Your self-actualization?
We started the business school for the small businessmen, you know sniffevening classes. Wed started the evening classes by then but only in the Cape the correspondence courses for the other stuff, evening classes for creative courses and the business school. First, how to start your own business, the legal aspects, the ways and means, the books, the stock . . . all those small things. Then we saw we needed a last rounding off to send them out into the world. Self-actualization. Norman Vincent Peale, Dale Carnegie how to make friends and think positively, that kind of stuff. He sniffed again and Joubert wondered whether he should offer the man a handkerchief.
She gave a course in self-actualization in 1989.
Yes.
With evening classes.
No, it was little Hesters idea to take them away for two days, Friday and Saturday, to the Berg River. Theres a little guest farm between Paarl and Franschhoek. It was her idea she said they were too tired in the evenings during the week. They had to get away, be fresh, out of the usual surroundings. She was full of plans. We still do it in the last part of the course. There are usually ten or twelve in the group and then they finish and we hand out certificates on the Saturday evening.
How often did you go away like that?
Oh, just once a year. Look, the course is three months of theory in the evening classes because people work during the day. You cant get them to class every evening they dont want it.
And thats all that Hester Clarke did? Two evenings in a year?
No, she wrote lectures as well for the creative sections. We still use them. All the introductory lectures about what creativity is, and she checked the little projects set and drew up the little exam papers.
Here, in the office?
No, I dont have the money to keep lecturers here. She worked from home.
Where did she live?
Stellenbosch. I think she was studying part-time as well.
And then she disappeared?
I wont say disappeared. But it was very strange. When we tried to find her in the new year, her telephone wasnt working or someone else answered the phone . . . I cant remember any longer. We sent letters and telegrams but she was simply gone. I had to find someone else in a hurry. I thought she would probably come back on holiday or something like that. But later we gave up.
Who gives the self-actualization now?
Zeb van den Berg. He was in the navy for years and its his retirement job. But little Hesters stuff . . . Were still using it.
Carina Oberholzer? Did she have anything to do with it?
She organized the stuff, the accommodation and the lecture hall and the prize giving. She went to the guest farm on the Saturday.
They chewed on this until Joubert asked: What year did Hester Clarke disappear, Mr. Slabbert?
Ill have to think. Sniff. The nose performed its impossible action again, a small muscle spasm. Let me see . . . He counted, using his fingers. Seventy-eight, eighty-eight, eighty-nine . . . Yes, ninety because we got someone from the Mutual who was doing their training just for a month. But it didnt work they wanted too much money.
So Hester Clarke did her last self-actualization in 1989.
Got to be.
Mr. Slabbert, were reasonably sure that all the victims of the Mauser murderer were in the 1989 group of your small business course. Have you
No!
Have you records of that years students?
Were they students?
Do you still have the records?
All students?
Mr. Slabbert, the records?
Yes, we keep the records . . .
May we see them?
Slabbert returned to reality. Of course, of course. Ill show you. He opened one of his desk drawers, took out a bunch of keys.
Youll have to follow me.
Where to?
Oh, theres far too much to store here. I have a little warehouse in Maitland.
They followed him, through the door, past the desks of the administrative personnel, past fourteen women, black and white, at tables on which stood piles and piles of documents.
Therell be a photograph as well, Slabbert said when they were outside.
Of what?
Of the group, with their certificates. But to find it, thats the problem, said Slabbert and he sniffed.
42.
T
he little warehouse in Maitland was the size of a Boeing hangar, a dirty, rusted steel construction between a salvage yard and a body shop. Slabbert pushed open the huge wooden sliding door with difficulty and disappeared into the dusk. They heard the click of a switch and then lights flickered and steadied against the high ceiling of the warehouse.
OGrady turned
shit
into a three-syllable word. The others simply stared. Piles and piles of brown cartons ran from the front to the back, from side to side, stacked seven meters high, neatly packed on shelves of metal and wood.
The problem, Slabbert said when hed indicated that they must come in, is that in the beginning we didnt think that it would grow to be so much. Then people started asking for re-marking and records of scores and copies of certificates and we realized wed have to store everything. But by then there was so much stuff that we only began a filing system in 92.
And before that? Vos asked anxiously.
Theres a bit of a problem.
Oh? Joubert said and his heart sank.
It hasnt been filed. There are simply not enough hands. Hands cost money. Besides, we seldom get any queries for before 92.
Where would the 89 records be? Joubert asked.
In this row.
Where in this row?
To be perfectly honest, I have no idea.
* * *
Bart de Wit radioed for more help, this time only from Murder and Robbery because he wanted to avoid the Brigadier at all costs. The others rolled up their sleeves and started taking down cartons. They developed a system and when the reinforcements arrived, extended it.
Carton after carton was pulled down, opened, passed on. Another team took out the contents, put them on the floor where Joubert, Petersen, Vos, OGrady, and, later, Griessel, paged feverishly through the documents looking for dates, names, subjects.
Whos going to put it all back? Slabbert asked with a sniff of annoyance.
Your administrative personnel, de Wit said with finality.
Time means money, Slabbert complained and he took a hand as well, dragging cartons that had been searched into a corner.
