?I have summed her up differently? he said.
She nodded in thought. ?Perhaps you are in a better position to make this decision, Vincent.?
?Ma?am??
?The decision is yours.?
?You mean I can decide if she can go or not??
?Yes, Vincent, just you. But you must bear the responsibility. And the consequences.?
He looked at her, searching for clues in her eyes, suddenly wary.
?I will have to think about it,? he said.
?That is the right thing to do.?
He slowed down when he saw Petrusville. He had hoped the road would bypass the town, but it ran directly through. Koos Kok was right, it would have been better at night, but there was no helping it now, he must gut it out. He checked the fuel meter? still over half. Keeping the needle on sixty, he rode into town, one- and two-story buildings, bleached signboards, Old World architecture. From the corner of his eye he could see black faces from the lower town turning, staring. He was colorless, without identity under the helmet, thankfully. He stopped at the four-way stop. A car pulled up alongside him, a woman, fat and forty. She stared at the bike, at him. He kept his eyes forward, pulled away, excruciatingly aware of the attention. There was a sprinkling of activity in the hot, sleepy afternoon. Pedestrians. Cars, bakkies, bicycles. He rode with his ears pricked for alarm signals, his back tense as if waiting for a bullet. Kept to sixty, revs low, trying not to make a racket, to be invisible, something impossible on this vehicle. He passed houses and children by the road, a few fingers pointed? did they recognize him, or was it the motorbike? Town boundary, a sign saying he could ride 120 again. He accelerated slowly, uncertain, keeping watch in the rearview mirror.
Nothing.
Was it possible?
A car beside the road. White people under a thorn tree, a thermos of coffee on the concrete table. They waved. He lifted his left hand.
Signboard saying Vanderkloof Dam to the right.
He continued straight on.
Somewhere up ahead was the turnoff to Luckhoff? and the bridge over the Orange.
Trouble must be waiting there.
Fourteen kilometers south of Koffiefontein the official of the Free State Traffic Authority sat at his speed trap.
?Department of Psychology,? said the woman?s voice over the phone.
?Hi. May I speak to Mr. Van Heerden??
?You mean Dr. Van Heerden??
?Oh. Zatopek van Heerden??
?I?m afraid Dr. Van Heerden isn'?t in. May I take a message??
?This is Allison Healy of the
?I?m afraid I?m not at liberty to provide his home number.?
?Does he have a cell number??
The woman laughed. ?Dr. Van Heerden is not keen on cell phones, I?m afraid.?
?May I leave my number? Will he call me back??
?He will be in again tomorrow.?
Thobela Mpayipheli knew the bridge must be within a kilometer or two, according to the map.
A Volkswagen Kombi approached from the front. He watched the driver, looking for signs of blockades, the law, or soldiers.
Nothing.
He saw the green seam of the river, knew the crossing was just ahead, but there was no sign of activity.
Was he far enough east? Was that why they were not here?
The road straightened and the bridge came into view, two white railings, double lane, open, clear.
He accelerated, leaving the Northern Cape, looked down at the brown waters flowing strongly, the midday sun reflecting brightly off the ripples. The sluices of the dam must be open, he surmised. Probably because of the rain. Over the bridge, over the Orange.
Free State.
Relief flooded through him. They had slipped up.
What about? His head jerked up to the sky, searching for the specks of helicopter, ears straining for their rumble above the noise of the motorbike.
Nothing.
