You felt like a child who had eaten too many sweets?
He didnt understand her immediately. She explained. The first one was delicious, sweet and tasty. But then it became too much.
Yes, he said, surprised that she understood it so well.
Its a sensory overload. You should be pleased that it wasnt Wagner.
The name sounds vaguely familiar, he said. Has he got a criminal record?
He surprised himself with his attempt at humor, the manner in which he handled his own ignorance and her superior knowledge.
She smiled. He caught a glimpse of her personality because the small smile was a mere movement of her pretty, delicate mouth. Her eyes wore the traces of a frown. There was a withdrawn quality about her, as if she was aware of every emotion and the reaction of others to her personality. He wondered whether this was the price she had to pay for the knowledge in her head. Every thought was measured against a paragraph in a textbook.
Ill lend you a CD of
The Barber
. If you listen to it and get used to the music and get to know it youll be able to bear more.
I dont have a CD player. Lara had bought the music center that stood in his living room, on a police salary. It had an unknown name, was a special offer at Lewis Stores, but it was good enough for Laras ABBA records and later BZN. Sometimes she turned up the sound to an ear-splitting volume and danced in the dark room, alone, while he sat in a chair and watched her and knew that when she had finished . . .
And he had wondered if the neighbors werent going to complain about the loud music, but he couldnt wait for the energy in her body, absorbed through the music, to be unleashed on him. Later, after her death, he had wondered about those moments when she, filled with the rhythm of the music, had mounted him on their double bed. Was the man in her head and the one between her thighs the same person? Or was he the means with which she acted out a fantasy, her black hair with the auburn lights over her face, her eyes closed, her breasts shiny with the sweat of love, her hips heaving like the sea, ceaselessly, until deep sounds indicated the moment of orgasm, rhythmic, rhythmic, faster, faster, uhm, uhm, uhm, uhm, and she gasped and she came, unaware that his own climax had already been reached and that he was watching her with his consuming love, and gratitude for his luck, storing each millimeter of her unbelievably lithe body in his memory.
Hanna Nortier had said something he hadnt heard and he blushed at his thoughts and his mouth, which hung slightly open because of the intensity of the memory.
She saw that he hadnt heard. Ill tape it. You have a cassette player?
Yes, he said.
And a television. It wasnt a question.
No. He wasnt going to tell her that he had given the television to his cleaning woman because hed sat in front of it night after night, like a zombie, while one American sitcom after the other rolled across the screen and the canned laughter had rubbed his nerve ends raw, and each stupid story of each stupid program with its own stupid moral had been a rearrangement of his own stupid life.
Then you didnt see yourself on television on Friday night?
No.
He didnt want their meeting to turn into a therapy session. He and a pretty woman together in a restaurant. So different from last night. He wanted to keep up the appearance. What other people were seeing, a couple.
The media are really giving it a run for its money, she said, and he realized that she also wanted to avoid their professional status.
Ja. Seems as if other news is low on the ground.
Did you see yesterdays
Burger
? He could just think that she must be desperate because the man didnt have either a CD player or a television.
Yesterdays, yes.
Do you think its the same person? The murderer and the robber?
He took a deep breath, his uncertainty willing him to close the door in her face, to give her a brief reply, afraid that he might not be able to motivate it, afraid that he might make a fool of himself in front of this small, pretty woman.
I doubt it, he said and began speaking, slowly and carefully. He told her about the murders, one by one, about the suspects and the intrigues and the dead-end streets. He forgot about himself when he explained patterns and criminal behavior and his earlier experiences. His monologue became a proof of himself, an argument for the defense, that he was still worthy of his vocation. That he still had a reason for existence.
She asked questions, dared him in a subtle manner to answer questions, tested the validity of his arguments with slender fingers. His eyes remained on her face, on the cheekbones that seemed so frail beneath the pale skin, on the eyes, the eyebrows, created to frown, the line of her jaw, immeasurably perfectly drawn.
You read what they said? About the woman in the bank? About how brave she was? Shes a heroine. Thats not true. I think she was scared and the robber had a fright. The Mauser murderer wouldnt have been frightened. He wouldve shot. Its not the same person. To shoot someone at point-blank range with a large pistol needs . . . it needs a certain absence. Sometimes murderers and robbers are the same. But this robber is different. Hes a clown. The disguises, the sweetheart nonsense. I simply cant believe it.
Are you going to speak to the criminologist?
He was still too involved in his argument to grasp her meaning.
The one they quoted? Who said the mass murderers acts were a revolt against society. Dr. Boshoff, I think.
He shrugged his shoulders. He hadnt considered it.
Dont you think it would help to get to know the psyche of the murderer?
How could he explain to her that the examinations he wrote for sergeant and lieutenant and captain had contained nothing about the psyche? He only knew how to ask questions, how to look for the numbers in the spiders web of the laws thousand and one rules, to add them up until the sums made sense. Until the books balanced and he asked for a warrant of arrest and went to hammer on someones door with the face of an executioner.
I dont know. Thats your field.
It cant do any harm. Theyve got all that data and research results. They teach it to the students. It would be a good thing if it could be used somewhere.
Perhaps I should, he said.
