The Monster's Daughter (8 page)

“That's an eleven-hour drive.”

“For some. I don't dawdle, Constable.” Wexler had a faint look of pride about him.

“In for the holidays, then?”

“I try not to make firm plans.” Wexler lingered on Alet's cleavage a beat too long before he met her eyes. “But if something catches my interest …”

“Jeff, I—” Tilly walked up to the bar. She looked startled to see Alet, a brief look of concern, or was that panic, on her face. “I can't seem to get rid of you today, Alet,” she said awkwardly. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

Alet lifted her glass. “It's so nice to be missed at your favorite bar.”

“Your only bar.”

“True,
ja
. But also my favorite. Must be 'cause you're here.”

“Well, this is cozy, innit?” Wexler interrupted.

Tilly's shoulders sank slightly. “Sorry, Jeff. This is Alet.”

“Ahhh-let,” Wexler repeated with a note of condescension. “Yeah, we met.” He pushed his empty glass across the bar. “I'm going upstairs, Mathilda. Go ahead and finish what we discussed earlier.” He stood up. He was nearly a foot taller than Tilly. “Constable. I'm sure I'll see you again.” Alet held Wexler's gaze. His innuendo clung like an oil slick even after he'd lumbered out the door.

Tilly sat down next to Alet. “You shot out of here this morning without finishing your beer. Or paying, mind you.”

“There was a body on Boet's farm.”

Tilly dipped her chin. “Don't tell me he finally lost it with Jana's mood swings.”

Alet burst out laughing, in spite of herself. “Jana's alive and well, as far as I know.”

“Who was it, then?”

“Don't know. It was burned beyond recognition.”

Tilly grimaced, drawing her breath in. “Shame, man.”

“So when did Jeff get here?”

“He was here when I got back from the co-op this afternoon. Why?”

“Just asking. You didn't mention that he was coming.”

Tilly shrugged. “He does that. Bastard likes to keep us on our toes. Are you eating?”

Alet considered her options. Eating alone at a bar while the whole town looked on suddenly felt pathetic. “Know what, it's late and I'm tired.” She turned to the bartender. “Lukas, can you ask Maria to put my Bobotie in a doggie bag?”

Lukas nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

Tilly leaned on the bar, straightening the coasters so they lined up. “You should do something about those bags under your eyes. Cucumber slices work wonders.”

“Why are you on my case today?”

“I'm just trying to help. You have to look better than the bride on Saturday, you know. I think it's a rule.”

“Well, she is older than me by like … twelve seconds. Shouldn't be too much of a problem.”

“Can't wait to hear all about it. Come for a walk with me Sunday?”

“I plan on being appropriately hungover, thanks. Tell your ma not to make so much noise with that sprayer.”

“You tell her. She's not talking to me.”

“Again?”

Tilly nodded. “I used a swear-word in front of her. Now the world is ending because nobody has any respect anymore.”

“How old are you?”

“I know.” Tilly held her hands up in exasperation. “The older I get, the more she treats me like a child. Be glad you weren't around when she went through her you-​should-​be-​ashamed-​of-​not-​knowing-​your-​own-​history phase. I used to fall asleep sitting upright at the dinner table.”

Lukas reappeared with a Styrofoam container and put it down in front of Alet. She drained her glass, ice bouncing on her lip. “And that's that.”

“Get some sleep.” Tilly stood up and disappeared into the back office.

Alet made her way out of the restaurant and down the polished steps. Outside, a sliver of moon held court over bright stars. Back in Jo'burg she was barely able to see stars through the smog. They shone even brighter on the farms. Had the girl seen them as she was dying? Once the thought crept into Alet's mind, she couldn't stop. Was the girl conscious? Did she struggle as her flesh burned? Alet imagined herself lying on the ground as a dark figure doused her with liquid, the image so real that she could smell the petrol, feel her stomach contracting at the thought of a match being lit. Stop it, she told herself, unease settling in her bones. She turned full circle in the middle of the street, unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Sparse streetlamps cast shadows as she walked past the skeletons of guesthouses that had popped up along the main road in anticipation of the soccer World Cup earlier that year, going out of business almost as fast as Bafana Bafana lost. Alet lengthened her stride, her sandal straps digging painfully into her flesh, relieved when Trudie Pienaar's house came into view up the street. She lifted the latch of the front gate, but changed her mind. The gate always made a hell of a noise. She couldn't stand the thought of another lecture on consideration from the old cow. No wonder her daughter lived at work.

