Circus. Irma Venter
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the stove and a chicken is roasting in the oven. I skipped breakfast this morning. Ditto the bone-dry sandwich served up for lunch by South African Airways.
Adriana takes a knife from the drawer and holds it out to me. “Give me a hand with the salad. We’d better hurry, I want my coffee before the power is cut. Thank you, Eskom.”
I reach for the cutting board and the tomatoes, carrots and cheese. “Don’t you have a generator? I would have bought one by now. All these power cuts to save electricity would drive me crazy.”
“No need, I cook with gas. And no one should expose themselves to the TV news too often. Or the internet. Same poison, delivered faster.”
I set to work slowly, carefully, my mind elsewhere.
“Alex wants kids,” I finally say. “At least, he’s thinking about it.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’ve never even considered the idea.”
She wipes her knife on a dishcloth. “Why not?”
I stop chopping the carrots. Wonder whether to be honest. “I’m afraid. Of my … you know, of who I am. How I’ll be.” I sigh. “Of settling down.”
“Hmm …”
I search her eyes for what she’s not saying. As usual, she gives nothing away. How can this woman be so warm and at the same time so distant?
“Can I stay here until Alex comes back? I’m not in the mood for my own company.”
“Of course.” She touches my hand briefly. Gives me a slight smile. “But tomorrow night you’re cooking.”
ADRIANA
1
Johannesburg, present
I lean out the kitchen door to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me. “Since when have we had crows in the garden?”
Zenani is deboning a duck. She doesn’t answer. Monday is not her favourite day of the week.
“What’s wrong? Is one of the waiters late again?” Staff attendance is one of her biggest headaches after the weekend.
“Nothing’s wrong. Not with me.”
I stare at the bird on the telephone wire. It looks back at me with ink-black eyes, caws harshly, as if to taunt me. What is the meaning of this bloody bird showing up like this, out of the blue?
“How long has it been here?”
“Since yesterday. There are two, I think they want to build a nest.”
“You know I hate crows.”
She looks at me, frowning. “Then why is your restaurant named Crow’s Feet? I know almost everything about you, but not that. Why?”
To make sure I’ll always remember. But I keep quiet. “Where did the pigeons go? And the weavers? Last year that poor little weaver rebuilt the nest thirteen times before the female decided to move in. Even hadedas are better.”
“Forget about the crow. Give me a hand with the sauce – our first booking is for 11:30. And Katlego Tlali is coming by to discuss her husband’s birthday dinner.”
“Is that tomorrow night?” I can’t believe it’s November already.
“Yes. And make an effort, will you? A party like that is good business, especially at this time of year.”
She points at my pricey new heels. Black, to match my figure-hugging black-and-cream dress. “Are you going to work in those all day?”
“Every day, until I’m eighty and dragging myself along with a Zimmer frame.” I take another look at the crow. “It’s your lucky day,” I whisper. “Next time.”
In the pantry, I grab my apron from a hook. “Has Ranna phoned? What time is she coming for lunch?”
“Half past one. She’s sleeping in this morning. She doesn’t sound good.” Zenani waves the knife at me as if it’s my fault.
“Aikona, nothing to do with me. She and Alex argued. About having children. And she’s dying to join him in Syria.”
I go to the fridge to get the butter. Stop when I hear the front door. Who can it be at this early hour? Not a waiter. They always come through the kitchen.
Whoever it is must have got past Boris.
Probably Katlego.
I take off my apron and go through to the restaurant’s dining area. I make my way past the heavy wooden furniture, starched white tablecloths and long bar counter with expensive whiskies on the shelf behind it, and the autographed photos of Diana Krall and Judith Sephuma on the wall. The bow-tied waiters look up from setting tables and nod as I pass on my way to the foyer.
It is Katlego. She’s paging through the booking register, sunglasses in her hand. She’s CFO at an auditing firm nearby.
“Adriana, hello.” She bends down on her heels, higher than mine, and kisses both my cheeks. “Business is booming, I see?”
She’s wearing a light, summery fragrance.
“So it is. We can’t complain.” I step back to study her. “You look ravishing. I’m envious.”
“Thanks.” She runs her hand over her dark-green dress, looks pleased. “I have a board meeting at OneX. I just wanted to check everything is on track for Alfred’s dinner party. Two other cabinet ministers will be attending as well, and the judge president.”
“Everything is ready. Ten people in total?”
“Yes. And you’ll make your potato salad, nè? Alfred is crazy about it. You’d swear he grew up in Bloemfontein instead of Phuthaditjhaba.”
I smile at the Afrikaans nè dropped into the private school English. “Of course.”
“Fantastic. See you tomorrow afternoon. I’ll make sure I’m home, or security won’t let you in.”
She gives a quick wave, and hurries down the stairs.
On her way out of the parking lot, her Jaguar squeezes past a black Range Rover on its way in.
I look at my watch. Must be the 11:30 booking.
Three men get out. The one in the middle – bald head, navy-blue jacket, smart checked shirt – raises his hand in greeting.
Surely not. When was the last time I saw him? In the flesh, not in the business pages or the cover of some gossip rag?
What is he doing here?
“Themba,” I say as he approaches, doing my best to sound pleased.
“Hello, Adriana.” He shakes my hand, his other hand squeezing my forearm. “You look as beautiful as ever.”
“And you look very important.” I point at the two men in cheap black suits flanking him.
He laughs, and his shirt collar quivers. He rescues the sunglasses threatening to slip off his head and hands them to the bodyguard on his left.
“Always so elegant and … how do you Boers say? Nie op jou bek geval nie.” He pronounces the last phrase in near faultless Afrikaans. “You always know exactly what to say.”
“Are you our early booking? The table outside, at the back?” The one where the diners can’t be seen or overheard.
He nods.
“Who’s joining you? I hear you and Pearl Khumalo have gone your separate ways.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the Sunday papers.” The right-hand corner of his mouth twitches slightly, as if he’s amused.
The way he looks when he wants something.