sim.”
In vain he fumbled for the door handle and Abel had to lean across him to open the door.
“Muito obrigado,” he repeated, turning to face Abel. “Por favor venha e visite.”
Abel got out and walked around the vehicle to help him out.
“You live alone?”
“Sim, sim. Venha visitar-me.”
Abel took him by the arm and steered him towards the house while the man stumbled and searched for his keys in his trouser pockets. Abel took the keys from him and unlocked the door.
“Muito obrigado, meu amigo. Tenho vinho para beber.”
The man passed out in a chair, his chin on his chest, saliva dribbling down his chin, his breath an intermittent hissing through his nose.
Abel inspected the room. A mattress on the floor, a few items of clothing on hangers suspended from the picture rail, a wooden cabinet with drawers, another chair, a portable radio on a table with a Formica top, a hotplate, dirty plates and cutlery.
The drawers of the cabinet revealed underclothes, socks and a plastic file with documents: a lease agreement for the room, registration papers for the old Toyota, a work permit, a letter of appointment as cook on the squid trawler Douro, and a passport in the name of Diego Bartholomeu Lomas, aged forty-five.
Abel lifted Mr Lomas out of his chair, locked the door of the room behind them and helped him back into the bakkie. Back at the Toyota, he unscrewed the registration plates, threw them under the canopy of his bakkie with his travel bag and violin case, got back into his own vehicle and drove off. At daybreak he reached the bridge across the Zambezi, a hundred and thirty kilometres from Quelimane. He left the road and turned into the bushes, out of sight of the main road, and picked up the sleeping squid cook.
With his strong thumbs he pressed on the veins on either side of the cook’s neck, the rising sun warm on his face. There was no struggle, just a slight convulsion before the body went limp. He rolled the cook into the water and watched the current carry him downstream to the sea – if the crocodiles didn’t get him first. Then he put the Toyota’s number plates on the bakkie and drove on. Abel had just become Mr Lomas, with a passport issued in Lisbon.
He phoned Jules from Tanzania. He had to make sure that his friend was in Bujumbura when he arrived and not on one of his expeditions. Of course he had to put Jules in the picture about the reason for his unexpected visit, prepare him if he happened to read in the papers about a man called Abel Lotz who could possibly help the police with their inquiries into several murders in Johannesburg.
“Did you read about the murders I’m being accused of?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr Lotz,” Jules said on the phone. “Small reports, hidden away on the inside pages. Many gruesome things happen in Burundi; four murders in distant Johannesburg is hardly important news.”
“Four murders?” Abel thought. “What did the papers say?”
“If my memory serves me correctly – it’s been a while, you know – two women were killed. Pieces of their skin removed. And two men, stripped of their faces. They called them ritual killings.”
“Ritual killings … ” Abel mused.
“Africa is rife with ritual killings, Mr Lotz. Sangomas kill children, use their organs for muti. In the Congo women are burned as witches, and in … ”
“Only two women?”
“That’s what the papers said.”
* * *
Jules was waiting in the coffee shop, the first test for Abel’s new face. Abel took off the glasses for Jules’s inspection.
“Is it really you, Mr Lotz? I didn’t recognise you, only the voice … and the eye.”
“It’s me all right, Jules. In my mind I’m still Abel Lotz. I just had some work done to my face.”
“Mr Lotz … ”
Abel noticed his hesitation, waited for him to speak.
“Mr Lotz, our trip to search for masks … ”
Abel put his cup down, waved with his hand in the air.
“It’s okay, Jules.”
“There have been tribal wars in Jos, Nigeria, five hundred people killed. In Mali … ”
“You’ve helped me a lot. Without you I wouldn’t have managed. I’m not used to strange places and strange people. You’ve helped me, Jules.”
“These are dangerous times in Africa.”
In Africa, Abel suspected, times were always dangerous.
“We’ll go another time, Jules, later, when it’s calmer. I’m in no hurry to get masks.”
“No? Do you have other plans, Mr Lotz?”
“Jules, I’m overwhelmed by your hospitality. But I’ll be leaving for another destination. I’m not safe here.”
Had Abel imagined it, or was there a hint of relief on Jules’s face? No, it must have been his imagination.
“Will you be coming back, Mr Lotz?”
“Later, Jules. Then we can go in search of masks. When Africa is calmer.”
“It’s a shame, Mr Lotz. I was looking forward to our expedition.”
“We’ll postpone, not cancel. Perhaps you could do it on your own in the meantime, as you did in the past. I would like to start a gallery again, somewhere in Europe, perhaps in Hamburg. The Germans love African artefacts, especially authentic relics, not the poor imitations sold by street vendors.”
Jules didn’t ask about his European plans, and Abel did not mention his e-mail friend in Belgium. No one, not even Jules, needed to know about Ignaz Bouts of Bruges.
Abel could see his friend had more on his mind.
“Mr Lotz, I’m sure that thing in Johannesburg … it’s just a misunderstanding, an unfortunate mistake, isn’t it?”
“Yes, a misunderstanding, Jules. But it’s a serious business. That’s why I had to get away in such a hurry. That’s why I feel unsafe, even here. They know I crossed the border to Mozambique. They know I’m somewhere in Africa.”
“But why flee, Mr Lotz? Isn’t it better to stay and prove your innocence?”
“Jules, you know the police. The police in South Africa don’t want to work. They get a name, decide he is a suspect, and find him guilty in advance. They will frame him, fabricate evidence – that’s what they do. They don’t search for evidence first. Isn’t the evidence supposed to lead them to a suspect? Isn’t that how it works, Jules? I don’t want to rot away in a prison cell while the real killer goes free.
