A Holiday to Die For

by Marion Leigh

  Beginning his dissertation in the main hall, Tony described how the Delapore family had come from France via Holland in the seventeen hundreds, bringing wine-making skills from the Rhône valley.

  ‘We hold our special invitational evenings with wine and food pairings in here,’ he intoned, ushering them into a dining room with a massive oak table and an antique beige and blue Persian rug. Petra’s eye was drawn immediately to the blue and white Delftware pieces displayed on a Dutch dresser at the far end of the room.

  On the other side of the hall was a flagstoned great room with tall, mullioned windows. Straight-backed chairs and sofas upholstered in tapestry fringed with gold braid stood round the walls. An enormous highboy with a bulbous bottom and ball and claw feet resembled a fat waddling duck.

  Tony shepherded them back to the main hall. He pointed out portraits of Delapore bigwigs that hung in the stairwell and drew their attention to the hand-carved balustrade and newel posts but did not take them upstairs to the family’s private quarters. Instead, Sandrine appeared on the stairs as if on cue and divided them into groups of four.

  For the next two hours, Tony led four golf carts driven by white-uniformed staff around the vast estate. At pre-arranged stations, they alighted from the carts and listened as he taught them everything they could possibly want to know about growing vines and turning the various grape varieties into red and white wines. They visited stables and outbuildings housing everything from tools to new and old barrels. Spying trapdoors in the floors of a number of outbuildings, Petra asked Tony what was below. Cellars, came the answer, unused nowadays except for occasional storage.

  By the end of the afternoon, Petra was close to breaking point after too much sun, lunchtime drinking and a surfeit of indigestible information. Anton was showing them the family cemetery and reeling off the names of illustrious forbears that meant nothing to his captives. When she heard him say, ‘Our last stop will be at the sunken garden, our outdoor functions area,’ she clasped her hands together as if in prayer.

  But the flow of information continued unabated. ‘We are a working wine farm, open to the public on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Tastings are conducted in our new purpose-built tasting centre which also houses the family museum. We’ll be meeting there this evening for drinks before dinner.’

  ‘Where does he get his energy?’ Petra ground out.

  ‘The Broselli genes, of course. We Brosellis never give up.’

  Despite her weariness, Petra whistled with delight when they came to the sunken garden. It was surrounded by low white walls that doubled as flower boxes. They were bursting with blue and white agapanthus, also called the flower of love or African lily, Tony told them.

  Rows of chairs draped in white were already set out under an open-sided marquee ready for Saturday’s wedding. Facing the first row of chairs was a tented wrought-iron gazebo around which grew rosebushes thick with white flowers.

  ‘This is where the wedding of my daughter, Julia, and Max De Witt will take place,’ Tony Broselli said with a touch of pride that caused Petra to half-forgive him for tutoring them so rigorously throughout the afternoon. ‘By Saturday, the chairs, the pillars and the gazebo will be covered in blossoms and vines symbolizing love, happiness and intimacy.’

  ‘I don’t know how much your poor uncle gets of that,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yet he’s in his element and never complains.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Julia and Max,’ Petra said while she was changing for dinner in the scant hour that Sandrine’s schedule allowed them. She and Carlo had worked out a system for using the bathroom and giving each other a bit of privacy.

  ‘What was that?’ he called.

  Petra repeated what she had said more or less to herself. Carlo came out of the bathroom drying his face and hands.

  ‘Julia is Tony’s daughter, as you know. A lovely girl, though not blessed with much in the looks department.’

  ‘Not hot then, like her stepmother?’

  ‘No. Homely, you might say. She’ll probably make a very good wife.’

  ‘Your sexist comments drive me bananas, Mercutio!’

  ‘That little number you’re wearing could drive me bananas too, tesoro mio!’

  Petra smoothed her purple Lycra and rayon dress with the silver flecks in it over her hips. ‘Sandrine, Gina, watch out! Here I come! What about Max, Julia’s intended?’

  ‘Don’t know him. Last time I visited South Africa they weren’t an item.’

