Sacrificed

by Chanette Paul

  The Cape robin hopped from one bookshelf to the next, leaving his streaky white visiting cards.

  “Little hooligan,” Caz muttered, but even the robin made her feel at home. Everything would be back to normal as soon as Catya forgave her. Since she fetched her from the cattery, the cat had been giving her the cold shoulder.

  As if she could read her mind, Catya sauntered up to Caz, meowed, and hopped onto her lap.

  Caz held the soft body against her and, to her surprise, the cat did not protest. She even began to purr.

  Now she was really home. In her own fucked-up country. On her own fucked-up continent. But home.

  Ammie

  Leuven

  Of course she remembered. October the second, 1962, October the second 1963, 1964, and every year that followed. She didn’t want to, but she did.

  And then Fien had mentioned in her letter that a grandchild was on its way. Of course it had touched her. Made everything real again. Could that have been why she had subconsciously wanted the truth to be revealed?

  Jacq had thought she was the best thing ever to happen to him. He wasn’t a demonstrative man, but she knew his love for her was deep. So much deeper than hers for him.

  She didn’t deserve his love. He loved a phantom. It was unbearable.

  A grandchild. And she was black.

  Had she made a mistake? That would be equally unbearable.

  The only thing that was bearable was hiding behind her veils. If only the veils weren’t so transparent.

  Caz

  Overberg

  It was late afternoon and the locksmith had just left when Moerdyk junior called.

  “I think I have good news, Ms. Colijn.”

  “About the box? What happened to it?”

  “There’s a sealed strongbox in our own safe, marked the property of Josefien Colijn.”

  “I can hardly believe it!”

  “Neither can I, but my grandpa was still prepared to bend the rules to accommodate his clients. When I asked him, he remembered quite clearly. Evidently the bank manager at the time was instructed by Mrs. Colijn to give the box to my grandpa when the private strongboxes had to be removed from the bank. Mrs. Colijn asked my grandpa to keep it for her. He took delivery of it, also of the second key. The one you have and the one in our possession are both required to open the box. If your key fits, I can let you have the box.”

  “Mr. Moerdyk, I’m in the Overberg and I urgently need that box. I can’t make a trip just to bring you the key. Do you have a courier? I’ll fax you my mother and sister’s death certificates, as well as my mother’s handwritten note with the details. Also my sister’s will, appointing me as her sole beneficiary. I can have it all verified at the police station and provide you with an affidavit if it will help.”

  “I don’t know. Let me talk to my grandfather first. It’s his responsiblity, so I’ll let him decide.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” Caz had the idea Junior would be only too relieved to rid himself of Grandpa Moerdyk’s knotty responsibilities. She hoped so.

  Caz had not heard from Lilah again after Schiphol, though she might have sent a message before Caz inserted her new SIM card in her spare phone. It was a shock to discover how many numbers she had lost. According to the fellow at the cellphone shop it was probably because she had stored the numbers on her phone instead of her SIM card.

  She couldn’t do anything about the loss of the Belgian phone, so De Brabander and Luc DeReu’s numbers were gone. Not that she particularly wanted to phone the professor, though she would have liked to find out whether Ammie was okay.

  She had no wish to speak to De Brabander either. She’d had quite enough of his mistrust but she would only be able to address the issue once she knew what was in the strongbox. Hopefully. He needed to be informed of Njiwa’s whereabouts and his true identity, but once she had identified Njiwa on the photos, Dlamini would surely inform De Brabander. The Stanford police had asked her to come in the next morning.

  Today she wanted to email Lilah. She missed her terribly. She didn’t really know what to write without sending the child into a panic.

  It ended up being chiefly a thank-you letter for spoiling her during the few days they had spent together.

  Lilah’s reply came in the evening, just as Caz was about to switch off the laptop before going to bed.

  It was lovely to spoil you a little, MaCaz. Tried to call yesterday, but your phone said the number does not exist.

