The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

“Yeah, yeah. You want a ticket or not?”

  “Return please.” She handed over her card and waited for her ticket to be printed. “Thanks.” She retrieved her card and made her way through the barricade to the front of the queue as the dusky pink of the early morning touched the deep purple of the sky. She truly wished she could have been at the top of Table Mountain to see the sun rise over the Indian Ocean, and chase away the night, but even she had to accept that she couldn’t always get her own way. She didn’t have to like it. But she did accept it. Occasionally.

  She was the first one in the cable car when it left the station. The temperature dropped significantly as the car neared the plateau, and she wrapped her coat about her shoulders, grateful she’d planned ahead and packed her down jacket. The only people at the top when the car stopped were workers. Those lucky few who got to see the magnificence of this view every day. And I bet they never see it anymore.

  She stared across at the Helderberg Mountains, Bloubergstrand, or “blue mountain beach” as it was better known, Sunset Beach, Devil’s Peak, the 12 Apostles, Camps Bay, Signal Hill with the nipple-like protrusion of Lion’s Head standing sentry over Cape Town itself. Way out in the bay sat Robben Island, the notorious prison island, infamously holding its place in history as the holding place of political prisoners during the apartheid regime. Most notably, Nelson Mandela had resided there in a tiny cell for almost twenty years before being transferred to Pollsmoor Prison. It looked like a rock on a pond from where she stood.

  She turned to the east and watched as the sun finished its ascent into the sky and the ocean glistened beneath it, so vast and so distinct. The meeting edges of two great oceans was as visible to the naked eye as a child’s crayon line down a page from Simon’s Town to the end of the world. To the east the turquoise warmth of the Indian Ocean pitched and heaved invitingly, while to the west the deep indigo of the Atlantic rolled and crashed against its counterpart, the soft white foam of the surf punctuating the seemingly endless expanse of water.

  She could have sat and watched it all day with its subtle variations, shifts, and the infinite give and take that was the power of the sea. This was the Africa her father had talked to her about when she was a child. The Africa of wonder. Nights when she’d been unable to sleep, he’d told her of his adventures as a boy, climbing mountains, and watching elephants wander the plains. For the first time, she looked at Africa with a sense of pride and awe. And for the first time that she could remember, she looked out with a sense of peace.

  She couldn’t stop her mind drifting. Sitting on a rock at the top of the mountain, she found she didn’t want to. She thought about her mother, her father, the situation with Sipho and Amahle. How quickly her feelings had shifted from anger to the need to protect when Amahle had gotten that phone call. She’d watched the strong woman struggle to maintain her control, her dignity in the face of her obvious fear. What was she so afraid of? Yes, threatening calls weren’t nice. Far from it. But she couldn’t see it affecting Amahle the way it had. She’d had a panic attack. Panic and the woman she’d gone toe to toe with so far weren’t concepts that worked together. So what was behind it? What did that call trigger? More importantly, why hadn’t she just been able to leave her to it?

  She’d watched those plump lips tremble and her breasts heave as she struggled with her feelings, and Imogen had only wanted to make it easier for her. She’d watched Amahle’s beautifully expressive eyes ricochet between fear and fury and back again, and all she’d wanted to do was kiss her and take the fear away.

  Wait. Back up there. Kiss her? Where the fuck did that come from? Over exaggeration there, Frost. There was no kissing, and no kissing wishing. She tossed a pebble over the edge of the barrier and into oblivion. What the fuck’s kissing wishing when it’s at home? She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Okay, logic works. Walking her to her car, I was practically holding her up, fraternizing with the enemy. She sniggered. It sure didn’t feel like that. It felt completely natural. To offer her support, friendship, and yeah, maybe something more. She tossed another pebble off the mountain.

  “Sometimes I fucking hate logic.”

  She glanced at her watch and decided it was time to get on with the rest of the day. Cape Town was laid out before her, and watching it from the top of the mountain wasn’t going to help her find a dress for the ball on Saturday.

  She tried to recapture the tranquillity of her early experience as she wandered around shops, cafés, and tourist destinations. No particular destination in mind, just walking. It was mid-afternoon when she found herself standing in front of the Houses of Parliament. The impressive white colonnades and the pristine red brick towered up before her, and she felt a small burst of laughter bubble up from within her chest.

  “Well, that’s Freudian.”

  She glanced at the tours board and saw she was far too late to book one and wander the halls where Amahle worked on the off chance that she would run into her.

  “Do I want to run into her?” She thought about the question seriously. She knew so little of her old friend, of the obviously remarkable woman she had become, and of the woman she’d comforted just a couple of days ago, and yes, she knew she wanted to know more. Amahle had fascinated her as a child. As an adult, it seemed she’d lost none of her appeal. After the phone call and its aftermath, surely checking she was all right was a reasonable thing to do. Wasn’t it?

  Decision made, she walked into reception and asked for Minister Nkosi’s office.

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “Not exactly, no. But if you could call her office and ask if she’ll see me, I’m more than happy to wait.”

  “Who should I say is calling?”