  ‘Sandrine has a son, isn’t that what you told me?’

  ‘Right. A beautiful blue-eyed boy, literally and figuratively. He’s the apple of her eye, to use another cliché.’

  ‘I get the picture. And do I sense that Sandrine’s not so enamoured with the bride-to-be?’

  ‘Right again. Julia doesn’t meet her exacting standards.’

  ‘And how is Julia’s relationship with her stepbrother, what’s his name?’

  ‘Florian, if you can believe it,’ Carlo said. ‘They’ll be at the “Meet the bride and best man” dinner tonight. You can tell me what you think after you’ve had time to observe them for a while.’

  Petra knew who she was looking at as soon as she walked into the tasting centre a little later that evening. Florian was at the door, monitoring everyone who entered. Switching his big blue eyes to full beam, he clasped Petra’s hand and assessed her through long, thick, bovine lashes. He didn’t smile because there was no need: the force of his personality was in those vivid eyes and the sweet mobile mouth. And his assessment was anything but bovine.

  Tagged and tallied, Petra thought, as Florian dropped his eyes to read the nametag she had attached to her evening purse. He let them glide upwards to where the black and silver crucifix she had retrieved from her suitcase nestled in its usual place.

  ‘Catholic?’ he queried.

  ‘Half,’ she replied, thinking None of your business.

  ‘You’ll like Father John then.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘You will.’

  He turned his attention to Carlo, and Petra moved forward to where a young woman was standing next to Tony Broselli. She had his wide build and oval face and because she wasn’t very tall, appeared dumpy. Tony put a protective hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Petra, this is my daughter, Julia.’

  ‘Julia, how nice to meet you! You’re the bride-to-be. Congratulations, and thank you so much for inviting me. You must be looking forward to the big day.’

  Julia gave a small nod and mumbled something Petra couldn’t quite catch. Nerves, Petra thought, then looked more closely at the young woman. Her eyes were veiled. They didn’t sparkle like Carlo’s or reveal intelligence like her father’s. There was a droop to her shoulders, and none of the enthusiasm Petra would have expected in someone who was only four days away from a spectacular wedding.

  ‘Is your fiancé here?’ Petra continued. ‘I hope you’ll introduce me.’

  At that moment, Sandrine breezed over to them and took control. ‘Max and his family are arriving tomorrow, as you can see if you consult your schedule. Thursday Father John joins us, Friday will be the rehearsal, and Saturday, of course, the main event.’

  The way Sandrine referred to the wedding celebration as “the main event”, as if she were just the organizer and not a member of the family, struck Petra as unnatural. Julia dropped her eyes and ducked from under her father’s hand.

  Petra caught up with Carlo at the long marble-topped counter where samples of various wines were being served. He was chatting to Gina. She interrupted them with a curt ‘Hi!’

  Ignoring Gina, she carried on, ‘Have you had a chance to talk to Julia since we arrived, Carlo? She doesn’t seem the most excited bride-to-be I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Not like you when you thought Romeo was going to marry you, eh?’

 
Carlo’s comment landed like a double punch in Petra’s stomach. She closed her eyes for a split second then opened them with such a look of fury on her face that he took a step back.

  ‘That was beyond the pale, Mercutio! Don’t ever do that again! I was devastated by Romeo’s death, and I dealt with it as best I could. Your wit is so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days. Then you’ll know how it hurts.’

  ‘I’m sorry, carissima, truly I am.’ His expression and his tone told her he meant it.

  Immediately, Petra regretted her outburst. It was unbefitting not only a cop and a seasoned professional, but also someone who had been kindly invited to a friend’s cousin’s wedding. When she accepted, she had known the risk she was running: known that her old feelings for Romeo might surface and that Mercutio was apt to make jokes about those far-off days. She thought she had her emotions under control. Wrong, she said under her breath, tapping herself on the nose. ‘I’m sorry too,’ she murmured.

  Carlo took her arm and drew her to one side. The clutch of people who had witnessed the scene turned back to their drinks.