Alet decided to climb over the fence, then almost fell down when her blouse caught on one of the iron spikes. Her heels sank into the freshly watered flower bed on the other side. Dammit. Trudie was bound to bang on her door in the morning now, demanding an explanation for the state of her garden. It was the only thing she seemed to enjoy, and she tended to it religiously, water restrictions be damned. Trudie was always there, eyes hiding behind dark glasses, tilling away at the crack of dawn, planting this or pruning that, her rubber gloves and straw hat covering the pale skin her loose cotton dresses didn't.

Peach trees lined the path to the back of the house where Alet's flat stood. It was a small two-room building that had once been the maid's quarters, but had been enlarged to include a kitchen and a bathtub. Alet felt her way in the dark, negotiating between her dinner and her purse as she searched for her keys. A dark figure stepped into the path
in front of her. She froze, her pulse racing, dark demons still occupying her thoughts.

“Alet?”

“Boet.” Alet fought the instinct to throw her Bobotie at him and run.

“I couldn't get you alone at Zebra, so I thought—”

Anger replaced fear. “You scared the
kak
out of me, man.”

“Sorry, I—”

“What the
fok
do you think you are playing at?” Alet stormed past him to her flat. She unlocked the security gate. The hinges of the glass door behind it protested as she jerked it open.

“Can I come in?”

Alet looked back at him, unsure of what her answer should be.

“Not for long. Promise.” Boet looked like a lost puppy.

Alet flipped the light switch. A low hum preceded flickering fluorescent bulbs. Harsh white light washed over the flat. A small kitchen area with cheap brown cabinets lined the left wall. A secondhand blue couch divided the room. Behind it, a messy bed stood unmade. Alet felt self-conscious about the clothes and underwear she had left strewn everywhere, vacillating between clearing the mess and ignoring it.

Boet walked to the fridge. He took a beer out of the case she kept on the bottom shelf. “Want one?” He opened the can and handed it to her.

Alet put the beer down on the large trunk that doubled as a coffee table. “It's late, Boet.”

Boet sat down on the couch. “Please. Sit for a bit.”

Alet leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms.

“Did you find out anything?” Boet stared down at his boots, his beer suspended between his palms, his hair falling in soft brown curls around his face. “About the body, I mean.”

“Not yet.”

“What happened … when I saw it this morning, you know, I got scared. I wanted to drive as far away as the diesel in the tank would take me and never go back.” He took a sip of beer. “And then, you showed up.”

Alet clenched her jaw when she met his pleading, deep-set green eyes. “
Jissis
. What?”

“I just want to talk to you.”

“Talk, then.”

Boet inched to the edge of the couch and reached out, his fingers cold, briefly touching her hand.

Alet pulled away. “Don't.”

“Sorry.” There was a dark shadow on Boet's face. Alet imagined the roughness of his cheek under her fingertips. Longing formed in the pit of her stomach.

“Listen, Boet. It's been a hell of a day. Just tell me what you want.”

Boet nodded. “I hope we're okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven't seen you for a while. I just …”

“Ah, I see. You're scared I might open my big mouth over Rooibos tea at your house. Mrs. Terblanche, did you know the victim? Oh, and by the way, your husband and I
steeked
, but that's long done, so don't worry, hey.
Ja
, I'll have a biscuit with that,
dankie
.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Something we agree on.”

Boet stood up. He leaned against the kitchen cabinet close to her. “Please understand. It's not just about me and Jana anymore. There's going to be a baby.”

“I noticed.” Alet hated the burning sensation behind her eyes. “Would've been nice if you mentioned it at the time.”

“I didn't know.”

“Right.” Alet forced a smile. “Look, don't worry, hey.” She rested her hand on the door handle.

Boet's limbs seemed awkward, his breathing loud in the silence between them. “Well, good night, then.” He squeezed past her, turning around on the
stoep
. “Thank you.”

