‘It’s so nice to see you happy,’ I said.
‘Ja,’ she said, ‘I am. And you helped me get here. When I first wrote to you, I was scared to go out of the house. And now I have this group of friends, and Stefaan. And it wouldn’t have happened if your letters hadn’t told us to go to the Agri to meet each other.’
She gave me the cream to spoon onto the plates. I swallowed a yawn. My sleepless night was catching up with me. We carried bowls to the table, two at a time.
The dark-eyed man turned down the brandy tart with cream. He looked at me with what seemed like anger, even hatred, when I offered it to him.
‘Is that guy okay?’ I asked Annemarie, as she and I came back to the trestle table to dish up pudding for ourselves.
‘Nick? Ag, shame,’ she said, covering the cream, so the little muggies didn’t fly in. ‘He was in my therapy group, but it moved to Ladismith before he had time to sort himself out. The group’s mainly for people with PTSD, but Nick, well, he’s got special problems of his own. It helped me so much, that group. Stefaan and I were dating, but I was still all messed up, and we couldn’t get . . . close, you know.’
‘Ja,’ I said, knowing too well.
I took a mouthful of tart, and I closed my eyes and let the sweet warm brandy and cream sing down my throat to my belly.
‘Jirre,’ I said. ‘This is delicious.’
‘It’s my mother’s recipe. I don’t think Nick will work out here in the Supper Club. He needs a proper therapy group. His bad vibes can bring an evening down. Ag, shame. I wish I could help him.’
‘What’s that therapy group you spoke about?’
‘Well, after my . . . accident . . . There’s this guy, Ricus, who runs the group. He’s actually a mechanic. They call him the satanic mechanic.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t know why. Maybe because he comes from Hotazel, up north.’ She pronounced it ‘hot-as-hell’. ‘I heard rumours about a woman there, a snake charmer. It’s probably rubbish; you know how people talk. Anyway, he’s not a satanist; he’s a real healer. I don’t know what I would have done without him, really.’
‘Can you give me the recipe for this brandy tart?’ I said, as I polished off the sticky pudding in my bowl. ‘And the mechanic’s details?’
‘Sure. Do you have people who write to you with post-traumatic stress disorder? You’ll like his approach. He thinks part of the healing process involves eating lekker food.’ Yummy food. ‘He’s got his group going again, just outside Ladismith. Too far for me to travel, but I wish Nick would go and stay there a while. I know Ricus’s number off by heart. Have you got a pen?’
So that’s where I first heard of the man who was to turn my life the right way up and upside down: the satanic mechanic.
CHAPTER TWELVE
There was an autumn chill in the air when Hattie and I left the Supper Club, but we felt all warm inside.
‘What a delightful evening,’ said Hattie. ‘Let’s go and check on Jessie, before we head to our guesthouse.’
‘She should have spoken to Slimkat by now,’ I said.
As we walked back towards the beer tent, we could hear a band playing in the distance. Then there was the sound of live singing, chanting and stamping behind us.
‘Goodness,’ said Hattie, gripping my arm. ‘A riot.’
It was a crowd of people toyi-toying in the darkness. A lead voice sang out in Xhosa, and the chorus chanted, ‘Hai! Hai!’ You could feel the ground shake as the whole group lifted their knees high and stamped down on the earth. ‘Hai! Hai!’
We stepped back, beside a biltong stall, and I peeped out from behind the big jars of dried meat. The heart that was beating in my chest came from my father and my mother. My mother’s heart felt the fear of the Swart Gevaar – the Black Danger – which approached us, fists raised high. My father’s heart felt the excitement of the people taking power into their own hands. When he died, I learnt he had been an underground member of the ANC.
‘Hai! Hai, Hai!’ called the crowd as they were almost upon us.
I wondered whether this was a protest against the Klein Karoo Nasionale Kunstefees itself. The KKNK was mainly a white Afrikaner event and might be seen as symbol of the old apartheid government.
The group was very tidy in the way it was toyi-toying, and they wore berets and a camouflage uniform. ‘Hattie,’ I said. ‘It’s not a riot; it’s the army.’
They paused a few steps beyond us and did an about-turn, to face us, and sang the national anthem. It starts with the ANC song ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika’ (God Bless Africa) and ends with ‘Uit die Blou van Onse Hemel’ (From the Blue of Our Heavens), which used to be the Afrikaner national anthem.
I have heard it many times before, but in the dark of the night, standing by that biltong stall, with my mother’s and father’s heart drumming inside me, it gave me goosebumps over my whole body and filled me with feelings I cannot name.
Then a conductor introduced the army choir, and they started on a beautiful Xhosa song. Some sang high, others low, with choruses answering each other. They moved in time to the music. The voices wove a hammock of sound that held me and rocked me. I found my body swaying, and then I was aware of Hattie beside me and felt embarrassed because I am no dancer.
‘Oh my,’ said Hattie when the song was over. ‘How beautiful.’
We headed towards the thumping music of the tent. It was Kurt Darren singing, ‘Meisie meisie’, and although there were a few old tannies sitting on the plastic chairs, most of the people were up and dancing.
‘Meisie meisie, prinses van die dansvloer,’ he sang. Girl girl, princess of the dance floor.
We looked around for Jessie. Hattie, who is so much taller than me, spotted her. The tent was now thick with people, so we walked around the outside and then worked our way in towards her. She was sitting with Slimkat at one of the long tables that were on the other side of the tent, away from the stage. Slimkat’s cousin, Ystervark, was beside him, glaring at a man who stood nearby and was wearing khaki shirt and shorts and muddy veldskoene. The man had a big belly and cross eyebrows and reminded me of someone. I also saw Warrant Officer Reghardt at the neighbouring table. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and sipping a Coke. He’s a tall young man with beautiful eyes, dark and soft like a Karoo violet; his hair flopped over his eyebrows. He seemed to be ignoring his sweetheart, Jessie, but was looking around as if waiting for someone. Then I saw Constable Piet Witbooi, who’s also part of Kannemeyer’s team. I had to blink twice to see him because he was standing so still. His body was relaxed, but I could tell he was taking everything in, like a mongoose on the lookout for a jackal in the veld. Piet’s an ace tracker, with all the skills of his Bushman ancestors. I saw him make a small movement with two of his fingers, and soon after I felt a hand on my shoulder.
It was Kannemeyer. He stepped past me and in front of us, blocking our path between the long tables.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said to me, his eyes grey-blue like a storm cloud. He was wearing jeans and a faded blue cotton shirt, the top buttons open.
‘Meisie meisie, ek sien jou, ek bewe,’ sang Kurt Darren. Girl girl, I see you, I tremble.
‘I’m not following you,’ I said, loudly, over the music. ‘We’re meeting Jessie here.’
Hattie waved at Jessie, who’d now seen us and was calling us over.
‘Excuse me,’ said Hattie, turning sideways so she could slip past Henk.
That sideways thing wouldn’t work for me.
‘Excuse me,’ I tried. But he didn’t move.
‘It’s