* * *
The same nurse was on duty. Ive come to ask how Sergeant Griessel is, he said politely and carefully.
Her eyes were large behind her glasses. He asked for medication last night. It sounded as though she had forgiven him.
May I see him?
Hes sleeping. He wont know that youre here.
He accepted her word. He thanked her and turned away. Then he stopped. Why didnt he want medicine before?
He said he didnt deserve it.
He just stood there and looked at her while the gears in his head slowly shifted.
Are you a relative?
No, he said. Just a . . . friend.
They are like that sometimes. They fight it for so long. The bottle. They think that the next time round itll be easier to remember how bad it was to leave it.
Thank you, he said without thinking and walked out.
There were still books that had to be arranged on the shelves. And his shoes. He wanted them shining. By evening.
24.
H
e wasnt alone in the swimming pool this morning. The business club was there in full force, possibly because people were back from their holidays.
He swam grimly.
The bloody diet. Hed been hungry last night. Was it the conversation with Hanna Nortier or the physical effort with the bookcase that had sharpened his hunger? But he would not eat fattening foods, even though he yearned for Russian sausages and chips and toasted egg and bacon sandwiches from the bloody café. He would lose the weight and show Bart de Wit and the doctor and the psychologist . . .
So he smoked. As if his stomach would get nourishment through the tubes of his lungs. Food or cigarettes. Last night he had smoked the Special Milds without satisfaction, one after another until his mouth was dry and his tongue tasted foul, while he considered the curious relationship between the Detective and the Psychologist and wondered whether he was falling in love. Suddenly youre a sexual whirlwind, Mat Joubert? One randy young thing you couldnt even get into your gunsight and youre busy with the next one. Don Juan Joubert. What has happened to your grief and pain? Do you really think you can escape Lara Joubert?
He had mocked himself, one section of his mind a spectator, watching his life passing, commenting and laughing at the owner of a video machine and a pile of cassettes. Lets play one for you, Mat Joubert. See, theres your dead wife, Lara. There, at the dressing table, the brush being dragged through her hair with irritable strokes. Watch the biceps and the triceps of her arm bunching under the tanned skin with each stroke. Watch the breasts bobbing, her bare breasts, which you can see in the mirror, small annoyed little tremors that make the nipples dance. Listen to her voice. Jesus, Mat, we spend every weekend at home.
There you are, lying on the bed, a book on your chest. That places music deafens me, you say weakly, a pathetic defense. Look at her turning toward you, look at her glowing with life. Look at her ardor. That was the way one should live. With every fiber of your being feeling, experiencing, expressing itself. Ill go alone. As God is my witness, Mat, one day Ill go alone.
There were other images as well. Before her death, after her death. Was the demon who orchestrated the libretto of his dreams also the mad scriptwriter in his head?
Now he swam even more grimly to escape too many cigarettes, his fear of his mind, which he didnt understand.
He swam more lengths than he had ever swum before. And that made him feel slightly better.
* * *
The forensic report lay on his desk. He opened it. Mauser Broomhandle. The ammunition old.
His phone rang. De Wit wanted to see him. He got up, took the report with him. Gerbrand Vos stood in front of de Wits office.
I just want to have a quick word with Captain Joubert, de Wit said to Vos. He held the door for Joubert, walked in, and sat down. Vos remained outside.
You must understand me clearly, Captain, its nothing personal. But this Mauser number is getting out of hand. The Brigadiers coming here at eleven. He wants a complete report. And the media. Theyre running with the murders. And its my duty to protect you.
Colonel?
Im afraid someone might talk, Captain. People are people, even here. I want to take you off the case before they find out.
Find out what, Colonel?
About your psychological treatment, Captain. The force cant afford it. Can you imagine how the newspapers would react?
De Wit said it as if Jouberts psychological treatment was a transgression for which he could be held directly responsible.
I dont understand, Colonel.
The nervous smile was back on de Wits face. What dont you understand, Captain?
How they would find out. Surely only you and I and the psychologist know about it?
The smile disappeared for a moment, then reappeared. The service pays the psychologist, Captain. There are clerks who do the documentation, who send through files . . . Listen, its a preventive measure. Its nothing personal.
Joubert was caught unawares. He collected the loose threads of counterarguments, tried to arrange them. De Wit got up. Ill just let Captain Vos in.
He opened the door, called Vos, sat down again. Vos sat down next to Joubert.
Captain Joubert and I have just agreed that you must take over the Mauser investigation, Captain, de Wit said.
Jouberts thoughts scurried between the walls of his skull, looking for a way out, panic-stricken. He had to stop this. It was an urge for survival. It was his last chance. But he found no argument. He found calm.
No, Colonel, he said.
Vos and de Wit looked at him.
We didnt agree, Colonel, he said, controlled and with precision.
De Wits mouth opened and closed.
Colonel, the reason you gave for removing me from the investigation is not acceptable. He turned to Vos. Im with a psychologist, Gerry. Im ashamed of it but perhaps its a good thing. The Colonel is afraid the newspapers may find out about it. Thats why he wants to hide me. But Ill carry on, Colonel, until Im officially relieved of my duty, and through the correct channels.
Captain . . . de Wit said, his face heavy with perturbation. He couldnt find the words to match it.
