The Gooseberry Fool Page 7

  As he had done his shopping, there was no time like the present.

  Zondi saw the blue Volkswagen again, quite by chance. He had traveled far into an undulating countryside, so eroded and barren it was like taking a close look at the dirt road itself. Any thorn trees had long since disappeared, and so had any grass that was good for cattle—goats were the only livestock capable of survival on the dry spikes that remained. Sure enough, he saw a few of them to begin with, and the huddles of huts from which they had wandered, but then no others beyond a forlorn trading store with a rusted hole in its rain-water tank. This was when the drive had become thoroughly monotonous, and his speed along the seldom-used byway proportionately greater. And so, through accident rather than design, he achieved what few men, however skillfully they strived, ever achieved—he hit a rising guinea fowl full-on with the nose of his car.

  It happened just around a tight bend on the shoulder of a hill and the impact was considerable. A loud thud, a splatter of blood, and another thud as it bounced off the roof. He slammed on his brakes and went into a zigzag skid, finishing up a good hundred yards farther on. Cursing at the delay, he jumped out and wiped the windshield, black feathers with white polka dots confirming his split-second diagnosis.

  Then he looked back up the road. The guinea fowl must have spun off into the boulders and aloes, for it was nowhere to be seen. A pity, because he would have liked to retrieve such a delectable trophy, but searching for it would take up too much time.

  So he drove on again, making the gearbox howl for mercy as he wrenched the most from each ratio before shifting to the next. This occupied him for the best part of a kilometer before he thought of looking at his watch. The truth was he had made very good time. And there was the possibility that a guinea fowl would make a first-class enticement if he had to resort to bartering with Shabalala’s neighbors for a tip-off.

  Yet another kilometer went by before he made up his mind to turn back. It seemed much farther than it should be, but finally the skid marks showed up on the slope ahead. He left the Anglia well off the road and began looking for the dead bird, anxious now that some passing predator had not beaten him to it. He was crouched low in the rocks, mourning a mangled, quite inedible mess, when he heard the whine of a Volkswagen engine.

  And looked up to catch no more than a glimpse of NTK 4544 diving down in the direction of Jabula.

  It was a touching sight. Two angels knelt before McDonald’s desk and sang loudly of a Silent Night. Their voices were sweet if their diction was terrible. Kramer paused in the doorway, highly amused.

  “That’s enough. Lovely, happy Christmas,” said the embarrassed McDonald, hastily handing them each some change, which was snatched away into the engulfing bed sheets.

  Then the angels, whose wings were pinned-on pages of newspaper carefully torn, tried to make their exit.

  “Not so fast, you skelms,” said Kramer, barring the way. “Is that you inside there, Ephraim?”

  “Hau, Boss Kramer!”

  The slightly taller of the two African children pulled back his sheet and grinned up at him.

  “Doing good business?”

  “Lambele, lambele,” Ephraim chanted mischievously.

  “Like hell you’re hungry. Go on, bugger off.”

  “Christmas box, Boss Kramer?”

  “Give you a kick up the arse, if that’s any good.”

  The other angel fled and Ephraim spat scornfully after him.

  “My cousin,” he explained. “No damn respect. I must go catch him.”

  Kramer closed the door.

  “You surprise me, Lieutenant. I must say, I never for a moment thought I was entertaining friends of yours.”

  “Hey?”

  “Just joking, you understand.”

  McDonald tried a chuckle and coughed on it.

  “Most people know Ephraim,” Kramer said, intrigued by the man’s agitation. “Smartest seven-year-old in Trekkersburg. Pa killed ma and we got him, but Ephraim can look after himself.”

  “Certainly novel, a change from the sods making a hell of a row with guitars out of tins. Beats me, though, why coons think they’ve got to black their faces! Seem to be more of them every year, a bloody pest, get them at home as well as the office. Not that they usually get past Pat Weston. Er, is she back?”

