by Sally Andrew
‘Later, I’ll give it to you later. But first let’s see if you think one of these mustards was in the poison sauce.’
‘Have you got both recipes? The chilli one and the sweet one?’
Henk nodded and pointed to the next unopened jar.
I pointed to his uneaten pie, and he took a mouthful, together with a big blob of cream.
‘Sjoe,’ he said, ‘this is a lekker pie. It reminds me of what my ouma used to make.’ But he did not wipe a tear from his eye. He pointed again to the jar. ‘Open it.’
I took the lid off the jar of Colman’s and sniffed. ‘You know I said that the poison sauce may’ve been made with Colman’s mustard. But now that I smell this jar, I’m not so sure. It’s almost right but not quite.’
‘Okay,’ said Henk, pointing to the last bottle with his fork, ‘see what you think of this one.’
He watched me open and sniff the bottle of Spar mustard.
‘No, it wasn’t this one,’ I said.
‘Are you sure?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It has a whole different flavour.’ I dipped my fingertip in and tasted it. ‘Might be nice with pork sausages but not with kudu.’
Henk’s fork clattered onto his plate. The spark had gone out of his eyes.
‘What’s going on, Henk?’
‘I really thought we’d got something; I hoped that last one would be the one used in the poison sauce.’
‘Definitely not. I could swear to it, if I had to. But this isn’t stuff you can use in court; it’s just my opinion.’
‘I trust your opinion,’ he said and sighed. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you now . . . off the record, of course.’
‘Of course, ja.’
He put the lid back on the Spar mustard jar. ‘We found two sets of prints on the poison sauce bottle. One of them was Slimkat’s, the other’s unknown. The original yellow bottle with the Kudu Stall sauce had lots of prints on it, but most of them were smudged. But we ran some prints through the system and got lucky. We got a match: a petty criminal with a record of pickpocketing, that kind of stuff. Just the kind of guy whose services would be for hire.’
Henk pushed his plate aside and leant towards me.
‘We tracked him down to a township near Oudtshoorn today,’ he said. ‘At his girlfriend’s house. In their kitchen was some fresh garlic and half a jar of mustard – this kind of Spar mustard.’
‘Did you check the sell-by date on the bottle?’ I asked.
‘Ja. And compared them to the dates of the bottles on sale at the Spar. I think it was bought recently, a few days before the murder. When we asked the guy where he was on the night of the murder, he swears he was at home at his girlfriend’s, making a braai in her backyard. His girlfriend agrees. But the fingerprints show he was lying.’
‘I suppose he had pork sausages in the fridge,’ I said.
‘In the freezer. That’s what he said the mustard was for. We’ve sent Slimkat’s napkin off to test the ingredients. But in the meantime, I wanted to see what you thought.’
‘I could be wrong,’ I said.
‘Ja,’ he said.
But neither of us believed it.
‘I’m sorry Henk,’ I said, getting up and resting my hands on his shoulders. ‘Maybe something will still come from this guy. He is lying.’
‘We found wallets in the house. One of them had been reported stolen at the KKNK. I guess he did some pickpocketing at the festival, and that’s why he lied.’
‘Have you put a bit of pressure on him?’ I stroked the back of Henk’s neck as he finished his pie. ‘If he was working for someone else, he might give them up rather than get in trouble himself?’
‘Ja, the Oudtshoorn police will interrogate him again. I think he’s too dumb to have pulled it off. But the girlfriend seems sharp. And then when I saw the mustard . . .’
‘Maybe he was just hired to do the swap. He’s quick with his fingers. Maybe someone else made the sauce.’
‘Could be,’ said Henk, putting his hand on mine. ‘But maybe he was just unlucky to be on the crime scene, amongst hundreds of others that night . . . You know, Slimkat’s cousin, Ystervark, was right there the whole time. He also had the chance to cut those brakes. You don’t have to be a mechanic to do that kind of job. He’s an aggressive guy, but I don’t know what his motive would be . . .’
