The Satanic Mechanic

by Sally Andrew

  The group was very tidy in the way it was toyi-toying, and they wore berets and a camouflage uniform. ‘Hattie,’ I said. ‘It’s not a riot; it’s the army.’

  They paused a few steps beyond us and did an about-turn, to face us, and sang the national anthem. It starts with the ANC song ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika’ (God Bless Africa) and ends with ‘Uit die Blou van Onse Hemel’ (From the Blue of Our Heavens), which used to be the Afrikaner national anthem.

  I have heard it many times before, but in the dark of the night, standing by that biltong stall, with my mother’s and father’s heart drumming inside me, it gave me goosebumps over my whole body and filled me with feelings I cannot name.

  Then a conductor introduced the army choir, and they started on a beautiful Xhosa song. Some sang high, others low, with choruses answering each other. They moved in time to the music. The voices wove a hammock of sound that held me and rocked me. I found my body swaying, and then I was aware of Hattie beside me and felt embarrassed because I am no dancer.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Hattie when the song was over. ‘How beautiful.’

  We headed towards the thumping music of the tent. It was Kurt Darren singing, ‘Meisie meisie’, and although there were a few old tannies sitting on the plastic chairs, most of the people were up and dancing.

  ‘Meisie meisie, prinses van die dansvloer,’ he sang. Girl girl, princess of the dance floor.

  We looked around for Jessie. Hattie, who is so much taller than me, spotted her. The tent was now thick with people, so we walked around the outside and then worked our way in towards her. She was sitting with Slimkat at one of the long tables that were on the other side of the tent, away from the stage. Slimkat’s cousin, Ystervark, was beside him, glaring at a man who stood nearby and was wearing khaki shirt and shorts and muddy veldskoene. The man had a big belly and cross eyebrows and reminded me of someone. I also saw Warrant Officer Reghardt at the neighbouring table. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and sipping a Coke. He’s a tall young man with beautiful eyes, dark and soft like a Karoo violet; his hair flopped over his eyebrows. He seemed to be ignoring his sweetheart, Jessie, but was looking around as if waiting for someone. Then I saw Constable Piet Witbooi, who’s also part of Kannemeyer’s team. I had to blink twice to see him because he was standing so still. His body was relaxed, but I could tell he was taking everything in, like a mongoose on the lookout for a jackal in the veld. Piet’s an ace tracker, with all the skills of his Bushman ancestors. I saw him make a small movement with two of his fingers, and soon after I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  It was Kannemeyer. He stepped past me and in front of us, blocking our path between the long tables.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said to me, his eyes grey-blue like a storm cloud. He was wearing jeans and a faded blue cotton shirt, the top buttons open.

  ‘Meisie meisie, ek sien jou, ek bewe,’ sang Kurt Darren. Girl girl, I see you, I tremble.

  ‘I’m not following you,’ I said, loudly, over the music. ‘We’re meeting Jessie here.’

  Hattie waved at Jessie, who’d now seen us and was calling us over.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Hattie, turning sideways so she could slip past Henk.

  That sideways thing wouldn’t work for me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I tried. But he didn’t move.

  ‘It’s dangerous,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a festival,’ I said.

  ‘That man she is with . . .’

  ‘Slimkat’s dangerous?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Someone tried to kill him, didn’t they? What happened?’

  Henk shook his head. I saw movement behind him: that big man with the muddy veldskoene was walking towards Slimkat. Ystervark blocked his way.

  ‘That man!’ I said. ‘The one in khaki with the cross face. I think I recognise him. From a photograph on the Supreme Court steps. He’s a cattle farmer, angry with Slimkat for winning the land.’

  Henk glanced behind him then looked back at me. ‘Stay out of it,’ he said, his eyes now the colour of rain against the mountains. ‘Please, Maria.’

  This time I didn’t say excuse me, I just stepped forward. Henk moved out of the way; he is a gentleman after all. The man in khaki walked right past Ystervark and Slimkat towards a Windhoek Lager beer stall. Ystervark followed him.

  Jessie grinned when she saw us. Slimkat stood up and shook hands.

  ‘Hand aan hand dans ons saam in die reën,’ sang Kurt. Hand in hand we dance together in the rain.

  When Slimkat looked at me, that window with no curtains thing happened again, so I studied the table. In front of Slimkat was a Styrofoam container with a used napkin and four clean sosatie sticks.

