The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

  He leaned back in his chair and waited for the next round of tests to confirm his suspicion. The delivery of Combivirine from PharmaChem had arrived earlier that day, and he’d painstakingly selected fifteen random packets to test alongside another fifteen he’d had delivered from his friend in Limpopo. Aesthetically, the pills looked the same. Small, white caplets. Little oblongs of antiretrovirals that had the power to hold HIV at bay. To prolong health and maintain the viral load at a level where the person could carry on a relatively normal life. People could work, parents could take care of their kids, and the state was not continually paying out for the palliative care and eventually, the burial of those who couldn’t afford to help themselves.

  The first load of pills he’d received for his hospital passed all his tests. Genuine Combivirine. Quality medication that he would have no qualms about prescribing to his patients. The first five tests on the Limpopo pills had all come back as nothing more than aspirin. Great for a headache, a fever, and thinning the blood. In fighting HIV?

  “About as useful as a chocolate bloody teapot.”

  All he had to do now was confirm that the rest of the pills from Limpopo were fake. Then he’d place a second order with PharmaChem. The operation was slick. He’d give them that. But he was sure the genuine pills wouldn’t keep coming for long. They couldn’t. Not at the prices they were charging. They’d be bankrupt within a month.

  Chapter Eleven

  Amahle sat in her room at the Stellenbosch Hotel, staring out the window across field upon field of grapevines and off to the mountains behind. The craggy summits and gray rocks were a familiar backdrop to her dreams. She plucked at the green ribbon. She was still unable to unwrap the bundle and read through what she was sure were heartbreaking letters from a child who no longer existed.

  She knew a part of her was still in shock. She could see that clearly in her shaking hands and the way she was unable to let go of her mother’s revelation over the past two days. She tried to play back all those years, but she was far too young to remember anything of value in the interaction between her mother and Alain Frost. Was there an affair that had led to the conception of her brother? She didn’t know. Would she put it past her mother to do that? She wished she could answer no, but she couldn’t. Since her father had died, her mother had proven herself to have a considerable urge for the desires of the flesh. Something young Amahle had been forced to deal with on more than one occasion. Returning home from school to find her mother passed out drunk on the sofa with a half-naked man on top of her.

  Unfortunately, she had no problem imagining her mother committing adultery. Mr. Frost? That one was more of a struggle, but in real terms, how well did she really know the man? The dates were the thing that really troubled her. Based on when Sipho was born, her mother got pregnant right around the time Elaine was buried. She’d grown up in Alain’s household; she’d loved his wife and daughter as though they were extensions of herself. She’d seen the way he’d acted around Elaine when they thought no one was watching. They had always seemed so in love. He’d worshipped her, not just loved her. She had watched him grieve and fade away in the shadow of that love. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like something he would do. She glanced down at the letters. But then again neither did this.

  Grief had done strange things to the man. Was it beyond the realms that in his pain he had reached out to her mother for comfort? Was it possible? Certainly. Did it happen? She tried to dredge up every memory she could of that time, but her memories seemed to be entirely focused on her own pain and loss. Both of Elaine and Imogen. She barely remembered her mother being around at all. Suspicious?

  One way or another, the question of her brother’s paternity would be resolved and they would have to deal with the fallout. Her mother had sworn she was telling the truth. Amahle had little choice at this point but to believe her and carry on from there.

  She opened the door to her room. “Thambo? Would you help me please?”

  “Of course, Minister.”

  “I need to find a lawyer for my brother and mother so that they can further this claim correctly. Also to fight the slander suit that Ms. Frost has threatened.”

  “Of course.”

  “I think someone local would be best.”

  “That would make sense.”

  “Will you ask around and find someone reputable for me?”

  “Minister—”

  “Amahle. We’ve worked together far too long for you to still be referring to me as Minister all the time.”

  He sighed heavily. “Fine. Amahle, I can’t leave you. We don’t have enough people to give you adequate protection out here.”

  “Who do you expect is going to attack me?” She pointed around the room. “The pillows?”

  “That’s not the issue, and you know it.”

  “You have my word; I won’t leave the room without you. I’m just going to sit here and read my letters.” She indicated the bundle.

  He shook his head in defeat. “Fine. But not one little toe outside this room.”

  “Scout’s honour.”

  “Yeah,” he said as he opened the door, “like I believe that.”

  She smiled at his back and tucked her feet under her. The top most envelope was dated only a couple of days after Imogen had been sent away. The handwriting was neat, cursive, and exactly as she remembered Imogen’s to be.

  Amahle,

  I don’t know why he’s doing this, but I’m in England. I’m at Bruton School for Girls. It’s like a prison. I’m not allowed to go out unless they say it’s okay. I can’t go to the kitchen if I get hungry. I can’t do anything. I miss you and it’s so cold, Amahle. So very cold. I want to come home. Please, will you talk to him? Ask him what I need to do to make him let me come home. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I swear. I just don’t know what I did wrong.

