wait. She fiddled with a bunch of keys and then shoved the farm gate open and called, ‘Leave the gate open, we’ll be coming out here again.’
There was a rusty pole beside the gate with a nearly illegible sign with six bullet holes in it. Mouasedi.
We drove uphill on a rough farm track. I worried about the Audi’s ground clearance. Near the gate it was grassveld, but within two hundred metres the bush grew thick. We drove through a tunnel of trees, the Prado’s roof scraping against the branches and leaves.
The house was over a kilometre from the gravel road. It was an aged building, sixty years or older, corrugated iron roof, yellowing lime-washed walls, a big chimney. The veranda looked out over a stream, rather than the promised river. Directly west the cliffs of Mariepskop dominated the horizon.
Not perfect, but it would do. The yard was big and open enough to see someone coming from a hundred metres off. The disadvantage was that the dense bush would afford shelter beyond that. But it was also difficult to move through. As far as I could see, there was only one workable access route, thanks to the towering mountain and the jungle across the stream.
She got out and waited for me.
‘What does Motlasedi mean?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, but I will find out. Let’s have a look inside, I don’t know what it’s like, the place has been shut up a long time, but there is some furniture at least. What do you want to do here, so far from everything?’ She walked deftly up the three steps of the veranda in her high heels and tinkled the bunch of keys until she found the one to unlock the door.
‘I just want a bit of peace,’ I said.
‘One needs peace, too. This is the sitting room, there is something to sit on at any rate, the kitchen is this way, gas stove and gas fridge, you’ll just have to get them going, a little bit of dust here, I see, I can get it cleaned for you if you want, it will take a day, come, the bedrooms are this way, at least there’s gauze on the windows to keep the mosquitoes out, but you should get something to spray or rub on at this time of the year, the mosquitoes can be a nuisance so close to the water, unfortunately just the one bathroom, there’s no bedding of course, but in this heat you won’t need much.’ She kept up the monologue right through the house at the same rapid pace as her quick, short steps on the bare floorboards, pointedly ignoring the three big cockroaches that scurried away from us. Eventually running out of breath, she asked, ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Right, then, let’s go and sign the contract, it’s a deposit of one thousand eight hundred and a month’s rent in advance, that’s three thousand six hundred in total, is that all right?’
I took out my cell phone and Emma’s to check whether there was reception. One bar, a second that came and went.
‘That’s fine, thank you.’
34
At ten past two I was back at Motlasedi. I carried a week’s supply into the kitchen in Pick ’n Pay shopping bags, lit the gas flame of the fridge and packed the Energade bottles inside. I fetched the broom, bucket, cloths and cleaning materials from the car and began in the kitchen. Then I did the sitting room, bathroom and bedroom. I sweated rivers.
When I was busy spraying four cans of insecticide throughout the house, one of the phones rang. Mine. It was Nadine Bekker.
‘Motlasedi means “place of the big fight”,’ she said when I answered. ‘Would you like to hear the story?’
‘Please.’
She read to me from some source or other, in English, in too much of a hurry and without respect for punctuation, so that I had to shut my eyes and concentrate on following her.
She said a local tribe, the mapulana, were attacked in 1864 by King Mswati of the Swazis. The maPulana retreated to Mariepskop and there, nearly two thousand metres above the Lowveld plains, they prepared for the battle that would follow. They rolled rocks close to the edge and guarded the single footpath up the mountain.
The Swazi warriors waited for the thick mist that sometimes formed on the slopes of the mountain on summer nights before they ascended the path. That night the mist was so thick that every warrior had to climb with a hand on the shoulder of the one in front of him.
At the top, the maPulana sat in dead silence. They waited till the last moment before they began to roll their rock missiles down the footpath. Their strategy was deadly. The Swazi losses were great and their attack deteriorated into chaos. Finally, the maPulana swept down the mountain, cutting down any resistance, and wiped out the Swazi force in the little river south of Mariepskop.
Nadine paused in her lecture here and said, ‘It must be just there where you are, they say a person can still see the bones of the Swazis if you know where to look and that’s why the river’s name is also Mouasedi, place of the big battle, and why the maPulana call the mountain Mogologolo, meaning ‘mountain of the wind’ because the Swazis only heard the wind of the falling rocks before they died. Are you settled in already? Are you happy? Phone if there is anything, I must run.’
There was no shower in the bathroom. I ran a cold bath and washed and finally felt clean.
I set the alarm in the cell phone for 16.30 and lay down on the bare mattress and slept restlessly for over an hour. Then I got up, washed my face in cold water, and took Emma’s cell phone and a bottle of Energade out of the fridge.
I went and sat on the veranda overlooking the stream. The hum of insects was a blanket of sound. Birds sang in the dense forest across the brown babbling water. A commando of vervet monkeys vaulted through the treetops like ghosts. A large grey ibis landed beside the water and began to poke its long beak purposefully into the short grass.
I ran through my plan one last time. Confirmed the time on my watch: 16.43.
I called Information to get three numbers. I wrote them on Emma’s paper with a pencil.
I phoned the first one at once – the Mogale rehabilitation centre.
A volunteer with a Scandinavian accent answered. I asked to speak to Donnie Branca. She said to hold on. I heard them calling him.
‘Please hold, he is coming.’
Then he said, ‘This is Donnie.’
‘It’s Lemmer, Donnie. I was there with Emma le Roux.’
‘Oh. I’m very sorry. We heard about the accident.’
‘It wasn’t an accident and you know it.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Donnie, I think it’s time we dropped the bullshit. I want you to listen to what I’m going to say to you.’
‘I don’t like your …’
‘Shut up and listen, Donnie.’
He shut up. I had thought for a long time about what I wanted to say to him. It was all based on calculated guesswork, but the delivery was the key. I had to say it with aggression and self-confidence. I couldn’t afford to let him know that there were gaps in my knowledge.
‘I’m on a farm called Motlasedi, on the gravel road between Green Valley and Mariepskop. I’m giving you forty-eight hours to tell me where Cobie de Villiers is. If I don’t hear from you by that time, I am going to pass on everything I know to the newspapers and the Commissioner of Police in Limpopo.’
I gave him a while to let that sink in.
‘I know what you think, Donnie. You’re wondering what I know. Let me help you: I know everything. I know about your night-time escapades, I know about the firearms you are hiding from the police, I know what Frank Wolhuter found in Cobie’s house – and that it wasn’t on the bookshelf, Donnie.’
Then I took the big gamble, the one I had deliberated over the longest. ‘I also know that H. B. doesn’t stand for Honey Badger. Forty-eight hours, Donnie. Don’t contact me about anything else. You know what I want.’
I pressed the button with the red receiver icon to end the call and wiped the sweat from my brow.
I breathed out slowly.