  ‘Delicious,’ I said, pointing to the sticks and giving my fingers a kiss to show what I meant. We could hardly hear each other over the music, but we spoke with our hands. He nodded like a wagtail and made the spiral movement of kudu horns above his head.

  ‘What sauce did you like best?’ I asked, making a squeezing movement as if I was holding one of those big plastic bottles.

  ‘Honey-mustard,’ he said, showing the humming movement of a bee’s wings with his fingers. He offered me and Hattie his seat, but Hattie told him that we were leaving. She mimed a sleep movement with her hands and head. We smiled and nodded our goodbyes, and Jessie walked with Hattie and me to the outside of the tent where it was a little quieter. Kurt was now singing ‘Kaptein’, and the crowd was going crazy.

  ‘Kaptein, span die seile. Kaptein, sy is myne.’ Captain, prepare the sails. Captain, she is mine.

  ‘It was his car brakes,’ Jessie told us. ‘Someone cut them, right here at the festival. He nearly had a bad accident.’

  ‘Heavens above,’ said Hattie. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t a mechanical failure?’

  ‘No, they were cut. With wire-cutters.’

  ‘Oh my,’ said Hattie.

  ‘He’s asked that I only print the story after the KKNK. The organisers don’t want the crowds to panic.’

  ‘But what’s he still doing here?’ said Hattie. ‘Surely it’s dangerous?’

  ‘He says he won’t let fear make him run. He also thinks there’s safety in numbers. And there are a troop of policemen watching out for him.’

  The man in khaki was heading back now. Ystervark was close behind. I looked over at Henk, who stood not far from Slimkat. Henk’s arms were crossed, and his gaze was doing a slow sweep of the beer tent.

  ‘Daar was ’n eiland vol meisies in bikinis,’ sang Kurt. There was an island full of girls in bikinis.

  The expression on Henk’s face suddenly changed, his jaw dropped, and he started moving towards Slimkat.

  Slimkat was bent over, clutching his stomach.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Slimkat!’ I shouted.

  Hattie clapped her hand to her mouth, and Jessie and I hurried back towards Slimkat. Piet was beside him, holding his shoulders. Slimkat sat up for a moment, and I could see no wound on his front. He doubled up again and vomited onto the grass. Then he fell to the ground; Piet helped him land gently.

  Ystervark grabbed a beer bottle, smashed it at the neck and threw himself – with his handful of glass – at the big man in khaki. The man jumped out of the way like a ballet dancer and together with a large woman with a downy moustache managed to disarm the angry porcupine. They wrestled his hands to his sides, and he dropped the bottleneck. I wondered if he’d try to attack them with Jessie’s knife. But he seemed to give up and let the woman hold him in her grip as he watched his cousin, Slimkat, trembling and twitching on the ground.

  The man in khaki kept Jessie and me away with an outstretched arm. He was a policeman, not a cattle farmer. Henk was shouting into a cell phone, calling for an ambulance. The khaki man gave instructions to Reghardt and another man who was probably also a plainclothes cop.

  Slimkat lay on his back on the grass and stared up at us. He tried to speak, but his lips wouldn’t move properly. He looked at
Jessie, then at me. His eyes were big, black and calm, like a kudu’s.

  This time I did not look away.

  In those moments, with the windows without curtains, so many things happened. I allowed him to see me, and he saw everything. Even the things I have kept most secret. His body trembled, but he was not afraid. I could see the courage in his eyes. And he was looking for the courage in mine. He was trying to tell me something, but I could not understand what.

  Kurt was singing: ‘Hier sit ek nou alleen, soos die man op die maan. Daar is ’n wind wat waai – hy ken my naam. Daar is ’n wind wat waai – hy vat my saam.’ Here I sit alone, like the man on the moon. There’s a wind that blows – it knows my name. There’s a wind that blows – it takes me along.

  By the time the paramedics arrived, Slimkat’s body was stiff, like it was paralysed. But his eyes were alive, looking again at Jessie, then at me. What was he saying to us? I looked into those dark eyes and listened with all my heart. It does matter, he said. It does matter if I die. His eyes darted up towards the table and back to me. You can help, he said. But I could not understand how. As they lifted him onto a stretcher, he still held me with his gaze. And then, even when he was out of sight, the whoop of the siren racing away, the look in his eyes stayed with me.