  ‘Back to your question. No, I haven’t had a chance to talk to Julia. I agree she seems dispirited, but from what I recall she’s never very outgoing. I put it down to living with Sandrine.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Maybe once the wedding’s over, she’ll be able to make her own life away from her stepmother’s influence.’

  Chapter

  8

  Wednesday morning’s schedule prescribed a tour of the Simonsberg area. Petra was mildly surprised when Florian joined Tony Broselli as the second guide for the two minibuses.

  ‘Make sure we get on Florian’s bus,’ she hissed to Carlo. ‘It’ll be interesting to see him in action.’

  ‘Righty-ho, unless our dear Sandrine has shuffled us already like a pack of cards.’

  ‘Shuffled or dealt?’

  ‘Whichever.’

  Florian was a rare creature: a truly beautiful boy. Each time Petra looked out of the window at the passing scenery her eyes were drawn back to his face. From her seat near the back, she saw that the bus was full of singles. The two families had boarded Tony’s bus. And all the girls were having the same problem.

  Like a professional tour guide, Florian was balancing at the front of the bus, facing his flock and holding a microphone. Just in case we miss his words of wisdom, Petra thought with a tiny smile. His gaze flitted from one face to another, pausing occasionally then moving on. She noted that he spent more time on the women but didn’t ignore the men.

  ‘What does Florian do?’ she asked Carlo in a soft voice.

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Yes, as in work. Does he live on the estate? Help with the vineyards?’

  ‘Florian often keeps his mother company, but they also seem to go their separate ways. The Broselli/Delapores have a lot of business interests. The Delapores made money originally from wine, then Sandrine’s father set up a biscuit factory. When he died five years ago, she took over. Tony Broselli’s main business is fishing. He owns a fleet of trawlers that operate out of Port Nolloth. That’s on the West Coast, up towards the Namibian border. He also has a fish-packing plant, and a hunting and safari lodge on the Orange River.’

  ‘That’s more than enough to keep everyone gainfully employed.’

  ‘Yes. Julia is the only one who doesn’t seem to take an interest in fish, animals, biscuits or wine. When I was here three years ago, she was talking about going to South America to work with some charity or other.’

  ‘Isn’t there more need here in Africa?’

  ‘Of course, and the family sponsors various projects, including township tours where the fees charged to tourists fund amenities for the townships. Julia could easily get involved in those good works, but she chooses not to. Probably the Sandrine factor again.’

  ‘And now she’s getting married, perhaps as a means of escape.’

  Carlo gave Petra a nudge.

  Florian had noticed them talking quietly and was looking at them stony-faced. ‘As I was saying, we will explore the Kayamandi township on foot. You were all instructed to wear sensible footwear.’ He pointed out of the window to his right without taking his eyes off Petra and Carlo. ‘We’re arriving at the township now.’

  Mesmerized by his gaze, Petra hardly took in what he was saying. His voice was as mellifluous as his beauty was compelling, yet there was a harsher undertone which disturbed her.

  The four younger women – Ana and Raquel, Pam and Joanna – clustered round him as he led his group into the township. Their blonde heads were easy to spot among the adults and children who surged forward and threatened to envelope them. To clear a path and keep his troops moving in the right direction, Florian brandished an ironwood walking stick to which he had tied a white flag. He began to explain some of the plans for the township.

  ‘This is the kind of thing we need to eradicate,’ he announced, pointing his stick at a shanty area that was grafting itself onto the side of the established township. ‘We need to move people out into areas with basic amenities. If we don’t and they continue to flood our country, they will swamp our traditional culture and destroy our values. That is why we have to work together to make it happen. Especially those of us in the upper socio-economic bracket.’

  Petra raised her eyebrows at Carlo.

  The response from Florian’s acolytes was instantaneous.

  ‘What can we do to help?’ Pam asked. ‘Please tell us.’

  ‘There’s so much to be done,’ Joanna chirruped. ‘We’ll do whatever you want.’

  Petra watched Florian caress them with his blue-blue eyes. ‘You will have the opportunity to make your contribution as soon as the wedding is over. We need you, I can assure you of that.’