  “Tell her Immy’s here.”

  The receptionist arched an eyebrow at her and seemed reluctant to pick up the phone.

  “I’ll just wait right here, till she says yes or no.” She smiled and rocked on the balls of her feet. As always with her, the more difficult the receptionist made it for her to see Amahle, the more adamant she became that it was going to happen. The only question became how quickly the young woman caved in to her demands.

  The young woman scowled as she picked up the phone. “This is reception. I have someone here who wants to see the minister.” She snorted. “She said she won’t leave until the minister says yes or no to seeing her.” She chuckled. “Yah, I know. Her name’s Immy.”

  Two minutes. That’s all it had taken.

  “I don’t mind waiting while you ask her,” the receptionist said. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Her secretary is going to ask her.”

  “Thanks. I’d ascertained that.”

  “Huh?” The woman frowned, clearly listening to the voice on the other end of the line rather than her. “What?” She glowered at Imogen. “Her secretary will be here in a few minutes to show you to her offices.”

  Boom! And that’s how you do it. “Thank you.” She fought to keep a smug expression off her face. From the glare she was continuing to get from the receptionist, she doubted she was successful.

  “Ms. Frost?” A tall woman with shoulder length red hair held out her hand and smiled at her. “I’m Claudia, Ms. Nkosi’s secretary.”

  Imogen shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “If you’ll follow me please, the minister is very busy.”

  “Of course.”

  The woman’s heels clicked on the parquet floor while Imogen’s walking boots squeaked, and a scrape could be heard now and again. I must have a stone caught in the tread. Her casual attire was perfectly suited for a day sightseeing, not visiting the ministerial chambers in the Houses of Parliament.

  Amahle laughed as Imogen walked through the door. “I bet Rebecca on reception was having a conniption.”

  Imogen grinned. “I can vouch for that. She doesn’t like me. I think I’ve sullied the place.”

  “Oh, I think not,” Amahle said. “Far worse than you have darkened these hallowed hallway
s.”

  “How very Machiavellian, Minister.”

  “Sad but true. So how can I help you today, Immy?”

  “Would you believe I was in the neighbourhood and wanted to see if you were okay?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Ah, all right then. Hang on while I make something up instead.”

  “What were you doing in the neighbourhood?”

  “Shopping.” She held up her bags. “A little sightseeing.”

  “And this brings you to my door?”

  “Well, no. It brought me to Cape Town. I’ve been invited to the mayor’s ball in Stellenbosch on Saturday night. And I didn’t have a suitable dress.”

  “Okay. And then you end up here?”

  “Well, it wasn’t planned. I just seemed to end up here, and when I was I thought I should check on you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because last time I saw you I practically had to carry you to your car, and I was…concerned.”

  “You did not have to carry me.”

  “I said practically.”

  “Is that how you twist things in court?”

  “It’s not twisting. It’s stating the facts as I see them.”

  “A-huh. It’s twisting. And you damn well know it.”

  “And you damn well haven’t answered my question.”

  “I lost track of it.”

  “Sure you did.” Imogen sat and leaned her elbows on her knees, staring intently at Amahle. “How are you feeling?” She could see the slight tremor in her hands as she pushed her fingers through her hair.

  “I’m fine, thanks. Is that all you came here for?”

  Imogen could tell she was lying, but decided this was one time when pushing wouldn’t get her the answers she seemed to need. Instead she changed the subject. “No. I thought I could try to persuade you to have a drink with me.” She wasn’t sure where the words had come from, but as soon as they left her mouth, they felt right.

  Amahle laughed. “Are you joking?”

  “Nope.” She leaned back in her chair.

  “Why?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t changed that much, Immy. I always did.”

  “True.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know anyone in Cape Town. I just don’t want to be on my own tonight.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you mean besides the situation between you and my brother?”

  “Yeah. Besides that.”

  Amahle laughed. “Well, I guess besides that, it’s probably still not a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Imogen laughed. “You should probably tell me because I’m starting to repeat myself.”

  “I’m not a babysitter.”

  “I know.”

  “I have a lot of work to do.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m going to call you Polly.”

  “I know.” She laughed. “One drink, and I’ll leave you to your work, I promise.”

  *

  Amahle could think of so many reasons why spending time with Imogen was a bad idea. Paternity and work issues aside, there was a weight of expectation to pursuing a friendship with Imogen. They’d been so young; there was no reason to believe that they’d have continued to be friends had their friendship been allowed to develop naturally. But it hadn’t. It had been cut down at the point when it had been strongest. But they weren’t children anymore. And there were more obstacles in the way than just a dispute over Sipho’s paternity, and that’s if she forgot the whole embarrassing episode at the hospital. But she was curious, and she had to admit it was kind of sweet. Seeing the big bad barrister all playful, and…flirty?

  “Please. I promise I’ll be nice the whole time.”

  “The whole time?”

  “Every second.”

  “Fine. But I don’t want to go out anywhere.”

  Imogen looked confused. “Okay. I guess my hotel has a bar or something.”

