Zulu

by Caryl Ferey

  Neuman parked his car outside Maia’s house, one of the few permanent structures in the area. High-flying planes blinked in the mauve sky. He glanced at the unpaved streets receding into the distance and closed the car door. A ray of light was filtering through the skylight of her bedroom. He knocked gently at the door, in order not to scare her—four times, it was one of their codes. Muffled steps approached.

  Maia smiled when she saw him, her demi-god looming out of the darkness. “I’ve been waiting for you all day,” she said, with no reproach in her voice.

  She was wearing only a short, shimmery nightdress and the pair of slippers he had bought her. She kissed his hand and drew him inside. The decoration of the living room area had changed since last week. Maia had torn down the ill-assorted pieces of wallpaper and put up paintings, her own paintings, done on boards or salvaged wood. Maia was happy to see him but said nothing—code number four. You just had to remember them.

  Without a word, she drew him toward the bedroom, lit the candle next to the mattress and lay down on her stomach. Her golden thighs gleamed in the dim light, her legs—he knew every muscle, every fold of them, he had caressed them a thousand times. Maia closed her eyes, letting herself be looked at, her arms hanging loose from her body, as if she was about to fly away. A dog barked outside.

  Another plane passed. The candle wax dripped on the carpet. Still as a sculpture, Maia waited, her eyes closed, as if dead. At last, he ran his hand through her carefully braided hair and gently stroked the curve of her neck. She smiled. There was no need to open her eyes. “I’d know your hand three yards away.”

  Her body was as warm and soft as her lips. He stroked her shoulders, her back, slightly rough to the touch. One, two, three, he counted five scars. Maia began writhing and whimpering. Maybe she was faking it. It didn’t matter. He lifted her nightdress, revealing the small of her back, her round buttocks, which she stretched toward him, like an offering. Neuman had stopped thinking. His fingertips made powder trails on her ransacked body, an invisible thread that drew a thousand delighted little squeals from her.

  He looked up and saw, in the candlelight, the photographs on the walls. Photographs out of magazines that Maia had put up to brighten the room, advertisements showing women in tropical paradises, with beaches and isolated atolls in the background, half-crumpled photographs, some of them damp from being picked up out of the garbage on the streets. You almost wanted to throw up with the pity of it.

  Neuman left without even glancing at her paintings, leaving a handful of banknotes on the fridge.

  *

  The botanical gardens were empty at this hour, the dawn still a memory. Neuman walked across the English lawn, holding his shoes in his hand. The grass felt soft and cool beneath his feet. The foliage of the acacias trembled in the darkness. Neuman folded back the ends of his jacket and kneeled by the flowers.

  Wilde iris (Dietes grandiflora), read the notice. The police tapes were still there, waving in the breeze.

  They hadn’t found Nicole’s purse at the scene of the crime. The killer had taken it. Why? For the money? How much money could a student have in her purse? He looked up at the clouds scurrying wildly beneath the moon. The presentiment was still there, omnipresent, like a tightness in his chest.

  He wouldn’t sleep. Not tonight, not tomorrow. The pills had no effect, except to leave a taste like soft dough in his mouth. Chronic insomnia, despair, compensatory phenomena, despair—his brain was going around in circles. Not just since this morning. Taking one of his walks along the Cape of Good Hope wouldn’t make any difference. There was this cold monster inside him, this beast that was impossible to spit out. However hard he fought, however much he denied it, tried to make each morning the first rather than the last, he was waging a war he had lost in advance. Maia—just a front. Tears welled in his eyes. He could invent activities for himself, erotic codes, lists of passionate attractions like so many phantom loves, the glue simply didn’t hold. Before long, his masks would fall in a rain of plaster, walls that would carry everything away in their collapse, like old scenery sent for scrap. Reality would explode one day, it would take him by the throat and make him bite the dust, as he had in that garden as a child. His Zulu skin was hanging by a thread. He could try to dent reality as much as he wanted, make plans, forenames with female lines, he would fall, engine in flames, on the same no man’s land. A land without man—without a man worthy of the name.

