He stared uncomprehendingly at the small, slender figure of the woman in front of them, a head shorter than the shortest man. He looked, without assimilating what he was seeing. Time stood still. Solemnly he took the photograph out of Griessels hand, held it to the light, still not looking for an explanation.
She wasn't smiling. He knew the frown between her eyebrows, the contours of her head, the nose, the mouth, the chin, the narrow shoulders. Seven years ago her hair had been longer, hung over her shoulders down to the small breasts. The dress, gray in the black-and-white photo, reached to below her knees. She wore flat-heeled shoes. Serious. She looked so serious . . .
That was little Hester, Slabbert said behind him. Small little thing.
It was an old house in Observatory, restored and painted in a strong, earthy color on the outside, dark brown. The wrought-iron lattice on the wall was white and neat. The garden gate opened soundlessly. He walked down the cement path, two rows of flowers on either side of him, the little lawn so small and tidy. The door had a brass knocker but he used his knuckles, knocking softly. The photo was in his left hand.
You know her, Griessel had said when he saw the paleness of Jouberts face. Suddenly everyone was staring at him. He said nothing. He remained staring at the photo, a moment of life seven years ago. He couldn't even begin to formulate questions because the impossibility of her, there, among the dead, was too overwhelming.
I know her, he had said eventually and didn't hear the voices asking Where? and How? and When? The photo trembled lightly in his hand. Life seemed unreal to him, like one of his dreams in which someone appeared where she didn't belong, suddenly, so oddly that you wanted to laugh, shout: My, Mat Jouberts peculiar mind! But this was no dream, this was reality.
Im going alone.
De Wit had walked to the car with him. I owe you an apology, Captain. Joubert was silent. Youll be careful? He heard the concern in the other mans voice, understood something of de Wit at that moment. Ill be careful. He had said it to himself. Not arrogantly but with gentle determination.
Now there were hurried steps on the wooden floor inside the house, the door swung open and she stood there.
Youre early. Her rosy mouth was smiling. She wore lipstick, just a touch. He had never seen her wearing it before. Her hair was drawn back into a braid, her neck open and white and defenseless, the black dress off the shoulder. He captured the image with the camera of his mind until her face changed when she saw that he was jacketless and tieless, saw the dust on his shirt, the rolled-up sleeves.
Wordlessly he held the photograph out to her. Her smile disappeared, her face was expressionless. Her eyes searched his for an explanation. She took the photo and looked at it. He saw the shadow that fell over her, her eyes, which closed, then opened, still fixed on the picture. She dropped it on the polished wooden floor and turned away, now almost unaware of him.
She walked down the hallway. He saw the shoulders, the pretty shoulders with the bone and muscle so boundlessly perfect. The shoulders carried a heavy burden. She walked slowly, with dignity, her back to him as if he didn't exist. He followed her, one, two, three steps on the wooden floor, then stood in the passage, where a light was burning. Her odor was in his nostrils, a faint, feminine perfume. She had disappeared at the end of the hall. He remained where he was, hesitant.
He heard a sound in the silence of the house, a whisper of activity. Then she returned, walking up the hallway, the firearm in her hands, the slender stock in the palm of her right hand, the slender fingers of the left hand holding the long barrel. She carried it like a sacrifice, the scale of the pistol wrested out of context by her frailness. She stood opposite him, a space between them. She remained in that position, holding the pistol as if the weight was too much for her. A corner of the magazine pressed against the black fabric of her dress, against her stomach. Her head was bowed as if he was an executioner. Her eyes were closed.
He couldn't prevent his mind from completing the puzzle. It was a mechanical process, involuntary expertise, irreversible even had he wanted to reject it. But he was too empty. He stood there while the gears in his head slowly meshed, one after the other. This is the case for the prosecution, your worship conclusive proof, at last, conclusive proof, the chase ended.
Why?
She didn't move.
He waited.
An almost invisible movement of her breast, the breath shallow, in and out. Otherwise there was no movement.
He walked carefully toward her, slowly, put his hand on her shoulder, felt her cold flesh. His big hand folded over the collarbone, pulled her nearer, led her up the hallway. She came with him like flotsam. He steered her to the right, to a room where there were a couple of big chairs, the floral fabric colorless in the dusk. The carpet muffled his footsteps. The paintings against the wall were dark squares. He made her sit down in a deep chair with soft cushions, her eyes open now, in the dusk. She sat up straight, the Mauser on her lap gripped with both hands. He sank down on his knees in front of her.
Hanna.
She forced her eyes toward him.
He put out his hand, wanted to take the weapon away from her, but her grip was too strong for the softness of his heart. He pulled his hand away.
Hanna.
Her lips parted slightly. She saw him. The corners of her mouth contracted as if she wanted to smile. She looked at the object in her hands.
Its so strange, she said, so softly that she was barely audible. I was always so afraid of it. When Grandfather took it out of the leather holder. It looked so evil. So big and ugly. And the smell . . . When he opened the holder I could smell it. It smelled of death an old, dead smell, even though he cleaned it. I didn't even hear what he was telling me. I just wanted to look at the pistol, looked at the pistol the whole time until he had finished and put it back in the holder again, then I could look at him. I wanted to be sure that he had put it back, closed it.
She looked at him again. The corners of her mouth had drooped again, forming a half-moon.
I found it among my fathers things. Two piles. What I wanted to keep on one side, what could be given away on the other. There was so little that I wanted to keep. Photographs of him and my mother. His Bible, a few records. His watch. I put the pouch on the other pile at first. Then I transferred it. Then back again. Then I unfastened the buckles and the smell rose up and I remembered my grandfather and I moved it back.
Her eyes had wandered, somewhere in the dark, then suddenly looked at him again.
I never thought that I would need it. Id almost forgotten about it. Then she was quiet, the grip on the weapon relaxed, and he considered whether he should try to take it away again.
Her awareness of his presence wandered again.
He said her name again, but she didn't move.
Hanna.
The eyes slowly blinked.