The Serpentine Road (29 page)

De Vries wakes shocked, throat dry, tongue working against the roof of his mouth, instantly alert to the screaming – heart-stopping, animal-like. He falls out of bed onto unsteady feet, ankles cracking; he grabs his gun from under the bed, stumbles to the door of his chalet, throws the bolt, barges open the door. He sees three dark figures sprint across the car park, through the open gates, disappearing from the arena of dim light into complete darkness. He exits, weapon drawn, following his line of sight as he scans the area. He sprints down the line of chalets to a door which hangs half off its hinges, to the source of the moaning, whining, begging, praying – voice high-pitched and plaintive. Two men stand outside their doors, other windows flicker light as curtains are teased open just enough to see out.

De Vries walks into the dark room, weapon drawn, fumbles with the switch until the grey ceiling light illuminates, and sees a big black African man on the bed – naked but for a pair of white Y-fronts, blood down his middle from his chest to the now stained material – clutching his torso, eyes wide, whimpering. The man sees him, cowers.

‘I’m police.’

The man whispers, voice breaking: ‘They stabbed me . . . I’m stabbed. Help me.’

De Vries checks the bathroom, goes to the man, pulls his hands from his chest, examines the wound.

‘You’re okay. You’re grazed. You’re okay.’

Blood oozes slowly down the quivering black flesh; the man’s limbs shake.

De Vries hears scurrying footsteps outside, turns to the door. Benny Louw stops perhaps five metres from the doorway.

‘What’s happened? Who’s there?’

De Vries calls out: ‘Louw. Call an ambulance. This man’s been attacked. He needs medical help. Go now.’

He hears the footsteps retreat, hopes that Louw will act calmly, not panic. De Vries grabs a towel from the bathroom, bundles it up, pushes it against the wound in the centre of the man’s torso.

‘Hold this tight . . . You’re all right. You are not in danger now.’

The man pants, grasps the shirt to himself, eyes wide.

‘Masked man, had a knife. I wake up. He has this knife right here. He curses, stabs me, runs away. There were others . . .’

‘Tell the local police when they come . . . I’m on vacation . . .’

He sees the man frown, close his eyes, teeth gritted.

Benny Louw comes back across the car park, peers inside the chalet.

‘They’re coming. What happened?’

De Vries jumps up, nods to the victim on the bed, turns away and leads Louw outside, a few paces from the chalet. The rain has dissipated, but it’s still spitting. He looks around, sees a chalet door closing, mumbled sounds from within darkness, curtains twitch.

‘Three men . . . I saw them escaping through the gate . . . That guest was attacked by a guy with a knife . . .’ He faces Louw. ‘How did they get through the gates?’

Louw swallows, knows that De Vries is studying him.

‘Don’t know.’

‘Why are they open?’

Louw glances behind him, sees them open to the road. De Vries takes a step towards him.

‘Don’t know . . .’

‘You’re sure? You’re sure you don’t know, Benny?’

Louw cowers.

‘Three men run all over your place, go to that chalet and nearly fucking slit that guy head to dick, and you don’t know?’

Louw stands rigid, rooted, his eyes unable to meet De Vries’, mumbles: ‘Who is he? What did they want with him?’

De Vries laughs, shoots out his hand and grabs Benny Louw by the collar, drags his face up to his, smells brandy on the man’s breath, oozing out of his pores.

‘I don’t give a fuck about him . . . And nor did they. Until I changed it for somewhere I could smoke, that fucking room was mine.’

The ambulance takes the victim away, curtains close, lights are switched off. It is nearly 1.30 a.m. when the local police get to talk with De Vries. Already, they have decided that it was an attempted robbery, and De Vries sees no reason to tell them differently. When the officer discovers his rank and standing, he defers to him entirely. What De Vries says, goes.

