Deon Meyer (47 page)

 

 

“I’m going alone.”

 

 

De Wit had walked to the car with him. “I owe you an apology, Captain.” Joubert was silent. “You’ll be careful?” He heard the concern in the other man’s voice, understood something of de Wit at that moment. “I’ll be careful.” He had said it to himself. Not arrogantly but with gentle determination.

 

 

Now there were hurried steps on the wooden floor inside the house, the door swung open and she stood there.

 

 

“You’re early.” Her rosy mouth was smiling. She wore lipstick, just a touch. He had never seen her wearing it before. Her hair was drawn back into a braid, her neck open and white and defenseless, the black dress off the shoulder. He captured the image with the camera of his mind until her face changed when she saw that he was jacketless and tieless, saw the dust on his shirt, the rolled-up sleeves.

 

 

Wordlessly he held the photograph out to her. Her smile disappeared, her face was expressionless. Her eyes searched his for an explanation. She took the photo and looked at it. He saw the shadow that fell over her, her eyes, which closed, then opened, still fixed on the picture. She dropped it on the polished wooden floor and turned away, now almost unaware of him.

 

 

She walked down the hallway. He saw the shoulders, the pretty shoulders with the bone and muscle so boundlessly perfect. The shoulders carried a heavy burden. She walked slowly, with dignity, her back to him as if he didn’t exist. He followed her, one, two, three steps on the wooden floor, then stood in the passage, where a light was burning. Her odor was in his nostrils, a faint, feminine perfume. She had disappeared at the end of the hall. He remained where he was, hesitant.

 

 

He heard a sound in the silence of the house, a whisper of activity. Then she returned, walking up the hallway, the firearm in her hands, the slender stock in the palm of her right hand, the slender fingers of the left hand holding the long barrel. She carried it like a sacrifice, the scale of the pistol wrested out of context by her frailness. She stood opposite him, a space between them. She remained in that position, holding the pistol as if the weight was too much for her. A corner of the magazine pressed against the black fabric of her dress, against her stomach. Her head was bowed as if he was an executioner. Her eyes were closed.

 

 

He couldn’t prevent his mind from completing the puzzle. It was a mechanical process, involuntary expertise, irreversible even had he wanted to reject it. But he was too empty. He stood there while the gears in his head slowly meshed, one after the other. This is the case for the prosecution, your worship— conclusive proof, at last, conclusive proof, the chase ended.

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

She didn’t move.

 

 

He waited.

 

 

An almost invisible movement of her breast, the breath shallow, in and out. Otherwise there was no movement.

 

 

He walked carefully toward her, slowly, put his hand on her shoulder, felt her cold flesh. His big hand folded over the collarbone, pulled her nearer, led her up the hallway. She came with him like flotsam. He steered her to the right, to a room where there were a couple of big chairs, the floral fabric colorless in the dusk. The carpet muffled his footsteps. The paintings against the wall were dark squares. He made her sit down in a deep chair with soft cushions, her eyes open now, in the dusk. She sat up straight, the Mauser on her lap gripped with both hands. He sank down on his knees in front of her.

 

 

“Hanna.”

 

 

She forced her eyes toward him.

 

 

He put out his hand, wanted to take the weapon away from her, but her grip was too strong for the softness of his heart. He pulled his hand away.

 

 

“Hanna.”

 

 

Her lips parted slightly. She saw him. The corners of her mouth contracted as if she wanted to smile. She looked at the object in her hands.

 

 

“It’s so strange,” she said, so softly that she was barely audible. “I was always so afraid of it. When Grandfather took it out of the leather holder. It looked so evil. So big and ugly. And the smell . . . When he opened the holder I could smell it. It smelled of death— an old, dead smell, even though he cleaned it. I didn’t even hear what he was telling me. I just wanted to look at the pistol, looked at the pistol the whole time until he had finished and put it back in the holder again, then I could look at him. I wanted to be sure that he had put it back, closed it.”

 

 

She looked at him again. The corners of her mouth had drooped again, forming a half-moon.

 

 

“I found it among my father’s things. Two piles. What I wanted to keep on one side, what could be given away on the other. There was so little that I wanted to keep. Photographs of him and my mother. His Bible, a few records. His watch. I put the pouch on the other pile at first. Then I transferred it. Then back again. Then I unfastened the buckles and the smell rose up and I remembered my grandfather and I moved it back.”

 

 

Her eyes had wandered, somewhere in the dark, then suddenly looked at him again.

 

 

“I never thought that I would need it. I’d almost forgotten about it.” Then she was quiet, the grip on the weapon relaxed, and he considered whether he should try to take it away again.

 

 

Her awareness of his presence wandered again.

 

 

He said her name again, but she didn’t move.

 

 

“Hanna.”

 

 

The eyes slowly blinked.

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

She gave a deep, long, slow breath, preparation for a last, all-embracing sigh.

 

 

Then she spoke.

 

 

 

43.

I
nside they were laughing, systematically more and more loudly, with greater exuberance. Outside it was clear and quiet, a night without imperfections. The moon was bright and in full sail, the stars were a sweep of glittering dust from horizon to horizon. It was cloudless, balmy, warm. She was standing on the little stoop of the lecture hall. The river murmured below, the moon was a yellow stained-glass design on the water. Only a layer of wine remained in the glass she brought to her lips. The wine was very dry but she could taste the sun in it. She took a tiny sip because she only allowed herself one glass. Perhaps another half when she went to her room as a reward for good work done. It hadn’t been an easy group. The differences in personality, in seriousness, in intelligence, and in application had demanded a great deal from her, more than usual, she thought. Even so, it had been a success. Everyone had discovered a piece of himself, everyone had grown— some very little, she had to admit, but their growth potential had not been formed by her.

