?Do you want to come, or not??
44.
He had to give her the last directions over the cell phone, as it was an obscure route at the Cape Town International Airport behind hangars and office buildings and between small single-propeller airplanes that looked like children?s toys left around in loose rows. Eventually she found the Beechcraft King Air ambulance with its Pratt & Whitney engines already running.
Van Heerden was standing in the door of the plane, waving to her, and she grabbed the overnight bag from the backseat, locked the car, and ran.
He stood aside so she could climb the steps and then he pulled the door shut behind her, signaling to the pilot. The Beechcraft began to move.
He took her bag and showed her where to sit? on one of the three seats at the back. After making sure her seat belt was fastened, he sat down beside her with a sigh. He leaned over and kissed her full on the lips before she could pull away, and then he grinned at her like a naughty schoolboy.
?I should?,? she began seriously, but he stopped her with a hand.
?May I explain first?? His voice was loud, to be heard over the engine noise.
?It?s not about us. It?s about Miriam Nzululwazi.?
?Miriam,? he said with grim foreboding.
?She?s dead, Zatopek. Last night.?
?How??
?All they say is that it was an accident. She fell. five stories down.?
?Good Lord,? he said, and let his head drop back against the cushion of the seat. He sat like that for a long time, staring ahead, and she wondered what his thoughts were. Then just before the Beechcraft sped down the runway, he said something she couldn'?t hear and shook his head.
?You have a terrible temper,? he said as the roar of the engines quieted at cruising altitude and he loosened his safety belt. ?Do you want some coffee??
?And you are a bastard,? she said without conviction.
?I was in conference all day.?
?Without tea or lunch breaks??
?I meant to phone you in the afternoon, when it was more quiet.?
?And so??
?Then I had a call from a Dr. Pillay of Kasane, who said he had found my telephone number in the pocket of a badly injured black man who had fallen off his motorbike in northern Botswana.?
?Oh.?
?Coffee??
She nodded, watching him as he made the same offer to the doctor and pilot in the cockpit. She thought how close she had come to putting the article into the system. She had been at the door of the editorial office when she turned and ran back to delete it. She had a temper. That was true.
?What is his condition?? she asked Van Heerden when he came back.
?Serious but stable. The doctor said he has lost a lot of blood. They gave him transfusions, but he is going to need more and blood is in short supply up there.?
?What happened to him??
?Nobody knows. He has two bullet wounds in the hip, and his left shoulder was badly bruised in the fall. Some locals found him beside the road near the Mpandamatenga turnoff. By the grace of God, no one phoned the authorities; they just loaded him on a bakkie and took him to Kasane.?
She absorbed the news, and another question arose. ?Why are you doing this??
?He is my friend.? Before she could respond, he added, ?My only friend, to be honest,? and she wondered about him, who he was and what made him this way.
?And this?? she indicated the medical equipment??what is all this going to cost??
?I don'?t know. Ten or twenty thousand.?
?Who is going to pay??
He shrugged. ?I will. Or Thobela.?
?Just like that??
He grinned but without humor.
?What??
?Perception and reality,? he said. ?I find it very interesting.?
?Oh??
?Your perception is that he is black? and a laborer, from Guguletu. Therefore, he must be poor. That is the logical view, a reasonable conclusion. But things are not always what we expect.?
