Water Music (8 page)

Clare parked and went inside. It was warm and smelt of straw and fresh bread and incense.

A man in a tie-dyed shirt was selling hot
cider.

Can I help you, sister? he asked, doing the lazy-gaze wander: lips, breasts, hips. He didnt seem to disapprove.

This girl. Clare put the photograph of Rosa Wagner onto the counter. She played music here in the summer. Have you seen her?

His eyes widened. You a cop?

No, said Clare. Not really.

Look, sister, cops are like virgins: you either are or you arent, he grinned. So, what are
you?

Im almost a cop, said Clare.

Ja, fuck, like youre almost a virgin.

When last did you see this girl?

Actually, I dont know if Ive seen her, he said, his gaze averted.

If you want to know just how close I am to being a cop, carry on fucking with me, said Clare. So think hard and fast. She bought honey here. She showed him a photograph of the jar.

Paradys honey, he said. Its good.

So
wheres their stall?

The man looked around so slowly that Clare had to put her hands in her pockets to stop herself from knocking the New Age peace and dopiness out of him. I didnt see them today.

Whos them? asked Clare.

Noah Stern, he said. And his wife. She wears these dresses like those Amish chicks did in
Witness
. Youve seen that movie? Harrison Ford. Its like the same. Theyve got a boy.
He comes too sometimes. Just sits there all quiet. Its like a closed community they have. Like a retreat. They could live up there for ever if the world ended.

When was the last time they were selling? asked Clare.

A while ago, he said. Its nearly solstice now, so it was before the equinox, for sure.

So where could Rosa have bought this honey in the last couple of weeks?

Maybe she went up
to their place, he said.

Have you been up there?

Ja, Paradys, he said. Of course Ive been there. Its cool. Organic, off-grid. They grow this organic stuff, like I said. Everyone buys their honey. Its got healing properties and everything, he said. But they keep to themselves, they like to live like people did in Bible times. Maybe she hung out with them a bit. I think I remember that. Her talking
to the wife. Nancy.

Paradys, said Clare. How do I get there?

Its hard to get a car up the road, said the cider man. Its in the nature reserve. Go slow. Its easy to miss the gate.

Ive got a 4x4, she said.

He walked around his stall and outside with Clare. Take that road, he said. Goes straight up the valley. You take the third to the left. The gate at the end of the road. No other way to go.

A gust of wind swirled some winter leaves.

Its cool. People go up there because they want to, like, step outside the rat race. You should try it. You look like you should chill a bit.

Clare bumped along the rutted track that ran between the river fed to bursting by the mountain waterfalls and the road that led up the valley. Trees pressed in close as she drove up the track. The rain had sluiced off the topsoil and the car lurched from pothole to pothole. Shed have missed the turnoff completely if she had not known to look out for the gate. As it was, she drove past it.
She let the car slide backwards and then turned in, her wheels spinning in the mud.

It was darker among the trees; the sound of the growing storm shut out, together with the waning light. When Clare stopped to open the gate, the quiet was eerie.

Another track, even rougher; up ahead was the old farmhouse. The windows, too few and too small, gave the facade a pinched look. The homestead had thick
walls, a new thatched roof and wide ox-blood steps leading up to the verandah.

Clare went up the stairs and knocked on the front door but there was no answer. She pushed the door open and stepped into the chilly air. There seemed to be no one about. She stopped, waiting for someone to come. For once, she welcomed the loud moan of the wind in the trees. She went into the kitchen: cups and plates
three of each were draining on the sink. There was a bowl of green apples in the centre of the table and a spray of red sterretjieblomme star-shaped flowers that bloomed in the dead of winter.

She opened the back door. The yard was run down, the outbuildings dilapidated. She walked past empty stables towards a shed. The building was filled with farming implements, an old tractor. On the floor
were vehicle tracks. At the back, a white bakkie was parked.

A movement at the back of the shed drew her attention into the gloom.

