made a game of it, the sorting of clothes according to color had made him smile, because that was apartheid?the whites here, the blacks there, the mixed colors in their own pile; each group afraid that another group?s color would stain them. He had always washed the black bundle first, because ?here blacks come first.?
He did that now, just from habit. Pressed and rubbed the material in the soapy water?rinse once, then again, twist the clothes in long worms to squeeze out the water?until his muscles bulged. Hung them out. Next the colored clothes, and the whites could wait till last.
Next morning he would ring reception and ask for an ironing board and iron and do the part he enjoyed the most?ironing the shirts and trousers with a hissing, hot iron till they could be hung on hangers in the wardrobe with perfect flat surfaces and sharp creases.
He draped the last white shirt over the chair and then stood indecisively in the center of the room.
He could not stay here.
He needed to pass the time until he could attempt sleep again. And he must think through this matter of the woman.
He picked up his wallet, pushed it in his trouser pocket, took the key card for his room and went out the door, down the stairs and outside. He walked around the corner to Dock Road, where the people were still walking to their weekend. He fell in behind a group of five colored men and kept pace with them up Coen Steytler. He eavesdropped on their conversation, following the easy, directionless talk with close attention all the way to Adderley.
It was not Andre Marais?s fault that Operation Woollies descended into total chaos. She acted out her role as a lonely, middle-aged woman skillfully and with vague, careful interest as the man began to chat with her between the wine racks and the snack displays.
Later she would think that she had expected an older man. This one was barely thirty: tallish, slightly plump, with a dark, five o?clock shadow. His choice of clothes was strange?the style of his checked jacket was out of date, the green shirt just a shade too bright, brown shoes unpolished. ?Harmless? was the word on her tongue, but she knew appearance counted for nothing when it came to crime.
He asked her, in English with an Afrikaans accent, if she knew where the filter coffee was, and she replied that she thought it was that way.
With a shy smile he told her he was addicted to filter coffee and she replied that usually she bought instant as she could not afford expensive coffee. He said he couldn?t manage without a good cup of filter coffee in the morning, charmingly apologetic, as if it were sinful. ?Italian Blend,? he said.
Oddly, she explained to Griessel later, at that moment she quite liked him. There was a vulnerability to him, a humanity that found an echo in herself.
Their trolleys were side by side, hers with ten or twelve items, his empty. ?Oh?? she said, fairly certain he was not the one they were looking for. She wanted to get rid of him.
?Yes, it?s very strong,? he said. ?It keeps me alert when I am on the Flying Squad.?
She felt her guts contract, because she knew he was lying. She knew policemen, she could spot them a mile away and he was not one, she knew.
?Are you a policeman?? she asked, trying to sound impressed.
?Captain Johan Reyneke,? he said, putting out a rather feminine hand and smiling through prominent front teeth. ?What is your name??
?Andre,? she said, and felt her heart beat faster. Captains did not do Flying Squad?he must have a reason for lying.
?Andre,? he repeated, as if to memorize it.
?My mother wanted to use her father?s name, and then she only had daughters.? She used her standard explanation, although there was no question in his voice. With difficulty she kept her voice level.
?Oh, I like that. It?s different. What work do you do, Andre??
?Oh, admin, nothing exciting.?
?And your husband??
She looked into his eyes and lied. ?I am divorced,? she said, and looked down, as if she were ashamed.
?Never mind,? he said, ?I?m divorced too. My children live in Johannesburg.?
She was going to say her children were out of the house already, part of the fabrication she and Griessel had discussed, but there was a voice from behind, a woman?s voice, quite shrill. ?Andre??
She glanced over her shoulder and recognized the woman, Molly, couldn?t recall her surname. She was the mother of one of her son?s school friends, one of those over-eager, terribly involved parents. Oh God, she thought, not now.
?Hi,? said Andre Marais, glancing at the man and seeing his eyes narrow, and she pulled a face, trying to communicate to him that she would rather not have this interruption.
?How are you, Andre? What are you doing here? What a coincidence.? Molly came up to her, basket in hand, before she realized that the two trolleys so close together meant something. She read the body language of the man and the woman and put two and two together. ?Oh, sorry, I hope I didn?t interrupt something.?
Andre knew she had to get rid of the woman, because she could see in the clenching of Reyneke?s hands that he was tense. The whole affair was on a knifepoint and she wanted to say: ?Yes, you are interrupting something? or ?Just go away.? But before she could find the right words, Molly?s face cleared and she said: ?Oh, you must be working together?are you also in the police?? and she held out her hand to Reyneke. ?I?m Molly Green. Are you on an operation or something??
Time stood still for Andre Marais. She could see the outstretched hand, which Reyneke ignored, his eyes moving from one woman to the other in slow motion; she could actually see the gears working in his brain. Then he bumped his trolley forward in her direction and he shouted something at her as the trolley collided with her and she lost her balance.