  Neuman wasn’t a man anymore. He had never been a man.

  Maia could writhe on the mattress all she liked, split the atoms of desire that separated them. Neuman’s sexual organ was dead. He had died with it.

  6.

  Ruby didn’t much trust particular men, and some men not at all. Her father had left suddenly, without leaving an address, abandoning his wife and children.

  Ruby, the youngest, was thirteen at the time. No explanation. Her father had left a void behind him and built a new life for himself, with other people.

  The years had passed, but Ruby had never tried to track him down. Her sister had become anorexic, her brother was a divorcé hardened by two marriages as pathetic as they were hasty, and their mother had never remarried. The bastard had wrecked their lives, he could die incognito.

  The emotional emptiness that had eaten away at them had turned to anger. Ruby had loved her father. She had believed everything he had said to her, all the hopes he had instilled in her when he took her on his knees and played card tricks for her, or drew the tarot for her—“You’re going to be a great reporter!” He had seemed so proud of her, so sure of himself and the time they would have. Ruby hadn’t suspected a thing. Her father and all the men in the world were traitors. Especially Brian. Brian Epkeen, the love she had never dared to dream of, her battered prince whom she would collect from the gutters, his face swollen, Brian who she had sponged and bandaged and put back on his feet, the bastard had ruined everything. Ruby had given him everything, her love, her ass, her time, and he had rejected all of it.

  They had been separated for six years. Ruby’d had a few disappointments since then, but she couldn’t resign herself to the idea of growing old without love. Impossible. Love was her drug, her greatest addiction, her only way of mourning her father. But now, fortunately, there was Rick.

  Fifty-three years old, but still looking good, Rick van der Verskuizen had the most fashionable dental practice in the city, a house in the middle of the wine country—she’d just moved in—and children grown up enough not to bother them. A considerate man, someone who offered prospects, not someone who came home at all hours in a state of shock, high on adrenaline or speed, and despite his fine egalitarian words took it out on her.

  To bring you my love

  to bring you my love

  to bring you my love!

  Ruby was wandering around the bedroom, the music at full volume. She hadn’t yet put on her makeup, and was barely dressed, going back and forth from the bed to the bathroom, singing at the top of her voice.

  Her record label hadn’t withstood the era of downloading. Twelve years of passion and hard work, risk-taking and crazy nights had gone up in smoke. With a heavy heart, she’d closed up shop. She could have changed professions, like most of the artists she produced, but Ruby didn’t know anything about other professions, and didn’t give a fuck about any of them anyway.

  That mindset hadn’t helped her to find a job. None of the majors wanted to work with a hothead like her, the others had seen her too often backstage, drunk, clinging to whatever man was around, taking whatever was offered. Three years of hell, thinking it would never end, but things had been looking up since she had gotten this job as a production assistant. No more casting sessions for reality shows, no more shoots for hip magazines that paid you in clothes, no more humiliating apologies to her bank president for unpaid checks, no more temporary contracts, no more periods of unemployment. Once again, she would have a recognized social activity, a little money, independence. Of course, it wasn�
�t the job she’d dreamed of. Rick had used his contacts. Having never had to depend on anyone, she’d had to smile at people. Shut her big vinyl suffragette mouth. Swallow her forty-two years and act as if she was living for the first time. But what of it? The job had gotten her out of the rut, and besides, she didn’t exactly have a lot of choice these days. Forty-two. She would soon be past childbearing age. In a few years she wouldn’t be able to flash her ass anymore and get a man to do anything she wanted, go anywhere she wanted. A few more years, she thought, and it would all be over—the unrelenting kisses, the sweet talk that led to the altar. What would become of her if Rick threw her out, too?

