by Gerda Pearce
It was the need she saw in her twin that made Gin swallow any wounded pride and call Hannah. Hannah was surprisingly friendly, effusive almost, and Gin was thrown, vaguely guilty. Perhaps there had been a certain neglect of friendship on her part also. Hannah’s voice was shriller, off-key, when Gin mentioned Gabe.
Sunday morning, they met at Camps Bay. Despite the religious holiday, Blues restaurant was open but not yet crowded. They spent a happy day together, the four of them. Any tension seemed to have eased between the men and Hannah was vivacious, ebullient, at her sociable best. She had put on weight but it suited her, gave her face a softness. She had always had a stunning smile and she bestowed the light of it on the three of them like a benediction. Gin noted a shine in Hannah’s eyes, not unlike the glint of tears, as she hugged Gabe. Hannah did not cry easily, and Gin felt a fist tighten around her heart. There was a poignancy in the four of them meeting again and Gin had a strange foreboding that it would be their last.
After lunch, they walked on the beach. Gin sat on the rocks with Michael, watching Gabe and Hannah walk along the shore, voices low, for each other only. Even if the wind had allowed it, they made sure they would not be heard, a habit formed from when they were children. As girls, perhaps she and Hannah should have been closest, thought Gin, but Hannah chose always instead to confide any secrets to Gabe. Gin wondered if Gabe discussed with Hannah his dilemma and, if so, what would Hannah say. Would her opinion sway Gabe in his decision? Hannah had always been so steadfastly unconcerned by the politics that raged around her.
Michael faced the same fate, yet unlike Gabe, Gin assumed he had little choice. She realised how little she knew of Michael, these past four years, of how university had shaped and changed him. She knew nothing of the structure of his life. Michael and Gabe had been studying the same course and staying together in the large commune on the farm outside Grahamstown. Gin had been glad of this; at least they had stayed close. Michael had sat quietest, listening, smoking, absorbing Hannah’s tales. And, like Gin, watching Gabe’s hungry eyes follow Hannah’s every move, every gesture, her slender fingers glittering with rings, and nails of immaculate frosted pink, hands fluttering as she talked.
Gin felt guilty again, as if the fault of wayward friendship lay firmly at her feet. Had Simon distracted her so from all she loved and knew? Yet this could not be true. She tried to remember. Had Michael called, and had she ignored him? Had Gabe visited, and had she cut him short? She had no recollection of this. She felt the sharp pain of missing Simon. No one had mentioned him, nor even asked.
A frigid wind whipped off the waves, reached them on the rocks, and she shivered. Michael smiled at her, his crooked, secret smile. She thought it secret because it seemed to hide a knowledge that he would not share. There was an odd awkwardness between them, and she mourned the loss of closeness.
They returned, Gabe and Hannah, a handsome couple huddled closely as if for warmth. Hannah made to go. She must, she said, be elsewhere that evening for dinner. Such false gaiety, thought Gin, and hated it. She saw pain in Gabe’s eyes. He blinked, turned his face to the sea. Gin knew her twin’s reactions were like her own. They said their farewells, Hannah kissing air beside Gin’s cheek. But as she hugged Gabe, those long nails left marks in his arms. Another sunset. Darkness, always lurking.
While Michael fetched beer from the car, Gabe blurted words at Gin. He had decided to do his army service, “Get it over with.” These were the words he chose. This was the decision he had made, he told her, the beach grown lonely and bleak.
Gin could see Michael searching in the boot of her car for something. No doubt the opener was lost. White haze around her vision, around her world.
No more putting it off. No more leisurely years putting off the inevitable. He’d had his chance, his lazy days of being a student, lying beneath the great leafy oaks on the cricket lawns, reading Macbeth and Tennyson. Waiting. The Army had been patient. Also waiting. Time to exact its price, take its toll. It would take him, shave his hair to spikes and dress him like all the others, in sand-soaked brown. It would give him a helmet; it would give him a rank; it would give him a gun. At nights he would sleep on hard sheets in a single bed. The Army would wake him before dawn, make him run, make him sweat, make him suffer, drive him mad.
