The Satanic Mechanic (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

I sat at my stoep table with the first diet meal of my life in front of me. Cucumber, lettuce, tomato and a boiled egg. No dressing. I wondered if I should eat the diet pills before or after the meal. The counsellor had recommended these pills, and I'd picked them up from the chemist on the way home. I decided to have them after my lunch, like pudding.

I looked through the diet sheet she'd given me and shook my head. I'd never use these recipes in my column; they gave punishment instead of comfort. Punishment to those who enjoy food and have a little padding.

I clicked my tongue and looked out onto my lawn. Two of my hens were scratching through the compost heap, their rust-brown feathers fluffing up as they pecked at tasty treats. The other three were lying in the shade of the lemon tree. It was a warm day but not too hot – the right weather for Welsh rarebit. I looked at the boiled egg on my plate; it would go so well with a piece of buttered toast and a creamy sauce made with cheddar.

I distracted myself while I ate, by answering one of the letters I'd brought home with me. The handwriting was beautiful but spidery, and the paper was thin, almost see-through.

Dearest Tannie Maria
, it said

There is a man I fancy who is quite a bit younger than me. I think he may fancy me too. He definitely fancies my shortbread
.

When it comes to love, does age matter? Or is it just a number?

The man has a sweet tooth and I need some more treats for him. Maybe something savoury too. I think variety may keep him visiting more often, don't you think?

Here's my mother's excellent shortbread recipe for you. She was a fine baker
.

Yours faithfully
,

A lass almost in love

Hmm, I thought, nothing says ‘kom kuier weer' – come visit again – like Hertzoggies, those little coconut jam tarts that General Hertzog used to love. I thanked the Scottish lass for her mother's shortbread recipe and sent her my mother's recipe for Hertzoggies.

I told her that age doesn't matter (unless the boy is under sixteen, of course, and then you must make sure the only treats you give him are the ones above the table). And I gave her a recipe for cheese scones made with mature cheddar. As cheddar matures, the quality and flavour improves.

Your young man may realise that mature women are more delicious
.

The diet pills made a poor pudding, but reading and writing those delicious recipes helped a bit. The phone rang. It was Henk. His voice was warm and sweet like hot chocolate, and it made a smile run through my whole body.

‘Are you doing all right?' he asked.

‘I went to see someone today . . . She put me on diet.'

‘Ag, no, you need a counsellor, not a diet-lady. There are counsellors who come here to the police station. They help crime victims.'

‘I'm not a victim,' I said. ‘And she is a counsellor. She thinks I use food to escape my feelings. And that I'm fat.'

‘Rubbish, you're lovely.'

‘She says I should exercise too. You don't think I need to go on diet?'

‘You're the best cook, and your body is just right. Sorry, I must go now. I'll come see you tonight?'

‘I don't know what I'll cook, with this diet and all—'

‘Forget the diet,' he said. ‘See you later, bokkie.'

Bokkie. He called me bokkie. A little buck. My body was just right, he said. It was worth going through some trouble to get close to a man like that. I could at least try following the poppie's advice . . . Maybe going for a walk would take my mind off food.

I put on my veldskoene – my comfortable leather veld shoes – and headed out of my garden gate. It opened into the veld, and I walked on a narrow animal-path between the small bushes and succulents. The sun was hot, and I wished I'd brought a hat. I followed the path towards my old friend, the gwarrie tree. I sat down in its shade, a little out of breath, on a low branch.

‘Hello, Gwarrie,' I said. It was a very old tree, maybe even a thousand years old, with thick rough bark and dark wrinkled leaves.

I thought of what Slimkat had said: ‘The land doesn't belong to us; we belong to the land.'

I could see by the little piles of shining bokdrolletjies on the ground that the tree was used to visitors. The little buck poos looked a lot like chocolate peanuts. I wondered if that is how the sport of bokdrolletjie-spitting began.

A flock of mousebirds landed in the upper branches. They had scruffy hairstyles and long tails. When they saw me, they chirruped and flew away. My worries seemed to fly away too.

A breeze picked up and brought with it a sweet, unusual smell. I looked around for what it might be and saw a patch of grey-green bushes with flowers of little yellow balls. I walked to them and bent down to sniff. The smell filled my nostrils and tickled the back of my throat on its way down to my lungs. It was something like lemons but was also sweet like honey. My thoughts scratched in the back of my mind trying to find just what it smelt like. Maybe it was a smell-memory, passed down from the faraway days when we all used to hunt and gather like Bushmen. I stopped trying to name it and started on the path back home.

