The Satanic Mechanic (14 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

On the way home, I picked up the ingredients at the Spar for the ginger cake. There was a special on Karoo cream, so I bought two bottles. And on pork shank, so I bought a kilogram of that. I chatted to Tannie Elna le Grange. Elna had spoken to the cousin of the woman who'd stabbed her boyfriend in the heart; the woman had said that although she was in jail, she'd never felt so free. Then Elna told me that she'd heard that Bushmen and satanists were dancing around a fire outside Ladismith, and the Dutch Reformed Church was getting worried.

‘The NGK dominee's wife is going to look into it,' Elna said. The Dutch Reformed Church minister's wife was always looking into things. ‘Look – there's the akkedis dominee,' said Elna.

She was referring to Georgie, a priestess in the Seventh-day Adventist movement. Georgie was wearing a long blue dress and had a reddish tinge in her grey curls. A few months before, the Adventists had climbed up the Swartberge mountains and waited for three days for the end of the world, but it had not come. So they didn't ascend, like they'd hoped. They climbed down again. They had arguments amongst themselves and some of them left town, but others, like Georgie, decided they liked Ladismith and stayed. The locals called them the ‘akkedisse', which is the Afrikaans name for ‘rock lizards'. ‘Akkedis' and ‘Adventist' sounded kind of the same, I suppose. And they had scuttled up and down the mountain rocks like lizards. The name had stuck, and the Adventists didn't seem to mind. There were already forty churches in Ladismith. So one extra religion was fine.

‘Hello, Georgie,' I said.

‘Tannie Maria.' She smiled at me and carried on picking out vegetables for her basket.

I did not think she was rude. She was from out of town and had not learnt the art of supermarket conversation. It took most newcomers a few years before they were normal. Some of them never came right.

‘Your hair looks nice,' I said.

‘Oh,' she said, her hand going to her soft curls. ‘It was just a conditioner. Henna. I didn't mean it to go red.'

The akkedis-Adventists are a modest bunch and don't go in for make-up and hair-dyeing. I had a soft spot for them because they'd all joined the hunt for Jessie when she'd gone missing. I also felt sorry for them because they could not eat any meat or dairy products. The Ladismith Adventists were all vegans. I added some more cream and pork to my basket, just to balance things out.

At home, I looked through my mother's old cookbooks and found a rabbit potjie recipe. There was no mention of the ears. I wrote out the recipe for the old man: rabbit meat, a bit of pork, onion, carrots, ginger, cloves, bay leaves, apricot jam and other ingredients. It looked delicious and got me in the mood for making a pork potjie. The autumn weather was still nice for an outside fire. But this wasn't something to do on your own. The phone rang. It was Henk, who must have read my mind.

‘Maria.'

His voice was warm in my ear, as if he had missed me after spending a night out in another town with his lamb.

‘I was thinking of making a potjie,' I said.

‘Tonight?'

‘Ja.'

‘Wonderful. I'll come after work. Wait, I'd better go home first, spend a bit of time with Kosie.'

‘Just bring him,' I said.

I prepared the two halves of the ginger layer cake and put them in the oven. I remembered the mosbolletjie rusks and checked on the bowl on
my windowsill. The raisins were floating, and the water was bubbling slightly. Just right: the muscadel must was ready.

I strained the raisins from the liquid and, following Tannie Rosa's recipe, made a sloppy dough, which I covered with a dishcloth and left to rise in the warm afternoon sun.

I could smell the ginger cake was ready, so I took it out. When it had cooled, I iced it with condensed milk, lemon and ginger. I cut myself a piece and took a big bite. I sighed. I had been right about the ginger; it was the perfect remedy for that strange stomach-worry.

At the braai in my garden, I made a fire and left the wood to burn down to coals. When the mosbolletjie mixture had risen to a nice frothy mix, I added melted butter, milk and flour and spent some time kneading the dough.

My hands moved in an old rhythm, older than my mother and my mother's mother. As old as flour and water. And while my hands did what they knew how to do, the rest of me became peaceful.

Then I put the dough in a black pot and left it beside the fire to rise again, while I prepared the layers of meat and vegetables. I picked that sun-sweet pumpkin and cut half of it into chunks for the potjie. The rest could go in a pumpkin pie I would make for my PTSD group. When the coals were ready, I put the three-legged pot on top of them and kept a little fire going on the side.

Then I got myself ready and sat on the stoep and watched the smooth shadows of the hills stretching across the scratchy veld. The colour of the sun on the rocks looked like ginger cake; I took a diet pill and antidepressant and put some more coals under the potjie. Then I called the chickens into their hok with a handful of mielies.

I kneaded the dough again and formed it into balls, which I packed tightly together in three loaf tins, giving it that special mosbolletjie bread shape. I brushed the dough with melted butter and left it to rise for a third time.

I heard Henk's bakkie coming down my dirt road. I went to check my hair and lipstick, then put two chairs beside the fire and got him a cold beer from the fridge. He and Kosie walked up the paving between the peach pips, straight towards me.

