“That was easy, boss. You remember what I said about the excited state of these kids? All I had to do was to lie very still. Soon they came crawling to see what the matter is this time, and they come right up close to hear if I am breathing. Pah! Two hands, two kids! The rest run like-”
“You mean little sod. Thought you were too damn perky for a ten-kilometer round trip.”
“They are happy, boss. By the way, twenty cents on expenses?”
“Fine.”
“You know that bacon?”
“Don’t tell me: Ngidi scoffed it.”
“No, the sergeant”-Zondi laughed-“while Ngidi was chasing the kids.”
This made a good note to end on. Kramer just added that he didn’t want Zondi under his feet until at least the following afternoon, and then they drove in silence toward the smoky spread of the municipal township. Almost in the center of the serried rows of two-room dwellings, all as neatly placed as a thousand bureaucratic rubbers, the Chev stopped at one distinguished by a pathway edged in rusty cans. Zondi waved his thanks, and the Chev, which knew what to do, rumbled off down the corrugated dirt road and found the quickest way to Blue Haze.
Kramer had bought the old farmhouse, with its meter-thick shale walls and wraparound verandah, to put in his will. Pending the implementation of this will, he rented the property, at the cost of a Trekkersburg apartment, to the ultimate beneficiary, the Widow Fourie, and her family of young children. It was really a very uncomplicated arrangement, which allowed him to pursue his chosen career without any thought of irresponsibility, and to be able to sleep the odd night in the country when the mood took him. As it had, against his better judgment, done now.
But the children’s lights were out by the time the Chev finally nosed into the driveway and came crunching to a stop outside the front door. And the Widow Fourie, whose ample mind and body had drawn Kramer there, came out alone to greet him, tying back her yellow hair.
“You caught me just going to wash it,” she scolded, her kiss pleased and quick. “So what’s been happening in the world I haven’t heard about?”
“Ach, would you believe a state execution?”
“Big deal,” said the Widow Fourie. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?”
6
There are dreams that can affect the whole of a man’s working day. In the case of a very sweet dream, or of a positively terrible one, its influence can extend over a period far greater than that. Such a dream is, generally speaking, best not dreamed at all.
This had always been Kramer’s belief, and it was why he was trying to get back to sleep again, the sooner to expunge all traces of the girl with long legs. Then again, to dream of one female, and to wake up in the bed of another, could leave a bloke feeling guilty for no good reason at all. But he remained dozing, remembering her now only in patches of sharp, scented detaiclass="underline" the neat knob of a wristbone, sweat pearled in the cup above her breastbone, the muss of honey wisps, a nipple swelling from pink raisin to grape, and the pinch of those long legs, straddling him, turning him over and over, and her laughter. So simple, so uncomplicated, so greedy it shocked him, made him greedy as well. Her crazy joy in him.
“Hey,” said the Widow Fourie, whose warm back smoothed his belly, “what’s the point, when Joanna will be in with the tea soon?”
He rolled away and looked down at the polished floorboards, noticing where the original owner’s great stinkwood bed had left the impression of a caster; what a hell of a nightly battering it must have withstood to do that. Then this gratuitous lewdness disgusted him, and he went to take a bath.
The Widow Fourie wandered in a few minutes later, carrying the tea tray, and bringing her cigarettes with her. Like Strydom, she often complained about getting in five minutes of proper conversation, and this had long been her little trick. She knew, of course, that the door would never be bolted.
“How are you this morning?” she asked, settling on the lavatory lid, which she’d prettified with blue lace. “You may not know this, but you were in a hell of a state all night. Worse than when the girls both had flu and I had them in with me.”
Kramer, who liked to soak with only his nose, and as little else as possible, above water, shrugged a ripple down the bath.
“I’ve also been thinking about this hangman, though,” she continued, clattering the cups, “and this I do know: he must be connected in some way with the prisons department. It’s the only way of gaining the required knowledge-you can’t tell me that the convicts really pick up anything but rumors. I remember reading once that a senior lecturer in criminology at the University of S.A. had to pretend he was a barber-actually his dad had been one-just to hear the inside story of Pretoria Central. You know how fussy they are about strangers in the jails? This prof or whatever used to cut the warders’ hair across the road and ask them questions, just casually sort of. Are you taking this in?”
He raised his chin to say: “Fine, you’ve narrowed it down to an insider-but how many warders do you think there are in this country? We’ve over two hundred and fifty jails, a hundred thousand locked up in them-”
“Ach, you know perfectly well what I mean! The expert knowledge has to come from somewhere, and at least we know roughly where that is. Your tea’s poured.”
Although voices carried well, he needed cues like this, especially when a tap was running.
“Ta, my girl. I can see the Doc’s nonsense has really caught your imagination.”
“Don’t try to bluff me you aren’t wondering a bit!”
“To tell you the truth,” said Kramer, taking his cup. “I’m putting the who and why of this right out of my mind until we get a lead on Erasmus’s last whereabouts. Switch that off, please.”
She obliged, frowning slightly as if dissatisfied with his reply, but not actually querying it.
“Then you’ve got something else on your mind, Trompie, or you’d have tried out the new frigate Janie’s made. He says it’s to shoot General Amin with, for what he does to people, but I told him Uganda hasn’t got any sea and besides-”
Kramer had submerged briefly, making quite a splash. He stepped out and took up his towel.
“Ja, ja, so maybe I have.”
“Oh, that!” The Widow laughed, putting down her teacup. “That’s the whole trouble with having servants.”
“No, I-”
“Come on, why don’t we, though?” she said with sudden mischief. “Jo’s back in the kitchen and the kids aren’t up.”
She rose and slipped home the bolt slowly and suggestively, making a funny, erotic thing of it, watching his eyes. Then she began loosening the gown which covered her voluptuous maturity, her wealth of warmth and tenderness so enveloping. How detached the girl had been, how detached, he remembered; how free she had left him.
The Widow Fourie let go of the bow she had been undoing in her belt. “Is it Zondi again?” she asked solemnly. “There is definitely something; I can sense it.”
Kramer began drying his hair.
“Now listen to me, Trompie. I’ve had an idea recently. If the worst comes to the worst, and his leg doesn’t get any better, then why not start using some of the land round the back?
Mickey could find-well-things to plant in it for us, turn it into a market garden. I know he grew up on a farm, so he’s bound to be able to-you know.”
“All he knows of farming is what it did to his dad.”
“He could learn, though. You’re the one who’s always said how intelligent he is.”
“Mickey’s leg is mending nicely; you’ll see.”
“He should have gone on giving it rest after-”
“For him to decide.”
“Oh, no,” said the Widow Fourie, very firmly. “Chris Strydom says that you’re the one who lets his hopes rise. Without you, he’d be treated like any other boy in the same situation, and it isn’t right-”
“Behind my back, hey?”
“I just happened to see Chris in the street.”