  Her cell phone rang on the chest of drawers in the bedroom. Ruby turned down the volume of the music, wedged the cell phone against her ear, and pulled up the zipper of her dress.

  “Hi.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  Brian. For a moment, there was silence in the chaos of sound waves.

  “I’m busy right now,” Ruby said. “What is it?”

  “Was it you who sent David to go through my pockets?”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Admit it.”

  “I told you, you can just fuck off.”

  “David, too, it seems. What happened with Marjorie’s parents? Apparently he got thrown out, and now he’s looking for an apartment.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “If I know him, he was probably smoking joints in their living room.”

  “You don’t know your son, Brian. You’ve only ever been interested in your own dick. Don’t be surprised if he hates your guts.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating.”

  “I assure you I’m not.”

  He laughed dismissively, but Ruby’s voice was hard as stone.

  “David told me you’ve moved in with your new boyfriend.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “We could come to an arrangement about the rent for the apartment,” Brian went on. “Fifty-fifty, do you agree?”

  “No.”

  “Your dentist is rolling in it, so I think you could make an effort.”

  “I don’t see why he should pay for your son.”

  “He’s your son, too.”

  “What happened between us has nothing to do with Rick. Leave us alone.”

  “Since when have you been interested in teeth?”

  “Since I stopped seeing yours.”

  “Ha ha!” His laugh was so forced it was painful.

  “You never made me laugh, Brian,” she said, icily. “Never. Now leave me alone, O.K.?”

  Ruby threw her cell phone on the bed, turned up the volume, and went into the bathroom to put on her makeup, with the music at full blast. Light mascara, eyeliner. Her hand was shaking slightly. Brian. She cursed herself in the mirror. Brian had deceived her, like her father. Ruby could never forgive him for that. She had thought it would pass, but it hadn’t.

  The guitars suddenly stopped screaming from the bedroom.

  “What kind of wild music is this?”

  P. J. Harvey. Five feet of dynamite, a voice like flint, riffs that could break stones. Rick appeared in the doorway, his hair still wet from his session in the pool. He was wearing a toweling bathrobe and a watch shaped like a TV set. Ruby was finishing her makeup. He moved his hand over her ample buttocks.

  “Are you going out?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “and I’m already late.”

  “Pity.”

  Ruby could feel his erection against her back, getting harder as he snuggled up to her. He was smiling in the bathroom mirror with his thirty-two impeccable teeth. He slid his hand under her dress, moved it to the front of her panties and down onto her pubis.

  “We’ll have to hurry,” he breathed in her ear.

  Ruby arched as he started to masturbate her. “I don’t have time,” she whimpered.

  “Two minutes,” he said, breathing harder.

  “I’m going to be late.”

  “Yes. It’ll be good.”

  “Rick.”

  She was writhing, trying to get away, but he held her firmly, kneading her clitoris. He lifted her dress and pressed his cock between her buttocks.

  “Rick. No, Rick.”

  But he had already lowered her panties.

  It was a lovely summer’s day, the insects were dancing in the shady garden, chased by birds. Ruby went out via the terrace, carrying her bag—she was going to be late after all. Rick readjusted his bathrobe and grabbed the newspaper lying on the deckchair.

  “See you tonight, darling!” he said.

  “I’ll call you after the production meeting!”

  “O.K.!”

  She smiled to hide her embarrassment. He had hurt her earlier.

  The bull mastiff that guarded the property came up to her to be stroked, but quickly turned away. Ruby got in the BMW coupé parked in the forecourt, avoided looking at herself in the rear-view mirror, narrowly missed the dog, and drove out onto the vineyard road, with P. J. Harvey playing in the background to drown out her tears.

  As swanky as its sister, Clifton, Camps Bay had a view over the Atlantic and the foothills of Table Mountain, which protected it from the polar winds. A few gossamer clouds on the hilltops, freighters on the sky-blue horizon, the indolent palm trees along Victoria road, the whole suburb was like an El Dorado within easy reach.

