‘Lookat this line right here. Some troubles ahead for Mevrou. She must be on her guard. They’re not minor obstickles. She’ll have to watch her step. There’s people who’s not well-meaning. I almost wants to call them underhand; crooks of a kind.’
While she’s talking, Denzil keeps an eye on proceedings, his head also bent forward, almost over Maria’s hand, and repeatedly confirms the woman’s last sentence. ‘Crooks of a kind,’ he says. ‘Forces to be reckoned with,’ he adds.
‘Mevrou mustn’t think the dead provides the answers,’ says the woman.
‘They won’t do it,’ says the man.
‘Let the dead be,’ says the woman, ‘all they ask is to be left in peace.’
‘All they ask is to rest in peace,’ says the man.
‘The road is full of perils,’ says the woman.
‘That’s defnit,’ says the man.
‘That’s defnitly defnit,’ says the woman.
‘That’s defnitly defnit,’ says the man.
‘Nor the moon by night,’ says the woman.
‘Nor the sun by day,’ says the man.
‘Nor the stars in the heaven above,’ says the woman.
‘Nor the fish in the ocean wide,’ says the man.
‘Great is God’s creation,’ says the woman.
‘And wondrous to behold the works of his hand,’ says the man.
‘Hallelujah,’ says the woman.
‘Hallelujah,’ says the man.
‘Not the dead,’ the woman says again.
‘Not the dear departed,’ says the man.
‘Their voices are forever still,’ says the woman.
‘The dead are still in all eternity,’ says the man.
‘That’s defnitly defnit,’ says the woman.
‘That’s defnitly defnit,’ says the man.
‘The dead they chill,’ says the woman.
‘They chill, they chill,’ says the man.
‘Peace unto them,’ says the woman.
‘Peace everlasting, hallelujah,’ says the man.
‘Hallelujah,’ says the woman.
At this she drops Maria’s hand as abruptly as she grabbed it.
‘That will be fifteen little rands, thank you Mevrou,’ says the woman. She lifts her head and for the first time Maria looks straight into her eyes: a faded light-blue with a trace of brown-green in it. Ancient eyes, filled with ancient knowledge of the world and its wicked ways.
Maria takes care to get into the car before rummaging for her purse in her handbag. It’s still there. Her cell phone as well, she notices. She gives the woman thirty rand. She thanks her for the palm reading.
‘Ever at your service, ma’am, ever at your service,’ the woman shouts. She and the man perform a few exuberant dance steps on the spot. Two dusty dervishes, they dance the cemetery jive. As she drives off, Maria sees over her shoulder the two of them waving her off. At the guest house, she carefully checks whether all her possessions are still in her handbag. As far as she can see, she’s not been the victim of any pickpocketing tricks.
*
Late that afternoon Maria decides that she can no longer put it off. That, after all, is the main purpose of her visit. At some point or other she must go to face Tobie Fouché, Sofie’s partner, however little she relishes the prospect of the visit. If she doesn’t do it now, she’ll never do it. He let her know a while ago that among Sofie’s effects, which he was in the process of sorting, he’d come upon a parcel bearing Maria’s name. She must collect the parcel, and she must talk to him.
At dusk she pulls up in front of the door. She knocks. He opens. As always, the hairs on her neck bristle when she sees him. Not one of her favourite people. He invites her in. She’s in a hurry, she says. She’s on her way to Cape Town to visit Benjy. She’s just come to collect the parcel. She’s sorry it’s taken her such a long time. He didn’t want to post it, he says. She understands, she says. (Too stingy, she thought. Too contrary. Too unaware of his own obstinacy.)
Come in for a moment, he says. She hesitates briefly. Just a few minutes, she says. He precedes her down the dark passage. The last time she was here was after the funeral. The sitting room is crepuscular and slightly stuffy, as if the curtains and windows have never since been opened. Is the room exactly as it was then? Maria dare not look too closely. She’s scared her eye will alight on something that will act as a trigger to her emotions. She does not want to cry in front of this man.
How are you? she asks, in spite of herself. He shrugs. I keep myself occupied. Everything apparently still arranged according to Sofie’s taste, and in spite of that Sofie is so completely, so totally absent. Coffee? he asks. No thanks, she says, I have to be on my way. (Today is not a good day to be talking to him — there is too much resistance in her; she finds it too disconcerting to be in Sofie’s space once more.) Then I’ll get the parcel, he says. The moment he’s left the room, she does a rapid survey. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for. Some indication, perhaps, of Sofie’s state of mind before her death? Something in the room that will invoke Sofie’s presence for her?
The man returns. It’s hardly a parcel — it’s a largish envelope — slightly smaller than A4. Maria’s name is written on a small label pasted on the outside. When she recognises Sofie’s handwriting, tears suddenly well up in her eyes.
When she drives off, she realises that what she was afraid of all the time was that he would think up some reason to keep it from her.
*
That evening Maria opens the envelope. It is securely packed, sealed with Sellotape and stapled. On the back flap is Sofie’s signature. (To protect the contents from plunderers?) It would take considerable effort for anybody to open and close the envelope without it being evident that it’s been tampered with. Sofie took wise precautions.
In spite of these thorough precautions, the content of the envelope is at first sight meagre. A single exercise book, slightly scuffed. Smaller than A4. Red cover, lined. Sofie’s name on the cover. Maria looks in the envelope, she quickly pages through the book. She’s looking for a letter, a note, an inscription in the front, anything that could provide a clue as to why Sofie wanted her specifically to have this book. She finds nothing. Puzzling. She feels disappointed, let down.
She and Sofie, in the months preceding her death, did not have much contact. Sofie did not reply to Maria’s emails and she was seldom available by cell phone. All the more surprising that Sofie should have wanted her to have this book.
She and Sofie were sitting on the stoep of their parents’ home one evening; their parents had gone to bed. Maria was twenty-two, Sofie nineteen. There was a smell of bruised geraniums and cut grass. (Their father had mown the lawn that afternoon with the little hand mower.) The slasto walkway divided the lawn in two — to the left of the stoep was the rose garden, to the right the rockery and the prunus avenue next to the driveway leading to the garage.
‘I went to the city mortuary today,’ said Sofie.
Maria was startled. ‘How did you get there?” she asked.
‘By bus.’ Sofie sat with her legs drawn up onto the bench. She was smoking. The tip of her cigarette glowed in the dark.
‘Did someone show you around?’ Maria asked.
‘Yes,’ said Sofie, ‘a chain smoker with domestic problems.’
They sat in silence for a while. Maria was shocked and upset. There was a lot she wanted to know — what does it smell like there, are the bodies stored in drawers, in fridges? — but something prevented her from questioning Sofie any further.
‘Just promise me one thing,’ said Sofie, ‘if I ever lose my mind, you won’t put me in an institution. And no shock therapy, please.’