Eventually, the local officers amble away, seeming tired and aimless; there is no sign of Benny Louw. De Vries lies on his bed, gun in hand, dozing uneasily until about 6 a.m. He packs, walks around to reception, finds it deserted. He enters the office in the back. There is no one there either, but he sees that the phone to the gate intercom is there, as well as a button to open and close the gates. He drops his key on the desk, returns to the front desk, then out into the courtyard. He looks over to the room adjoining the one where the man was attacked. His acquaintance, Richard Wessels, never appeared during the night; he wonders whether he slept through the attack or was in the arms of his Flamkuchen companion under a feather duvet.

Now, the rain is light and misty, cloud cover low and dark. The main gates are still open. He walks onto the side of the road, begins to pace towards the village. Within two minutes, a van driver pulls over, offers him a lift. He takes it, feels immensely grateful to the man who does not ask him questions, drops him off outside the one café open.

De Vries finds that they have been open all night, dispensing coffee to the night owls, preparing cooked breakfasts for those camping out in cars and in the gardens of volunteer residents. De Vries accepts a full English and eats gloomily, still disorientated from his shattered night. When he has woken up some more, he sends an SMS to John Marantz, requesting information as soon as possible, hinting that he is in danger. Minutes pass with no reply, and he realizes that Marantz could have been playing poker until 4 a.m., and may not wake for hours yet.

His spirits are raised when his neighbour’s son and his girlfriend walk through the door of the café, still more when they tell him that her work will end at 9 a.m., and they can then drive back to town.

At 8.50 a.m., De Vries’s phone buzzes: a reply from Marantz.

‘Meeting arranged, tomorrow, 5 p.m.’, followed by an address in town he cannot visualize.

De Vries persuades them to take the scenic Franschhoek Pass rather than the freeway. It is a little longer but a far more pleasant drive. They travel around the Theewaterskloof Dam – a vast inland lake – observing how low the water level is, then continue on the R45 through the mountains to the top of the pass. From there, the view of the Franschhoek Valley is usually spectacular, stretching out as far as the eye can see into the thin clouds on the horizon. This morning they see only a wall of grey Tupperware. They are above the cloud over the town. When they are almost at the bottom of the winding pass, they pass through the cover and the town is revealed, misty and dank. They pass La Petit Ferme restaurant where, at this time of year, they serve De Vries’s favourite pudding, ‘Plum Crazy’, fruit home-grown from the adjacent fields. He smiles in recognition as they sail down past the entrance, head towards the T-junction by the Huguenot Memorial.

When they reach Main Road, De Vries asks them to stop outside a café and give him twenty minutes to do something. He gives them a 200 rand note, tells them to order whatever they want. He sees the teenagers glance at one another, but cannot discern whether they are frustrated by the delay or happy enough to sit outside in Franschhoek.

He takes the
bakkie
, turns up Uitkyk Street, comes to a stop outside the two barns occupied by Dazuluka Cele. He winds down his window, presses the bell on the intercom. Only while he waits for an answer does he question why he is here, why he is checking on her.

The same cheerful voice answers and he identifies himself. At the sound of her tone, he already feels he has made a mistake but, when the gates open, he drives in, parks in the same spot, car turned ready for his departure.

‘Tell me,’ Dazuluka Cele shouts as she approaches him, ‘that this is not police business and that you have come back to buy one of my paintings.’

De Vries smiles.

‘As much as I would like that, I think they are out of my league.’

Cele smiles. ‘Perhaps a deal can be done.’

They shake hands warmly.

‘I came to speak to you about something. Is there somewhere private?’

She leads him across what had been the baking gravelled courtyard but which now seems damp and cold, into the bottom of her studio barn. The space is almost deserted and he can see that she has been sweeping the floor with a traditional broom made of twigs.

‘It is good news: I am allowed to stay,’ she says. ‘Apparently Taryn left a trust to retain these buildings and allow artists to live and work here on long-term lets. I am preparing for another artist to come here too now. The lawyers say it will take time to sort everything out, but that I can remain at least until the end of the year and hopefully longer.’

‘I’m pleased you can stay.’

‘So am I.’

He glances around the room to see if there is anywhere to sit but, apart from two wooden easels, there is no furniture at all. He feels awkward towering over her, wonders whether to squat but fears the cracking of ankles – the struggle to get up.

‘I came to check that you were okay . . .’