  “No,” said Kramer. “There’s some old dame at the counter.”

  “Miss Godfrey? That surprises me even more; she’s a right battle-ax. Look, wouldn’t you like to take a seat?”

  “Ta.”

  McDonald tried to find something to arrange on his desk top, but it was bare apart from the blotter. So he took out his key ring and jangled it.

  “Let’s say I know now, Mr. McDonald. Was it really worth all the fuss?”

  Jangle, jangle.

  “Come on, man.”

  Jangle, jangle.

  “Don’t play games with me or—”

  “That’s what I’m interested in, Lieutenant. I mean what can you do?” McDonald said, trying to sound tough. “My brother’s a solicitor.”

  “And mine is in the Special Branch.”

  What a lovely fib. It put a stop to those bloody things jiggling about.

  “Shall we start again, Mr. McDonald? Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Simply this: you’re going to find that there was nothing sinister about Mark’s death. He had more to drink than was good for him—and he hardly ever drank, as it was—then did something bloody silly.”

  “How do you know he had been drinking?”

  “I was at the Old Comrades’ Club when he came in last night.”

  “Time?”

  “Before nine-forty, because I had to call a client and saw him arrive. It was a surprise, as he didn’t often partake, but then it was also bloody hot.”

  How well Kramer remembered that, but it was best not to lead your witness to start with.

  “Uh huh.”

  “In that heat, you’re not counting, are you? Just belting the stuff down, cold as it’ll come. Only takes three or four and you’re well away without realizing.”

  “True.”

  “To be honest, I was well away by nine, and in comes Mark, knocked out—even had a nosebleed like kids do when it’s over ninety—and before I was taking it in, he was gone.”

  “Really?”

  “Got myself naked up in a bit of a singsong, carols and all that, round the piano, my back to him, didn’t know if it was my own glass half the time, still no one complained, proper rave-up, forgot he was there. Yes, I feel guilty, he’d said he wanted to talk, should have seen him home, but that’s all, I’ve told you the lot.”

  “Sorry, but you haven’t.”

  A twanging silence. McDonald jerked as the match flame, un-watched, reached his fingers.

  “Here,” said Kramer, lighting the king-size for him. “Now get back to why you didn’t want Pat Weston to tell me about it.”

  Inhale and exhale, very slowly.

  “Paula, Lieutenant—Paula is suffering enough. And there was nothing to his little affair, that I promise.”

  “With a wife like that.…”

  “That’s Pat, I knew it! Little bitch. Paula’s one of the best. Gave up a lot for Mark.”

  “Uh huh?”

  “Which is why it bowled me over when he told me. Came for advice, actually, and bloody well got it, silly clot; told him to pack it in, and he did, then and there. Nothing to it.”

  “But why?”

  I’d put it down to middle age, to the fact he’d never had the guts to speak to a strange woman in his life, let alone chat her up, then along came.…”

  “And he did?”

  “Huh, not in a conventional sense, not in the beginning anyway, if ever.”

  “Then he just slept with her?”

  “Good God, no! Never touched her; I asked.”

  Kramer lit himself a cigarette and wondered if he was going mad.

  “Then what’s the big deal?”


  “Trust. He was breaking his trust, stepping outside the mark, taking chances on tearing Paula apart. He loved her, loved her, see?”

  “Except for half an hour a day.”

  “She’d picked that up, too, had she? Give Pat her due, she belongs with your brother in the SBs!”

  That was a dangerous remark, but McDonald was now very worked up. There was ash all over his nice silk shirt and his bow tie banked to the left. “It’s all right, Mr. McDonald. Nothing of this will get back to Mrs. Wallace if, as you say, her husband’s death was aboveboard.”

  “I have your word?”

  “Yes. Now the name of this lady, please.”

  McDonald stood up, decisive.

  “I don’t know it,” he said defiantly. “I don’t know where she lives or what she does. You’re the detective; you find out.”

  “Right,” said Kramer, knowing the man was lying. “I will.”