  Please tell Cebisa that I’m sorry I got mad at her. I wasn’t really, and tell her thank you for the story. I’m sorry I got so upset. Will you tell her that, please? I don’t want her to be upset with me too. I don’t think I could stand it if she hated me too.

  Thank you for keeping me safe in our tree. It’s the last time I remember feeling warm. I wish you were with me. It’s always easier when you’re with me, no matter where we are.

  Your best friend,

  Immy.

  xxx

  Amahle shook her head and read through letter after letter. Each one telling her a little about life in boarding school, while continuing the same hunt for answers as to why her father had sent her away, why Amahle never wrote to her, and why she was never allowed to return home. Eventually, anger was the only discernible emotion in Imogen’s letters. She shook her head. She needed to get out of the hotel. She shoved her feet into her shoes, grabbed her jacket, and picked up the keys to the car. She wiped the tears from her eyes as she crossed the town and made her way to the vineyard. She didn’t stop at the main house. That wasn’t what she needed to see. She drove on to the orchard. The forty twisted little apple trees that had been their shelter, their protection, their playground, and the graveyard of their friendship.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find it again. It’s been so long.”

  Amahle whirled around and stared into the chestnut brown eyes she remembered so well. But that was the only shred of the little girl that remained. In place of the scrawny, dirty little blond girl was a beautiful blond woman. Her hair was short, just a few inches all over, framing her head and highlighting her high cheekbones. The soft pixie cut, highlighting her femininity, and her luscious full lips pouted naturally in a sexy invitation. Long, willowy limbs and gentle curves filled out the rest of the package, and Amahle’s heart rate increased. Nerves played an equal part to her newly aroused libido. Nothing for eight years, then bam. Well, thanks a lot, libido, your timing sucks.

  “Immy?”

  Imogen nodded, a shy smile on her lips and tears forming in her eyes. “Minister.”

  Amahle laugh
ed and decided humour was the best way to ease her discomfort. “I feel like I’m seven years old again, not the damn minister.”

  “Want to climb the tree?” She pointed to the branches above their heads.

  “I take it back. I feel like I’m nearly forty and work behind a desk.”

  Imogen laughed. “Every damn day.”

  “I don’t know whether to hug you or wrestle you.”

  “Do I get to pick?”

  “Didn’t you always?”

  “Ha. I wish.” Imogen wrapped her arms around Amahle’s shoulders and held tight.

  Amahle breathed in deeply and wrapped her arms around Imogen’s waist. “You’ve grown.”

  “Yeah.” She chuckled. “You didn’t though.”

  “Hey.” She poked Imogen in the ribs. “Be nice.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  Amahle shrugged. “I didn’t. I was reading the letters your dad kept and I just needed to be here.” She eased out of Imogen’s arms and touched the tree trunk nearest to her. “I used to come here all the time. Mostly when I missed you.”

  “So you weren’t looking for me?”

  “Not yet. I wasn’t sure I was ready yet. Wasn’t sure if it was a good idea even. I don’t know what to say.”

  Imogen frowned. “About what?”

  “About your dad—”

  “And your mum.”

  Amahle nodded.

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  “You know what she’s saying.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, Amahle, but she’s talking shit. My dad was a bastard, but he loved my mum. He wouldn’t have cheated on her.” Imogen’s eyes darkened and her cheeks flushed.

  As much as Amahle had questioned the same information herself, it grated to hear someone else doing the same thing. What gave her the right, this damned stranger, to waltz back in and judge them?

  “You should talk to her and tell her to drop it, or I will sue her for slander. I’m not having my father’s name tarnished by the likes of her.”

  “Excuse me?” She stepped back further. “What exactly do you mean by that?” She balled her fists and planted them on her hips.

  “You know exactly what I mean, and don’t pretend you don’t.” Imogen mirrored her stance, leaning forward until they were eye to eye.

  “No, I don’t. You’d better explain.” She licked her lips. “And you might want to be careful or I’ll be suing you for slander, Ms. Frost.”

  A cold smile slid onto Imogen’s lips. Her eyes narrowed, and Amahle fought not to swallow and back away from her. A chill settled around them.

  “I meant simply that your mother has never made any mention of Sipho being his son while my father was alive. Your father’s name is on his birth certificate. And seemingly, she waits until my father’s dead and unable to defend himself to come up with this ‘truth.’ She’s obviously just after the money.” She curled her fingers into quote marks.

  “My mother gives a very…telling…account of what happened between them. And we both know that your dad had plenty of secrets and regrets that he’s taken to his grave. It’s not so difficult to believe that this is one of them.”

  “Yes, it is,” Imogen ground out through clenched teeth.

  “Why?” Amahle asked sweetly, sensing that this would annoy Imogen more than shouting would.

  “Because it is.” Her voice dropped, and Amahle knew she was right.