Hello? she called. Light filtered through a broken window, and Clare made her way past old engine parts. A cat slunk under a pile of dusty metal that toppled over, sending an old numberplate flying. Clare picked it up and leaned it against the mud-spattered bakkie.
Like the one shed seen on the bridle path that morning, bumping up the road where they had found the little girl. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Voices a womans and a mans too low and urgent, drifted in at a broken window. Clare looked around, but there was silence again, broken only by the rhythmic thud of a spade cutting into wet earth.

Hey, what are you doing here? A man striding towards
her, the light behind him.

I was looking for someone, she said, moving out of the shadows. I thought I heard something in here.

The man stopped, studied her face in the dim light.

Its Dr Hart, isnt it? he said. I saw you this morning at the Community Forum the child that was found on the bridle path. I was there with my wife, its too awful.

Mud-streaked boots, waterproof jacket. A gentle
face, deep-set eyes as warm as the hand that gripped hers.

Noah Stern. The skin round his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Youll forgive my rudeness, he said. Were not that used to visitors up here. The police were here this morning for our statements. They did look around, Im not sure why.

Theyre searching everywhere nearby, said Clare. Trying to find the girls mother.

Im sorry we had so little
to offer them, he said. I imagine you are here for the same reason?

No, Im looking for someone else, an older girl, said Clare. She bought some of your honey. I had the impression she visited here in the summer, maybe a couple of times.

Clare held out the photograph. Her names Rosa Wagner. Shes missing.

Stern took the picture, looked up at Clare, his dark eyes filled with concern. Rosa, lovely
Rosa. She never needed to buy honey. We gave it to her. Always. Whats happened to her?

She came up here recently, said Clare.

Months ago, I think, said Stern. Were not so fixated on time up here, you know. It was summer. She came a couple of times. Always went back to her life, back to face whatever it was that drove her here in the first place.

What was she facing? asked Clare.

I wish I knew.

He did not move a muscle, but Clare sensed his concentration.

But shes troubled by something? she asked.

Rosa is very precious to me, to us, he said. We did all we could, but she wasnt ready for this life.

She stayed here, did she? Could you find out when exactly that was?

Ill check for you. Come inside. He touched Clares arm, ushered her into the kitchen. It was warmer there, an Aga burning.
Floor-to-ceiling shelving stacked with jams and preserves, a table and a couple of benches, a shelf with books on it, flagstone floors, and windows that leaked in cold forest air. Clare followed him into a sparsely furnished study. His diary lay on the desk. He opened it, paging backwards through the months.

Heres her first visit, he said, pushing the book towards Clare. She recognised the curvy
handwriting, noted the flamboyant signature, a heart next to it. There are a couple of those. She came again later, March or April. He flipped a few pages. She didnt write in the book that time, mustve forgotten. In any case, she came alone then. Would you like to see where our guests stay? he asked. Who knows, you might also need a sanctuary one day.

Right now, thought Clare, thats exactly what
I need. Somewhere to hide. Somewhere to wait until all this has passed.

Please, is what she said instead.

The communal room was off the verandah. Stern pushed the door open, revealing a large room with a double bed in the corner and some bunk beds. Clare swept her hand along the top bunk. It was stripped of bedding.

So you havent seen her since?

Stern shook his head.

And your wife? said Clare.

Nancy, said Stern. Yes, perhaps you should speak to her. She mightve been more of a confidante.

Clare followed him outside again. The smell of pine trees and freshly turned earth. Late-afternoon rays illuminated a woman in white, bending over rows of turned earth. A boy of about five squatted nearby, playing. He stood up as Clare and Stern approached, pulling his brown beanie low onto his forehead.

Nancy. Time and the weather had clearly been unkind to the woman. She glanced at her husband and gave Clare a tentative smile.

My hands, she held them out, muddy. Without shaking hands, she looked Clare over, rather in the way one assesses livestock. The boy pulled down his beanie, his dark eyes fixed on Clares face.

Dr Hart wants to ask you about Rosa, Nancy. Stern placed his hand on his wifes
shoulder. She did not flinch, but it seemed to Clare that she was relieved when he took it away again.

The boy came to stand by her side; she drew him towards her.

Rosa was here in the summer, Nancy said. A couple of times she stayed. But then she didnt come back.