The vygie bushes were filled with dried seed pods, but now and again there were small flowers on the ground that had jumped up after the little bit of rain: a pale purple orchid, a tiny bunch of Karoo violets.

Then, maybe because I had stopped trying, I remembered what that smell reminded me of. It was Japie se Gunsteling – that famous orange and lemon pudding – Japie's Favourite – from my mother's cookbook,
Kook en Geniet
.
Cook and Enjoy
. I would make some for Henk tonight. The walk home was much quicker, and I picked a lemon from the tree as I passed through my garden, into the house.

CHAPTER EIGHT

When I'd finished cooking, I showered and put on my nice underwear. I dabbed a little perfume behind my ears and between my breasts.

The phone rang, and I went to answer it, wearing only my panties and bra. It was Henk. I blushed, even though I knew he couldn't see me.

‘I've made a pudding for you,' I said. ‘I've changed Japie se Gunsteling to Henk's Favourite. I didn't have enough orange juice, so I used my homemade Van der Hum instead.' Henk just loved my naartjie liqueur.

‘I'm sorry, Maria. I can't make it tonight.'

I sat down on the chair beside the phone table.

‘I have to leave town for a few days,' he said.

‘Oh,' I said. ‘Has something happened?'

He was quiet a moment, and then he said, ‘We agreed you wouldn't get involved with my work. You know how I feel about dragging you into anything dangerous . . .'

We'd had this discussion a few times before. After the death of his first wife, he couldn't face the idea of losing me. He'd been very upset when I was nearly killed by that murderer.

I asked, ‘Has someone been killed?'

He didn't reply. It was getting dark now, and the first toads started calling in their deep cracked voices.

‘Did it happen in Oudtshoorn?' I asked. I could smell the orange pudding caramelising.

‘Maria, this is what I wanted to avoid. I'm sorry, I must go now.'

In my underwear and oven gloves, I took out the hot pudding. It was perfect, all golden-brown on top.

‘I am so sorry,' I said to Henk's Favourite.

I phoned Jessie and told her about my call from Henk. ‘I'm worried about Slimkat,' I said.

‘I've been a bit worried too,' she said. ‘I called him just now but got no reply.'

‘Has Reghardt said anything to you?' I asked. Reghardt worked with Henk and was Jessie's boyfriend.

‘Just that he's busy tonight,' she said. ‘I'm going to Oudtshoorn first thing tomorrow. For the festival. I'll find out what's happening and let you know.'

I ate my diet dinner and listened to a frog calling for its mate.

The pudding cooled, and I put it in the freezer.

The frogs and crickets sang me to sleep. But then my nightmares woke me. I heard myself shouting, ‘No! No!'

It's lucky my neighbours are far away, or they might have come running to see if someone was being killed.

When the sweating stopped, I was left with the shame shaking through my body. My body remembered things that my mind tried to forget. I went to the bathroom and wiped my face with a wet cloth. And then I went to the kitchen, because the kitchen was my best friend.

Although my hands were still shaking, they got the pudding from the freezer into the oven. My fingers and head felt far from each other, but I managed not to break anything. As I waited for the pudding to get hot, I watched Venus rising. The planet seemed so very far away.

When Henk's Favourite was ready, I sat on the stoep and ate that warm orange pudding until my mouth and hands and belly came closer together; even Venus felt closer. Finally I was whole again, and the shaking stopped.

CHAPTER NINE

I drove in early to the
Gazette
that morning. The Karoo hills looked soft and quiet in the dawn light, as if they were still sleeping. The sunrise painted the sky a baby pink and blue. As I drove, it looked like the hills were rolling over in their veld beds. They had a better night's rest than me, I'm sure.

The troubles from my past sat heavy on me, and on top of them were fresh worries about Slimkat. I wished I could chuck my problems out the car window. I felt the cool morning breeze on my face. I sighed. And the wind blew the sigh back into my mouth.

I let myself into the office and looked at the tin of buttermilk rusks that lived on my desk. Was there any point in having coffee without beskuit? Although the orange pudding had interfered a bit, I was still trying with that diet. For breakfast, I'd eaten a fruit salad.

