THE TRUTH WAS THAT, even after three years, I hadn’t lost the habit of looking for him. My eyes always strayed involuntarily to the empty spaces he left behind. As if he’d departed yesterday on a research trip.
That Friday night, as I arrived home and as my mind took automatic note of the fact that Daniel’s car wasn’t parked outside, a tall man slipped across the road in front of me, surprising me in the poor light, forcing me to brake or run him over. When I looked back in the rear-view mirror, he was standing next to a parked grey BMW, watching me turn in as he passed a pizza box and a large polystyrene cup through the open window.
I’d hardly changed into my tracksuit and asked Simone about her day when the doorbell made us jump. You can hear the kind of person who’s at your door by the way they ring.
‘I’ll go. Stay in your bedroom.’ Simone knew the drill. It felt as if ever since the terrifying events that brought her into my life we’d both been in a kind of thrall, waiting for someone or something. She scooped Truschka up in her arms and disappeared into her bedroom.
Two men stood at our door; the tall man I’d just seen outside looked over my head into the flat while the older paunchy one did the talking. Apparently they were plainclothes traffic policemen there to talk to Mr de Luc about unpaid speeding fines. They had a new computer system. It was their job to track down serial offenders who hadn’t made an appearance in court after the final summons. My husband could lose his licence if he didn’t cooperate.
Don’t you know? My man’s flown the coop long ago.
Before I could stop him, the young strong one brushed me aside and stepped into the flat.
‘Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going? Aren’t you supposed to show me some ID?’ I raised my voice to warn Simone. ‘And what’s with the private car?’
‘You heard my partner. We’re here to speak to Mr de Luc after hours. We haven’t got all night, lady,’ he growled, breathing garlic fumes into my face. They’d probably scoffed the whole bloody pizza down before taking the lift to ruin my Friday evening. He was grinning at my discomfort like an animal let out of the zoo.
‘ID?’ I said.
The plastic card that appeared from his shirt pocket was held so close to my nose I couldn’t read it. I grabbed it out of his hand and held it under the light.
Patrick Qamarana. Appointed as Traffic Officer, level 2. The photograph was up to date and clearly of the supposedly state-employed individual in front of me.
The paunchy one was looking around as if he found our personal living area very interesting.
Damn. We keep on forgetting. Simone’s school bag was lying open against a cushion, her books spread all over the sofa. A plate with breadcrumbs and an unfinished glass of milk stood on the side table.
‘What about you?’ I said. ‘Or are you just the driver?’
His head snapped back. For a moment the small oily eyes focused on me, but he extricated a similar card out of the pocket of his tight pants, and when he spoke, it was in the same soft tone as before.
‘Officer Vincent Van Zyl of the Cape Town Traffic Department,’ he said. Appointed as Traffic Officer, level 2.
‘He’s not here,’ I said.
Something was bothering me that I couldn’t put my finger on, like chasing a little bell ringing in a maze. I tried to answer the question that was without answer. It was a familiar quandary, to tell or not to tell. There was a time when I’d lie, fluently and casually, about Daniel’s whereabouts, reckoning it wasn’t smart to let people know I was living alone, with burglary and assault on the rise even in supposedly secure urban complexes. I soon learnt that a certain class of enquirer – Jehovah’s Witness, journalist, policeman − would invariably ask if they could come back the next day, and I’d have to make inconvenient excuses until they figured it out. Husband not coming back any time soon. The extent of the telling was the next problem. I judged it best in this circumstance to revert to standard procedure and tell the half-truth version. When I said that Daniel was away for work – ‘he’s a writer’ – but I had no way of contacting him – ‘he doesn’t carry his phone when he’s doing research’ – the smooth-skinned muscular one turned his attention back to me.
‘Looks like we just missed him,’ he said laconically. I followed his eyes to the open newspaper on the coffee table.
Was he for real? He was starting to annoy me.
‘That’s my paper from yesterday.’
He didn’t seem convinced. ‘You have any idea when’s he coming back?’
‘You can leave it with me. I’ll sort it out.’
‘So how much does a place like this cost?’
It was late and I was hungry. It was patently clear that Daniel wasn’t home. I wasn’t about to help them do their jobs. Overconfidence has always irritated me. ‘Don’t they teach you manners at traffic college? It’s none of your business.’
Something flashed in the sharp dark eyes.
‘You’d be surprised what we can make our business,’ he said, breathing more garlic into the room.
Why does it feel like I know you?
I ignored him, turning to the short talker. ‘Do you normally bother people on a Friday evening?’
He said they did this kind of follow-up work after hours when working people were home.
‘I suppose you get overtime commission,’ I said cattily.
‘Where’s your toilet?’ It was the bolshie one again. I considered saying it was out of order but then he might relieve himself in the flower beds and that would attract attention and I badly wanted them gone. In theory, Simone was still closed in her room but I knew from past experience she liked to eavesdrop.
‘Down the passage, first left.’
The other policeman kept talking; he intoned they would have to pick Mr de Luc up if he didn’t pay the fines or make an appearance in court before the court date on the documents.
I wish you the best of luck.
After a while the tall man reappeared. The older one patted the pile of unpaid fines on the table. ‘Tell Mr de Luc officers Van Zyl and Qamarana stopped by. Van Zyl and Qamarana,’ he repeated, nodding at his partner, ‘we always get our man.’
A noise in the corridor made us all look around. Truschka strolled into the lounge, rubbing herself against the tall policeman’s trouser leg on her way to the couch. He shoved her away.
‘Always,’ Qamarana said, turning back to look at me with a sneer.
‘Well, when you find him, ask him to come home,’ I said facetiously, smiling sweetly while Truschka circled Qamarana, apparently determined to greet our unfriendly visitor.
The door closed behind them.