He was smiling that big smile of his, and his chestnut moustache looked lovely.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Henk took the beer from me but put it down on the ground, and pulled me to him. He was wearing a blue cotton long-sleeved shirt with a few buttons undone, and I breathed in the smell of him. Something like earth and cinnamon. Kosie wandered off towards the vegetable garden.

‘Kosie!' Henk said, and the lamb turned from the garden and went towards the compost heap.

‘Good boy,' he said.

He leant down and kissed me softly on the lips.

‘Good girl,' he said, and kissed me again, this time not so softly, his hands running up my sides.

I sat down to catch my breath and pull my dress back down over my knees, and he sat beside me and picked up his beer. He had a sip and looked out at the light on the veld and the long low hills.

‘Ja, ja,' he said, and sighed in a happy kind of way.

I poked some more coals under the fire.

‘This could cook for another hour or two,' I said. ‘But we can eat sooner if you're hungry.'

Henk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, ‘I am hungry.' He looked at me as if I was the food. ‘But supper can wait.'

He stroked my thigh, and I forgot about supper.

‘Shall we start with pudding?' he said, leaning forward and nuzzling my neck with his nose and moustache.

‘The potjie will taste better later,' I said.

‘And you taste good right now,' he said, his tongue at my ear.

‘Wait,' I said, pushing him away gently. ‘Sorry.'

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest, his eyes sparkling.

‘I was just wondering . . .' I said. ‘It's been bothering me . . .'

Kosie came and butted Henk's leg. He patted the lamb's head and drank some more beer and watched me while I tried to find the right words. I looked out at the veld, and the gwarrie with its long shadow. Two mousebirds darted across the sky and disappeared into its branches. Some noisy hadedas circled and then landed in the eucalyptus trees by my driveway.

‘You didn't tell me the truth,' I said.

He frowned, like he didn't understand.

‘You said you were working, but your office said you weren't.'

‘Oh, ja, I was doing something in my off-time. But it was work.'

‘You slept out,' I said. ‘You had Kosie with you.'

‘Ja, I was out of town, and it went on late.'

‘You were in Oudtshoorn,' I said. ‘Working on the Slimkat case.'

He sighed and nodded. ‘I didn't want you involved.'

‘We were so . . . close the other night, and then . . . I didn't know where you were, or . . . who you were with.'

Henk smiled and put his hand on my knee and squeezed it.

‘Maria, when it comes to us, there is nothing you need to worry about.'

‘I wish,' I said, ‘I wish you would just tell me the truth.'

I turned my face from him as I said this, because I hadn't told him the truth. About Fanie.

‘I don't want you involved in my police work,' he said. ‘It's dangerous. We've been through this before.'

‘I understand why you wanted me out of Oudtshoorn, away from the murderer. But this is different: you lying to me.'

‘I didn't lie to you,' he said. ‘I just didn't tell you everything.'

‘You were hiding things from me,' I said.

‘It is not your business,' he said.

‘It is. I saw Slimkat die. I care about him. I see . . . things that remind me of him. I won't try to chase the murderer, but I want to know what's happening. Did you find fingerprints on that sauce bottle?'

Henk stared at the fire, his hand still on my knee.

‘Maybe I can even help,' I said, ‘with ideas.'

Henk shook his head and took his hand off my knee. He stood up and moved some coals underneath the potjie. He sat down again and looked at me and then at Kosie, who was lying at his feet, and then out at the veld where the hills were a rusty red and the turquoise sky was streaked with orange clouds.

‘I don't know if you can imagine what it was like, Maria, when I found you in the riverbed with that murderer standing over you with a bow and arrow.' He looked out at the furthest mountains, the Langeberge. ‘If I had got there a few seconds later, it would have been too late. The arrow would have gone right through your heart and into the sand.'

He shook his head as if to get rid of that picture, then looked me in the eye.

‘I do not want to lose you,' he said.

‘Like you lost your wife . . .' I said.

‘Yes. You know about her. And her cancer. I watched her die.' His voice stayed steady, but the tips of his moustache shook a little as he spoke. ‘I did not think I would . . . come right, after that. But then I met you . . .'

I rested my hand on his. He put his other hand on top of mine. A hand sandwich.

‘But I'm not,' he said, ‘I am not willing to go through that again.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I put my other hand on top of Henk's. Now our hands were like a layer cake, with two different flavours. Mine were small and pink, and his were big and brown. He lifted my strawberry hand with his caramel hand and kissed it, then tasted it.

‘So, pudding first?' he said.

His tongue on my fingertips sent a warm current through my body.

‘I made some ginger cake. With whipped cream,' I said.

‘Yum.' His fingers traced the line of skin where my dress met my legs. ‘Are you happy to . . .?'

I nodded and said, ‘So long as we don't . . . I'm still not ready for . . . y'know. And just give me a minute; I must put this bread in the oven.'

‘Jirre. Mosbolletjie bread,' said Henk, as he helped me carry the loaves into the kitchen.

