Maybe it was the brandy, because I hardly ever drink, but that whole night felt like a dream.
Henk Kannemeyer wiped down the kitchen table and found plates and knives and forks, which he laid out nicely. He checked the rice on the stove, and when it was ready he put it on the table.
‘I can smell that bredie, but I can’t see it,’ he said.
I pointed out the hotbox, and he put the bredie on the table, and dished up my plate and then his.
‘Eat,’ he said.
I was staring at the plate and the table with wide eyes. I had never seen a table laid and a plate dished up by a man before. It looked fine. The smell of the tomato stew came swimming up to me, and I ate.
‘When must the cake come out?’ he said.
I couldn’t believe I had forgotten the cake. I had remembered to put it in the oven but not to take it out. I looked at the clock.
‘In two minutes,’ I said.
Then I forgot about it again. But he remembered it.
When we’d finished our dinner, he put the honey-toffee snake cake on the table, together with small plates and cake forks. He had chosen the salad plates instead of the cake plates but it didn’t matter.
‘You are a fine cook, Maria. I haven’t had food as good as this in a while.’
He smiled at me. But his eyes looked sad.
Then the brandy made me ask: ‘Do you not have a wife, Detective?’
The sadness in his eyes turned to pain, and he looked away.
‘She was a really good cook,’ he said, then he swallowed. ‘She died four years ago. Four years and three months.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
But I was not really sorry at all. I felt so pleased that he had no wife that my heart did a little dance. Then I felt terrible that I was glad. I could feel his pain even from across the table.
‘I’m sorry, Henk,’ I said again, and this time I meant it.
I cut a big piece of cake and put it on his plate. The honey-toffee had seeped nicely into the top crust, and the almonds were toasted and caramelised. When we had finished our cake we just sat and listened to the frogs.
He sat still, looking at the table, while I tidied and washed up.
It was a quiet evening. But although we didn’t talk much, it felt like a lot was said.
Then the strangest thing happened, while I was standing there at the sink, with my hands in the soapy water, and the big man at the table behind me, and my tummy full of good food and brandy. I felt a new kind of happiness. A different kind of happy from when I bake a good cake, or see my chickens, or get a visit from Hattie.
I was getting a taste of something I had always been hungry for but never known how to cook. Maybe I was going to have a real life before death after all.
Detective Kannemeyer went around the house locking up. The sash windows in my bedroom allowed an opening at the top, and I was glad to see he left a gap for fresh air.
He laid a sleeping bag out on the couch.
‘There’s a bed for you in the spare room,’ I said.
‘I can listen out better from here,’ he said. ‘He might try the front door.’
He went outside and walked around the property with a torch. I brought the bedding through from the spare room, and made up the couch with sheets and pillows. On a warm night like tonight, a sleeping bag can get too hot, and a sheet can be just right.
I brushed my teeth and put on my nightie, dressing gown, and just a little bit of lipstick. Then I went to say goodnight.
‘I’m a light sleeper,’ he said, ‘but if you hear anything – anything at all – wake me.’
When I lay down, my head felt very light. It might have been the brandy evaporating. My door was a little open and I heard him walking to the bathroom and wondered if he had brought his toothbrush and pyjamas.
I heard him lie down on the couch. I listened to the frogs sing and an owl calling and its mate answering. Then there was a low growling sound. I sat up. I wasn’t very frightened – it sounded like an animal, not a murderer. I got out of bed and walked towards my door. The growling got louder. It was inside the house! I was about to call Kannemeyer, when I realised I knew that sound. The sound of a man snoring. I tiptoed to the lounge. Henk was lying fully clothed on top of all the bedding, his mouth slightly open, snoring evenly. I stood for a moment and watched the rise and fall of his chest.
He twitched and then he was sitting up, a gun in his hand.
‘Maria?’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I heard a growling sound, but it was you snoring. I’d forgotten . . . ’
‘Ag, sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll lie on my side.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t. I like it.’
He laughed. A deep warm sound, even nicer than the growling. He was still looking at me.
I realised that the moonlight was behind me. My nightie was made of thin cotton.
I blushed. My face was burning. I walked backwards, bumped into the wall, then hurried back to my room.
I closed my bedroom door and jumped back into bed. Even my husband had never seen me naked. Even when we were, you know, intimate, I kept the sheets on me. Henk Kannemeyer had seen me. The full shape of me, against the moonlight.
My whole body was blushing. My breasts, my thighs, were so hot I had to touch them just to make sure I was not really on fire.