  It’s chaos here. I’m dead on my feet. Will write a proper letter soon. Tomorrow I have a shoot in Istanbul. Look after yourself. Love you very, very much and miss you lots. L.

  Phone working again, Caz texted, but got no reaction. Lilah had probably gone to bed.

  Thursday, October 16

  Caz

  Overberg

  Dlamini called just as Caz arrived home after picking out Njiwa’s photo among four others.

  “Stanford has sent the results. You correctly identified the man we have in custody, but I must warn you he’s going to plead not guilty. He says he wasn’t the one who stole the handbag. It was one of the other passengers in the taxi. He just picked up the keys and was planning to give them to the driver before he got out.”

  “He and the driver were the only ones in the vehicle, Captain,” Caz protested.

  “Not at the time of the accident. Two men died, including the driver. Another is in a critical condition in hospital. Verstraeten himself has only a sprained wrist and a few bruises and scratches. He was the only one wearing a seatbelt.

  “So we have just your word that Verstraeten and the driver were the only ones in the taxi when your handbag was stolen. Bear in mind that the situation was stressful. Your observation of what happened in those moments and what you saw might have been impaired.”

  “I looked into his eyes, Captain. He was definitely the one who had deliberately made my acquaintance in Amsterdam and followed me around in Belgium. The detective in Ghent had an identikit drawn up. If you contact him, he’ll send it to you.”

  “Identikits have put innocent people in jail. According to Verstraeten he’s never heard of a Cassandra Colijn. He doesn’t know why you’re saying he goes by the name of Njiwa. He was in Belgium, but never in Ghent. He thinks you’re confusing him with someone else. He says white people think all blacks look the same.”

  “He’s talking rubbish, Captain.” She could tell him she of all people knew better, but this wasn’t about Lilah. And it wouldn’t do any good. “Besides, why do you think the taxi tried to get away from the patrol car?”

  “It could be because the driver or the taxi didn’t have the proper licence. Or because he had picked up passengers at another taxi’s pick-up point. The competition is stiff.”

  Dlamini might have been kind up to now, but he didn’t seem to believe her. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Most people would be fooled by Njiwa’s private-school manners—she certainly had been.

  “The other men, were they just ordinary South African passengers?” Caz changed tack.

  “Funny you should ask. All four in the taxi were originally from the DRC. Verstraeten is a South African citizen, but not the others. One was an illegal immigrant, one has a visa that expires next week and the taxi driver had a local work permit.”

  Shit. Did that mean Njiwa wasn’t alone in this thing?

  “The two deceased as well as the man in hospital had tattoos. They vary in size and design but correspond in that the word ‘Afrikanize’ or ‘Afrikanization’ appears in them. Afrika with a k. Does it mean anything to you?”

  Caz grew ice cold. “No, but it doesn’t sound good.”

  “Verstraeten says he doesn’t know any of the other men.”

  Verstraeten was probably lying through his teeth on all counts. “Captain, there’s something very sinister going on here.
Please, just contact the detective in Ghent. De Brabander. I beg you.” Should she tell him about Tieneke’s murder? He might take her more seriously, but she’d also have to confess that De Brabander suspected her of being the mastermind behind it. No, De Brabander could tell Dlamini himself. Maybe there had been new developments in the meantime.

  Dlamini sighed. “Ms. Colijn, I really don’t have time to do another country’s policework as well. I can’t even handle the crimes in my own jurisdiction. But, okay, give me the man’s number.”

  “Unfortunately I no longer have it. But anyone at the Ghent police station could help you. If you’ll just ...”

  “I’m sorry, there’s another call for me. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Bloody hell, it was like pulling teeth. Hopefully he would call De Brabander. For now she had to focus on the strongbox.

  Caz called Moerdyk junior.

  “I’m sorry, I should have phoned, but things are crazy,” he apologized without sounding sorry. “My grandpa agrees that it would be best for us to close the Colijn file and get it over with. It sounds as if he’s had several problems with the account over the years.”