I knew Henk had a point, but I didn’t like to think Ystervark would kill his own cousin.
‘Would you like a beer,’ I said, ‘or some coffee?’
Henk turned his chair and pulled me onto his lap.
‘You left Kosie at home,’ I said.
‘He was asleep, and I was in a rush to get here.’ He looked at the mustard jars and shook his head, then he touched my nose with his own. ‘And you? Was your meeting good?’
I nodded and he nuzzled my neck. Then he sat up straight and said, ‘You had something you wanted to talk to me about?’
I stroked the silver and chestnut hair above his ears and looked into his grey-blue eyes. Then I leant into him and let him hold me in his arms.
‘I . . .’ My mouth went dry. ‘Some other time.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
When we were finished being close in the new ways we had found, I lay in Henk’s arms on my bed, my head on his chest. There was a lone frog singing somewhere outside, and a band of crickets as backup. I breathed in Henk’s cinnamon-honey smell, his warm body, his furry chest, copper and grey hair, his mouth that held that big smile, his strong arms around me. I stroked his forearms, feeling his muscles and his silky chestnut hair, and inhaled him as if I could make him a part of me for ever.
I felt our closeness, but I also felt the distance of the things unsaid between us. I knew that once I had spoken, we could not go back again. And if I did not speak, we could not go forward. I wanted to stay in this place, now, for ever.
Henk pressed me to him and held me tight. As he squeezed, I felt the weight of Fanie’s body, the weight of forgiveness not given.
‘I’d better go,’ said Henk. ‘Tomorrow night I’ll bring Kosie. I’ll come early, about six.’
My sleep was disturbed by nightmares. The same ones and new ones. I woke up in the early hours and swallowed an antidepressant. Then I took the last piece of pie out onto the stoep and ate it as I watched the yellow half-moon sinking down towards the hills in the west. The kudu appeared from behind the gwarrie tree and walked through the veld, across my garden, onto my stoep. It stood with me, and we watched the moon set.
I slept okay after that but got into work a little late.
Hattie was busy on the phone when I arrived. Jessie was at her computer with her coffee; she grinned and raised a mosbolletjie rusk to me in greeting.
Hattie was talking to one of the Klein Karoo Gazette freelance reporters, from Riversdale. I put on the kettle and looked at the letters on my desk.
‘Fine,’ said Hattie, ‘if you want to cut it in half yourself and re-submit, you are welcome to do so, but we’re working to a deadline here, so we need your piece in an hour.’
When she was finished on the phone, I told them about the masked people who had invaded my therapy group. I tried to make light of it so that Hattie wouldn’t fuss too much.
‘Horned masks and sulphuric smoke?’ she said. ‘Sounds like they were satanists. From the satanic mechanic’s dark past. I hope you reported it to the police.’
‘Um, not yet,’ I said.
I pushed aside their questions by sorting through my letters. So many people, with so many problems. One of the envelopes had that spidery handwriting I recognized; I would save that as a treat. I made coffee and opened a letter from a woman getting a painful divorce, but I did not feel up to responding to her. I sipped my coffee and chewed the rusk. We’d put the Mama Bolo letter and my response onto the website. And now I had a number of emails from other healers and herbalists. They weren’t asking for my advice but offered to help with ‘every kind of love problem and any other suff
ering’. Was love always suffering? I wondered. The herbalists had remedies to make ‘big breasts, D-cup’ and cure ‘slack vagina’.
‘“Do you need a magic mirror,”’ I read out loud to Hattie and Jessie, ‘“for finding lost lovers, stray sheep and catching your enemy before he gets to you?”’
‘Hmm, could come in handy,’ said Hattie.
‘And here we have the “one and only very most important help with love”.’ I translated from the Afrikaans. ‘“Men, I can help you if you have small birds. I have muti to make your tools big and strong, and give you the most powerful moves. In only ten minutes. Guaranteed. Money back if you do not get results you dreamt of.”’
Jessie laughed.
