He drove to Gardens late in the afternoon with the address to his flat on a slip of paper on the seat beside him.
Friend Street . . . what fucking kind of name was that? Mount Nelson?s Mansions. Number one two eight.
He had never lived in this area. All his life he had been in the northern suburbs, since school a Parow Arrow, apart from the year in Pretoria at the Police College and three years in Durban as a constable. Jissis, he never wanted to go back there, to the heat and humidity and the stink. Curry and dagga and everything in English. In those days he had an accent you could cut with a cudgel and the
and Indians teased or taunted him, depending on whether they were colleagues or people he had arrested.
Mount Nelson?s Mansions. There was a steel fence around it and a large security gate. He would have to park in the street at first and press a button on a sign that said Caretaker to get in and collect his keys and the remote control for the gate. A red brick building that had never been a mansion, maybe thirty or forty years old. Not beautiful, not ugly, it just stood there between two white-plastered apartment blocks.
The caretaker was an old Xhosa. ?You a policeman?? he asked.
?I am.?
?That is good. We need a policeman here.?
He fetched his suitcases from the car and dragged them up one flight of stairs. One two eight. The door needed varnish. It had a peephole in the center and two locks. He found the right keys and pushed the door open. Brown parquet floor, fuck-all furniture, except for the breakfast counter with no stools, a few bleached melamine kitchen cupboards and an old Defy stove with three plates and an oven. A wooden staircase. He left the cases and climbed the stairs. There was a bed up there, a single bed, the one that had been stored in the garage, his garage. His former garage. Just the wooden bedstead and foam mattress with the faded blue floral pattern. The bedding lay in a pile on the foot of the bed. Pillow and slip, sheets, blankets. There was a built-in wardrobe. A door led to the small bathroom.
He went down to fetch his suitcases.
Not even a bloody chair. If he wanted to sit down, it would have to be on the bed.
Nothing to eat off or drink from or to boil water. He had fuck-all. He had less than when he went to police college.
Jissis.
In his hotel room, Thobela searched under ?P? in the telephone directory. There was the name,
written just like that, and the address,
He drove to the Sanlam Center in Voortrekker Road and bought a street guide to Cape Town in CNA.
As the sun disappeared behind Table Mountain, he drove down Hannes Louw Drive and left into Fairfield, right into Simone and, after a long curve, left into Chantelle. The even numbers were on the right. Number 122 was an inconspicuous house with burglar bars and a security gate. The neat garden had two ornamental cypress trees, a few shrubs and a green, mowed lawn, all enclosed by a concrete wall around the back and sides. No signs of life. On the garage wall above the door was a blue and silver sign:
He had a problem. He was a black man in a white suburb. He knew the fact that he was driving a pickup would help, keep him color-free and anonymous in the dusk. But not forever. If he hung around too long or drove past one time too many, someone would notice his skin color and begin to wonder.
He drove once around the block and past 122 again, this time observing the neighboring houses and the long strip of park that curved around with Simone Street. Then he had to leave, back to the shopping center. There were things he needed.
Griessel sat on the still unmade bed and stared at the wardrobe. His clothes could not fill a third of the space. It was the empty space that fascinated him.
At home his wardrobe was full of clothes he hadn?t worn in years?garments too small or so badly out of fashion that Anna forbade him to wear them.
But here he could count on one hand each type of garment she had packed for him, excepting the underpants?there were probably eight or nine, which he had piled in a heap in the middle rack.
Laundry. How would he manage? There were already two days? worth of dirty clothes in a bundle at the bottom of the cupboard, beside the single pair of shoes. And ironing?hell, it was years since he had picked up an iron. Cooking, washing dishes. Vacuuming! The bedroom did have a dirty brown wall-to-wall carpet.
?Fuck,? he said, rising to his feet.
He thought of the beer advertisement again.
God, no, that was the sort of thing that had got him into this situation. He must not. He would have to find something to do. There were the files in his briefcase. But where would he work? On the bed? He needed a stool for the breakfast bar. It was too late to look for one now. He wanted coffee. Maybe the Pick and Pay in Gardens was still open. He took his wallet, cell phone and the keys to his new flat and descended the stairs to the bare living room below.
Thobela bought a small pocket torch, batteries, binoculars and a set of screwdrivers and sat down in a restaurant to study the map.
His first problem would be to get into the suburb. He could not park near the house as the pickup was registered in his name. Someone might write down the number. Or remember it. He would have to park somewhere else and walk in, but it was still risky. Every second house had a private security company?s sign on the wall. There would be patrol vehicles, there would be wary eyes ready to call an emergency number. ?There?s a black man in our street.?
Chances were better by day?he might be a gardener on his way to work?but at night the risks multiplied.