Progress was slow because there was no system in the manner in which the material had originally been packed documentation on computer repair courses lay next to
Introduction to Journalism. Basic Welding
was in a carton with
Painting for Beginners.
De Wit had lunch delivered Kentucky chicken and Coke and they ate while they worked, swore, laughed, had serious discussions. One carton after another was checked without a break. The afternoon slowly wound to an end, the cartons slowly became fewer. Just after three they were halfway, with no success. Ties were off, sleeves were rolled up, shirts had become untucked, the firearms in their leather holsters were in a neat row next to the door. There were dust marks on their clothes, arms, and faces. Occasionally a few words were exchanged while time marched inexorably on.
Joubert and Griessel took a break, stood outside in the sun, their bodies stiff. Exhaustion was stalking Joubert again.
Im going to ask the Colonel for leave, Griessel said and sucked on his Gunston. I want to take my wife and children away for two weeks to see if we can make a fresh start.
Thats good, Benny.
Perhaps ask for a transfer. To the platteland. Station commander in a village somewhere where all you have to do is lock up the drunks on a Friday night and try to solve a few stock theft cases.
Yes, Joubert said, and wondered how he was going to make a fresh start.
Then they walked back to the hive of activity inside, sat down on the cold cement floor, licked their fingers, and started paging again Joubert with urgency because he had an impending appointment and he was developing a strong suspicion that he wouldnt be able to make it. He wondered whether there was still time to ask them to exchange the tickets for the following night and whether Hanna Nortier would be available then.
I want to go out. Im in a rut.
In what kind of a rut could such a woman be stuck, he wondered while his fingers flipped, flipped, flipped and his eyes skimmed. He shifted from one buttock to the other when they put more documents in front of him.
They had started arguing about supper pizza opposed to fish and chips, anything as long as it wasnt chicken. They complained about wives who were going to be annoyed about the long hours again. Couldnt Mavis start phoning and explaining? It was nearly seven oclock.
Then Benny Griessel shouted triumphantly, Ferreira, Ferdy, and held the documents above his head. They all came to a halt, some applauded.
Wilson, Drew Joseph. Theyre here. The detectives walked toward him. Griessel took out one parcel of documents after the other each individuals registration form, assignments, examination papers, score sheets, receipts, letters of inquiry and replies, final score sheets. All stapled together.
MacDonald, Coetzee, Wallace, Nienaber. Theyre all here.
Is there a photo?
Griessel searched.
No, he said. Wheres the box this came out of?
W. O. Slabbert came steaming up from where he was trying, with great difficulty, to replace the cartons. The photo will be in one of their parcels.
Hands grabbed at the stapled documents of the individuals, fingers paged quickly.
Here, said Griessel, on whom the gods were now smiling. He got up, stretched, extracted the staple, dropped the other papers to the floor, carefully held on to the photograph. He stared at the faintly yellowed print. Joubert got up, walked to Griessel, tried to peer over his shoulder.
How young Nienaber looks, Petersen, next to Griessel, said in surprise.
Joubert held out his hand for the photo. For a moment he thought hed seen . . .
A black-and-white image. The men stood in a semicircle wearing jackets and ties, each one with a certificate in his hand. Wilsons eyes were closed at the moment of flash and shutter. MacDonald, his smile wide, towered above the rest. Coetzee serious. Ferdy Ferreiras shoulders were angled toward the limp, his eyes didnt look at the camera. Wallaces hands were folded in front of him; there was a space between him and Ferreira, a detachment. Mat Joubert saw nothing of this.
He stared uncomprehendingly at the small, slender figure of the woman in front of them, a head shorter than the shortest man. He looked, without assimilating what he was seeing. Time stood still. Solemnly he took the photograph out of Griessels hand, held it to the light, still not looking for an explanation.
She wasnt smiling. He knew the frown between her eyebrows, the contours of her head, the nose, the mouth, the chin, the narrow shoulders. Seven years ago her hair had been longer, hung over her shoulders down to the small breasts. The dress, gray in the black-and-white photo, reached to below her knees. She wore flat-heeled shoes. Serious. She looked so serious . . .
That was little Hester, Slabbert said behind him. Small little thing.
* * *
It was an old house in Observatory, restored and painted in a strong, earthy color on the outside, dark brown. The wrought-iron lattice on the wall was white and neat. The garden gate opened soundlessly. He walked down the cement path, two rows of flowers on either side of him, the little lawn so small and tidy. The door had a brass knocker but he used his knuckles, knocking softly. The photo was in his left hand.
You know her, Griessel had said when he saw the paleness of Jouberts face. Suddenly everyone was staring at him. He said nothing. He remained staring at the photo, a moment of life seven years ago. He couldnt even begin to formulate questions because the impossibility of her, there, among the dead, was too overwhelming.
I know her, he had said eventually and didnt hear the voices asking Where? and How? and When? The photo trembled lightly in his hand. Life seemed unreal to him, like one of his dreams in which someone appeared where she didnt belong, suddenly, so oddly that you wanted to laugh, shout: My, Mat Jouberts peculiar mind! But this was no dream, this was reality.