‘Honestly,’ said Hattie, shaking her head. ‘By the way, Jessie, did you see there were some nice responses to your website article about the bunny? Even some emails offering a few hundred rand.’
‘Yes, thanks, Hattie. But it will costs tens of thousands to do what’s needed there.’
‘Perhaps public opinion will pressurise the council or Nature Conservation?’
Jessie shrugged. ‘Their funds are already allocated.’
‘Well, at least we tried,’ said Hattie.
I picked up the letter from the woman who was getting a divorce.
Dear Tannie Maria,
I hope you can help me. My husband is soon to become my ex-husband. We should have been honest with each other years ago. But now it is too late. The lies grew like cancer and killed the love between us. He is a good man, and there was love, and we did have some very sweet times together. I am grateful for this. The pain is unbearable, but there is no going back now. I am not asking your advice for mending – the divorce is going through in one week. I would just like some ideas on the last meal to make for him. We still have affection for each other and have agreed to sit down together one last time.
Should I make him one of his old favourites? Or should I have something new?
Yours sincerely,
Woman soon to be alone
I made myself and Jessie fresh coffee while I thought about this. Then I wrote:
How about an old favourite main meal? Maybe something that can be served with a sweet and sour sauce. And a new pudding. Have you ever tried malva pudding served with yoghurt?
I gave her Tannie Ina Paarman’s recipe for sweet and sour mustard sauce, which was delicious with raw or cooked vegetables. The malva pudding was one of my best family recipes. It came from my great aunt, Sandra. With the yoghurt, it was also sweet and sour. Tannie Sandra was a strong woman, whose husband died young. She managed a mielie farm and raised five children on her own during hard times.
An old recipe is like a spell. It holds spirit and memories as well as ingredients. I hoped that Tannie Sandra’s recipe would give this woman the strength to face her own hard times.
As I wrote out the sweet and sour recipes for divorce, I wondered what I would make for Henk that night, and if it might be our last meal together. Would telling the truth end our relationship? Would burying the truth kill it slowly over time?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘No,’ I said to the mosbolletjie rusk in my hand. ‘I won’t make a divorce meal tonight.’
‘What?’ said Jessie, looking up at me.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I was talking out loud.’
I was not going to make a divorce meal for Henk. I’d make a meal that would make him think twice about leaving, even after I’d told him the truth.
I drank my last mouthful of coffee. If you drink the coffee quickly enough, then the bits of rusk that have sunk to the bottom are not too soggy. I opened the letter from my Scottish friend – the woman with the man somewhat younger and darker than her.
Thank you, dear Maria,
That dark fruitcake (that matures with age) is very delicious. He likes it so much I gave him takeaways.
I am sure you are right, that age and colour don’t really matter. But what about language? I hardly know any French, but he speaks a little English. And we communicate a lot with our hands. Of course, that smile of his says more than the moon on a dark night. Oh look, now he has me writing poetry! Oh dear, I must be crazy, falling for him like this. But he has agreed to visit me every day now, so he must feel something too. I would like to have lunch ready for him. Something simple, like those lovely cheese scones. My energy is not so good since the operation. But I’d like to do more than sandwiches.
Maybe something interesting with meat?
Yours,
Lassie falling in love
While I thought of how to answer the lassie, I made some more coffee. Then I wrote:
Dear Lassie,
It sounds like things are moving along nicely.
Language is just words. So much can be said with food.
I dipped my rusk and chewed on it. A piece of aniseed filled my mouth with flavour.
Yes, a man likes his meat. Here is a recipe for toad-in-the-hole made with boerewors (or any other nice spicy sausage). And a corned-beef pie made with tins of corned beef and mushrooms. Both are very delicious and easy, and can also be frozen. You can serve them with bread or pap, and salad.
On my way back from work, I picked up the ingredients I needed for Henk and me. And a bunch of celery for Kosie. I chatted with Tannie de Jager from the library.
‘So did that new mechanic fix your problem?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘I saw your bakkie turning in at that farm where he lives.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes. No. He’s still busy with it.’
