help to get to know the psyche of the murderer?”
How could he explain to her that the examinations he wrote for sergeant and lieutenant and captain had contained nothing about the psyche? He only knew how to ask questions, how to look for the numbers in the spider’s web of the law’s thousand and one rules, to add them up until the sums made sense. Until the books balanced and he asked for a warrant of arrest and went to hammer on someone’s door with the face of an executioner.
“I don’t know. That’s your field.”
“It can’t do any harm. They’ve got all that data and research results. They teach it to the students. It would be a good thing if it could be used somewhere.”
“Perhaps I should,” he said.
The same nurse was on duty. “I’ve come to ask how Sergeant Griessel is,” he said politely and carefully.
Her eyes were large behind her glasses. “He asked for medication last night.” It sounded as though she had forgiven him.
“May I see him?”
“He’s sleeping. He won’t know that you’re here.”
He accepted her word. He thanked her and turned away. Then he stopped. “Why didn’t he want medicine before?”
“He said he didn’t deserve it.”
He just stood there and looked at her while the gears in his head slowly shifted.
“Are you a relative?”
“No,” he said. “Just a . . . friend.”
“They are like that sometimes. They fight it for so long. The bottle. They think that the next time round it’ll be easier to remember how bad it was to leave it.”
“Thank you,” he said without thinking and walked out.
There were still books that had to be arranged on the shelves. And his shoes. He wanted them shining. By evening.
24.
He wasn’t alone in the swimming pool this morning. The business club was there in full force, possibly because people were back from their holidays.
He swam grimly.
The bloody diet. He’d been hungry last night. Was it the conversation with Hanna Nortier or the physical effort with the bookcase that had sharpened his hunger? But he would not eat fattening foods, even though he yearned for Russian sausages and chips and toasted egg and bacon sandwiches from the bloody café. He would lose the weight and show Bart de Wit and the doctor and the psychologist . . .
So he smoked. As if his stomach would get nourishment through the tubes of his lungs. Food or cigarettes. Last night he had smoked the Special Milds without satisfaction, one after another until his mouth was dry and his tongue tasted foul, while he considered the curious relationship between the Detective and the Psychologist and wondered whether he was falling in love. Suddenly you’re a sexual whirlwind, Mat Joubert? One randy young thing you couldn’t even get into your gunsight and you’re busy with the next one. Don Juan Joubert. What has happened to your grief and pain? Do you really think you can escape Lara Joubert?
He had mocked himself, one section of his mind a spectator, watching his life passing, commenting and laughing at the owner of a video machine and a pile of cassettes. Let’s play one for you, Mat Joubert. See, there’s your dead wife, Lara. There, at the dressing table, the brush being dragged through her hair with irritable strokes. Watch the biceps and the triceps of her arm bunching under the tanned skin with each stroke. Watch the breasts bobbing, her bare breasts, which you can see in the mirror, small annoyed little tremors that make the nipples dance. Listen to her voice. “Jesus, Mat, we spend every weekend at home.”
There you are, lying on the bed, a book on your chest. “That place’s music deafens me,” you say weakly, a pathetic defense. Look at her turning toward you, look at her glowing with life. Look at her ardor. That was the way one should live. With every fiber of your being feeling, experiencing, expressing itself. “I’ll go alone. As God is my witness, Mat, one day I’ll go alone.”
There were other images as well. Before her death, after her death. Was the demon who orchestrated the libretto of his dreams also the mad scriptwriter in his head?
Now he swam even more grimly to escape too many cigarettes, his fear of his mind, which he didn’t understand.
He swam more lengths than he had ever swum before. And that made him feel slightly better.
The forensic report lay on his desk. He opened it. Mauser Broomhandle. The ammunition old.
His phone rang. De Wit wanted to see him. He got up, took the report with him. Gerbrand Vos stood in front of de Wit’s office.
