Читать книгу Circus - Irma Venter - Страница 8

Johannesburg, present

I lean out the kitchen door to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me. “Since when have we had crows in the garden?”

Zenani is deboning a duck. She doesn’t answer. Monday is not her favourite day of the week.

“What’s wrong? Is one of the waiters late again?” Staff attendance is one of her biggest headaches after the weekend.

“Nothing’s wrong. Not with me.”

I stare at the bird on the telephone wire. It looks back at me with ink-black eyes, caws harshly, as if to taunt me. What is the meaning of this bloody bird showing up like this, out of the blue?

“How long has it been here?”

“Since yesterday. There are two, I think they want to build a nest.”

“You know I hate crows.”

She looks at me, frowning. “Then why is your restaurant named Crow’s Feet? I know almost everything about you, but not that. Why?”

To make sure I’ll always remember. But I keep quiet. “Where did the pigeons go? And the weavers? Last year that poor little weaver rebuilt the nest thirteen times before the female decided to move in. Even hadedas are better.”

“Forget about the crow. Give me a hand with the sauce – our first booking is for 11:30. And Katlego Tlali is coming by to discuss her husband’s birthday dinner.”

“Is that tomorrow night?” I can’t believe it’s November already.

“Yes. And make an effort, will you? A party like that is good business, especially at this time of year.”

She points at my pricey new heels. Black, to match my figure-hugging black-and-cream dress. “Are you going to work in those all day?”

“Every day, until I’m eighty and dragging myself along with a Zimmer frame.” I take another look at the crow. “It’s your lucky day,” I whisper. “Next time.”

In the pantry, I grab my apron from a hook. “Has Ranna phoned? What time is she coming for lunch?”

“Half past one. She’s sleeping in this morning. She doesn’t sound good.” Zenani waves the knife at me as if it’s my fault.

“Aikona, nothing to do with me. She and Alex argued. About having children. And she’s dying to join him in Syria.”

I go to the fridge to get the butter. Stop when I hear the front door. Who can it be at this early hour? Not a waiter. They always come through the kitchen.

Whoever it is must have got past Boris.

Probably Katlego.

I take off my apron and go through to the restaurant’s dining area. I make my way past the heavy wooden furniture, starched white tablecloths and long bar counter with expensive whiskies on the shelf behind it, and the autographed photos of Diana Krall and Judith Sephuma on the wall. The bow-tied waiters look up from setting tables and nod as I pass on my way to the foyer.

It is Katlego. She’s paging through the booking register, sunglasses in her hand. She’s CFO at an auditing firm nearby.

“Adriana, hello.” She bends down on her heels, higher than mine, and kisses both my cheeks. “Business is booming, I see?”

She’s wearing a light, summery fragrance.

“So it is. We can’t complain.” I step back to study her. “You look ravishing. I’m envious.”

“Thanks.” She runs her hand over her dark-green dress, looks pleased. “I have a board meeting at OneX. I just wanted to check everything is on track for Alfred’s dinner party. Two other cabinet ministers will be attending as well, and the judge president.”

“Everything is ready. Ten people in total?”

“Yes. And you’ll make your potato salad, nè? Alfred is crazy about it. You’d swear he grew up in Bloemfontein instead of Phuthaditjhaba.”

I smile at the Afrikaans nè dropped into the private school English. “Of course.”

“Fantastic. See you tomorrow afternoon. I’ll make sure I’m home, or security won’t let you in.”

She gives a quick wave, and hurries down the stairs.

On her way out of the parking lot, her Jaguar squeezes past a black Range Rover on its way in.

I look at my watch. Must be the 11:30 booking.

Three men get out. The one in the middle – bald head, navy-blue jacket, smart checked shirt – raises his hand in greeting.

Surely not. When was the last time I saw him? In the flesh, not in the business pages or the cover of some gossip rag?

What is he doing here?

“Themba,” I say as he approaches, doing my best to sound pleased.

“Hello, Adriana.” He shakes my hand, his other hand squeezing my forearm. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

“And you look very important.” I point at the two men in cheap black suits flanking him.

