When she pulled the notebook of numbers toward her, the phone rang.
?You want to speak to Mr. O??
For a second she was lost. ?Who?? she said, and then hurriedly, ?Oh, yes. Yes, I do.?
?There?s a blue-whale skeleton in the museum. Be there at one o?clock.?
Before she could respond, the phone went dead.
The big whale hall was in twilight, dim blue light represented the deep, the taped sounds of the massive animals lent a surreal atmosphere as the colored couple, a young man and girl, wandered hand in hand from one display to the next. She did not consider them until they were right next to her, when the man said her name.
?Yes?? she answered.
?I have to search your handbag,? he said apologetically, and she stood rooted until insight caught up with her.
?Oh.? She handed over the bag.
?And I have to frisk you,? said the girl with a suggestion of a smile. She was nineteen or twenty, with long pitch-black hair, full lips, and tasteful but heavy makeup. ?Please raise your arms.?
She reacted automatically, feeling the hands skillfully sliding over her body; then the girl stepped back.
?I?m going to keep this until after,? said the man, holding up her tape recorder. ?Now please come with us.?
Outside, the sunlight was blinding. Ahead lay the Kompanje gardens, pigeons and fountains and squirrels. They walked wordlessly on either side of her, leading her to the tea garden, where two colored men sat, somewhat older with stern faces.
Heads were nodded, the two men stood, the girl indicated to Allison to sit. ?Nice meeting you,? she said, and they were gone. Allison sat with her handbag pinched under her arm, feeling that she would not be surprised if Pierce Brosnan loomed up beside her and said, ?Bond. James Bond.?
She waited. Nothing happened. Families and businesspeople sat at the other tables. Which of them were Orlando Arendse?s? She took out her cigarettes and put one to her lips.
?Allow me,? said a voice beside her, and a lighter appeared. She looked up. He looked like a schoolmaster in a tailored suit, blue shirt, red spotted bow tie, hair graying at the temples, but the deep brown face was etched with the lines of a hard life.
While she held her cigarette in the flame he said: ?Please forgive the cloak-and-dagger. But we needed to be sure.? He sat down opposite her and said, ?Rubens.?
?I beg your pardon??
?A game, Miss Healy Rubens would have painted you. I like Rubens.?
?He?s the one who liked fat women.? She was insulted.
?No,? said Arendse. ?He is the one who painted perfect women.?
She was off-balance. ?Mr. Arendse ??
He pulled out the chair opposite her. ?You may call me Orlando. Or Uncle Orlando. I have a daughter your age.?
?Is she also in the ??
?Drug business? No, Miss Healy. My Julie is a copywriter at Ogilvie. Last year she won a Pendoring Award for her work with the Volkswagen Golf campaign.?
Allison blushed deeply. ?Please excuse me. I had the wrong impression.?
?I know,? he said. ?What will you drink??
?Tea, please.?
He gestured to a waiter with the air of a man accustomed to giving orders. He ordered tea for her, coffee for himself. ?One condition, Miss Healy. You will not mention my name.?
Her eyebrows asked the question.
?To throw my weight around in the newspaper is one way to draw the attention of the SAPS,? he said. ?I can?t afford that.?
Are you really a drug baron?? He did not look like one. He did not speak like one.
?I always found that name amusing. Baron.?
Are you??
?There was a time in my life, when I was young, I would have answered that with a long rationalization, Miss Healy. How I merely fulfilled the need of people to escape. That I was merely a businessman supplying a product greatly in demand. But with age comes realism. I am among other things a supplier. An illegal importer and distributor of banned substances. I am a parasite living off the weakness of man.? He spoke softly, without regret, merely stating the facts. Allison was amazed.
?But why??
He smiled at her in a grandfatherly way at an obvious question. ?Let us blame apartheid,? he said, and then laughed softly and privately and switched to a Cape Flats accent and nuances like speaking another language. ?Crime of opportunity,
She shook her head in wonder. ?The stories you could tell,? she said.