She smiles again.

‘Yes. I am still upset about what happened to Taryn.’ She stops. ‘You know what did happen?’

‘We think we know but there is still some work to do. We’re close.’

She nods uncertainly.

He takes a deep breath, knows that he cannot waste more time, hopes that she will take his concern as a compliment.

‘When I left last time, I saw you talking with a man. He seemed angry and I didn’t know whether I should have intervened. I couldn’t help noticing that your leg was injured. I wanted to make sure that you were safe and well.’

At first she laughs, then her expression darkens and he can see her eyes grow moist. She nods rapidly, says nothing.

‘I’m sorry if I have made a mistake.’

She looks up at him.

‘The man you saw was my brother. He was visiting and we were angry with one another. He stays in Maputo and there is no work for him there. He came to Cape Town, found nothing and came to me. He thought that now I was an artist with an exhibition, I would be rich. I tried to tell him that I would receive no money for many months and that it would be needed for more canvases, more materials. He did not understand. He refused to go, began drinking and got angry. That was the day before you came. When you saw him that morning, he had just woken up and he was still drunk, still wanting to argue.’

‘Is he still here?’

‘No. I gave him money and told him to go home. Told him that I would send money when I received it myself.’

‘That is generous.’

‘That is what we do. I am sure that you would give anything to your family if they had nothing?’

‘If I can . . .’

‘And, as for my leg . . . That is a different story, but it is over now and the man responsible is gone.’

‘Then I shouldn’t have been worried.’

She looks up at him.

‘I am glad you were. I am not used to that. What is your name? Your given name?’

‘Vaughn. I am Vaughn de Vries.’

She takes his hand.

‘I want to give you something. Come . . .’ She leads him out of the ground floor and back up to her studio. As he follows her up the spiral staircase, he observes the deep scarring on her leg, but also the petite body ahead of him. On the landing’s left-hand wall, there is a block of twelve miniature oil paintings, a series of studies of the same small wooden carving. Each is viewed from a lightly different angle, the light casting shadows across her face, the contours of her carved body. The figure is very pregnant, but also strong. Her expression is one of confidence and health.

‘This woman is a very powerful symbol to me. The carving was a gift from the mother of my husband. We wanted to have children and although we tried hard, I could not become pregnant. She told me that it had been given to her by her mother to bring her children and to protect her from the evil eyes of women who might covet her husband; once it was looking over her, it brought four sons into her life.’

She takes the picture on the top left of the block down from the wall and hands it to De Vries.

‘Look at the crack which bisects her body. It is tradition amongst the artists who carve these figures for their tribe that, if the wood splits vertically like this, it increases the power of the symbol. It must never be man-made; it must be the wood itself which decides.’

‘That is a wonderful story, but I cannot accept this.’

She presses it into his hand.

‘I want you to have it. To thank you.’

‘That’s not necessary. I am doing my duty.’

She takes a few paces away from him.

‘I do not have any children. Within a few days of her entering our house, I could feel that we had conceived, that I was pregnant. Ten weeks later, it was confirmed.’ She drops her head. ‘But I lost the baby.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘My husband accused me of killing his child. He was a sick man. I know he was not true to me. When he learned of the news, he attacked me. That is how I received the wounds you saw.’

De Vries looks down at the floor.

‘Perhaps she is not so lucky then?’

‘Oh yes, she is good luck. My husband was a big man, strong, but I fought him, even though I was bleeding. He slipped and fell against the table, hit his head and fell unconscious. I was able to call for help.’

‘When was this?’

She smiles.

‘A long time ago. I was fifteen. I left my town and I went to Maputo. I started a new life, and I started to paint. Then, when I met Taryn Holt, I came here.’

‘Where is the carving now?’

‘I gave her to a friend of mine in Maputo. She could not have children but then, when I gave it to her, she became pregnant. She now has a daughter and a son.’

‘I have two grown-up daughters.’

‘I do not think you need fertility, Mr Vaughn de Vries. But, I think you need protection. She will look over you.’

He sighs.

‘Let me give you something for this?’

She presses her hands against his around the small square canvas.