Then he took a bowl of whipped cream into the bedroom. Maybe we both had things we were hiding from each other, but there was a lot we were willing to share. It was delicious. Even better than before. I was glad there were no neighbours close by, because Henk got some sounds out of me that woke the hadedas in the eucalyptus trees.

By the time we got to eat the potjie, the stars were thick and bright in the sky, and the meat was tender and falling off the bone, the pumpkin sweet as honey. We mopped up the potjie gravy with fresh mosbolletjie bread.

After supper, I cut the remaining loaves into rusks, and as they rested in the warm oven I slept curled in Henk's big arms. Until the hadedas
had their revenge at first light. Those birds can make a racket. They woke up Kosie, who until then had been peaceful on his blanket on the floor. He pawed at the bed, wanting to climb up.

‘Nee, Kosie,' said Henk, his voice heavy with sleep.

Kosie wandered off. I heard his hooves clopping across the wooden floors and the sound of him lapping water from his bowl in the kitchen.

Henk snuggled closer to me, and I lay wrapped in the warmth of his body, listening to the sound of the hadedas heading off to work and the smaller birds saying good morning to each other. The air smelt of camphor leaves and mosbolletjiebeskuit.

When I arrived at work a little later, Jessie could see the happiness in my face.

‘Tannie M,' she said, ‘you are glowing like a veldvygie.' A veld flower.

Hattie was frowning over her computer but glanced up and said, ‘Super-duper. You
are
looking better.'

‘I brought some mosbolletjie rusks,' I said.

I put the tin on my table, next to the muesli rusks, and filled the kettle. There was a fresh pile of letters on my desk, and I spread them out in a row. I always studied them a little from the outside before deciding which to open first.

‘I went and interviewed that rabbit-guy yesterday,' said Jessie. ‘Awesome old dude. Got some cool photos too. Check them out.'

I prepared tea for Hattie and coffee for Jessie, then pulled my chair up to Jessie's desk. I sat and dipped my rusk into my coffee while I looked at the photographs on her computer.

‘This is the best one, I think, that we'll use for the article.'

The old man stood in front of a gnarled wild plum tree. He wore a leather hat and a little waistcoat made of strips of animal fur, and was holding a soft brown rabbit. Its ears were flat on its back as if it was hiding in the hole of his arms.

‘How could the council say no to that?' said Jessie.

‘Rather easily it seems,' said Hattie.

‘I went there first thing this morning,' explained Jessie. ‘Met with the head of road works. He was sympathetic and all, but says they don't
have funding for basic road maintenance, let alone bunny-tunnels. That's why there are all these blooming toll roads.'

‘Such poppycock,' said Hattie. ‘Our petrol price includes a road tax, and there should be more than enough money. Corruption is the cancer of our democracy.'

‘Ja, that's another story. But, basically, they can't finance it.'

I frowned. I did at least have a nice recipe for the old man. But I had no advice on what to do with rabbit ears, and it looked like we couldn't help with his tunnel.

‘What about Nature Conservation?' I said. ‘Don't they fund this kind of thing?'

‘I'll send them the info, but I know they're totally overstretched and underfunded.' Jessie chewed on her rusk. ‘Wow. This beskuit is awesome.'

I cleared my mouth with a sip of coffee and said, ‘I feel sorry for all those animals that are just going for a drink by the river. Can't they put a speed hump on that corner?'

Jessie shook her head. ‘There isn't a cent to spare. But we'll run this article, put in an appeal.'

Hattie made a sound like a sneezing cat and said, ‘I'm sure we'll have droves of bunny-loving millionaires offering to build a warren of subways.'

‘Ag, Hattie. You never know . . . We need to publicise the issue anyway.'

‘Of course. Sorry. It's the corruption that makes my teeth curl. We'll put the pic on the front page.'

I worked through my letters as Hattie and Jessie buried themselves in their computers. A man wanted ideas for a reunion dinner with guys he used to hunt rabbits with in the Arctic. Anything but rabbit stew, he said. I sent him recipes for paella and baked Alaska. Jessie came to my desk and helped herself to another mosbolletjie rusk.

‘Any news on Slimkat?' I asked, quietly, so as not to disturb Hattie.

‘Well, off the record . . .' Jess replied, even more quietly, ‘the only prints they could find on the poison sauce bottle were Slimkat's. But they ran the prints on the other sauce bottles on the table. There were, of course, loads of prints on those, and only some of them are usable.
But they got a match from one of the prints. Someone with a criminal record.'

‘No. Who?'

‘Reghardt's not giving me the details. Not yet, anyway.' She dipped her rusk in her coffee. ‘How did it go with the satanic mechanic?'

‘Good,' I said. ‘I'm going again this afternoon.'

‘You're really entrusting your psyche to a mechanic?' said Hattie. ‘A satanic mechanic – as in the
Rocky Horror Picture Show
?'

‘He's a trained counsellor,' said Jessie. ‘He just also fixes cars—'

‘It's been really helpful,' I said.

‘That's super, Maria. I am so pleased,' said Hattie. Something flashed on her screen, and she was pulled back into her computer.

‘I'd better get going,' I said, standing up. ‘I have a pumpkin pie to bake.'