  Rather with Fien Colijn, Caz guessed. “That’s excellent news. Thanks for your trouble. When can I expect the parcel?”

  “To tell you the truth, it’s already on its way. It should be delivered tomorrow.”

  Caz thanked him again and ended the call in a daze. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would find out what the hell it was that had more value than a human life.

  Forty

  Friday, October 17

  Caz

  Overberg

  Although she knew that the parcel couldn’t possibly be there before late afternoon, Caz was on tenterhooks all day.

  She phoned Dlamini. David Verstraeten, he told her, had been charged and released on bail. He had to report at the police station every day before eleven. Dlamini hadn’t had a chance to call Belgium, but he would do so as soon as he could find the time.

  If Njiwa had gone to OR Tambo directly after getting bail, he could be here by this afternoon, she realized as she put down the phone. But he needed an ID to fly.

  She phoned Dlamini again. Asked whether Verstraeten was in possession of an ID document or a passport. Dlamini sounded annoyed but confirmed that he was.

  Caz found it even more impossible to focus on the translation than the day before. At this tempo she would never meet the deadline.

  Frustrated, she googled Afrikanization. Almost all the websites she found required of her to register before she could get past the homepage. Membership was reserved for “Afrikans (black).” The Abibitumi Kasa Afrikan Language Institute that popped up at regular intervals was no exception. On their guest page they proclaimed: “reAfrikanization + Dewhitenization = Total Afrikan Liberation.”

  She simply didn’t have the stomach for such blatant racism, so she went into the garden and pulled out some weeds. Watered the plants. Fed the fish in the fishpond a second time. Catya as well. Catya fled up a tree. Caz swept the veranda at the side of the house. Washed the glass panes in the door leading out on it. And the glass panes in the front door. Polished the brass doorknob. Swept the front veranda as well.

  Just after three she heard a vehicle approaching on the gravel road. She went out onto the front veranda to wait for the courier.

  The man looked grumpy about the heavy parcel he was expected to carry inside and put down on the kitchen table. His mood lifted somewhat when she put a ten-rand note into his hand.

  Caz sat down on a kitchen chair and gazed at the thickly wrapped brown-paper parcel. She waited until the drone of the car had died away and nothing but the sound of birds and rustling leaves were audible. A sudden weakness in her knees kept her seated a little longer.

  At last she got up, took the kitchen scissors and cut through the tough packaging tape.

  She tore off the brown paper to reveal a gray metal box with two keyholes. A key was taped to the lid of the box with wide brown adhesive tape. She cut through that as well and tried to remove the sticky residue. To no avail.

  The key resisted when she inserted it into the slot and she struggled to turn it, but finally the first lock was open. Caz put her own key in the second lock and the box clicked open.

  All she had to do now was lift the lid.

  A musty smell filled her nostrils and caused her to sneeze.

  The canvas bag inside was worn and dirty. She took it out and put it beside the box. The canvas had hardened and she struggled with the rusty buckles, but at last the bag was open.

  Her hand found the figurine first. It was covered in dust. Fien must have taken the things straight from the garage after who knows how many years and put them in the box. It spoke volumes about her attitude towards Ammie. Fien had been fanatic about cleanliness.

  The figurine was bigger and heavier than she’d expected. No nails had been hammered into it. If Lilah’s information from the internet was correct, the nkísi had not been activated to become nkísi nkondi. Thank God for tiny mercies. At least a dormant spirit was preferable to an active one.

  She had been unfair in her flippant judgment on what she thought would be kitsch curio’s. The craftsmanship was truly superb. Not her kind of art, but exceptional nonetheless. Comical, in a way. Odd proportions. Two enormous buttocks, a grotesquely distended belly. Big head and big breasts. The body was supported by short legs. Small feet. Short arms and stubby hands.

  The eyes and bulging navel had been fashioned from mirror shards. They gave her the shivers.