  She smiled sensing victory. “Not a very good reason.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s better than the crap your mother’s spouting.”

  Amahle narrowed her eyes. She’d known that her childhood friend was long gone, but the child in her had kept up the hope that Imogen had missed her as much as she had, and somehow they’d just pick up where they left off. She wanted to laugh at her own foolishness, but she just couldn’t see the funny side of it. It hurt too much. Imogen wasn’t the only one who had grown up in the last thirty years. If she wanted to make this adversarial, fine. She walked to the exit of the orchard. Before she left she turned her head over her shoulder and shouted, “I guess we’ll see about that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Imogen stormed into the house and grabbed the phone intent on calling her would-be lawyer, Mr. Davitson. Ronald had told her eight a.m. Now it was approaching eleven, and she still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Frost?”

  She whirled around and stared at the man. He was in his early sixties, his hair greying at the temples, his hairline receding around his head, but his smile was kindly and confident. He seemed entirely sure of himself.

  “Jim Davitson.” He held out his hand.

  “I was expecting you this morning.”

  “My apologies, Ms. Frost. I was detained, looking into something for you.”

  She took his hand and shook it firmly. It was a point she always made in her first interactions with anyone new. There would be no polite handshake, no pandering to the male ego. Not for her. She was the equal to or better than any man she had met; she would not display anything less with a weak handshake. She smiled as she noted his eyes widen slightly in a silent acknowledgement. “Shall we get to work?”

  “Of course. We certainly have a lot to get through.” He pointed out of the door. “Shall we go into the office? I daresay we may need to look through some of the paperwork.”

  “Of course.” She rolled her head from side to side and tried to ease some of the tension from her shoulders. She hated how she’d let Amahle get to her. Control was something she prided herself on, and Amahle had made her lose it in a matter of seconds.

  “You okay?”

  She forced a smile onto her lips. “I’m good, thanks. Would you like something to drink before we settle in?”

  “No need. Mbali will bring something shortly, I’m sure.”

  “No. She won’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She is not welcome in my house, Mr. Davitson.”

  He looked at her for a moment before nodding his head. “Jim, please. Mr. Davitson makes me feel rather old in your company, young lady. Perhaps some iced tea would be nice.”

  “Perfect, Jim.” Imogen busied herself with the tea while he unpacked his briefcase and booted up the computer in her father’s office. “Sugar?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She spooned in a generous amount and passed him the glass.

  “How much do you know about your father’s financial affairs?” He took a sip. “Lovely. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And I have to admit, very little.” She pulled the visitor’s chair around the back of the desk so that she could easily see the screen and sat beside him.

  “Well, I’ve had one of our accountants and one of our business managers take a look over the past couple of weeks. That’s standard practice for our company with an estate of this size.”

  “An excellent policy, I’m sure.”

  “Yes. The business manager assures me that the vineyard, the processing plants, and sales are all in tip-top shape. If you wish to take over the running of the vineyard, you’ve inherited a well-oiled machine, as he put it.” He pointed to a file he copied onto the computer from his flash drive. “The report’s there. Take a look when you’ve got a moment and make sure you’re happy. If you’re planning to sell, this will help speed up the process as the new owners won’t have to have this generated for themselves.”

  “That’s very good news.”

  “Yes, yes. But I’m afraid the young fellow looking into the accounts, young Roland De Fries. I believe you’ve met him.”

  “Yes. He picked me up from the airport.”

  “Quite. Well, he has alerted me to a number of irregularities in the company finances that have us a little concerned.” He copied another file. “This is some spreadsheet information and the report from him.”

  “Such as?” She frowned.

  “The accounting practices are shoddy, to say the least. I was
amazed your father’s accountants have let him get away with it. So much so, that I went to ask them about it this morning. That’s why I was late.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They said that they haven’t been servicing the accounts for the Frost Estate for almost six years now. Apparently, it was taken in-house at that time.”

  “So who has been responsible for the bookkeeping?” Alarm bells rang in Imogen’s head.

  “I’m not sure at this point.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that. What are the irregularities?”

  “I’m not much of an accountant, Ms. Frost. When the young chap was explaining it all, I’m afraid a lot of it went over my head. I can set up a meeting for you with him if you like?”

  “I’d appreciate that. In the meantime can you freeze the bank accounts, or better yet, have me assigned as sole signatory?”

  “Certainly. Better safe than sorry, hey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Best to get all the information before we jump to conclusions and start to throw around accusations that can damage someone’s reputation. As you’re aware.”

  “Yes, I am, Jim. I guess that brings us to the main reason for being here.”

  “Of course. Now, I’ve done some checking, and the way these things stand is that while he can contest that he is your brother and deserves half of the estate, your father did make provision for him in the will. As such, we can contest that this was what your father decided he wanted Sipho to have, regardless of the paternity issue.”

  “And through the South African court, how long will that take?”

  “Anywhere from six months to two years.”