♦
Hope Beneke wasn’t in her office.
“She’s at a business lunch,” the receptionist said.
“Where?” he asked.
“I don’t think she’ll want to be disturbed, sir.”
He looked at the beautifully groomed middle-aged woman. “I’m Van Heerden.”
No reaction.
“When she comes back, tell her I was here. Tell her I wanted to see her urgently about the Smit case, for which we have only six days left, but you wouldn’t tell me where she was. Tell her I’m having lunch and I don’t know when I’ll be back, but if her employees want to piss away the Smit case, I’ll add my little stream gladly.”
The woman slowly drew a diary toward her. “She’s in the Long Street Café.”
He walked out. It was raining. He swore softly. There wouldn’t be any parking on Long Street. Sooner or later he would have to buy an umbrella.
♦
“Table for one?” the woman asked when he walked in.
“No,” he said, and cast his eyes over the crowd looking for Hope Beneke. He saw her sitting at the back, against the wall, and went forward, his wet shoes leaving a trail on the floor. She was with another woman, both leaning forward, heads together, deep in conversation.
“Hope.”
She looked up, disturbed, her eyes widening slightly. “Van Heerden?”
“We must get a court order.”
“I…” she said. “You…” She looked at the woman opposite her. Van Heerden looked at her. She was stunningly beautiful. “This is Kara-An Rousseau. She’s a client.”
“Hallo,” said the woman, extending a slender hand.
“Van Heerden,” he said, and shook her hand but turned to Hope Beneke. “You’ll have to come back to the office. I need the information for Home Affairs and it takes six to eight weeks…”
She looked at him and he saw the sickle moons rising, slowly turning red.
“Excuse me for a moment, Kara-An,” Hope said, and got up. She walked to the door, then out onto the sidewalk. He followed her, his temper filling him, making him light-headed.
“Who told you I was here?”
“Does it matter?”
“Do you know who Kara-An Rousseau is?”
“I don’t care who she is. I have six days left in which to save your client’s inheritance.”
“She heads the Corporate Social Involvement Trust of Nasionale Pers. And I won’t allow you to speak to me like that.”
“You’re probably seeing the rands from NasPers rolling in, Hope. Do you recall someone named Wilna van As?”
“No,” said Hope Beneke, the sickle moons now glowing like stoplights. “You have no right to insinuate that I regard the one as more important than the other. Wilna van As isn’t my only client.”
“She’s my only client.”
“No, Van Heerden, I’m your only client. And I’m not a very happy one at this moment.”
He couldn’t suppress it any longer. “I don’t care.” He turned and walked into Long Street’s rain. He stopped in the middle of the street and looked back. “Find someone else to fuck around.”
And then, as an afterthought: “And what kind of horseshit name is Kara-An, anyway?” He walked the two blocks to his car oblivious to the rain.
♦
He threw the wet clothes into the corner of the bathroom, walked naked to the bedroom. He opened the cupboard and searched angrily for a pair of jeans, shirt, and sweater. He didn’t need this, he thought, again. He’d rather go hungry. He wouldn’t be fucked around. Not by her, not by Kemp, not by a bunch of fat dentists. He didn’t need it. He didn’t care.
Who cared if there was money for fuck-all?
Who cared about anything? No one. That’s who. He didn’t, either. He was free. Free. Free of the ties that bound other people, the incessant striving after nothing, the endless accumulation of status symbols, the empty, meaningless suburban existence. He was above it all, free of the betrayals, small and large, the lying and the deception, the backstabbing, the distrust, the games.
Fuck her.
In a little while he would drive to her office and throw the remainder of her fucking advance onto the neat receptionist’s neat fucking desk and tell her to tell Hope Beneke that he didn’t need it. Because he was free.
He tied the laces of his trainers and got up. His house was dark, somber in the early afternoon. His house was cold in winter. He’d buy a heater one day. Have a fireplace built. He walked through the too-small sitting area, to the door. He would get a drink in Table View. Fuck her.
They were all alike. One day Wilna van As was the most important client in the world because there were only seven days left and oh, we have to help the poor woman because she worked her fingers to the bone for a man (as if she had no choice), and the next day it was Caroline Ann of Monaco or who the fuck whatever, head of the National Press Corporate Shit Shop or whatever the fuck it was, and all Hope Beneke saw were rands rolling. All of them. Twenty-four hours’ worth of loyalty.
He closed the door.
But not him. He was free.
The telephone rang behind the closed door.
Fuck that.
Attorneys. Bloodsuckers. Parasites.
The telephone rang.
He hesitated.
Probably Hope Beneke. I’m sorry, Van Heerden, come back, Van Heerden, I’m a stupid cow, Van Heerden.
Fuck her. Fuck them all.
The telephone kept ringing.
He hissed through his teeth, put the key back in the door, opened it, walked to the phone.
“Yes,” he said, ready to take her on.
“Mr. van Heerden?”
“Yes.” Unfamiliar voice.
“Ngwema. Home Affairs.”
“Oh.”
“Pretoria says your ID number is incorrect.”
“Pretoria?”
“I spoke nicely to them, said it was an emergency. But your ID is incorrect. Belongs to someone else. A Mrs. Ziegler.”
He pulled the notebook toward him, opened it, and read the number to Ngwema again.
“That’s the one I sent. It’s wrong.”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“Sorry,” said Van Heerden, adding, “it’s impossible.”
“That’s what the computer says. And it’s never wrong.”
“Oh.” Thinking. He’d found the number in O’Grady’s file. Now he would have to look for the identity document.
“Not bad, huh,” Ngwema said.
“What?”
“I said it wasn’t bad. Two hours and thirty-seven minutes after we received your request. Not bad for black guys working on African time.” And Ngwema laughed, softly.
♦
Hope Beneke heard Kemp’s sigh on the telephone. “Do you want me to speak to him again?”
“No, thank you. I’ve had it. He’s…unstable.”
“No, hang on…Were you firm with him?”
“Yes, I was firm with him. He obviously has a problem with a woman in a position of authority.”
“He has a problem with anyone in a position of authority.”
“Is there anyone else?”
Kemp laughed. “There’s a whole squadron of private detectives in the phone book. And they’re all hot when it comes to sneaking pictures for housewives of hubby’s hanky-panky with the secretary. But they know nothing about this kind of thing.”
“There must be someone.”
“Van Heerden is the best.”
“Exactly what has he done for you?”
“This and that.”
“ ‘This and that’?”
“He’s good, Hope. Doesn’t miss much. You need him.”
“No,” she said.
“I’ll ask around.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She said good-bye and put the handset down. The phone rang immediately.
“There’s a Mrs. Joan van Heerden to see you,” the receptionist said. “She doesn’t have an appointment.”