  Kurt was still singing, and even the old tannies were up and dancing. ‘Nou loop ek maar die paadjie alleen – leen – leen. Stap ek deur die storm; dit reën reën reën.’ Now I just walk the path, alone – lone – lone. I walk through the storm; it rains, rains, rains.

  I sat down on the bench where Slimkat had sat. Jessie was talking to Reghardt, and the police were buzzing all around. Uniformed officers worked together with plainclothes police and closed off an area using yellow-and-blue tape. They were getting photographs and names of everyone in that area. Henk and a man with a bottlebrush moustache, and that police tannie with the lip fluff were interviewing people at a table just outside the tent. Piet was moving around like an agama lizard, lifting his head up and down, looking over and under tables. He studied the grass here and a tabletop there.

  ‘Buite waai die windjie; die honde huil,’ sang Kurt. Outside a wind blows; the dogs howl.

  The police hadn’t stopped the music. Perhaps they didn’t want to cause panic. After all, the crowds might think Slimkat had just drunk too much. I hadn’t smelt beer on his breath when we’d leant in close to talk. I had smelt garlic. I looked down at the sticks on the table. Those kudu sticks had been his last meal. Just as I was reaching out to his Styrofoam container, Piet’s hand gently stopped me. He picked up the container in gloved hands and sniffed it. I leant forward and sniffed it too. There was a smell coming from the napkin.

  ‘Garlic,’ I said into Piet’s ear.

  He nodded, slipped the napkin and Styrofoam into a plastic Ziploc bag and sealed it.

  ‘But there’s no garlic in those kudu sosatie sauces,’ I said.

  He looked down at the bag and back at me again. Then he put the package into my hands.

  Piet said something I couldn’t hear above Kurt’s singing. Then he pointed at the packet and at Detective Kannemeyer, and I nodded in understanding. Then Piet ran, like there was a leopard on his tail, to the Kudu Stall.

  Kurt sang, ‘Sê net ja, aha aha, kom dans met my. O, bokka, ek wil huis toe gaan.’ Just say yes, aha aha, come dance with me. Oh, honey, I want to go home.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Hattie drove us to our guesthouse, The Rose, in Baron van Reede Street. Jessie would follow on her scooter.

  ‘So Piet found sauce bottles under the table at the Kudu Stall?’ said Hattie. ‘And he brought them to you to smell?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Two yellow bottles. And one smelt a lot like the sauce on Slimkat’s napkin.’

  ‘Quite a nose you’ve got there. That sauce had garlic in it?’

  ‘Ja,’ I said.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said, as she turned into the driveway of a big Victorian house with a long narrow stoep.

  ‘Watch out!’ I said, as she headed for a karee tree. She bumped into it, but not too hard.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘That’s what bumpers are for. There’s a sweet old auntie and uncle that will ply you with coffee and rusks if they spot you; they’ll probably be asleep now.’

  But we were greeted by Tannie Rosa and Oom Frik van der Vyver. Tannie Rosa showed us our rooms, which were full of ornate wooden furniture, with everything covered in white and gold ruffles and lace. The pillows, the bedside lamps, the curtains, even the doorknobs – all had pretty covers. It somehow made me feel wrapped up and looked after. I hoped Slimkat was being looked after at the hospital.

  ‘Dis pragtig. Baie dankie,’ I said to the tannie. Lovely, thank you. She smiled at the praise.

  ‘Koffie en beskuit?’ she asked.

  ‘Tomorrow, thank you,’ said Hattie. ‘We really must sleep.’

  I was too tired to argue. I took a diet tablet and headed to bed.

  That night, I dreamt I was sitting on the branch of that old gwarrie tree. The veld flowers smelt like pineapples, and I heard galloping hooves. As the sound got closer, I saw it was a giant kudu with two men riding on its back. They came to a stop in front of me. The man in front called for me to climb on. It was Slimkat, and in his hand was a bow. He reached for an arrow from the quiver on his back. But it was not an arrow; it was a pen.

  The man sitting behind him wore a blue mechanic’s overall, and in his hand was a huge spanner. I couldn’t see his face. The kudu pawed the ground with a restless hoof; it would not wait for ever. I looked again at the big spanner and wondered if I was the loose nut the man had come to make right. I woke up holding onto my head.

