It took a quarter of an hour for her to cry herself out on my chest. She clung to me initially as if I were a lifebuoy, while I continued to pat her back awkwardly, without the faintest idea of what I should say in addition to ‘there, there’. But she calmed down, the sobs diminished, and her body relaxed.
Then she fell asleep. I didn’t realise it at first. I was too conscious of my cramped legs, my deficiency with words, the warmth of her body against me and her scent and the dampness of her tears on my shirt. Eventually, I realised that her breathing was slow and deep and, when I looked, that her eyes were closed.
I eased her softly down against the pillows. The air conditioning had made the room cool, so I pulled the bedspread over her and crept back to my chair.
I would have to reassess my opinion of her. She might just be a lovely young woman who wanted her brother back very badly. Maybe hope had faded with every fragment of new information, but she’d held fast to it, had clung to the possibilities of conspiracies and secrets, until this morning. Now she was trapped between two equally unacceptable alternatives: her brother was Cobie de Villiers – and a murderer. Or he was neither. It would be like losing him all over again.
Or maybe I should be careful. Maybe I should rewrite Lemmer’s Law of Small Women so that it read: Don’t trust yourself.
I couldn’t concentrate on the magazine. My hand remembered the contours of Emma’s back and my heart remembered her helplessness and despair.
I was just the bodyguard, the one available. She would have cried on anyone’s shoulder.
She was an intelligent, socially adjusted, extremely rich, highly educated and attractive young woman, and I was Lemmer from Seapoint and Loxton. I should not forget that.
I realised that it was the second time in twenty-four hours that I had put Emma le Roux to bed. Perhaps I should ask for a bonus.
18
Late that afternoon, Emma spent more than an hour in the bathroom. When she came out she said, ‘Shall we eat?’ You couldn’t see that she’d been crying. It was the first time I’d seen her in a dress. It was white, with tiny red flowers, and it left her shoulders bare. She had white sandals on her feet. She looked younger, but her eyes were old.
We walked through the dusk in silence. The sun slipped away behind dramatic towers of thundercloud in the west. Lightning flickered in the snow-white cumulus. The humidity was unbearable and the heat incredible. Even the birds and insects were still. Nature seemed to be holding its breath.
Susan from reception, the Afrikaner blonde who would speak only English, intercepted us on our way to dinner. ‘Oh, Miss le Roux, how are you? I heard about the mamba, we are all so sorry. Is your suite OK now?’
‘It’s fine, thank you very much.’ Muted, clearly still depressed.
‘Wonderful. Enjoy your dinner.’
As we sat down, Emma said, ‘I really should speak to her in Afrikaans.’
‘Yes,’ I said without thinking.
‘Are you a language fanatic, Lemmer, a
‘Sort of …’
She nodded absently, and reached for the wine list. She stared at it for a while and then looked up at me. ‘I’m so silly, sometimes,’ she said softly.
I saw that there were shadows under her eyes that the light makeup couldn’t disguise. She tried to smile, but struggled. ‘If I spoke Afrikaans to her, there would be this moment. She would say, “Oh, are you Afrikaans?” and pretend to be surprised, but we would all know that she had known all along and it would be this moment of … discomfort.’ She attempted to smile, but didn’t succeed. ‘And that’s typical Afrikaner. We always avoid discomfort.’
Before I could think of a response, she turned back to the wine list and said with determination, ‘Tonight we are going to drink wine. What would you like?’
‘I’m on duty, thank you.’
‘No, not tonight. White or red?’
‘I’m not really a wine drinker.’
‘A beer?’
‘A red Grapetiser would be nice.’
‘Do you drink at all?’
‘Not alcohol.’ I depended on her not to ask more. As with the Afrikaans question, there was enough probability of an uncomfortable answer. I was wrong, as I had been in most of my predictions of Emma.
‘Is it a matter of principle?’ she asked carefully.
‘Not really.’
Emma shook her head.
‘What?’ I said.
She waited before answering, as if she needed to gather energy. ‘You are an enigma, Lemmer. I always used to wonder what it meant when I read about someone who was an enigma, but now I know.’
Maybe it was because she had referred to me as ‘stupid and silent’, or perhaps it was because I wanted to cheer her up, that I said, ‘Explain to me what’s so great about alcohol, because I don’t get it.’
‘Don’t tell me that’s an invitation to a real, actual conversation?’
‘You said I’m “off duty” tonight.’
‘Aah.’ She put the wine list down. ‘Very well.’ She looked up at the candle sconce above us, drew a deep breath and spoke, slowly at first, trying to find the right words. ‘I like red wine. I like the names. Shiraz. Cabernet. Merlot. Pinotage. They roll beautifully off the tongue, they sound so secretive. And I love the complex aromas. There is a mystique to the flavours.’
Then more quickly, freeing herself: ‘It’s like sailing on a trade route past islands of fruit and spices. You can never see the islands, but from the aromas that waft over the water, you can guess what they look like. Exotic, bright colours, dense forests, beautiful people dancing by firelight. I love the colours and the way they look different in sunlight or candlelight. And I love the flavour, because it forces me to taste, to concentrate, to roll it around my tongue and look for the goodness. And I like all the things it stands for – the bonhomie, the company of friends. It’s a social symbol that says we’re comfortable enough with each other to enjoy a glass of wine together. It makes me feel civilised and grateful that I have the privilege to enjoy something that has been made with so much care and knowledge and art. So, tell me what’s not good about that.’
I shook my head, partly because I disagreed with her, partly because I couldn’t believe I was doing this. ‘Wine doesn’t taste nice. Period. It’s not as bad as whisky, but it’s worse than beer. It’s not nearly as nice as grape juice. But grape juice isn’t sophisticated, even though it looks different in sunlight and candlelight. Sweet wine is the exception. But nobody drinks that in cultivated company, not even a good late harvest. Why not? Because it simply does not enjoy the same status. And there’s the whole answer. Status. It’s an old thing. Our civilisation originated in Mesopotamia, but grapes didn’t thrive there. The Mesopotamians made beer out of grain and everyone drank it. But the rich don’t want to drink what everyone drinks. So they imported wine from the highlands of Iran. And because it cost more, because the common people could not afford it, it gained status, regardless of how it tasted. So they created the myth – wine is for the cultivated tongue, for the well-to-do taste. Eight thousand years later, we still believe it.’
I liked the way she looked at me while I spoke. When I’d finished, she laughed, a short happy sound, like someone who has unwrapped a present. She was about to say something, but the wine waiter arrived and she turned her attention to him and said, ‘I would like this bottle of Merlot and I want the best red grape juice that you have and bring us two extra glasses please.’
The waiter jotted his notes and when he had left she leaned back in her chair and said, ‘Where have you been hiding, Lemmer?’ She held her tiny hand up and said, ‘Never mind, I’m just glad you’re here. Are you a reader?