  The upper part of the belly was covered with a labyrinthine pattern. Not carved out of the wood, but fashioned by means of raised bumps, as if something inside the wood was trying to escape. Almost like carbuncles. Caz shuddered again.

  She put down the fertility figure and took out the mask. Though it was stylized, she recognized the nose and chin at once. It was a good likeness of Ammie, but also of her own face in the mirror. The objects were nothing like the items usually found in a curio shop. They were beautiful works of art.

  The intricate pattern on the figure was repeated in a similar series of bumps on the cheeks of the mask. When she ran her finger over one of the bumps that looked more worn than the rest, it turned into a small crater. Fine dust coated her fingertip. Whatever had been hiding underneath seemed to have escaped.

  Caz rinsed her dusty hands under the kitchen tap and moistened an old dishcloth. Carefully she wiped first the mask and then the figurine. She rinsed the cloth a few times before she was satisfied that the items were clean.

  Okay. That was it. A mask and a figurine and nothing else.

  The canvas bag. Caz winced at the thought of putting her hand inside. Rather not. She spread a newspaper on the floor, turned the bag upside down and shook it. Dust billowed out and she sneezed again. She heard something roll away. A small stone, she saw when she retrieved it from under the table and put it on the newspaper.

  She struggled to undo the buckles of the two side pockets and shook the bag again. Only dust and a little sand fell out.

  Caz heaved a sigh of relief. Whether Njiwa and Matari wanted them because they were nkísi or because they had great artistic value, at least the two items were no more than what they purported to be and there was nothing else in the box. Nothing illegal.

  She would call De Brabander herself and spill the beans. She would find out whether he had heard from Dlamini that Njiwa had been arrested and released on bail. That his name was David Verstraeten. With a bit of luck they might even have exchanged fingerprints.

  How things worked internationally she didn’t know, but hopefully Njiwa would be imprisoned for life, and Erevu too. She doubted Njiwa would take the rap for Tieneke’s murder without implicating Erevu Matari.

  Erevu Matari. If Ammie was right, he was her black half-brother. She tried to recall his features. She couldn’t reca
ll anything that reminded her of Lilah, except perhaps the tall, slim figure.

  As soon as she had spoken to De Brabander and set the wheels rolling, she could carry on with her life. Try to make peace with her roots, discover the identity of her real father and help Lilah unravel their complicated ancestry.

  Caz crouched and folded the newspaper around the dust and sand. The pale pebble caught her eye. A little larger than a chickpea, and not completely round. Angular, with rounded edges and flattened curves. Almost like two pyramids with their bases fused together.

  She left the newspaper on the floor, picked up the pebble and got to her feet. She hardly noticed her protesting knees.

  Caz put on her reading glasses, turned the pebble this way and that, and held it against the light. It was translucent rather than transparent. She bent over the mask and laid the stone in the hollow that used to be a bulge. It was a perfect fit.

  A much bigger stone lodged itself in her stomach.

  No, she was being silly. It wasn’t possible.

  She counted the bumps on the mask. Noticed that some were bigger than others. Fourteen on one cheek and the same number on the other. She counted the bumps on the figurine. Twenty-five.

  Fifty-three in total.

  She took the loose pebble from its nest and studied the hollow closely. Inspected the other bumps again. Ran her thumb over them. A fine powder stained her thumb.

  Clay that had pulverized over the years. The mask and figurine were made of wood but the bumps had been covered with clay, then painted or treated to resemble wood.

  She studied the gleaming stone again and sank down in the nearest chair.

  If this stone was an uncut diamond that had fifty-two companions, she was knee-deep in shit. De Brabander would assume that she had promised the diamonds to Matari as payment for getting rid of Tieneke.

  Her only experience with diamonds was the stone in her engagement ring she had saved for a rainy day and finally sold to send Lilah on her first trip abroad. The diamond had been just under a carat. She guessed that none of these stones was less than one, or even two carats.