In a little while he would drive to her office and throw the remainder of her fucking advance onto the neat receptionist’s neat fucking desk and tell her to tell Hope Beneke that he didn’t need it. Because he was free.
He tied the laces of his trainers and got up. His house was dark, somber in the early afternoon. His house was cold in winter. He’d buy a heater one day. Have a fireplace built. He walked through the too-small sitting area, to the door. He would get a drink in Table View.
They were all alike. One day Wilna van As was the most important client in the world because there were only seven days left and oh, we have to help the poor woman because she worked her fingers to the bone for a man (as if she had no choice), and the next day it was Caroline Ann of Monaco or who the fuck whatever, head of the National Press Corporate Shit Shop or whatever the fuck it was, and all Hope Beneke saw were rands rolling. All of them. Twenty-four hours’ worth of loyalty.
He closed the door.
But not him. He was free.
The telephone rang behind the closed door.
Attorneys. Bloodsuckers. Parasites.
The telephone rang.
He hesitated.
Probably Hope Beneke.
The telephone kept ringing.
He hissed through his teeth, put the key back in the door, opened it, walked to the phone.
“Yes,” he said, ready to take her on.
“Mr. van Heerden?”
“Yes.” Unfamiliar voice.
“Ngwema. Home Affairs.”
“Oh.”
“Pretoria says your ID number is incorrect.”
“Pretoria?”
“I spoke nicely to them, said it was an emergency. But your ID is incorrect. Belongs to someone else. A Mrs. Ziegler.”
He pulled the notebook toward him, opened it, and read the number to Ngwema again.
“That’s the one I sent. It’s wrong.”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“Sorry,” said Van Heerden, adding, “it’s impossible.”
“That’s what the computer says. And it’s never wrong.”
“Oh.” Thinking. He’d found the number in O’Grady’s file. Now he would have to look for the identity document.
“Not bad, huh,” Ngwema said.
“What?”
“I said it wasn’t bad. Two hours and thirty-seven minutes after we received your request. Not bad for black guys working on African time.” And Ngwema laughed, softly.
¦
Hope Beneke heard Kemp’s sigh on the telephone. “Do you want me to speak to him again?”
“No, thank you. I’ve had it. He’s…unstable.”
“No, hang on…Were you firm with him?”
“Yes, I was firm with him. He obviously has a problem with a woman in a position of authority.”
“He has a problem with
“Is there anyone else?”
Kemp laughed. “There’s a whole squadron of private detectives in the phone book. And they’re all hot when it comes to sneaking pictures for housewives of hubby’s hanky-panky with the secretary. But they know nothing about this kind of thing.”
“There must be someone.”
“Van Heerden is the best.”
“Exactly what has he done for you?”
“This and that.”
“ ‘This and that’?”
“He’s good, Hope. Doesn’t miss much. You need him.”
“No,” she said.
“I’ll ask around.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She said good-bye and put the handset down. The phone rang immediately.
“There’s a Mrs. Joan van Heerden to see you,” the receptionist said. “She doesn’t have an appointment.”
“The artist?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please ask her to come in.”
Her day was like a Dali painting, she thought. Surrealist surprises everywhere.
The door opened. The woman who came in was small and slender, pretty, in her fifties or early sixties, years worn with grace. Hope recognized her and stood up.
“This is indeed an honor, Mrs. van Heerden,” she said. “I’m Hope Beneke.”
“How do you do.”
“Please sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m a great admirer of your work. Of course I can’t afford one just yet, but one day…”
“It’s kind of you, Miss Beneke.”
“Please call me Hope.”
“I’m Joan.”
The ritual was suddenly over.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m here about Zatopek. But please don’t tell him that I was here.”
Hope nodded, waiting for more information.
“It’s not going to be easy working with him. But I came to ask you to be patient.”
“Do I know him?”
Joan van Heerden frowned. “He told me last night that he was working for you. He has to look for a will.”
“Van Heerden?”
“Yes.”
“You know him?”
“He’s my son,” Joan van Heerden said.
Hope sank back in her chair. “Van Heerden is your son?”
She merely nodded.
“Good grief,” said Hope. And then she saw the likeness in the eyes, the deep, dark brown intensity. “Zatopek.”
Joan smiled. “My late husband and I thought it was a wonderful name thirty years ago.”
“I never realized…”
“He doesn’t advertise the connection. I think it’s a matter of honor. He doesn’t want to use it. Misuse