‘Did you leave it there?’
My bakkie was parked outside the Spar. I wasn’t going to try to fool a librarian. ‘No, I’m going back,’ I said.
‘I’ve heard that strange things go on out there. At his farm.’
‘Mm,’ I said, ‘don’t these pears look nice?’ I put a bag of pears into my basket.
* * *
As I walked up the garden path to my house, my chickens came to greet me. I threw them a handful of mielies from the bucket on the stoep. Their dust-red feathers fluttered as they danced around each other to get at the food. The white-eye birds watched them from the branches of the lemon tree. It was a warm, still afternoon: just the weather for braaing.
I was going to make Henk a meal that would look like I hadn’t tried too hard. Just hamburgers and malva pudding. But they would be bobotie mince burgers made with roosterkoek. And my aunt’s malva pudding was like none he’d eaten before.
I mixed the yeast, mieliemeal and flour together and then stirred in the water and kneaded the mixture until it was smooth and silky. I coated the dough with a little olive oil, then left it to rise in a warm spot on the stoep.
Then I fried the ostrich mince and added raisins, lemon rind and subtle Malay spices. And also apricot jam and lemon juice. Before I mixed in the flour and egg to turn the mince into patties, I served myself some and ate it for lunch with the salad that was on my diet sheet. Superb.
I laid a fire but didn’t light it. My braai is built up with bricks and concrete, with a counter next to the fire and a big space underneath for firewood. It is in my garden, just in front of the stoep. I put the raw patties and roosterkoek on a covered dish on the counter, then I prepared the malva pudding. Like the bobotie, it had apricot jam in it.
I showered, washed my hair and put on my white underwear, my cream dress with the little blue flowers and my smart blue shoes. Not really braai clothes, but anyway. I spent a bit longer than usual over my make-up. I noticed some grey hairs in the brown curls that curved onto my cheeks. I wondered how long they’d been there. I was not one to stare in the mirror. But today I stared. My green eyes gazed back at me. Could they see that I had killed a man? Or that I was about to lose the man I loved?
I took a diet tablet and laid the stoep table. Then I brought two of the metal garden chairs to the braai and lit the fire. I sat down and watched the autumn light become softer as the afternoon fell into even
ing. The lemon tree cast long shadows onto the chickens that were sorting through the compost heap. I looked out at the thorn trees and the veld. A mongoose darted from some spekbome to the gwarrie tree. There was no sign of the kudu, thank heavens. I needed to be sane tonight. No imaginings, just the truth.
I heard Henk’s Hilux when it turned off onto the dirt road. My heart beat faster as he got closer. I took even breaths, like I’d learnt in my group. Should I talk to him before or after the meal? Maybe during. My heartbeat slowed a little with my breathing, then it sped up as I saw Henk and Kosie heading along the path between the peach pips. Kosie skipped into the vegetable patch, but Henk did not stop him; he was marching straight towards me.
‘So, when were you going to tell me?’ he said, looking down at me.
I stood up, but he was still so much bigger than me.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Sit down.’
‘Or were you never going to tell me?’
‘Do you want a beer?’ I said.
He sat down, and now he was closer to my standing height.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, shaking his head, frowning.
‘Who told you?’ I said.
‘It’s all over the police station.’
‘What? How . . .?’
‘Dirk. Dirk told Warrant Officer Smit. They’re drinking buddies.’
My knees were shaky, and I sat down. What we said in the group was private. I could hear Ricus’s voice: ‘What we say here, stays here.’
Henk said, ‘But of course if no one officially reports it, there’s nothing we can do. It’s an embarrassment to us, as police.’
‘An embarrassment? What do you mean?’
‘This sort of stuff going on in our own back yard. And you, you not even telling me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was going to tell you tonight.’
‘I thought I could trust you.’
‘I was scared what you might think.’
‘Come to the police station,’ he said, standing up, taking my arm. ‘We can go now and report it.’