Читать книгу Circus - Irma Venter - Страница 5

London, April 2001

“You’re late.” I move my handbag closer to my feet to make room for Boris on the chair next to me.

“Sorry. There’s a cop around every corner. I was stopped twice. Must be a bar fight somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

His Eastern European accent cuts bluntly through the Afrikaans, making his speech rasping and slow. He removes his scarf and hands it, along with his black overcoat, to the woman who has been trailing behind him from the entrance.

I search his eyes out in the dim light. Is he the bearer of good news?

He brushes his hair out of his eyes and hunches his shoulders as if he’s cold. Fine droplets glisten in his dark hair and on his massive hands. It appears to be raining outside; hard to tell, here in Ronnie Scott’s soundproof silence.

The vase with the single red rose wobbles as his knee nudges the table. He gestures at the small stage. “Who’s on tonight?”

“Louis Hayes and the Bobby Wellins Quartet.”

“Never heard of them. Wish it was Ella.”

He keeps his pronouns to a minimum, as usual. A good strategy if you’re using your third language and hate making mistakes.

“You were four when she played here, in ’74,” I say.

He pulls an envelope from his pocket and places it on the table.

I wave the waitress away. I’ve had enough wine and whatever Boris wants to drink can wait.

My hand hovers over the brown envelope. The fear of knowing is sudden and intense.

He tries to reassure me. “I’m almost sure it’s her.”

I fight against the emotion welling up inside me, resist the urge to touch the scar on my cheek. Play instead with the silver dragonfly on the chain round my neck. Wait until I am able to meet his eyes without betraying any emotion.

“How sure are you?” Everything in life is relative. A science of more or less, of maybe and perhaps. That’s just about the only thing getting older has taught me.

Boris knows better than to make false promises. “Ninety per cent.”

Better than I expected. Ninety per cent is a big number. But so is ten per cent, sometimes.

“Where is she?”

The sharp Adam’s apple in the long, muscular lines of his throat twitches. Everything about him is alert, focused, as befits an ultra-lean boxer. One who rolls with the punches in the ring until his opponent is flat-footed from exhaustion, then steps up to plant a left hook that would bring a much bigger man to his knees.

I have watched it happen. I have also seen him get the timing wrong, hence the crooked nose.

“She’s where you thought she’d be.” He motions with his chin at the envelope. “It’s all in there.”

“Thanks.” I put the envelope in my handbag and signal for the waitress. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

“I’ll transfer R50 000 to your account. For expenses.”

He nods. We both know he would have done it for free.

“Does anyone know you asked? Does she know? Does he?”

“She doesn’t suspect a thing. And he’s still where he belongs, so if there are rumours, it won’t matter. But I had to ask for records, there was no other way.”

My hand reaches for the dragonfly. I stop myself in time, clasp both hands in my lap. Test him again. “How sure are you she doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Ninety-nine per cent.”

I wonder about the weight of that one per cent.

Boris gets to his feet, as if he senses I want to be alone. Briefly pats his pockets to check he has everything: wallet, keys, phone.

I paid for his expensive suit, but the shoes are his own. Thick-soled, steel-toe boots, polished to a high shine. He cleans them every night, cross-legged on the carpet of his hotel room in the less reputable part of Soho. He scoffs at my posh South Kensington hotel.

Shoes can be a handy weapon. Information is the ultimate weapon.

Boris lingers at the table. “What will you do? Now that you know where she is?”

“Make sure it’s her. That she’s safe.”

“And then?”

“Isn’t that enough?”