Hattie had printed out some emails for me and left them on my desk. And there was that letter from the teenager who wasn't ready for sex. She was worried her boyfriend might leave her. It's not unreasonable for a man to expect his girlfriend to be his lover. Otherwise they are just friends. He may have patience for a while, but how long can it last? But it didn't feel fair to say these things to the seventeen year old.

I picked up another letter, an email this time, with yesterday's date on it.

Dear Tannie Maria
,

I wonder if you remember me
.

It is because of your letters that we started the Ostrich Supper Club
.
You got us to meet each other at the Farmers Co-op in Oudtshoorn. I was so shy before that (what with the scars after the accident), and the Supper Club has helped me so much. I've started to feel almost normal, and now I'm dating one of the people in the club
.

Anyway, at this year's arts festival, our Ostrich Supper Club is doing a little project with the sponsorship of some ostrich farmers. We have made an ostrich recipe booklet (including some of your great recipes!) and we are having a cooking demonstration and a small dinner at one of the stalls near the beer tent tomorrow night. I hope you are attending the KKNK, and it would be so wonderful if you could come as our guest of honour. You started the whole thing going, and we are all big fans of your ‘Love Advice and Recipe Column'. Sorry for the last-minute notice, but we are a bit deurmekaar when it comes to planning. We are better at eating and chatting and drinking red wine
.

Below is my phone number. You are welcome to bring a date or a friend
.

All best wishes
,

Annemarie van der Walt

(my real name!)

The idea of a date vs a friend pulled my mind to that teenager's letter. But I steered it back to the Supper Club. Maybe I should go to the KKNK. But it was quite a long drive to Oudtshoorn. I yawned and looked at the office clock. Only 8 a.m. and I was tired.

I heard revving and squealing; Hattie had arrived outside. There was the clicking sound of her neat footsteps up the path. I put on the kettle to make her tea.

‘Hello, Tannie Maria,' she said. ‘You're here bright and early.'

‘Morning, Hats.'

‘Goodness gracious, Maria, what happened to you? You look dreadful.'

My hand went to my hair.

‘No, not your hair, the rest of you. You look like you haven't slept for a week.'

‘I'm fine,' I said, or tried to say, but it came out funny: ‘I-i-i'm fi-i-i-i-i-ne.'

‘My, oh my, Maria,' said Hattie, pulling her chair up next to mine and sitting down. ‘Whatever is the matter?'

She handed me my coffee and a rusk.

‘No, thanks,' I said. ‘I'm on a di-i-i-i-et.' To my surprise, I found I was crying.

She drew in her breath in shock. ‘No! Is that why you're in such a state?'

I shook my head. Then nodded my head.

‘You've been having trouble sleeping for a while, haven't you?' she asked.

I nodded.

‘Have you tried sleeping tablets?'

I shook my head.

‘Have you been to see a doctor?'

‘I saw a counsellor. She put me on this diet.'

‘What a load of poppycock!' Hattie said. ‘You need a doctor, Maria. I know we've got doctors in Ladismith, but there's an excellent one in Oudtshoorn that I'd like you to meet. Doctor Walters. You are coming to the KKNK, aren't you? It'll be fun.'

I found a tissue in my handbag and blew my nose. ‘I'm not sure,' I said. ‘I feel so tired—'

The phone rang, and Hattie answered. ‘
Klein Karoo Gazette
. . . Jess!' She listened for a while and then said, ‘Hold on . . . Maria, Jessie says Slimkat is fine, but something has happened. Warrant Officer Reghardt Snyman, Detective Henk Kannemeyer and half the Ladismith police are at the KKNK. Can I tell her we're on our way?'

I took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes.'

CHAPTER TEN

The drive to Oudtshoorn is beautiful. Wild green hills and mountain passes with lovely patterns of red rock. But I kept my eyes closed for a lot of it because Hattie was driving. I was crazy to have agreed to go in her car. But I really was tired. I'd packed quickly and hoped I had everything I needed. A change of clothes, my diet lunch in a Tupperware (boiled egg and salad). I'd asked my neighbour, Rita van Tonder, to come and feed my chickens and put them in their hok at night. I'd said she could help herself to their eggs. She'd tasted them before and knew they were worth the drive from her apricot farm to my house.

I opened my eyes as we wound our way down the Huisrivier Pass, and I saw a nice picnic spot under a pepper tree, with a view of the valley and hills.

‘Shall we stop here for lunch?' I said.

Hattie looked at her watch, and the car wiggled. ‘I don't think we have time. Jessie wants to meet us at 3 p.m. in the beer tent.'