  “Everything O.K.?” the barman said. “You don’t look too good.”

  Brian was drinking a coffee and looking out to sea. He’d just been talking to Ruby on the phone, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Just shut up and give me another espresso.”

  The terrace of the Café Caprice was almost empty at this time of day. Tattooed guys who were into bodybuilding, sports cars with their tops down, mass-produced bimbos, flat-screen sunglasses—the hip young people of Camps Bay wouldn’t be out on parade before eleven.

  “How about a pastry?” the barman said, wiping the next table with a sponge.

  “No.”

  “If you like, I have some great saus—”

  “I said no!”

  Brian hated boerewors, the sausages he was given in the morning as a child simply because he was an Afrikaner—to him, they tasted like unwashed feet. He closed the Cape Times and sighed into the air. Stewart Wiese had issued a press release that was particularly scathing about the law and order situation in the country, with an all-out attack on the police for being unable to prevent the murders and rapes of which his daughter had been just one more victim—one too many. The statement had immediately been picked up by the national media. Brian had done the rounds of the barmen who worked along Victoria with a photo of Nicole, but none of them remembered seeing her recently, which corroborated Judith Botha’s testimony. Taking over from Dan Fletcher, he had questioned Ben Durandt. “O.K. for driving a convertible.” Nicole’s only (known) boyfriend fit the picture painted by her friend Judith. He paid the check and, his mind somewhat soothed by the sound of the sea, climbed the little coast road that led to Stewart Wiese’s house.

  Despite the worries about safety and the high demand for property, Camps Bay was still the flagship suburb of Cape Town, a seaside and residential resort protected by Chapman’s Peak, one of the most beautiful roads in the world, which you now had to pay a toll to use. The only blacks you saw here parked the cars or helped in the kitchens. You had to go down as far as Hout Bay to see the first townships, which were nothing more than collections of huts clustered around the villages on the coast.

  Fear of criminals had replaced fear of blacks in most well-to-do whites, who had retreated to their laager.12 Armed response, surveillance cameras, walls protected by barbed wire and electrification—the facilities of the house where Nicole had grown up were the very least to be expected in a residence of this caliber.

  The teak terrace overlooked the villa of a film director who was absent half of the y
ear. Brian stood at the guardrail, smoking a cigarette and looking out over the bay. The maid, an old-fashioned Xhosa who spoke pidgin English, had asked him to wait near the swimming pool. Stewart Wiese was in the living room talking to the funeral director.

  The former Springbok had gone into the wine trade, and had shares in several local companies, including some of the best vineyards in the region. Brian peered in through the plate-glass window into the study, and saw trophies on the shelves, club pennants, the flag of the National Party, until recently still the majority party in the Western Cape.13

  Heavy footsteps shook the boards of the terrace.

  Brian had forgotten what he looked like, but now recognized him immediately. Stewart Wiese was a massive six and a half feet, with a battered face, cauliflower ears from thousands of scrums, and steel-gray eyes still red with tears.

  “Are you in charge of the investigation?” he asked the cop who’d just shown up in his black fatigues.

  “Lieutenant Epkeen,” Brian said, his hand disappearing into Wiese’s.

  After his rough Saturday night, he had left his suit at the dry-cleaners. Wiese snarled dubiously at his T-shirt. His two little girls, aged four and six, were staying with their grandparents until their sister’s funeral; his wife was asleep in the bedroom, under sedation, and couldn’t talk to anyone. He quickly went over everything as if it was a formality: Nicole was in her first year of law at the faculty in Observatory, if you were studying law you had to work hard, not go out all the time, the streets weren’t safe, the customers of the hottest restaurant in the city had been robbed by an armed gang as recently as last week, on a Saturday night, young white girls were particularly at risk, which was why he had kept a close watch on when Nicole went out and who she went out with. He had never doubted Judith Botha, or her loyalty. He and his wife couldn’t understand what could have happened—it was beyond them.