Face-Off. Chris Karsten
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the contents of books that fascinated Ignaz, but rather the pages themselves, the quality and condition of the paper. Only occasionally did his eye catch something else: a title or sketch, map or illustration, while his sensitive fingers in their cotton gloves unpicked with endless patience the spine of a book to prepare it for a new binding.
One such example was a thin volume of archaeological reports dating from 1848. While he was unpicking the pages, he’d noticed an essay by a man called Albert Way, titled “Some Notes on the Tradition of Flaying Inflicted in Punishment of Sacrilege; the Skin of the Offender Being Affixed to the Church Doors”.
What had really made him think about a special cover for his own old copy of Rodenbach was a client’s request to have a collection of essays from old copies of Notes & Queries rebound. The journals went back to 1865, and in Volume 187, Edition 12, dated 2 December 1944, A.H.W. Fynmore’s essay “Books Bound in Human Skin” had caught his attention.
As he read and reread his Rodenbach book, two ideas had begun to emerge, thanks to the works of first Way, then Fynmore – and now also Abel’s human skin donors. Because Rodenbach’s tale of Hugues Viane was almost identical to Ignaz’s own tale of undying love for his dead wife, he wanted to have his rare edition of the Rodenbach book rebound as yet another tribute to Jute. But for the cover he would need a very special virgin parchment so that he could ultimately store the book, decorated with Jute’s lock of hair, in the sealed bell jar.
He’d searched the shelves in his basement for a soft exotic parchment and had considered several: Russian yuft leather, from the belly skin of a young caribou; morocco leather and even finer saffian; French galuchat, made of sharkskin; shagreen from Turkey, from the skins of skates or rays; chamois from the hide of a young mountain goat in the Tatras mountain range in the Balkans; suede from a gemsbok calf in Namibia.
The question was whether any of those was exotic enough? And of course, after Abel’s almost nonchalant revelation about his two donors, the answer was no.
He would maintain the original cover of the Rodenbach book, as he did with all his clients’ old books. The frontispiece, no matter how damaged and dog-eared, was priceless, and a new leather cover provided protection for the old one against further wear and tear.
The frontispiece of his Rodenbach copy, published in 1892 by Marpon & Flammarion in Paris, was by the Belgian artist Fernand Khnopff, who was also the creator of the thirty-five illustrations inside famous Bruges landmarks, elucidating the story. After all, besides Hugues Viane and Jane Scott, the city of Bruges itself was a leading character in the book.
Ignaz turned away from the lock of hair in the bell jar, and phoned his daughter at the Kempinski, just a few streets from Pietje Pek, where he wanted to treat Abel to Carmelite beer, mussels and eel.
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t a father phone his daughter without anything being wrong?”
“Is it your back again? It’s because you’re bent over old books all day that your back plays up.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my back, Sofie. When are you going to stop working at that hotel? I need you here.”
“I like my work, Dad. I like being surrounded by people.”
“Books are full of people.”
“I like real people, Dad. The ones who talk and laugh.”
He thought of Hugues and said: “People talk in books.”
“Do they talk to you? What do they say?”
“They tell me stories . . .”
“Books are dusty, and dust gives me hayfever.”
Wisely he kept silent about book lice. “Nothing smells as good as the leather and vellum of my books.”
“My nose prefers good wine.”
“A rich guest at the Kempinski is going to take you away from me one day soon. I can see it coming.”
“I’m not looking for a man, rich or poor. Not yet.”
“And if he takes you, I’ll be all on my own. Listen, Sofie, I’ve told you about my friend Abel from South Africa. I want to take him out to dinner. I thought it would be nice if you could join us, meet him, help make him feel at home.”
“Fine, Dad, we can do that. What about your medication? Are you taking it regularly? Should we make another appointment with Dr Smeden?”
“No, no appointment – I’m taking my medication. I’ll phone you about our dinner date.” He put down the receiver feeling guilty about not, in fact, taking his medication. And he could feel it, the anxiety, at night. But he avoided Dr Smeden, who’d been treating him for nerves and depression since Jute’s death. After three stints in the St Raphael insititution in Antwerpen, he had decided: Never again.
11.
In his office at the Record Jake read an article titled “Countercorruption and Security” on the website of the Department of Home Affairs. Then he phoned the Johannesburg regional office and asked for Mr Heilbron. He didn’t identify himself as a journalist, and went on to break almost every rule of the press code.
“Mr Heilbron, a friend gave me your name, said you’d help me. He said if ever I’m in trouble, I should phone that nice Mr Heilbron at Home Affairs.”
“Yes?”
Jake switched on the digital recorder. “My friend said: ‘Don’t rub Mr Heilbron up the wrong way. Don’t expect him to do anything illegal. He’s an ethical man, follows the rules like the Gospel.’ But it’s the queues, you know, Mr Heilbron. You stand in line all day and when you eventually reach the counter the clerk says: ‘Where are your fingerprints?’ And you say: ‘No one said anything about fingerprints.’ And she says: ‘First you must have your fingerprints taken. Go to the back.’ And you wait in another line to have your fingerprints taken . . .”
“What’s your point, Mr . . .?”
“Diamond.” Damn! His real name. Slip of the tongue. He paused a beat. “All that red tape and queues, Mr Heilbron, and three months later Piet de Wet gets his ID book, with inside a photo of Bhekuyise Ninela, and Bhekuyise gets his ID with a photo of Gert van der Merwe, and so on, you know what I mean? My friend says Mr Heilbron can help . . .”
“Who’s your friend? Does he have a name?”
Jake had expected the question. He didn’t have any Pakistani friends, didn’t know any typical Pakistani names, but had remembered Imran Khan, Pakistan’s cricket captain. In 1992 his team won the World Cup final against England, Ian Botham dismissed for a duck by Wasim Akram.
“My friend? Oh, Wasim Khan. D’you remember him?” He hoped the name rang a bell, but not too loudly. Just enough to jolt Mr Heilbron’s memory.
“I help hundreds of clients. I can’t remember every one. Khan?”
“Khan, yes. My friend Wasim said: ‘If Mr Heilbron agrees to help you, don’t be tight-fisted, show your gratitude.’ That’s what Wasim said, not me. He used the word largesse. He likes big words.” He waited another second, to let the big word sink in. “I’m in trouble, Mr Heilbron. Can you help me? Could we discuss it, perhaps tomorrow over a nice lunch? It’s Friday, so no one will be hurrying us along. What’s your diary like? Is there room for lunch, and for largesse, if you can help me?”
12.
Majid’s personal assistant brought him the message in