He laughs, and his shirt collar quivers. He rescues the sunglasses threatening to slip off his head and hands them to the bodyguard on his left.

“Always so elegant and … how do you Boers say? Nie op jou bek geval nie.” He pronounces the last phrase in near faultless Afrikaans. “You always know exactly what to say.”

“Are you our early booking? The table outside, at the back?” The one where the diners can’t be seen or overheard.

He nods.

“Who’s joining you? I hear you and Pearl Khumalo have gone your separate ways.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the Sunday papers.” The right-hand corner of his mouth twitches slightly, as if he’s amused.

The way he looks when he wants something.

We go out onto the veranda.

“Please take a seat.” I point at the table for two, check quickly that everything is spick and span.

The bodyguards head past us to the garden and stand at ease under the white stinkwood trees. One man’s eyes are fixed on us, the other is watching the entrance.

I try to recall everything I know about Themba Zungu. Who is his guest? If it were Pearl, his bodyguards would have allowed him and the TV presenter more privacy.

“Double Yamazaki?” I seem to remember the eighteen-year-old Japanese single malt is his poison of choice.

“Please.”

“Two?” I motion at the empty chair.

“What would you like? I’m afraid I don’t remember.” He runs his hand over his forehead, snaps his fingers. “Ah, Grey Goose premium vodka.”

He has a good memory. It’s almost five years since we last saw each other. He came for dinner at Crow’s, and at the end of the evening stormed out in a rage. I knew more than was good for him and his business empire. From way before the properties in Hyde Park and Umhlanga, the expensive whisky and legendary dinners at high-priced restaurants like this one in Johannesburg’s northern suburbs.

Should I be worried? Can Boris handle two bodyguards? He’s older than the men in the cheap suits but I reckon he’s quicker.

I manage a smile. “I’ll have a whisky with you. Back in a moment.”

I go to the bar. Zenani pops her head around the kitchen door. “Everything okay?”

“Sure. Just an old friend, here for a quick visit.”

“How old?”

“From earlier.” I try to put her at ease. “Before Crow’s.”

She frowns. “No one from back then comes here any more.”

I shrug and turn away. Zenani is right.

I call Boris on the two-way radio in the office. “Did Themba say anything when he came in?”

“Just that he has a lunch date.”

“With?”

“You. Was he lying?”

Boris knows Themba, there’s no reason to refuse him entry. But why did the man come here in the first place?

“Adriana, are you okay? Should I come inside? I’ve already moved the cameras so I can keep an eye on you.”

“Forget about us. Themba has two bodyguards in the garden – don’t let them out of your sight.”

I put away the radio, unlock the safe and take out two throwing knives. I strap them to my left inner thigh, the cold steel familiar and reassuring against my skin.

At the door, I turn back. Impossible to run in Manolo Blahniks. I change them for a pair of practical pumps I keep in the office. Look at my watch. Twenty-seven minutes before my next guests are due to arrive.

It’s going to be a long half-hour.

On my way back to the veranda, Billie Holiday’s voice trails after me. 1958. “Tomorrow may never come, for all we know …”

Themba doesn’t ask what kept me. I hand him his whisky.

“Thanks.”

I stay on my feet, glass in hand. Look over his shoulder for Boris. He’s standing at the gate, near the new security office.

I examine the high perimeter wall. Shots will attract attention. Every private home and business in the neighbourhood employs costly, well-trained security guards. And the police are on high alert. The rich and famous are quick to run to the papers and social media.

Themba drains the contents of the crystal tumbler. “I’ve never been able to tell what you’re thinking. But something tells me you’re worried.”

“Not at all.”

“In that case, sit. Spend some time with an old friend.”

“You’re very kind, but I have to prepare for the lunch-hour rush. My other guests will be here shortly.”

“Relax, Adriana. I’d never hurt you. I’m here to settle my debt.”

I sip my whisky. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“You’ve always been an accomplished liar.” He places his hands on the table, palms down, lowers his voice. “You could sink my business with what you know. Everything I’ve built up over the years could vanish overnight.”