You expected her to return?

A gust of wind tugged at the womans plait, whipping stray strands across her face. She replaited her
hair, her fingers nimble.

She didnt say so, but she needed sanctuary, said Nancy.

What do you mean? asked Clare.

Rosa didnt seem to fit into the world below. She gestured towards the valley, Hout Bay hidden by a ridge that hid the homestead. Noah offered, but she wasnt ready.

Ready for what?

For this life we lead, said Nancy. This peace. Has she done something?

Rosa is missing, Mrs Stern,
said Clare. Her family is very concerned. She hasnt been seen for three weeks.

Well, she hasnt been here, turning to the boy with solemn eyes, has she, Isaac?

He shook his head.

Nancy, did she mention anything to you? Some place she might have gone?

Not to me, said Nancy. She was determined to stay in the world. We offered her sanctuary. But she refused it.

You asked a minute ago if Rosa
had
done something
, Clare said to Nancy. What were you thinking of?

Rosa has been troubled, Noah Stern chipped in. Things have happened to her.

Things?

When she was a child, said Nancy. For the first time, she looked straight at Clare. Her mother had problems. Thered been many stepfathers. It came out the first weekend. We did a cleansing ritual. She spoke about it all. It seemed to relieve
her to say it.

Did she mention any names? asked Care. Was there anyone she was afraid of? Someone from that time in her life?

Husband and wife looked at each other, shook their heads in unison. The little boy drifted back towards his toys wire cars that hed probably fashioned himself.

Not that she mentioned, said Nancy, but whos to know? Rosa liked to keep her secrets.

Clares phone beeped;
a muscle in Sterns jaw jumped.

Sorry, said Clare. There was no reception earlier, so I didnt put it on silent.

Yes, it comes and goes. We forget about it, though, because none of us use these cellphones, said Noah Stern as Clare opened the message.

It was from Anwar Jacobs.

Your little patient is stable. Shes ready 4 you.

Clare felt an irrational surge of hope.

Youve been very helpful, said
Clare to the couple standing in front of her. If Rosa contacts you, here are my numbers.

Stern looked at the card Clare gave him. Nancy picked up her hoe and applied it to the bed she had been working.

Well be sure to, he said walking Clare to her car. He opened the door for her. Well pray for her safety.

The Childrens Hospital: a vigilant sentry, it stood between the leafy suburbs and the wind-scoured Cape Flats that fed the hospital with a steady stream of young patients.

Anwar Jacobs had been in Casualty when Clare had called. He was back there now, and it was mayhem. A keening woman, heavily pregnant, was clutching her bleeding son in her lap, the medical officer cutting off his Batman
pyjamas. The boys father split knuckles, his arms folded around a prison-skinny chest shouted that he would kill the nurse if his son died, threatening that in the Bible it said it was an eye for an eye.

Ag, vok of jy,
said the mother.
Jyt die kind so geslaan, jou mal hond. Jyt my ook geslaan.
She pushed up her sleeve and pointed to a bruise.
Kyk! Ja, kyk hierso.

The man lunged at the woman
as the guards moved in on him. She ducked and, despite her large belly, deftly avoided the blow. She held her little boy in her lap, protecting him. Her bag flew across the floor, spilling its contents.

Clare bent down and picked up a pack of cigarettes, an empty purse, a lipstick and a pale yellow card. She turned it over in her hand; on the front was the logo of the Ministry of Health. A clinic
card. Clare handed it all back to the woman.

Sedate the mother. Remove the father, Anwar Jacobs instructed the medical officer who had come to relieve him. Get Social Work for the child. This is the third time hes been here in as many months.

He turned to Clare. Welcome to tik hell. And those who make the money drink Johnny Walker Blue while taking in the Capes beautiful views. I patch up these
kids and its like sending them back out into the killing fields. You saw that womans antenatal card, shes pregnant again. She and that scum making sure I never run out of patients.

Its the devils merry-go-round, said Clare. Poverty is a goldmine: abalone, cash, drugs, cash, gangs, cash, then the merry circle starts all over again.