Would she write to him, he’d like that, asked Gabe. The sun was setting orange on the water. Why did she notice the sand stuck to wet pebbles, a small crab scuttling to the edge of foam? When her world was crumbling, when all she had known was changing, her attention would be caught by the most inconsequential detail, fogging her memory for later recall.
When Simon had left, she had watched the drop of falling purple, jacaranda blossom tumbling to the cobbled courtyard, whisked about to curls of lilac, or sticking wet, smeared indigo on the ground. She heard the hum of a neighbouring washing machine, smelled woodsmoke strong in the spring air.
Would she write to him, Gabe was asking again, he’d like that. The horizon glowed. And that was how she learned to hate the twilight. Beyond yawned the black void, sucking, devouring, taking all she loved, taking people from her yet again.
She took his hand, said nothing, in silence held it fast, linking again with him as they had as children. They sat in quiet communion. Remembering how the summer sun brought freckles to their pale faces. Remembering Michael’s perennial pageboy haircut, Hannah’s happy laugh.
But what else they spoke of that day upon the water, she would not remember. Could not remember! How it would feel, later, how she would betray his memory, when later she could not remember the last words her brother spoke to her, that fading orange twilight on the beach.
12. VIVIENNE
Viv cannot suppress a flutter of pleasure at the sound of Nick’s voice on her answer machine. Retief’s measured tone announces that he needs to talk to her, and would she please call him at his office. He recites the number and then repeats it slowly, considerately, as if he imagines her writing it down. It is already late afternoon. The sky has sedimented purple beyond the horizon and a stiff wind heralds a cold night. Viv puts her files on the dining table, as she will have no other use for it tonight. The girls have gone to Jonnie. As always, somewhat reluctantly and under mock protest. Abbie has more reason to resist the fortnightly visits. Jonnie is not Abbie’s father but in truth, he is the only father she has known. Viv is grateful that her elder daughter does not wholly object. She knows Abbie goes more for Kayleigh’s sake than her own. But however sullenly they traipse off, Viv knows Jonnie will indulge them, and they will return with presents of new clothes, new shoes, and new music.
She doubts Retief will still be there, but he answers on the second ring. “Retief.” Abruptly.
He asks if she can come in; he will be working late. His voice has thawed.
Viv is hesitant. She detests police stations, though it is years since she was last inside one.
Then he says, “Actually, there’s a good Indian restaurant up in Vredehoek.” Perhaps they can talk over dinner. That is, if she is hungry. Suddenly, he sounds unsure of himself, as if he has assumed too much.
Viv stares at the files on the table. She had planned to use the weekend to catch up with two days of case reports, and the endless laundry her teenage daughters appear to generate, but she feels a strange excitement at the thought of seeing Nick Retief again. “I’m starving,” she replies.
The sun has fully set by the time she has showered and changed. The car flies along a relatively empty de Waal drive which ribbons through the city. To her right, the lights end in geometric structured shapes, where the harbour buttresses the black sea that merges uninterrupted with the night. To her left, the edge of lights undulate as they meet the uninhabitable ridges of the mountain. The slopes are lit by night, and it looms above her, its shadowy form darker than the blackness of the sky. She swings off the highway into the flat stretch of the city centre, turns left up one of the long main streets and makes her way to Retief’s police station.
The Bedouin is set high up on the steep slopes of the suburb. The owner greets Nick by name and leads them to a cubicle at the window. Cape Town glimmers brightly below. Each chair is draped with silk and the tables dimly lit with lanterns of coloured glass. He explains the Indian terms to her, tells her what he thinks tastes good. She realises he is unaware of her own intimacy with these dishes, having cooked for Jonnie during the long years of her marriage. How little about her he knows. But she doesn’t tell him. She does not want to talk about her life, her past. Too much pain, long-suppressed.
They spend time ordering. Nick’s businesslike tone is gone and he seems at ease.
“What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?” asks Viv, as the waiter disappears with their order. She hopes her nervousness does not show.