“I just want to have a quick word with Captain Joubert,” de Wit said to Vos. He held the door for Joubert, walked in, and sat down. Vos remained outside.
“You must understand me clearly, Captain, it’s nothing personal. But this Mauser number is getting out of hand. The Brigadier’s coming here at eleven. He wants a complete report. And the media. They’re running with the murders. And it’s my duty to protect you.”
“Colonel?”
“I’m afraid someone might talk, Captain. People are people, even here. I want to take you off the case before they find out.”
“Find out what, Colonel?”
“About your psychological treatment, Captain. The force can’t afford it. Can you imagine how the newspapers would react?”
De Wit said it as if Joubert’s psychological treatment was a transgression for which he could be held directly responsible.
“I don’t understand, Colonel.”
The nervous smile was back on de Wit’s face. “What don’t you understand, Captain?”
“How they would find out. Surely only you and I and the psychologist know about it?”
The smile disappeared for a moment, then reappeared. “The service pays the psychologist, Captain. There are clerks who do the documentation, who send through files . . . Listen, it’s a preventive measure. It’s nothing personal.”
Joubert was caught unawares. He collected the loose threads of counterarguments, tried to arrange them. De Wit got up. “I’ll just let Captain Vos in.”
He opened the door, called Vos, sat down again. Vos sat down next to Joubert.
“Captain Joubert and I have just agreed that you must take over the Mauser investigation, Captain,” de Wit said.
Joubert’s thoughts scurried between the walls of his skull, looking for a way out, panic-stricken. He had to stop this. It was an urge for survival. It was his last chance. But he found no argument. He found calm.
“No, Colonel,” he said.
Vos and de Wit looked at him.
“We didn’t agree, Colonel,” he said, controlled and with precision.
De Wit’s mouth opened and closed.
“Colonel, the reason you gave for removing me from the investigation is not acceptable.” He turned to Vos. “I’m with a psychologist, Gerry. I’m ashamed of it but perhaps it’s a good thing. The Colonel is afraid the newspapers may find out about it. That’s why he wants to hide me. But I’ll carry on, Colonel, until I’m officially relieved of my duty, and through the correct channels.”
&n
bsp; “Captain . . .” de Wit said, his face heavy with perturbation. He couldn’t find the words to match it.
Vos gave a broad smile. “The Mauser thing is enough to make one fuckin’ loony tunes, Colonel. I don’t want it.”
“You . . .” De Wit looked at Vos in disbelief, then at Joubert and back at Vos.
There was a knock at the door.
“Not now!” de Wit shouted. His voice threatened to crack. He looked at the officers in front of him again. “You have —”
The knock at the door was louder.
“Not now!” de Wit screamed with recognizable hysteria. He shook his head as if he’d walked into a spider’s web. He shook his mole finger at Joubert and Vos. “You’re conspiring against me.” The finger shook. So did his voice.
The knock at the door was insistent.
De Wit jumped up. Behind him his chair fell over. He walked to the door and jerked it open. Gerrit Snyman stood there.
“Are you deaf?” De Wit was a soprano.
“Colonel —”
“I said not now.” De Wit started closing the door.
“There’s been another murder, Colonel,” Snyman said quickly before the wood could reach the frame. The door came to an abrupt halt. All three looked at Snyman.
“They’re looking for Captain Joubert on the radio. A man in Hout Bay, Colonel. Two shots. Two 7.63 cartridge cases.”
They stared at Snyman as if they were waiting for him to say he was only joking. De Wit cooled down, slowly, almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you, Constable,” he said, in his normal bandsaw tenor voice. Snyman nodded and turned away. De Wit closed the door. He walked back to his chair, picked it up, set it in place, and sat down.
Joubert considered his words as he started speaking, only aware that the Mauser investigation was his lifeline and that he had to give de Wit a way out of this confrontation. “Colonel, there is no conspiracy. Captain Vos and I couldn’t have known beforehand what you were going to tell us. But I’m asking you to reconsider.”