Circus. Irma Venter
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the white stinkwood trees. One man’s eyes are fixed on us, the other is watching the entrance.
I try to recall everything I know about Themba Zungu. Who is his guest? If it were Pearl, his bodyguards would have allowed him and the TV presenter more privacy.
“Double Yamazaki?” I seem to remember the eighteen-year-old Japanese single malt is his poison of choice.
“Please.”
“Two?” I motion at the empty chair.
“What would you like? I’m afraid I don’t remember.” He runs his hand over his forehead, snaps his fingers. “Ah, Grey Goose premium vodka.”
He has a good memory. It’s almost five years since we last saw each other. He came for dinner at Crow’s, and at the end of the evening stormed out in a rage. I knew more than was good for him and his business empire. From way before the properties in Hyde Park and Umhlanga, the expensive whisky and legendary dinners at high-priced restaurants like this one in Johannesburg’s northern suburbs.
Should I be worried? Can Boris handle two bodyguards? He’s older than the men in the cheap suits but I reckon he’s quicker.
I manage a smile. “I’ll have a whisky with you. Back in a moment.”
I go to the bar. Zenani pops her head around the kitchen door. “Everything okay?”
“Sure. Just an old friend, here for a quick visit.”
“How old?”
“From earlier.” I try to put her at ease. “Before Crow’s.”
She frowns. “No one from back then comes here any more.”
I shrug and turn away. Zenani is right.
I call Boris on the two-way radio in the office. “Did Themba say anything when he came in?”
“Just that he has a lunch date.”
“With?”
“You. Was he lying?”
Boris knows Themba, there’s no reason to refuse him entry. But why did the man come here in the first place?
“Adriana, are you okay? Should I come inside? I’ve already moved the cameras so I can keep an eye on you.”
“Forget about us. Themba has two bodyguards in the garden – don’t let them out of your sight.”
I put away the radio, unlock the safe and take out two throwing knives. I strap them to my left inner thigh, the cold steel familiar and reassuring against my skin.
At the door, I turn back. Impossible to run in Manolo Blahniks. I change them for a pair of practical pumps I keep in the office. Look at my watch. Twenty-seven minutes before my next guests are due to arrive.
It’s going to be a long half-hour.
On my way back to the veranda, Billie Holiday’s voice trails after me. 1958. “Tomorrow may never come, for all we know …”
Themba doesn’t ask what kept me. I hand him his whisky.
“Thanks.”
I stay on my feet, glass in hand. Look over his shoulder for Boris. He’s standing at the gate, near the new security office.
I examine the high perimeter wall. Shots will attract attention. Every private home and business in the neighbourhood employs costly, well-trained security guards. And the police are on high alert. The rich and famous are quick to run to the papers and social media.
Themba drains the contents of the crystal tumbler. “I’ve never been able to tell what you’re thinking. But something tells me you’re worried.”
“Not at all.”
“In that case, sit. Spend some time with an old friend.”
“You’re very kind, but I have to prepare for the lunch-hour rush. My other guests will be here shortly.”
“Relax, Adriana. I’d never hurt you. I’m here to settle my debt.”
I sip my whisky. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“You’ve always been an accomplished liar.” He places his hands on the table, palms down, lowers his voice. “You could sink my business with what you know. Everything I’ve built up over the years could vanish overnight.”
“I would never do that to you.”
“Of course you would. If it suited you or you needed a favour. I’m not stupid.”
I keep silent.
“As I’ve said, I’m here to settle my debt.”
“What are we talking about, Themba?”
“The agreement we made the last time I was here. I want the video. And any existing copies.”
“In exchange for …?”
“Information. As promised.”
“I’m listening.”
He studies me closely, as if he’s trying to decide what the information may be worth to me. “Yasen Todorov is here.”
My hand grips the backrest of the chair in front of me. Despite my best efforts to keep it together, my world is tilting. I stare at my hands. There’s a tremor in my fingers, like the wings of a moth, too terrified to move.
“Here? In South Africa?”
“Cape Town. He arrived two weeks ago, on a direct flight from Dubai.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I calculate the time that has passed since his arrival. The distance to the coastal city. “How do you know?”
“You asked me to keep an eye on him.”
“I mean, how did you find out? I haven’t heard anything.” Have all those bribes I’ve paid over the years been in vain? Not enough?
“My contact at State Security let me know. The Germans remain nervous about Todorov.” His eyes narrow. “I want that video. Or were you lying? About giving me the video in exchange for the right information?”
“Of course not.”
“What’s bothering you then?”
“I’m just wondering … Why would Yasen come to Cape Town? Why not Johannesburg?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that he was released last month. The Bulgarians had no choice but to let him go. He’s almost sixty and in poor health and everyone hopes he’ll die before he can create any more havoc.”
“He’s not sick. That’s rubbish. An act.” Boris went there at the beginning of the year to check on him, like he’s done every year. Yasen was fine. “Besides, if they ever released him, he would have to stay in Bulgaria. That was the agreement.”
“It seems he acquired a new passport. In the name of Viktor de Klerk.”
De Klerk.
Like my current surname. Adriana de Klerk.
I take a sip of my whisky. Look at my hand gripping the glass. Again the moth wings, fluttering, straining.
Themba leans across the table. “I want the video.”
“Let’s first find out whether your information is sound.”
He gets to his feet. “Adriana. You can’t hold my future hostage any longer.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“Who’s to say there’ll be a later? If Todorov turns up …”
“I’m dead and you’ve got nothing to fear.” I laugh, trap the fear in