 

 

Perhaps another year or two of this, then bigger, better things. She regarded the college as a step on a ladder, a temporary pause, but she felt no guilt. Slabbert got a great deal of value for his money. He got integrity and work ethic.

 

 

Another year or two.

 

 

She tasted the last of the wine on her tongue, let it slip gently down her throat, looked forward to her room. The others had been housed two to a cottage, she and Carina had the privilege of single rooms. She had insisted on that— her time was too precious. Her book and music waited in her room. This evening she was going to listen to
Il Trovatore,
perhaps the first two acts. “So much death?” they had asked, even in Verdi’s time. “But is all life not death?” the maestro had replied. She smiled at the moon, turned, slid open the glass doors, and walked in.

 

 

They were sitting around a table, talking with great verve, each one with a glass in front of him. Nienaber was holding the floor while MacDonald, Ferreira, and Coetzee listened. Wilson, her star pupil, the one for whom she had a soft spot, sat a little outside the group. Wallace and Carina Oberholzer were having their own conversation at the end of the table.

 

 

No one else was evidently drinking dry white wine. She found the bottle easily between the full and empty beer bottles, the open brandy and whisky, liter bottles of mixers, and a big ice bucket. She poured herself exactly half a glass.

 

 

“I’m going to excuse myself,” she said as they looked up when she came to stand next to the table.

 

 

They protested. She saw the alcohol had filmed their eyes.

 

 

“I’m coming with you,” said MacDonald. The others laughed, exaggeratedly.

 

 

“She’s too thin,” said Ferdy Ferreira slyly but she heard it with painful discomfort.

 

 

“The closer the bone . . .”

 

 

Suddenly she was in a hurry. She gave a weak smile, said they must enjoy the rest of the evening and she would see them and say good-bye at breakfast.

 

 

They said good night and sleep well. “Hands above the blanket,” Ferdy Ferreira called out before she had gone through the door, and one or two laughed loudly. When she was outside, she shook her head. A rough diamond, that one.

 

 

She walked through the sounds of the night— insects, the river, a dog barking somewhere, a truck roaring its way up a hill. The voices behind her faded as the distance increased. She focused on what was waiting, everything placed exactly where it should be, late that afternoon while others were dressing for the certificate ceremony. She had uttered a few words of encouragement, handed over the certificates. MacDonald had insisted on kissing her when he received his. They clapped hands for one another, made senseless remarks. Then the photograph: Carina Oberholzer had made them stand in a semicircle and taken one, two, three photos.

 

 

She unlocked her bedroom door. The bed light was burning. Everything was just so. She shut the door, leaned against it, and gave a gratified sigh.

 

 

First of all she pressed the button on the radio and cassette player. The music filled the room. Bent the knee of her right leg, lifted the ankle up to her hand, removed the shoe. Then the other one. The start of a ritual. She placed the shoes next to each other, symmetrically, at the bottom of the single-door wardrobe. She unbuttoned her blouse from the top, watching herself in the long mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. She didn’t want to do the usual self-evaluation now, didn’t want to consider the meaning of the sequence and every other step of the undressing process— even if it was only a game, a vague, cynical, rueful smile, a game she played with herself almost every evening. She put the blouse on a hanger in the wardrobe, then reached behind her for the button of the skirt, pulled down the zip. It cost only one smooth movement to remove each leg from the garment. Her hands randomly brushed the fabric to remove imaginary threads from the skirt. She hung it next to the blouse.

 

 

Her underwear was delicate. While she listened to the music, she unhooked the front fastening of the bra, saw her small breasts in the mirror, the whiteness of the skin. She smiled involuntarily because the decision not to be caught up in self-argument about size and shape at this stage had been a deliberate one. The music was too beautiful, her mood too light and elevated.

 

 

The soft fabric of the nightgown slipped over her head. She adjusted it over her almost boyish hips and knew that the texture was a small sensation against her skin. She gave one last pleased look at the tidiness of the wardrobe— she could be packed in minutes the next morning. She switched off the main light, pushed the pillows against the headboard, and slid between the sheets. She picked up the biography on the little bedside table and didn’t consider her incapacity to enjoy fiction but made herself comfortable and opened the book.

 

 

Then she read.

 

 

Twice noise of the night’s party disturbed her concentration. The first was a shout of resounding collective laughter that rose above even the sweetness of the aria and briefly she shook her head. They should take it easy, she thought, and then focused on the words in front of her again.

 

 

The second time was more disturbing. In the silence between aria and recitative, their cries had become a barometer of their inebriation. She recognized MacDonald’s voice, maybe Coetzee’s. Swear words were shouted. She immediately discarded the possibility of getting up and warning them— they were adults. Her eyes looked for the words on the paper in front of her but the level of their intoxication remained a vague worry for a while until she lost herself in the life between the pages again.

 

 

At first sleepiness was an invader, then a friend.

 

 

She waited until the aria ended, then pressed the button to halt the tape. She shifted the bookmark against the spine of the book, placed it on the bedside table, and reached for the switch of the bed light. Then she turned, shifted onto her left side, lay like a fetus between the blankets, and closed her eyes.

 

 

The sounds of the revelry slowly penetrated her sleep. The vague laughter and single cries of nearly recognizable words cut sharply through the night sounds of the insects and the river’s flow. Were they still at it? What was the time? There was a supervisor who might complain. Sleep fled before the pressure of anxiety.

 

 

She got up, annoyed, walked to the window, and drew aside the faded floral curtains. Would she be able to see what was going on up there?

 

 

The moon was high in the sky and bright. The trees, shrubs, and lawns were bathed in a ghostly light. She peered in the direction of the small hall, where the lights were still burning. She knew there was movement that had to accompany the sounds but she couldn’t see anything.