“I haven’t been able to get hold of Miss McMann. And there’s a few things I need to find out about that may help clear up a few details.”
“What sort of details do you need to know?” Viv does not allow him time to reply. “And what sort of things do you need to know about Gin? You want me to tell you about my friend and I don’t know why; what if it’s things she might not want me to tell you about? Things she might not want you to know. And why do you need to know them?”
Nick does not interrupt her. When he seems certain she has finished, he answers. “I need to know about her past, about people she has been involved with, about anyone that may have a reason to want to harm her or Simon Gold.”
“Harm Gin?” Viv’s voice rises.
“Yes,” Nick says patiently, “or Simon Gold.”
“I didn’t know him. I never even met him.” She is horribly aware of the lie. Guilt settles on her chest. Already she feels the weight of lying to Nick. Nothing, she thinks, nothing in our present can be untainted by our past.
“But you knew that Miss McMann – Gin – was involved with him? You went to university together.” Nick sounds surprised.
“At the same time, not together. I didn’t meet Gin till after university, till after…” Viv stops.
Nick waits again. When she swallows and does not continue, he asks, “Till after what, Vivienne?”
“Nick,” says Viv stiffly, “this is hard for me.”
The waiter arrives with their food and busies himself with spreading the various dishes around the table, talking all the while, explaining to Viv which dish is which. She inclines her head politely at him, but stays silent. Nick is watching her across the table, and is silent also. When the waiter has left, she sits staring sullenly at the food. She feels like her daughters, sulky and reluctant to talk when upset.
He leans across to her. “I’m sorry, Vivienne,” he says, “I know this must be difficult for you. But I promise you, I’m really trying to help Gin, to find out what really happened that day. And why.”
“You really don’t think it was an accident, do you?” asks Viv, relenting somewhat.
He fills her glass with Colombard. “No, I don’t. And the insurance people don’t think so either. They’re not going to pay out till they know what happened.”
“Will that affect Simon’s estate?”
“It’ll affect his estate, yes, but only in terms of resolving this one insurance payout. From what I’ve been told, this particular life insurance policy is a large amount.”
“Is his family pushing you also?”
“No, not at all. Doctor Gold was a wealthy man, by all accounts. He left his wife and children very well provided for.”
Viv is quiet, thinking about Gin and her pregnancy. She has not mentioned this to anyone and doubts that Retief can know.
“His family are also wealthy,” continues Nick. “They own Kornfeld and Gold jewellers.”
“I know, Nick.” Again Viv realises he has no idea of her own past, of her own involvement with Gabe. “Gin’s family is the Kornfeld part,” she says, “Her maternal grandfather.”
“Ah, yes, I remember her saying their grandfathers were in business together. Friends. Is that how she met Doctor Gold – Simon – then?”
“They met for the first time when Gin was at university, and Simon was doing his medical internship in the same town. Although their families were always close. Gin was very close to Simon’s cousin Hannah when they were growing up. But I never knew Hannah either.” She stops and takes a draught of her wine.
Hannah, the name sits oddly on her tongue. Hannah, the unknown. Hannah, the name that had haunted Gabe’s dreams.
Nick ladles rice onto her plate, hands her copper dishes of spicy offerings.
“That’s all I really know about Simon,” she says. She sees again Simon’s serious eyes, looking at her. She feels like his biblical namesake, denying knowledge. Yet it was true, she convinces herself, I hardly knew him. Just that one meeting, two, three even, didn’t mean she had been any closer to the man. “And I can’t possibly tell you who might want to hurt him. Or Gin, for that matter. It seems absurd to me. Maybe Simon’s family can help you more. Have you spoken to them?”
“Ja,” he nods, refilling her glass. “They had no idea Miss – Gin – and he were in Cape Town together until after the accident. They didn’t seem very happy about the fact, though.”
“Of course not,” snorts Viv before she can stop herself.
He looks at her, curious. “Why do you say that?”
