duck, cut between a Suzuki and a BMW in the fast lane. Stop on the white line between the two centre lanes, looking for a gap in the traffic. All around me brakes are squealing. A Ford bakkie swerves, ploughs past me, and crashes into another vehicle.
I slide over the bonnet of an old Honda that has come to a halt with smoking tyres.
Run.
Where is the older man?
There. Further along, to my left, still on the other side of the highway, pistol in hand.
Frightened people duck in their cars.
I cross the last lane of the N3 North and sprint up the emergency lane, the tarmac hot and rough under my bare feet. I am under the Marlboro bridge. On the other side of the highway, the older man has kept up with me. He raises his weapon and fires.
Beside me a chunk of concrete shatters off the bridge. Another shot rings out. A piece of shrapnel grazes my ear. I feel warm blood on my skin.
The older man begins to cross the highway, lane by lane. I run up the grass embankment, past surprised pedestrians on their way to Alexandra township and the adjoining Gautrain Metro station. Look over my shoulder.
The older man is about fifteen metres behind me. He fires another shot.
Ahead of me a woman drops to the pavement. People scream and scatter.
No, I’ve got to get away. Innocent people are getting hurt.
I veer to the right, aiming for the open field and the marshy terrain next to the township.
Another shot rings out, this time from a different direction.
I glance to the right. It’s the younger cop. He’s back on his feet.
I should have taken better aim.
Faster. I have to move faster.
I grip the other knife in my left hand. Search for my phone with my right hand. “Phone Ranna!” I scream into the iPhone.
Nothing happens.
“Phone Ranna!”
The phone rings. I flee into the shrubs and reeds.
ADRIANA
1
Johannesburg, September 1986
“Ouch!” The woman next to me cringes when Jonas “The Hammer” Gumede takes a third consecutive blow on the chin. His head jerks to the side, his eyes unfocused. She shakes her head. “Brian Mitchell he ain’t.”
“Brian Mitchell is going to win,” I say, though I don’t know who she is. “He’s going to knock Alfredo Layne out.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Alfredo Layne? What do you know about boxing?”
She looks me up and down. I know what she sees. Faded sweater, school uniform, the skirt direly in need of lengthening, scuffed shoes, dog-eared standard-seven history book on my lap.
I return her gaze. It’s not like she can talk. I guess she’s about forty. Her bright-blue dress is thin and skimpy. Pep Stores, rather than Stuttafords. Bottle-blonde hair. And the accent? Afrikaans, but with a couple of twists I can’t place.
“I know enough.” I speak up to make myself heard above the noise in the Hillbrow Boxing Gym. Oom Tiny is having a go at Jonas for not being fit enough. Sweaty men are struggling to bench-press weights far too heavy for them. “I’ve been watching boxing for years.”
She nods, points at my history book. “What are you doing?”
“Studying. I have a test tomorrow.”
Her eyes search among the people on the floor. “Your dad training here?”
“No.”
She gives me an inquiring look.
“He travels a lot,” I volunteer reluctantly. “For his work. I have lunch here and study until my dad picks me up or Oom Tiny drops me off.”
I have no desire to say any more about myself. Next moment she’ll be asking about my mom, or my dad’s job. I close my book and get to my feet.
She stops me with a hand on my arm. “I’m Daisy. Daisy Czerniak. Just Daisy.”
“Adriana van der Hoon. Hello, Daisy Cze-… Czerniak.” I pronounce her name the way she said it, with a “che” at the beginning. Then I give in to my curiosity. “Where are you from?”
“Poland. It’s just to the left of …”
“I know where it is. Next to the Soviet Union.”
She leans forward as if she’s about to share a secret with me. “Before we came here, I was the best knife thrower in the entire Eastern Bloc. I had a circus act with my father. He taught me. The Great Czerniak. I could peel an orange from a distance of fifteen metres. Shoop, just like that!”
I size her up. Can it be true? I’ve seen her here a few times, mostly in Oom Tiny’s office. Never with knives. I think she might be doing the gym’s books. And where have you ever heard of a bookkeeper who has also been a circus performer?
She laughs at my disbelief. “Let’s have something to eat. You like ham-and-cheese sandwiches, don’t you?”
How does she know? Has she been watching me?
I look from her to Oom Tiny. Watch as he removes Jonas’s boxing gloves, turns and gives her a smile. A smile like I hope Peet van Vuuren will one day send my way.
I put my book in my satchel. “May I have coffee as well?”
Oom Tiny had a new machine delivered from Italy that grinds the beans and produces black coffee with a thin layer of foam on top.
It smells the way I hope heaven will smell one day.
2
Johannesburg, October 1987
“Your wrist needs to be quicker.” Daisy’s hands are on her hips. “You must be like water. One smooth movement, liquid.”
She moves to my side, picks up a knife. “Remember, each throw builds on the one before. Add one, then another one, and another, until your hand trusts your eye and your brain, and you no longer have to think. We’re talking thousands of hours of training.”
The knife flies from her hand and embeds itself in the breadboard on the wall. She gives a contented smile. “Enough. Let’s eat.”
“I want to practise some more.”
“You’ve been here since three.” She looks at her watch. “What about your homework? Tiny will be mad. Your dad thinks you come here to study, not fool around.”
We