  Just for the hell of it.

  6

  JABULA IS A word with more than one meaning in colloquial Zulu: it is used for happiness, and for beer. Now it was also the name of the settlement on the plain below Zondi, and he, for one, was very happy to be there.

  From what he could see through the heat shimmer, Jabula was an area of exposed ground marked off into plots by white flags, with a few rows of tin huts and many makeshift dwellings that reminded him of something much neater but the comparison eluded him. He could see very few people moving about on the wind-patterned sand, although a few children played beneath the motionless windmill. The priest must have gone, which would make things easier.

  He had decided to repeat his idea of going in on foot, for a car arriving in such a remote place could cause an unhelpful stir. Its tail feather of dust would also be visible for a good mile (he still thought in the old measurements before metrication). So the Anglia was parked out of sight behind him, and everything he needed was about his person: the automatic in its holster, with the safety off; the cuffs hidden in his waistband under his jersey sleeves—he had knotted it around him like an apron reversed; and the long torch, such as travelers commonly carried, in his right hand. He was sure that his clothes, filthy from the journey, would pass muster as cast-offs.

  Zondi gave his mental picture of the lieutenant a mocking salute, then began the descent. He was careful not to move briskly, but dragged his feet along, keeping his eyes downcast. This meant he let himself in for a small surprise when he reached the first flag marker.

  Lifting his gaze, he saw there were, in fact, very many people resident in Jabula—at a guess, well over three hundred, with the only males being either the very old or the very young. He had not spotted the inhabitants before because they were seated in the shade of their homes, silent, motionless in different attitudes. His immediate reaction was instinctive: a prickling along the spine, a tightening of sinew that halted him in his tracks. Then he realized there was nothing ominous in this, for not a head turned to inspect him. These were people lost in themselves and totally listless. He had once seen something of the kind after a whirlwind flattened a township near Kokstad—but that had nothing to do with anything.

  “Greetings, my mother.”

  Zondi had addressed the person closest to him, an old crone squatting beside an iron bed that lay in pieces. She turned toward him. Her pupils were pale blue; she was blind. What a start.

  “Greetings. Who speaks?”

  “A traveler, mother, Matthew Shabalala. I go to seek work on the farms to the west.”

  The crone cackled and staggered to her feet. She reached out and caught Zondi’s arm before he thought better of it.

  “Then your travels will be long and hard, my son. What men there were with us have already left for those parts.”

  “Perhaps I have good fortune.”

  “Huh! If so, then I will live to see it!”

  When she laughed she showed three teeth and no more. Zondi, who felt good manners had their defined limit, pulled away. But she clung fiercely.

  “Tell me,” she said, “tell me what you see about you—you will not lie like my children!”

  At this a bedraggled woman, with breasts like saddlebags, emerged from a hut. She waved a fist.

  “Be quiet, you old devil! Would you bring shame on us in front of a stranger?”

  “You be quiet, Dora Dhlamini—you who would lie to her mother in her old age! You who would say there is no room for her bed in the house, that she must sleep on the floor with the children! What nonsense is this? I know, I know—you wish for her to die out here like a dog in the grass!”

  “Just you look at my house,” Dora demanded of Zondi, who was sick to the stomach at having attracted so much unwelcome attention. Now other people had gathered, so there was no escape—except through being obliging.

  He looked at the hut, past the snot-nosed kids in the doorway, and calculated it was twelve feet deep by nine feet wide. It had an earth floor and a tin roof.

  “How many, stranger?” asked Dora Dhlamini.

  “Inside this place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe four—five,” Zondi said, shrugging.

  “There is ten!”

  “Hau, then you are a liar, my sister!”

  The crowd growled angrily.

  “Ten because I have no man and cannot pay rent. I must look after these children, these orphans, and for that the GG will let me stay. Now you tell her what you see—there is no room for a bed.”

  There was no need; the old woman’s grip had slackened.

