Circus. Irma Venter
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the pool.
I look at my phone again. Nothing more after Alex’s first message to say hello. Is he upset with me?
No. He promised me he’s not. He’s probably just busy. I hope that he’s safe. According to the news, the ceasefire in Syria has broken down yet again.
I put on my takkies and a light jacket over my T-shirt. Slip my Glock into the holster and move it to the small of my back.
I pack the Nikon into my backpack, along with Adriana’s binoculars and a flask of coffee.
Why did I agree to make myself part of this mess again?
Maybe because I’m bored. Frustrated with being stuck in Johannesburg. Besides, when you grow up in an Afrikaner home you never quite rid yourself of guilt and sin. I’ll forever be paying for what I did to my father when I was eleven years old.
What upset Adriana like that? It must be something serious.
I sling the backpack over my shoulder, take the keys of the bakkie. Adriana told me to use the restaurant’s white Hilux. There are so many of them on the road that I could easily disappear in the traffic if necessary.
On the way to Elizabeth Fey, I phone Boris. The Bulgarian is reticent, as usual. Yes, Adriana spoke to him, he’ll take over at eight.
I look at my watch. Four o’clock. Hopefully the time will pass quickly.
A cornerstone of rose-coloured marble declares that Mrs Hester de Bruin turned the first sod when the building I am looking at was being erected. It fails to mention who she was.
I pretend to be talking on my phone while I keep an eye on the Dutch Reformed Church behind the green palisade fence. I’ve been sitting here for half an hour, wondering what to do. It’s hot inside the bakkie, the November sun blazing. The dark, rumbling promise of a late-afternoon thunderstorm is disappearing in the east.
The church is a square building of brown brick, the doorframes painted white. The double doors – they look like yellowwood – are protected by a security gate, and there are burglar bars on the windows. Everything is made of thick steel, a warning to vagrants on the pavement to keep moving.
At the side of the building daisy bushes bloom under dense karee trees that grow along the perimeter wall. The flowerbeds have neat, sharp edges, and white stones separate the lawn from the parking lot. A faded old brown Renault is parked under the nearest tree, a short distance from a battered red bicycle chained to the fence. An old man is pushing a lawnmower up and down the garden.
I dial the numbers Adriana gave me for a cellphone and two landlines in Pretoria – ready with a “wrong number” apology. No reply. All three phones keep ringing.
How am I supposed to look after Elizabeth Fey if I don’t know whether she’s here or at home?
I survey the street in the rearview mirror. Two cars have pulled up some distance behind me. Probably parents waiting for the cricket match at the primary school across the street to end.
I get out of the car and walk along the fence. Test the gate, which doesn’t budge. The old man is still mowing the lawn, his back to me.
Inside the church someone begins to play the organ, the music pouring through the open windows. I recognise Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Beautiful. Intense.
I get back into the bakkie. The cricketers cheer as if the batsman has been given out. In the street, a skateboard slams on the tarmac. I watch in the side mirror as a boy tries to do a 360º flip. He falls, jumps to his feet and jogs off, his skateboard under his arm.
Maybe I should drive to the other address Adriana gave me.
No. Make certain of this one first, or Boris and I will be running in circles all day.
Pity I can’t ask Sarah for help. She could trace the cellphone in no time.
Only one option remains. I press the hooter. The man with the lawnmower continues walking up and down. I can still hear the organ over the buzz of the lawnmower.
I hoot again, louder this time, longer. The organ music stops, the lawnmower drones on.
Not the result I was hoping for. Maybe I should move on to the other address and see what’s going on there.
I turn the key in the ignition. The side door opens and a young woman in her twenties appears, remote in hand. Probably the organist. The gate slides open and she motions for me to pull in.
I consider driving away, but think better of it. It would attract too much attention. Besides, the organist might be able to tell me where I can find the Reverend Elizabeth Fey.
I drive in and park next to the old Renault, the nose of my car facing the gate, as you learn to do when you cover conflict situations and war zones.
The woman smiles when I get out, and points at the old man who is disappearing around the corner with his lawnmower.
“Oom Freddie is deaf as a post, you’ll have to excuse him.” She holds out her hand. “How do you do? I’m Liesbet.”
“Hello. Ranna Abramson.”
She looks cool in jeans and a soft white blouse. Her grip is firm.
A vague accent hovers behind her words. Something European. German?
Then it strikes me. Liesbet – short for Elizabeth?
Adriana will kill me. Liesbet Fey isn’t supposed to know of my existence.
“You must be here about the flowers for tomorrow’s funeral?” The expression on her face is open and friendly, free from the mistrust most residents of Gauteng province carry around with them.
“Flowers? No.” I search for a way out. “You must be busy. I can come back later.”
“No need. As you can see, I’m waiting for a delivery. That’s all. Please come in.” She waves towards the open door.
“But the organ? You must be practising.”
She shakes her head. “I play now and again, but it’s just a hobby.”
When I hesitate, she lays a warm, inviting hand on my arm.
“How can I help?”
I will have to lie carefully. This woman isn’t stupid.
I measure her with my gaze: brown eyes, long brown hair, strong jawline. I see a slight resemblance to Adriana: the same athletic build, but more curvaceous, and a bit taller.
No. She might look like Adriana, but Liesbet Fey’s figure speaks a different language, friendlier and warmer. And even if her voice is rich and deep, like Adriana’s, she speaks more fluently, in a way that’s less measured, less careful.
My curiosity gets the better of me. “Are you the Reverend Fey?”
“Yes.”
I may as well push on. “Do you know Adriana de Klerk?”
“No?” Her expression says she wonders what’s going on. She seems to draw away from me slightly.
“She referred me to you,” I add quickly. “This woman, Adriana de Klerk. Apparently you can help me.”
“Oh.” The smile comes back. “How?”
“I just want to talk.” I blurt out the words before I can stop myself. “About children. I was wondering about children.”
ADRIANA
1
Johannesburg, present
It is peak hour and the traffic is heavy on the way to the airport. Loaded trucks crawl in the two left lanes of the four-lane highway; everything only slightly faster is launching feeble attempts at overtaking.
“Come on,” I urge a battered white minibus taxi ahead of me.
I