  Amahle shook her head. The idea of sitting in a bar surrounded by strangers was too unsettling. She wanted—needed—to be able to see everyone around her and know if there was anything she needed to worry about. She needed to relax, clear her head, not make herself more paranoid. Besides, it was Thambo’s night off, and while she could get cover for him if she needed to make an engagement, she much preferred not to. She hated that anyone had to fill this need in her life. She’d gotten used to Thambo over the years. She didn’t want to get used to others too.

  “I’ll make dinner.” She scrawled her address on a piece of paper and handed it to Imogen. “Eight o’clock?”

  “Perfect.” She studied the paper. “Am I supposed to be able to read this?”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “Is that a six or a B?”

  “A B. Good-bye.”

  “Right.” Imogen stood up, still staring intently at the paper. She glanced over as she reached the door, and Amahle felt her stomach quiver. Her mouth went dry, and she was glad she was still sitting down as Imogen wet her lips and smiled again. “See you later,” she said with a wink and closed the door behind herself.

  “Yeah. Later.” Oh, this is such a bad idea.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The view as she climbed the slope of the Lion’s Head toward the address Amahle had given her was simply stunning. Looking out over Bantry Bay, it was hard to keep her eyes on the road. She wanted to stare out at the sea and watch the ships round Sea Point before they slid out of view and into port. She wondered briefly if Amahle had a sea view, then shrugged off the query. She’d know soon enough.

  She followed the sat nav until it decreed her destination reached, and she looked for the gateway onto the property that did indeed have a view out to sea. She buzzed the gate and smiled up at the camera. She was glad to see that Amahle had a decent looking security system. She just hoped she used it properly. Unlike the bodyguard who it seemed wasn’t allowed in the same building as said body. She sniggered. You promised to be nice, remember?

  She whistled as she parked the buckie, covered in signs for the Frost Vineyard, in front of the building and saw what appeared to be a three level building seemingly cut into the edge of the mountain. Floor to ceiling glass walls looked out to sea, the rest seemingly solid rock, with heavy steel beams, and solid oak doors barring entry to any unwanted guest.

  “Hi.” Amahle smoothed her hands over the flat plane of her stomach as Imogen turned to see her standing in the doorway.

  “Hi.” She nodded toward the bay. “Nice view.” The view of Amahle wasn’t bad either. She wore a white skirt that floated around her mid calves, sandals on her feet, and a deep red halter top. Her hair was twisted up on top of her head, captured haphazardly with decorative chopsticks to keep it in place.

  “Thanks.”

  “No bodyguard tonight?”

  “It’s Thambo’s night off. I’ve got the security system. It calls the police if a door opens and I don’t set a code in thirty seconds.” She held the door open. “So you best hurry up and come in.”

  Imogen caught the scent of her perfume as she passed her. Chocolate, caramel, and patchouli. A deeply musky scent that could only be one. “Angel?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your perfume. Angel?”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. I know some people don’t like it.”

  “Smells like chocolate.” She winked. “I love it.”

  “The perfume or the confectionary?”

  “Both.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Do I get the grand tour?”

  “Sure. But dinner’s almost ready. Afterward?”

  “Sounds good. What are we having?”

  “How does mealie pap and wors sound to you?”

  Imogen threw her head back and laughed. They’d shared the meal of South African sausage and the maize porridge, made to the consistency of mashed potatoes, so
often as children it felt almost expected to see them on the table when Amahle showed her into the dining room.

  “Do you make pap as well as your grandmother used to?”

  “No.”

  “Then not so good.”

  “Thank God. That’s why I decided on something else instead.”

  “A-huh. And that would be…?”

  “A surprise.”

  “I’m not great with surprises.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Never had a good one, I suppose.”

  “Never?”

  Imogen shook her head.

  “Then tonight will be a first.” Amahle wandered through the open plan space into the area clearly defined as a kitchen. Pots and pans hung from a suspended rack over a centre island, and a range of pristine looking equipment littered surfaces that looked barely used.

  “Need any help?”

  “Here, grab this.” Amahle held out a bowl of salad and a bottle of wine.

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I just better check; you’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

  “Mushrooms.”

  “Damn.” She shrugged. “Oh well, more for me.” Amahle chuckled, and Imogen knew her mouth was hanging open. “Just kidding. I can’t picture you as a vegetarian so I got us a couple of steaks.”

  “This looks delicious.” The steak was cooked to perfection, a timbale of pilaf rice, tossed salad, coleslaw, and potato salad finished off the meal.

  “It’s hardly a gourmet meal.”

  “When you live on ready meals and take-away, trust me, this is.”

  “You don’t cook?”

  “Nah. Not really. I didn’t take home economics at school, and I never had anyone else to show me how. Never picked up the bug, I guess.”

  “Hmm, it’s a good job my grandmother taught me, or Sipho and I would have starved after she died.”

  Imogen took a bite of her food and tried to ignore the mention of his name. “I’m sorry you had a rough time after she passed away.”

  “We both went through rough times after losing someone we loved.”

  Imogen swallowed another bite and nodded slowly, not sure what to say.