Palace of Justice |
16 |
I phoned my sister from Wierda’s chambers.
‘Annelise, are you going to invite me to dinner?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘come over now and you and Pierre can do a braai. We have some nice warthog steaks and a fillet in the fridge.’
‘Get the red wine out,’ I said, ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Wierda dropped me off on his way home. I was still in my suit.
Pierre looked relaxed within the boundaries of his house and garden, I thought. But as soon as he got to the other side of the fence he became restless and distressed, Annelise had told me.
I sat in Pierre’s lapa and watched as he put the fire together with leadwood logs split into quarters. The coals would glow deep into the night. The lapa was built in the traditional African style, a low mud-brick wall with a wide gap for an entrance and a wavy thatched roof on creosote poles for privacy and protection from the sun. The braai was built into the outside wall of the lapa, with the thatch curving around well away from the flames.
I don’t think I have ever seen a man with such strong and blond hair as Pierre’s. His hair wasn’t just blond, it was white, and it was thick and strong. Combined with his tanned skin and light-blue eyes his hair created a startling effect. I wouldn’t like to get into a scrap with him.
Pierre didn’t say much and I had a tough time making conversation. Some subjects were out of bounds but I felt I had to bring the conversation round to one that was of immediate interest to me.
‘Pierre, tell me how it feels to be shot at,’ I asked gingerly.
He stood up and came over to me. Without a word he took the wine glass from my hand and refilled it. I took a deep draught from the glass.
‘It is better to shoot first,’ Pierre said. He was looking into the fire.
‘Even then, how does it feel when they shoot back?’ I insisted.
‘Shooting someone and being shot at are equally bad. The one is no better than the other.’
I knew he had killed in the war in Angola. I knew also that he never spoke about it, but I had to take the risk nevertheless.
‘What does it feel like to kill someone?’ I asked.
He stood bent over at the fire and looked at me over the curve of his shoulder. After a very long silence in which he held my gaze he said, ‘You’ve asked me this before and I told you no one ever talks about it. That includes me.’
I knew I had to break through now or I would never get the door open.
‘I know that,’ I answered, ‘but Pierre, please. I’m fighting for a man’s life here. It is the opposite of killing. And I need to know what only you can tell me.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because I trust you. And because you can trust me.’
Then my instincts told me to go straight at him. ‘Pierre, what is the worst killing you have ever done? Tell me.’
He pottered around the fire for a long time. I sipped my wine and watched. He wasn’t doing anything specific or constructive; he was playing for time. Eventually I decided that the subject was too uncomfortable and that he was not going to answer. Annelise called me to fetch the meat from the kitchen. I was reluctant to leave the lapa and stood up slowly.
As I walked past Pierre, he said softly, his voice dropping, ‘When I had to shoot a woman.’
I stopped in my tracks. ‘When you did what?’
He repeated, louder, ‘When I had to shoot a woman. That was the worst.’
I called to Annelise that I’d be there in a minute and sat down again, closer to Pierre.
‘Can you talk about it?’ I asked.
‘No.’
He changed the subject, making small talk that continued after I’d fetched the meat until Annelise and the children came out to join us.
I renewed my attack on his reticence after we had eaten and Annelise and the children had left the lapa again. ‘Pierre, how long have we known each other?’
He was looking up at the stars without answering me. No answer was needed because we had known each other from the time he was still at university and courting my sister. Now their children were in school already.
‘You are going to have to talk to someone some time, and it might as well be me.’
He was obstinate. ‘What if I don’t want to talk?’ he said with a note of belligerence.
He stirred the embers with the barbecue tongs. ‘No really. What if I just don’t want to talk?’
I had only one card and I’d already played it. ‘What if I need help and only you can provide it?’
He did not look up from the fire. ‘I am not ready to tell the whole story, and it might get you into trouble if they find out that I’ve told you.’
‘Just tell me what you can, and let’s take it from there.’
He started with a blunt statement.
‘I’m not mad.’
I nodded. That much I knew.
Pierre dropped me off at the hotel much later, but there was still time to read another case and to make a summary of the salient facts. This time I was forewarned and ordered a bottle in advance. The hotel sent up an unremarkable Nederburg.