  The four girls were putty in his hands. If he had wanted to bed them there and then in full view of everyone, Petra knew there would be no resistance. Even she – not to mention Gina and the men too, judging by the looks on their faces – was impressed by the strength of his vision. Its substance, though, gave her pause. As he swung his stick around, his lips curled in a slightly sardonic way that didn’t quite jibe with the noble sentiments he appeared to be expressing.

  ‘What do you think?’ Petra asked Carlo.

  ‘Interesting. Did I hear echoes of Nazi Germany? Or did my ears deceive me?’

  Florian shook his stick as if in triumph, threw Petra and Carlo a gloating look, and led his group back to the bus.

  Chapter

  9

  Henny tried to ignore the feeling deep in his gut that this trip wasn’t going to go to plan. The six girls in the group were beginning to drive him mad. The troublemakers were the two young English girls, barely out of school. Megan and Hilary. When he had spotted them at Cape Town airport, they appeared to have all the characteristics he had been instructed to look for. He had had no idea they could be so annoying.

  They had crossed the border into Namibia and the girls were bitching about the lack of mobile phone coverage. To make matters worse, their batteries were nearly flat and they wanted to charge their phones so that they could take pictures and more pictures. They must have taken hundreds, and for all he knew, shared them on Facebook with family and friends. Just what the Master didn’t want.

  Last night on their arrival in Springbok, he had delivered the company’s standard spiel regarding electronic equipment and social media. In his first year with Higher Ground, he had had difficulty with some of the wording, but he had worked at it. Now it was engraved on his memory.

  ‘At Higher Ground Tours, our prime objective is to give participants the most authentic African experience possible. Nature is our constant companion, the bush our natural habitat. Our camper vans are self-sufficient and if you need anything, you have only to ask me. In return, we ask for your complete commitment to our values: community, serenity, the past
oral life.

  One of our primary goals is to help you re-engage with your inner selves so that you can appreciate the true beauty of the world without relying on electronic gadgetry. To prevent the intrusion of secondary concerns into the lives of our guests for the duration of the tour, we will therefore collect all mobile phones and other electronic devices and store them for you until we reach our destination. You will have the added advantage of knowing that they are locked away safely. This will ensure that each and every one of you enjoys the tour to the full.’

  At the end, he swept his gaze over his audience: three of the four girls in the last two rows of seats gave a nod, the fourth, a shrug. But there was a different response from Megan and Hilary.

  ‘That’s bullshit! My phone is my camera and I’m keeping a travel log.’ He could still hear Megan shouting it out.

  ‘I agree. I promised to send pictures home.’ Hilary, milder but stubborn.

  It had happened once or twice in the past and Henny knew what he had to do: act as though it was no big deal, wait a day or two, then arrange an incident.

  Fish River Canyon was the place to do it. Next day they would begin a three-day hike to a mystical place of hot springs and lava rocks. The going would be rough. He would suggest that Megan and Hilary leave their devices at the camp. If that didn’t work, he would make sure they didn’t come back with them.

  Chapter

  10

  The fair-haired De Witts were from solid Flemish stock. Jacob De Witt and his son, Max, had thick necks and big beefy arms. Marina and her daughter, Betta, who was a few years younger than Max, had pleasant round faces and sturdy child-bearing hips. Sandrine greeted them all with a formal handshake. Tony clasped the men’s hands warmly and kissed both the women. Betta’s eyes flew to Florian and she propelled herself towards him. Julia had not yet appeared.

  Petra wiped a bead of perspiration from her brow. It was a sultry evening. The humidity was up and swarms of gnats had invaded the terrace where Wellington was serving MCC, Méthode Cap Classique, the South African equivalent of French champagne, to the assembled guests. She wished she had stuck to her original plan and worn the long-sleeved sheer gold tunic and navy blue leggings she had inherited from Don León’s megayacht Titania. Then again, some people said mosquitoes were attracted to the colour blue so perhaps she had been wise to put on an off-white lacy dress.