  I was surrounded by frills and doilies, and didn’t know where I was. Then I remembered. I wondered if the diet tablets were giving me strange dreams. My mind went to Slimkat: had he made it through the night? I struggled to get back to sleep.

  In the morning, I washed and dressed. The rubbish bin and the spare toilet rolls also had frilly covers on them. It was cool, so I wore a cotton jacket over my brown dress, and socks with my veldskoene.

  I went to the kitchen, and there was Tannie Rosa. She pointed out a tin of rusks.

  ‘Mosbolletjiebeskuit,’ she said.

  ‘Jirre,’ I said. ‘I haven’t had those rusks for ages.’

  ‘I used muscadel must that I got from my brother,’ she said. ‘He makes his own wine.’

  Mosbolletjie bread is made with ‘must’, the fermented leftovers from the winemaking process: grape skins, seeds and stalks. This, together with the aniseed, gives the rusks their special flavour.

  I turned on the kettle and spooned some coffee and sugar into a cup and put two rusks onto a plate. Tannie Rosa left and Hattie came into the kitchen, her cream skirt all fresh and ironed as if she wasn’t travelling.

  ‘Good morning, Maria. Gosh, you didn’t sleep much, did you?’

  ‘Morning, Hats. Tea?’ I said, putting a third rusk on the plate for her.

  ‘I am going to make an appointment for you with Doctor Walters,’ she said.

  We went and sat on the stoep, which was painted an oxblood red, and watched the sun lighting up the Groot Swartberge. Grey cliffs cast purple shadows on slopes of green. This range of mountains linked us all the way to Ladismith and went on beyond Oudtshoorn, towards De Rust.

  ‘Jessie went to the hospital first thing,’ said Hattie. ‘She’ll come and report to us.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Any time now. They wouldn’t give her information last night, but she says a good friend of her mother’s is on duty this morning.’

  I dipped one of the rusks into my coffee and took a bite. It was better than any mosbolletjiebeskuit I could remember. Which says something, because food memories often cheat on the side of sweetness. Hattie sipped on her tea and nibbled on the edge of a rusk, and I shook my head; she knows beskuit are meant to be dipped.

  We heard a buzzing sound, and Jessie’s red scooter came zooming towards the house.
Instead of driving up to the parking area behind the house, she pulled her bike to the side of the driveway and jumped off. She wore jeans and a denim jacket, and she took off her helmet and shook out her hair as she walked towards us.

  I saw her face and did not need to hear her words to know: ‘He’s dead. Slimkat’s dead.’

  I dropped my mosbolletjie rusk into my coffee.

  ‘Damnation,’ said Hattie.

  ‘Ag, no,’ I said.

  ‘It’s so wrong,’ said Jessie. ‘He was such a gentle man.’

  ‘Have they established the cause of death?’ asked Hattie.

  ‘At first they thought it might be cholera or food poisoning. They pumped him with antibiotics.’

  ‘But what about the death threats? And the sauce bottle that Piet found under the Kudu Stall table,’ Hattie said, ‘thanks to our clever cook here? Surely they needed to treat him for deliberate poisoning?’

  ‘Yes, but they didn’t know what kind of poison. He was paralysed, and it wasn’t long till he stopped breathing. Neither the hospital nor the LCRC – the Local Crime Registration Centre – were able to get test results in time.’

  ‘How did the poisoner know that Slimkat was going to eat that sauce?’ said Hattie. ‘How did they even know he’d go to the Kudu Stall?’

  ‘He just loved that kudu,’ said Jessie. ‘It’s about all he ate. Though he did have roosterkoek and scrambled ostrich egg for breakfast.’

  ‘Did Slimkat tell you this last night?’ I said.

  ‘Ja, and I checked with Reghardt, who was following him. He couldn’t get enough of that kudu, and he always put on that sauce from the yellow bottle.’

  ‘So someone else watching him would’ve learnt the same thing . . .’ said Hattie.

  ‘I don’t understand why other people didn’t get poisoned by that sauce,’ I said.

  ‘I asked at the hospital,’ said Jess, ‘and they had one other person admitted with vomiting. But he didn’t have the other symptoms; it looks like he had alcohol poisoning. The sister said he was moederloos gesuip.’ Drunk as a skunk.