Blue Sunday. Irma Venter
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other ninety dockets on my desk.
“No. No, I can’t.”
ALEX
1
Thursday, 8 February 19:15
I send my article about the Van Zyls to Jasmine. She grumbles about one or two facts, but I can hear she’s satisfied.
“When am I getting a follow-up?”
“As soon as something happens that I can write about.”
“No way. Dig around until you find something. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
I ring off, walk to Sarah’s guest bedroom – our room while we work in Pretoria for a few months. Ranna is holding Martina’s paltry belongings in her hands, eager to find out more about the girl from Stilfontein.
Martina’s suitcase is brown and battered and made of fabric. It dates from before brightly coloured, hard-shell cases with wheels and extendable handles became fashionable. From a time when people got on a train and travelled for two days to the Cape with boiled eggs, a flask of coffee and a bag of apples for the journey.
Maria Buitendag, Stilfontein, 9 Buite Street, it says in faded ink on the dogeared label. It’s our first solid lead: a mining town in the North West where jobs quietly dried up along with the gold mines. Pity there’s no phone number on the label.
I can imagine that a young woman would want to run away from Stilfontein for the big city and the bright lights.
Or maybe she had to escape.
Ranna puts the case on the bed. The zip catches and she struggles to get it loose.
The contents are jumbled, as though Ivanka Babikova tossed everything in quickly when she packed Martina’s stuff.
Ranna takes out three T-shirts and puts them on the bed.
I pick one up. It’s tiny. “What size is this?”
“What does the label say?’
Shit.“Twelve to fourteen years.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure she’s older than that,” says Ranna. “She’s small and children’s clothes are cheaper than adults’ stuff.”
Two pairs of jeans land on the bed beside the T-shirts. Same story: factory shop, worn thin, tiny. A brown jersey that looks like it was hand-knitted. But this is too big to fit the person who wears the T-shirts.
“Boyfriend?” I ask.
“Maybe,” says Ranna.
I pick up the jersey and put it to my nose. It smells vaguely of roses near the neck. An older woman’s, perhaps?
There’s very little underwear, all of it functional. Nothing lacy, nothing to wear for someone special. One winter jacket made of pleather. One pair of long black boots. These are old, genuine leather, and they’ve been looked after.
Ranna looks for clues in the shoes. “MP Buitendag,” she reads, and hold the name towards me so I can see.
I shake my head. “These are too old to be Martina’s.”
“Maybe they were her mother’s, who knows?”
The toiletry bag doesn’t offer many clues either. Ranna puts three or four items on the bed.
“Dis-Chem stuff. Inexpensive.” She sighs a little. “Everything for teenage skin. And this make-up, probably meant to make her look older.”
Hairdryer, brush.
Right at the bottom of the suitcase is a brown envelope. Ranna opens it and takes out a document. It’s a medical certificate, issued in November last year, declaring that M Buitendag carries no sexually transmitted diseases. There’s also a certificate from two years ago from the Klerksdorp Community Dance Studio. First place in the Dance-Off, it says on the piece of paper with gold edging that’s flaking here and there.
This is followed by two pages with photos and flowers stuck on rough paper. They look like they’ve been torn out of a scrapbook. One of the photos is of a woman with friendly eyes and long brown hair wearing a white chiffon dress. Beside her is a man with a handlebar moustache in a light suit. They’re standing by a light-yellow Opel Kadett with Just Married written in white on one of the windows. Under the photo, in pink ornamental lettering, it says 14 April 2000. Sakkie and Petro Buitendag.
“Must be her parents. Martina looks quite a lot like the woman.” Ranna holds up the page. “Looks like her mom liked scrapbooking. Can’t imagine it was Martina who did this.”
The second page shows a photo of Sakkie Buitendag, now with a full beard, slightly grey, and two children, an older girl – Martina – maybe ten or eleven, and a toddler of about two or three with bright-blue eyes. The photo reveals that Sakkie is short, with Martina already reaching his shoulder. No one looks particularly happy, except the toddler who is laughing open-mouthed into the camera, her palms together as though she’s clapping her hands. A red birthmark flames from her shoulder into her neck, but she’s too young to be aware of it. Sakkie, Corlea and Martina is written under the photo.
Ranna turns the envelope over. “That’s it. That’s all.”
“What’s that brown bag?” I point at a pocket in the lid of the suitcase.
Ranna takes the fabric bag out and sets the contents out on the bed. “Two cigarettes. Lipstick. Two condoms. A white serviette with a cell number on it. A card for a dance studio in Pretoria, with a note about auditions for Cats … looks like this was in November sometime.”
I take the card from her. “Maybe we should pop around. If I remember correctly, the show opens at the State Theatre next week. Maybe someone remembers her.”
“We’ll need to.” Ranna stands back. “Because that’s it. The case is empty. No more clues.”
I lean across her. Look at the suitcase’s black stomach, run my hand across the shiny fabric inside. Stop. “What’s this?”
Ranna puts her hand where mine is. “Don’t know.” She fingers the fabric carefully. “It’s very well done, exactly along the seam.”
She fetches a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cuts the lining open.
I put my hand in and pull out of a long white envelope. Open it. Stare at the contents, dumbstruck.
“How much is it?” Ranna asks eventually.
I count the notes. “R20 000.”
“Why would she have so much money? Was she saving it?”
I look at Ranna. “No way could she have made this much money at the Midnight Club that quickly.”
Ranna gives a sour smile. “Unless she was more than just a dancer.”
Ranna warms two slices of pizza and brings it to the kitchen table. I eat hurriedly, washing down the food with an Amstel. Ranna fetches the telephone number we found in the suitcase. I key the sequence into the phone and press call. Put the loudspeaker on so she can hear.
The phone rings and rings. I know my identity and number are safe because Sarah downloaded software to both our phones that makes it impossible to trace them.
I dial again.
“Yes, evening,” says a man in English.
The voice is impatient, cross. Traffic noises in the background. Glasses tinkle, someone calls, then muffled swearing.
I hold the phone towards Ranna, whisper: “Be Martina.”
She takes the phone. “It’s Tina,” she says, quickly, uncertain, in a voice slightly higher than her own.
Silence. Shocked silence?
“Where is your phone?”
“Gone,”