“I just mean, well, you know, they were the reason Simon split up with Gin. You know, he was Jewish, she wasn’t. It’s difficult, not the done thing. You know how it is.”
“Ja, my mom had the same problem, being English and marrying into an Afrikaans family.” His voice is soft with memory.
Viv has her own experience of trying to fit in, to belong to a culture other than one’s own. Jonnie’s family had never quite accepted her, and she had been at once hurt and astonished at their rejection of her. Somehow, stupidly, she had assumed only the white people in this country were racist. His mother had tried to make Viv into a good Indian wife, taught her how to make curries, how to wear a sari, and had urged her to convert to Islam. Viv had resisted everything but the cooking. It is a measure of her progress since the divorce, she thinks wryly to herself, that she can sit and eat the food before her without bitterness.
They eat, and for a while they speak of other things. He seems almost relieved when she laughs at something he has said. Over coffee, he returns to Gin’s case. “Tell me more about Simon and Gin.”
“Well, he ended it quite suddenly when her course finished at university. I always thought there was more to it than the whole Jewish thing. Anyhow, he left, took a job in Jo’burg.” Viv feels relaxed now and speaks more freely. “I didn’t know Gin then, as I told you, but she was devastated. She left also, came to Cape Town.”
“How come they got back together here after all this time?”
“Her dad died and she came home for his funeral. As you know, their families are connected… he phoned her I think and arranged to see her. I thought she told you this?”
“She did, but sometimes someone else sees things differently.”
“You mean, like his wife?” asks Viv.
He looks at her intently, “Why do you think I was talking about her?”
“It’s just that you keep wanting to know about Simon and Gin and who would be upset at them. I suppose the only person I can think of would be his wife.” She pauses. “You said the driver was a woman.” Viv’s eyes widen. “Oh my goodness, do you think Simon’s wife found out about them and came after him and rammed their car deliberately?”
Nick is smiling at her.
“What?” she asks. “Why are you smiling?”
“Ja,” he says, “No, you’re absolutely right.”
“Well?”
He is obviously amused. “Yes, Vivienne, the thought had occurred to me it might be the wife.”
“Have you questioned her?”
He is more sober now. “I have. And it can’t be her.”
“Why not?”
“Well, two reasons
. Firstly, the woman that was seen following them was Cape Coloured, or Malay, not white.”
“Following them?” interrupts Viv.
“Someone remembered Simon and Gin having coffee outside a café in Seapoint. Said he noticed them because they looked so much in love.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Anyhow, the same chap said he noticed a woman sitting in a white Mercedes looking at them also. Said he didn’t think anything of it, I mean, they were a striking couple and so obviously wrapped up in each other, that people noticed them. But he says he then saw Simon and Gin leave in their car. The Mercedes pulled out after them, almost deliberately. Hurriedly. It pulled out quite sharply ahead of another car as if trying to follow them. At least, that’s what it looked like.” Nick stops, spoons more sugar into his cup.
Viv is thoughtful. “You said there were two reasons.”
“Hey?”
“You said there were two reasons it couldn’t be Simon’s wife. What could have stopped her hiring someone, the woman in the Mercedes even… to follow him if she suspected Simon was having an affair?”
He grins at her. “You’ve a suspicious mind, Vivienne. You should come and work for us.”
She smiles weakly at him. “I’m a social worker, Nick. I also see the human condition, the frailties, the cruelties, the worst of people, what they are capable of.” Viv does not mention her own experience of tragedy and betrayal.
He looks at her for a moment before replying. “The other reason it couldn’t be Mrs Gold is that she totally and utterly lacked motive.”
“But what do you mean? Her husband was having an affair, with a woman he had once lived with… isn’t that motive enough to want to kill him?” Viv laughs, somewhat harshly. Then her voice rises again, and she looks at Nick in alarm, “Or Gin, for that matter. God, Nick.”
“It wasn’t Mrs Gold,” he says slowly, deliberately, “we’ve practically eliminated her from the investigation. You see, before Doctor Gold… before Simon even phoned Gin or came to Cape Town, the marriage was over.”