Recently, late in the afternoon, early evening, he stood in Voortrekker Road and looked up the street. And saw the parking meters that stretched for a kilometer or more, as far as he could see, on the arrow-straight road. The parking meters so senselessly and proudly guarding them all, were empty after the working day. Then he knew that Lara had made him into one an irritation during the day, useless at night.
His body wouldn't believe him.
Like a neglected engine it creaked and coughed and rustily tried to get the gears moving. His subconscious still remembered the oil that waited in the brain, chemical messages of the urge that sent blood and mucus to the front. The machine sighed, a plug sparked feebly, a gear meshed.
He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling.
A virus in his blood. He could feel the first vague symptoms. Not yet an organ that grew and strained against material with a life of its own. At first only a slow fever that spread through his body and slowly, like a tide, washed the alcohol out of his bloodstream, drove away sleep.
He tossed and turned, got up to open a window. The sweat on his torso gleamed dully in the light of a streetlamp. He lay down again, on his back, searched for a drug against longing and humiliation.
The yearning in his crotch and in his head was equally painful.
His thoughts were driven by a whirlwind, spilled over the barriers.
Emotion and lust and memories intermingled. Lara. He missed her and he hated her. Because of the pain. Jesus, but shed been beautiful. Lithe, a crack of a whip, a tempest, a tease. A traitor.
The softness of a breast against his elbow. His neighbors daughter.
Lara, whod turned him into a parking meter. Lara, who was dead.
Lara was dead.
His mind searched for an escape in the face of this, shunted his thoughts into the disconsolate safety of a gray depression in which he had learned to survive in the past months.
But for the first time in two years and three months, Mat Joubert didn't want that as an escape hatch. The great drive-shaft had turned between the roughened ball bearings, the valves moved in their cylinders. The machine had forged an alliance with Yvonne Stoffberg. Together they were fighting the approaching grayness.
Yvonne Stoffberg fluttered in his mouth again.
Lara was dead. He drifted down into sleep. A duel without a winner, a new experience.
Somewhere on the borderline of sleep he realized that life wanted to return. But he crossed over before fear could overcome him.
3.
Detective Sergeant Benny Griessel called the Murder and Robbery building in Kasselsvlei Road, Bellville South the Kremlin.
Benny Griessel was the one with the ironical sense of humor, forged in the fire of nine years of crime solving. Benny Griessel called the daily morning assembly in the Kremlins parade room the circus.
But this was a cynical remark made during the time of the ascetic Colonel Willy Theal, of whom fat Sergeant Tony OGrady had remarked: There but for the grace of God goes God. OGrady had laughed loudly and told no one that he had stolen the quip from Churchill. In any case none of the detectives had known it.
This morning was different. Theal, the commanding officer of Murder and Robbery, had taken early retirement on December 31 and was going to grow vegetables on a smallholding in Philippi.
Coming in his place was Colonel Bart de Wit. Appointed by the minister of law and order. The new black minister of law and order. As of January 1, Murder and Robbery was officially part of the New South Africa. Because Bart de Wit was a former member of the African National Congress who had resigned his membership before accepting the command. Because a cop must be impartial.
When Joubert walked into the parade room at seven minutes past seven on the first of January, forty detectives were already seated on the blue-gray government-issue chairs placed in a large rectangle against the four walls. The muted buzz speculated about the new man, this Bart de Wit.
Benny Griessel greeted Mat Joubert. Captain Gerbrand Vos greeted Mat Joubert. The rest carried on with their speculations. Joubert went to sit in a corner.
At exactly quarter past seven the Brigadier, in full uniform, came into the parade room. Behind him walked Colonel Bart de Wit.
Forty-one pairs of eyes followed him. The Brigadier stood up front next to the television set. De Wit sat down on one of the two empty chairs. The Brigadier greeted them and wished them all a Happy New Year. Then he started a speech, but the detectives didn't give it their full attention. Their knowledge of human nature, their capacity to evaluate others, was centered on the commander. Because their professional future was tied up with him.
Bart de Wit was short and slender. His black hair was thin in front and at the back on the crown. His nose was a beak with a fat mole on the border between organ and cheek. He wasn't an impressive figure.
The Brigadiers speech about a changing environment and a changing police force was nearing its end. He introduced de Wit. The commander stood up, cleared his throat, and rubbed the mole with a forefinger.
Colleagues, this is a great privilege, he said, and his voice was nasal and high-pitched, like an electric band saw. His hands were folded behind his back, his short body was stiff as a ramrod, shoulders well back.
The Brigadier is a busy man and asked that we excuse him. He smiled at the Brigadier, who took his leave as he walked to the door.
Then they were alone, the new commander and his troops. They looked at one another, appraisingly.
Well, colleagues, its time we get to know one another. I already know you because I had the privilege of seeing your service files, but you dont know me. And I know how easily rumors can spread about a commander. Thats why Im taking the liberty of giving you a short résumé. Its true that I've had no experience in local policing. But for that you must thank the apartheid regime. I was taking a course in policing through the University of South Africa when my political beliefs made it impossible for me to stay in my motherland . . .
De Wit had a weak smile on his lips. His teeth were faintly yellowed but even. Each word was flawlessly rounded, perfect.
In exile, among a valiant band of patriots, I had the privilege of continuing my studies. And in 1992 I was part of the ANC contingent that accepted the British offer for training. I spent more than a year at Scotland Yard.
De Wit looked around the parade room as if expecting applause. The finger rubbed the mole again.
And last year I did research at Scotland Yard for my doctorate. So Im fully informed about the most modern methods of combating crime now being developed in the world. And you . . .
The mole finger hastily sketched a square in the air to include all forty-one.
. . . and you will benefit from that experience.
Another opportunity for applause. The silence in the room was resounding.
Gerbrand Vos looked at Joubert. Voss mouth soundlessly formed the word
patriots
and he cast his eyes upward. Joubert stared at the ground.