“I would never do that to you.”

“Of course you would. If it suited you or you needed a favour. I’m not stupid.”

I keep silent.

“As I’ve said, I’m here to settle my debt.”

“What are we talking about, Themba?”

“The agreement we made the last time I was here. I want the video. And any existing copies.”

“In exchange for …?”

“Information. As promised.”

“I’m listening.”

He studies me closely, as if he’s trying to decide what the information may be worth to me. “Yasen Todorov is here.”

My hand grips the backrest of the chair in front of me. Despite my best efforts to keep it together, my world is tilting. I stare at my hands. There’s a tremor in my fingers, like the wings of a moth, too terrified to move.

“Here? In South Africa?”

“Cape Town. He arrived two weeks ago, on a direct flight from Dubai.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

I calculate the time that has passed since his arrival. The distance to the coastal city. “How do you know?”

“You asked me to keep an eye on him.”

“I mean, how did you find out? I haven’t heard anything.” Have all those bribes I’ve paid over the years been in vain? Not enough?

“My contact at State Security let me know. The Germans remain nervous about Todorov.” His eyes narrow. “I want that video. Or were you lying? About giving me the video in exchange for the right information?”

“Of course not.”

“What’s bothering you then?”

“I’m just wondering … Why would Yasen come to Cape Town? Why not Johannesburg?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that he was released last month. The Bulgarians had no choice but to let him go. He’s almost sixty and in poor health and everyone hopes he’ll die before he can create any more havoc.”

“He’s not sick. That’s rubbish. An act.” Boris went there at the beginning of the year to check on him, like he’s done every year. Yasen was fine. “Besides, if they ever released him, he would have to stay in Bulgaria. That was the agreement.”

“It seems he acquired a new passport. In the name of Viktor de Klerk.”

De Klerk.

Like my current surname. Adriana de Klerk.

I take a sip of my whisky. Look at my hand gripping the glass. Again the moth wings, fluttering, straining.

Themba leans across the table. “I want the video.”

“Let’s first find out whether your information is sound.”

He gets to his feet. “Adriana. You can’t hold my future hostage any longer.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Who’s to say there’ll be a later? If Todorov turns up …”

“I’m dead and you’ve got nothing to fear.” I laugh, trap the fear in the pit of my stomach. Breathe over it, smoothly, evenly, until it subsides.

“How do I know you didn’t make copies?”

“I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Your problem, not mine.”

I see the rage in his eyes.

“If your information is correct, I’ll give it to you.”

“Says who?”

“I’ve always kept my promises. You know that.” I pick up his empty glass. “The whisky is on the house.”

He leaves without saying goodbye. I watch until he and his bodyguards disappear through the gate.

I pour a second whisky. Ignore the surprised glances of the waiters and Zenani’s messages summoning me to the kitchen.

I go to the office, close the door.

Yasen Todorov. Here. In South Africa. Where I live. Where my family lives. Why am I only finding out now? How could Boris and I have been so blind? Have we grown rich and complacent?

Maybe Themba is lying. Maybe his information is wrong. Maybe Yasen is dead, or still in prison, and Themba just wants the video.

Maybe Yasen is already in Johannesburg.

Surely he can’t know where I live? I’ve changed my last name a number of times and I don’t use social media. And I never, ever mentioned my family to him.

No. He knows something. That’s why he chose the name De Klerk. It’s typical of Yasen. He gets into your head. Crawls under your skin, like a rat searching for the most vulnerable spot to start gnawing at your insides, your sanity.

What if he knows about my half-sisters, their kids? Everyone in my life? What if he knows about …

I must track him down before he finds me. Yasen has a few expensive pastimes, like finding women he can toy with and abuse. I know where to look.

I must get to Cape Town without delay.

I get up. Take my car keys from the drawer, pick up my handbag. I must get to my apartment to pack and I must make sure everyone is safe, in case Yasen turns up here.

The Yasen Todorov I knew was deadly, and I can’t imagine the years in prison have changed him. On the contrary.