  “But I heard the GG say that we will like this place,” she said. “We are not forced, we come because it is better for us. Nobody forces us yet.… Over there, what do you see, Shabalala?”

  Crafty, suspecting a trick, she dragged Zondi around.

  “Much furniture, my mother—like your bed, in the grass.”

  “There!” Dora Dhlamini laughed and the onlookers guffawed at Zondi’s discomfiture. He jerked himself free, annoyed that he could not reveal the real reason for it. Then he wiped a hand over his mouth.

  “Some water?” he asked.

  Again the onlookers enjoyed themselves at his expense.

  “This is Jabula,” one said. “There is no water.”

  Zondi pointed his torch at the windmill.

  “Tomorrow,” an old man in the crowd went on. “Tomorrow they bring water on a lorry—that stupid thing cannot work”

  “Tomorrow?” echoed another.

  While a third scoffed, “Tomorrow tomorrow, you mean, Bobesi.”

  Zondi refused to be delayed by a tedious argument over the ways of the GG—a slang expression for officialdom taken from trucks with Government Garage registration plates. So he tried a joke of his own.

  “Hau,” he said. “Can a man not get drunk in Jabula?”

  This time the laughter was on his side. He took advantage of it to ask if perhaps any of his kinsfolk were in the settlement, and was told that some Shabalalas had arrived the day before; they were across the other side where the tents stood.

  So that was what the makeshifts were; plainly none of their occupants had the faintest idea how to erect one. An assumption fully substantiated when he reached the Shabalalas’, which was propped up by everything but the pole.

  There a neighbor informed him that Wilhemena Shabalala was away, having gone to buy food.

  “So soon?” he queried casually, aware the state provided all voluntary emigrants to the homelands with rations.

  “They give us three pounds of mealie meal for three days.”

  “And?”

  “The family is big.”

  “Where is the store she buys from?”

  The neighbor, a sour-faced frump, puffed the flies from her nostrils and pointed vaguely.

  “But that is a great distance!” Zondi exclaimed, recalling how long it was since he had noticed the hole in the water tank.

  “Where else? If you wait for her, you will wait till the moon comes. But what do you want with her, traveler?�
�

  “Family matters.”

  He turned his back on her and made a show of viewing the landscape. His attention was suddenly drawn to a baffling pattern of hundreds of holes on a slight rise to the east.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “The GG,” the woman replied. “First people die but we cannot dig down. The GG come and then the soldiers; with big bangs they made plenty of graves.”

  Zondi stamped a foot experimentally and felt the shock of bedrock reach his hip. He wondered what the people planned to plant there. He wondered how long Shabalala’s wife would take to get home—and whether the wait was going to be really worth it.

  Another neighbor had taken over at the Wallace household in Chestnut Road; it amused Kramer to find the idle rich reduced to shift work. Not rich, exactly, nor idle, but certainly more comfortably inactive than he had been all his life.

  “Gee, but I don’t know,” this new neighbor said, her American accent requiring an adjustment, when he asked to see Mrs. Wallace. I don’t know what the doctor wanted me to do in this respect. But you step inside a minute and I’ll call him.”

  “He’s here?”

  “I mean on the telephone. He said Paula was to have no visitors, that I had to pull the drapes in her room and let her be.”

  “Pills?”

  “Sedation. Only a half hour back, too.”

  She closed the door behind him.

  If you’re wondering why the maid didn’t answer your knock, it’s because she’s upset that I—”

  “Not to worry.”

  “Come right on through.”

  Kramer found the living room in much the state he had left it—paper chains hung forlorn from the picture rail and the tree in the corner needed a bigger bucket. Someone had, however, made a pleasing arrangement of plastic holly and greeting cards along the mantelpiece. He remarked upon it.

  “Oh, that? It was me. Guess I just can’t stand having nothing to occupy my hands.”

  “Very nice. And very nice of you to be here by her side at a time like this.”