I didn't think I'd be able to eat in Hattie's car and keep my lunch, so I swallowed two diet pills.

‘Now, you will see the doctor in Oudtshoorn, won't you?' Hattie said, turning towards me, the wheel turning too.

‘Mm . . .' I said. ‘Do you mind if we talk later? I feel a bit car sick.' I felt okay, really, but when she spoke to me, her eyes left the road, and I was worried we might end up with the worst kind of car sickness: the one that leaves you dead in a wreck.

As we got close to Oudtshoorn, we passed some ostrich farms, and I thought about the Ostrich Supper Club. I'd phoned Annemarie to say
I was coming, and she'd sounded so friendly. I wondered what they'd be serving for dinner.

In town, we drove down Voortrekker Road. The pavements were full of people strolling along, and the lampposts were covered with bright posters and banners. I could see some big tents, a Ferris wheel and a Computicket stall. The traffic started getting thick. Hattie glanced at her watch and brushed against a banner by the side of the road. Then she hooted and overtook a Volkswagen Beetle.

She parked the car on a yellow line, and we had to walk the last few blocks towards the big tent with the blue and white stripes; the streets were closed to cars.

We passed art galleries and bookshops. A small crowd of people watched a man juggling ostrich eggs in the street, and from a yellow tent came the sound of someone singing. On the other side of a low fence were the Ferris wheel and bumper cars, and those rides that throw children about and make them scream. We walked past a food stall making roosterkoek, and another selling kudu sosaties. The griddle bread and kebabs smelt wonderful. I saw a stall with a sign saying
Ostrich Supper Club
, but there was no one there now. Hattie was trying in a polite way to get me to hurry, but I don't believe in hurrying. Well, my legs don't. I did the best I could and was a bit out of breath by the time we got to the beer tent.

Jessie was sitting on a bench at one of the long white tables. She jumped up and waved when she saw us. Her dark hair was in a ponytail. Half the tent was made up of those long tables, then there were rows of plastic chairs facing a big wooden stage. Nothing was happening on the stage, and no one sat on the chairs, but there were quite a few people at the tables. A nice mix of coloureds and whites.

On the far side of the tent were beer and food stalls. There was a caravan selling those kudu sosaties, and a queue in front of it. Two black men in T-shirts were preparing the meat on a grid over a fire. A young white woman in a yellow apron was taking orders and making the kebabs at a wooden trestle table.

‘Haai, Tannie Maria,' Jessie said, giving me a hug then turning to Hattie. ‘I'm so glad you guys came.' She glanced at her watch. ‘I must
go now-now. I promised to do a review of
Wie's Bang vir Virginia Woolf?
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?' she translated for Hattie.

‘So Slimkat is okay?' I said.

‘Yes, I went to his book launch; so did an army of plainclothes police.' She leant forward so our heads were closer together. ‘Someone tried to kill Slimkat yesterday.'

‘Goodness gracious,' said Hattie. ‘What happened?'

‘No one will tell me the details,' she said. ‘Reghardt won't talk, and Slimkat's cousin pulled him away before he could answer all my questions. But Slimkat told me they'd tried to kill him. And he agreed to another interview with me; we're meeting here this evening.'

‘Well, I'm jolly glad they've got Slimkat well guarded,' said Hattie.

‘Ja, well, the Oudtshoorn police want to make sure nothing messy happens at the KKNK. They've roped in lots of help. Once the festival's over, they'll leave him to his fate.' She handed us each a festival programme. ‘There are a few events in English, Hattie. And of course there's art and music.'

‘I do understand some Afrikaans, you know,' said Hattie.

‘And some nice food events, Tannie M,' said Jessie. ‘I must run.'

‘Now do be careful, Jessie,' said Hattie. ‘You're a journalist, not a policewoman. Leave the police to investigate this attempted-murder business.'

‘I'm an
investigative
journalist,' said Jessie, flicking her ponytail as she hurried off. ‘See you later.'

Hattie looked at the programme and said, ‘Ooh, there's a talk on the art of Pierneef. If I hurry, I might catch it.' She jumped up. ‘Do come along, but do you mind if I go ahead? I'd hate to miss the beginning.'

She could see I wasn't going to jump up and rush anywhere. I watched her leave the tent, trot across the grass and out of sight. I glanced at the programme; I would study it in a moment. First I had an appointment with a kudu sosatie.