There was a sofa of dark material and, right ahead of him, the corner of a huge flat-screen TV.
No carpet on the tile floor. The beer bottle might have been there for weeks. There was ash in the
He stood in the shade of the small balcony, looking at the scrap of lawn, and waited for the policemen to return.
The 'administrator of the body corporate' told him these townhouses, with two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a large living area, open-plan kitchen and guest toilet downstairs, cost a fraction under a million rand apiece last year. A new Land Rover was more than three hundred thousand. Big new TV. How could a twenty-six year old afford all this?
Drugs, thought Vusi.
He saw the policemen returning. He could tell from the way they walked they had nothing to report. Suddenly he was in a hurry and went to meet them. He wanted to get back to the city, to Van Hunks, because that was where the key to this puzzle lay.
It felt surreal, the old man in his impeccably white shirt pulling out a chair for her. The delicious aroma of fried bacon made her hunger flare up, an awakening animal. The table was neatly laid for two. The drops of condensation running down the big glass jug of orange juice made her crave its sweet, cold taste.
He walked over to the stove, asked whether she would like cheese and bacon on her omelette. 'Yes, please,' she said. He encouraged her to have some orange juice. She poured with a slightly trembling hand and brought the glass to her lips, trying to control the raging thirst.
Could he make her two slices of toast?
'Please.'
He busied himself, greasing a pan, adding the whisked egg yolks to the white he had already beaten stiff, pouring the mixture into the pan. There were fried bacon bits on a plate with grated cheese. He put the frying pan on the gas plate.
He always set for two, he said, ever since his wife died. He had started the habit even before then, actually, when she was sick. It made him feel less alone. It was a great privilege to have someone at the table, now. She must excuse him, he was going to talk far too much, as he didn't get much company. Just the books; they were his companions now. When had she last eaten?
She had to think about it. 'Yesterday,' she said, and remembered the big burgers they had had around four in a place with an American Sixties atmosphere, almost. 'A hole in the wall,' Erin had said, and then she shut down her memory bank, because she didn't want to remember.
He sprinkled bacon and cheese on the omelette and opened the oven. Took the pan off the gas flame, put it in the stove and closed the oven door. He turned to face her. It fell flat so easily, he said, if you weren't careful. He saw her glass was empty. He came to the table and refilled it. She thanked him with a small, genuine smile. There was silence, but a comfortable one.
'The books,' she said, half a question, to make conversation, to be polite, to say thank you.
'I used to be a historian,' he said. 'Now I'm just an old man with too much time on my hands and a doctor son in Canada who emails me and tells me to keep busy, as I still have a lot to give.'
He bent at the oven and had a look. 'Nearly ready,' he said. 'I'm writing a book. I promised myself it is my last. It's about the rebuilding of South Africa after the Boer War. I'm writing it for my people, the Afrikaners, so they can see they have been through the same thing as the black people are going through now. They were also oppressed, they were also very poor, landless, beaten down. But through affirmative action they got up again. Also economic empowerment. There are very great parallels. The English also complained about service delivery at the municipalities which was suddenly not as good any more, because incompetent Afrikaners had taken over...' He picked up pot-holders and opened the oven. The omelette had risen high in the pan, melted the cheese and the aroma wafted her way, making the saliva gush in her mouth. He picked up a spatula and slid the omelette out onto a snow-white plate, adeptly folded it and brought it to her.
'Catsup?' he asked, a mischievous twinkle in the eyes behind the big gold-rimmed spectacles. 'I believe that's what you call it.'
'No thanks, this looks lovely.'
He shifted the salt and pepper closer and said he had learned not to use salt, doctor's orders from his son, and anyway his capacity to taste wasn't what it used to be. Consequently the omelette might need some more salt.
'The trouble with omelettes is that I can only make one at a time. Go ahead and eat yours while I do mine.'
He went back to the stove again. She picked up her knife and fork, cut through the puffed egg and brought it to her mouth. She was incredibly hungry and the flavour was heavenly.
'But the book is also for our black people,' he said. 'The Afrikaners rose up again, an amazing achievement. Then their power corrupted them. The signs are there that the black government is going the same way. I am afraid they will make the same mistakes. It would be such a pity. We are a country of potential, of wonderful, good people who all want only one thing: a future for our children. Here. Not in Canada.' He put the pan in the oven again. He said he was a cheese fanatic and his son said dairy was not good for him. At seventy-nine he reckoned it didn't matter so much any more and he smiled again, showing those even white false teeth. The toast! He clean forgot... He clicked his tongue and took two slices of bread out of a plastic bag and put them in the toaster.
'This is delicious,' she said, because it was. Already she had eaten half the omelette. 'Can I brew us some good coffee? There is an exceptional beanery in the Bo-Kaap. They do their own roasting, but I grind it myself.'
'That would be wonderful,' She felt like getting up and hugging him. The grief was huge and heavy inside her, held at bay by his enthusiasm and hospitality.
He opened the kitchen cupboard and took out a big silver tin. He said he mustn't forget about his omelette in the oven; that was the trouble with age: the forgetfulness. He really could multi-task in his young days, but now that was all he remembered - his young days. He measured coffee beans into a grinder and pressed the button. The blades made a sharp noise as they chopped up the beans. He murmured something; she could just see his lips moving. He finished the grinding, opened the filter of the coffee machine and poured the coffee into it. He picked up his pot-holders and opened the oven.
'A mixture of cheddar and Gruyere, it always smells better than it tastes. That is one thing about old age. Your sense of smell lasts longer than taste.'
The toaster popped the two slices up. He took a small plate, put the toast on it and brought it to her. 'Some green fig preserve? I have a really good Camembert to go with it, rich and creamy, made by a small cheesery near Stellenbosch.' He opened the fridge and took it out anyway before she could reply.
He was back at the stove, sliding the omelette onto his plate. He brought it to the table, sat down and took a mouthful. 'I often add feta as well, to this particular mixture, but it might be too salty for a young woman ... the coffee!' He jumped up again with surprising energy, to put water in the coffee-maker. He spilled some on the counter and wiped it up with the white dishcloth before turning on the machine and sitting down again.
'West Lafayette. You're a long way from home, my dear.'
Chapter 28
On the sixteenth floor of the apartment block, the man with the trimmed grey beard stood etched against the bright city panorama, his hands behind his back.
In front of him were the six young men. They looked at him, not intimidated, expectant. Three black, three white, united by their youth, leanness and fearlessness.
'Mistakes have been made,' the man said in English, but with a distinctive accent.
'Learn from them. I am taking charge now. This is not a vote of no confidence. See it as an opportunity to learn.'
One or two nodded slightly; they knew he didn't like emotional display.
'Time is our enemy. So I shall keep it short. Our friend in Metro will provide a suitable vehicle, a panel van