Alet closed the security gate behind him, slamming it too hard, numbness settling over her. In the main house, a light went on.

Tessa crept from between Andrew and Sarah where they napped together on the bed, their usual Sunday-afternoon ritual. Tessa hated taking naps. She closed her eyes and pretended, but instead she thought of all the things she could be doing instead, reading, playing outside, everything except chores. Sarah said that young ladies had to learn to knit and mend clothes and bake bread and preserve fruit and dry meat and sing their psalms in the morning and say their prayers at night. Being a young lady was awfully boring, especially during the rainy season when she had to stay cooped inside. Just before she made it to the door, she turned back. Sarah turned on her side, her jaw hanging slack, her lips parted by shallow breathing. Without opening his eyes, Andrew moved closer to her, his arm circling her waist. Tessa only saw them touch like that when they were alone, when the doors were locked and the curtains drawn.

Tessa opened the farmhouse door as quietly as she could. Green valley and black mountains greeted her outside, a low-lying sun casting brilliant pinks and yellows against patchy clouds. Tessa liked it much better here than the small house in Oudtshoorn, where they lived while Andrew worked for the British. Tessa didn't like Oudtshoorn. Strangers called Andrew a
kaffir-
loving redneck to his face, and after the first time it happened, Sarah refused to go out with them. But here, in the mountains, they rarely saw anyone but the farmworkers. They could make a life here, Andrew said, put down roots and be a family.

They had hiked up the mountain that morning, the first day of sunshine after a week of constant downpours. Andrew had knocked on the door of each of the small white houses they passed, checking
in on the workers, handing them a Christmas box full of
beskuit
and jam that Tessa had helped Sarah make. Tessa had heard some of the coloured workers talk about Sarah, disdainful of a black living in the big house with the white man and his daughter, but she hadn't told Andrew. The workers still called Andrew “New
Baas
,” even though he had bought the farm almost five years ago. Their house was the only one in the district that hadn't been burned down in the war. The workers said it had belonged to a joiner, who betrayed his friends so he could take their land. They said that his ghost still walked the farm, his guilt too heavy for him to ever rest. Tessa didn't know if this was true, but she always felt uneasy when she was alone in the house, especially when she looked out the window at the burned-out ruin of the small farmhouse in the distance, convinced that she could see someone there, especially at twilight. Andrew said it was her imagination, that ghosts didn't exist. There was only the Holy Ghost, and he would never harm her.

Every night they lit a candle so Andrew could read out loud from the Bible. He had taught Tessa how to read a long time ago and she could recite every word. She didn't know how she did it, but things seemed to stick in her memory like small insects to a spider's web. When she closed her eyes, she could even remember the color of the blanket Sarah had wrapped her in as she carried Tessa to the British camp. Sarah's heart had beat frantically against Tessa's ear as the soldiers interrogated her before they sent for Andrew. Sarah now recalled it as a happy day, but Tessa only remembered the fear.

Tessa also had an easy time learning languages. Sarah spoke Sotho to her, and Andrew spoke English, and the workers on the farm spoke that Dutch language they sometimes called Afrikaans. She understood all three. Tessa didn't know what the people in town spoke, though. Andrew had never taken her or Sarah along when he went to buy supplies or sell sheep. He said it'd be better for them to stay on the farm. But Tessa was curious. She wondered if there were children like her in town, or anywhere for that matter.

The river was still flooded, so Tessa ventured down the dirt path that hugged the mountain and into the underbrush, trying to decide what she was going to do with her afternoon of freedom. She had never ventured up the mountain by herself. Andrew sometimes took
her out with him on the farm if she was good. He once showed her how to make coffee in a tin can in the veld with dam water so you didn't get sick, and another time, he'd pointed out which berries were good to eat. Recently, when it was almost time to go home, he showed her an old lookout in the mountain, all grown over with branches, the red walls crumbling in places. Andrew said it was used in the war and that the British stuck their guns through the tiny windows to fire on the Boers. Tessa had heard him speak proudly of glory days and battles before, but his voice grew soft that day as he talked. “You're old enough to know the truth,” he said.