‘My office. Soon as you can get here. I’ll wait for you.’
‘We’ll be there in a couple of hours.’
‘We?’
‘Captain Fortune’s here with me.’
‘No Lourens, just you.’ The line went dead.
Schalk stared at the phone. ‘Nkosi wants to see me.’
‘True? Why?’
‘Who knows? I bet he wants to take me off the case. Makes sense, I’m white, old-school, etcetera, etcetera.’
‘What about Zangwa?’ Sisi Zangwa wasn’t called pocket rocket for nothing. Small but steely, not advisable to upset her.
‘I’ll phone on the way. Come, we got to get cracking.’
Joepie called for the bill. He drank the last of his sparkling water. ‘You must look out, my bru, you got to watch how you go these days.’
Schalk screwed up his face. ‘I’m just going to see him, I’m not doing business with him.’ He knew what Joepie meant. A new corruption scandal every day. Commissioners in prison, generals on trial. Not counting the ones getting away with it.
‘Even so,’ said Joepie, ‘keep yourself nice, hey?’
Schalk slid into the passenger seat. Long-standing arrangement, Joepie preferred to drive. No smoking in his car.
On the way back Schalk tried Colonel Zangwa but the call went to voicemail. He rang Elsa to tell her he’d be late home. She reminded him Stella was coming for supper, told him if he got home too late he’d miss her. A jab of spite in her voice, Stella the daughter, daddy’s girl.
After that Schalk sat looking at the road. Once upon a time you could see the ocean but now high-rises blocked the view. A large truck cut in front of them, its back entirely covered by a poster of a middle-aged black man. Above the man’s head were the words VOTE RADEBE and below his tie, THE PEOPLE’S CHOICE. The whole thing was framed in black, yellow and green, colours of the African National Congress. The letters ANC and a small logo sat in the bottom right-hand corner.
‘Look,’ said Schalk, ‘that’s exactly the same as the old Mandela poster, the one from 1994.’
‘That’s because Radebe’s the new Mandela,’ said Joepie, waiting for a break in the fast lane. ‘Or at least that’s what they want us to think. The whole country’s counting on him to save us. You reckon he will?’
They zoomed past the truck, slid in front of it. The driver blasted them with a sound like a foghorn. When Joepie was clear, he spoke again. ‘If Radebe doesn’t make it, the ANC’s down the plughole. And if the ANC goes, we all go with it. Think about it. We’ve had enough presidents who don’t give a shit whether people live or die as long as they get rich. The rest of the government, well, half of them should be in jail and the other half – someone should…you listening, man?’
Schalk wasn’t. He was watching beggars and peddlers, a couple on every corner. They sold piles of wooden lions, whirling plastic fans, big bags of insulation. Who did they work for? Was there one shadowy organisation holding the rights?
Joepie persisted. ‘So, Oom, come on, you going to vote for the ANC?’
‘Ag, Joep, you know I hate politicians, all of them. They’re as bad as each other.’ Schalk pretended to think, tried to keep the grin out of his voice. ‘But if I had to choose – I think I’ll go for the EFF.’
Joepie bit. ‘What? The Economic Freedom Fighters? You crazy or something? They’re the worst of the lot. You want Hitler in power, go ahead, vote EFF. I’m telling you!’
Schalk laughed but Joepie persisted. ‘Maybe Radebe is the one. We need someone to pull us out of the shit, man.’
‘Joep, you got to stop looking for true love.’
‘Oom Schalk, you’re a true philosopher. An ou kan maar only hope. But you won’t find love in the EFF, that’s for sure. Radebe’s more my style.’
‘You watch,’ warned Schalk. ‘We’ll end up with the same kak we’ve got now.’
Apart from a security guard, Police Provincial Headquarters was open to the world, not even a lock on the glass entrance doors. Cameras in the foyer recorded comings and goings. General Nkosi’s office, top floor and spacious, sported large windows overlooking the harbour. Past seven, and the sky had turned violet. The Robben Island ferry was tied up for the night. Tourists were strolling to restaurants. The wharves were lit up like a stage, cranes moving like alien fingers. Nothing stopped business.
Nkosi came forward to shake hands. He was about 60, glasses, cheeks rough with faded acne scars. Like Radebe, he’d earned his stripes fighting apartheid in the Struggle. According to reports Nkosi’d worked his way through the ranks of the ANC’s military wing, Umkhonto We Sizwe, and when peace came was parachuted into public service, hopping from department to department until, less than a year ago, he landed in police. They said he was a good manager, someone who listened to reason. A smooth operator.
No trace of Nkosi’s fighting past now, though Schalk noticed he walked with a limp. Immaculate in a pinstriped suit, he eyed Schalk’s outfit: tie rescued from the glove compartment. He waved an invitation, said in his surprisingly rich bass, ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘Thanks.’
In one corner, two armchairs hugged a low table. Nkosi pressed the top edge of a low built-in cupboard, which swung open to reveal a fridge. He took out a bottle of whiskey, a label Schalk had never seen before, put ice in two heavy cut-glass tumblers, pinched them between his fingers and brought them over. Schalk scanned the shelves behind the desk. Stuff on the Struggle, thick books on policing, virgin spines. Tribal clay pots in the spaces between. Obligatory photo of Nkosi being anointed by Madiba.
‘So, the famous Schalk Lourens. I mean your name, of course.’ Nkosi smiled. ‘Do people comment on it often?’
‘All the time.’
‘Literary parents?’
‘My father.’
‘Did he admire the stories?’
‘I don’t know.’ His father’s idea of a joke, probably, naming him after Oom Schalk Lourens, Herman Charles Bosman’s fictional farmer in stories famous enough to be studied at school. His father, who never gave a reason for anything, not even for leaving.
Nkosi was sympathetic. ‘Must be a burden, being saddled with such a name. I hope your father was thinking of the character, not the author. You know about him of course, Bosman? He murdered his brother and they nearly hanged him.’
‘Step-brother.’ Schalk couldn’t resist. He was sick of people telling him about Bosman. He saw something flash in Nkosi’s eyes, realised he didn’t like being corrected.
‘In either case, Captain Lourens, the contradiction’s always interested me. The Afrikaners, their dark underbelly.’
‘I’m
