more trustworthy than outsiders. That bone-deep belief might work in Shabalala’s favour and get the gardeners talking.
Good luck, Emmanuel thought. Up till this point at least, straight answers about Amahle were in short supply no matter who you asked.
*
A wooden jetty jutted out from a small boathouse and straddled the silver water. Reflections of sky and mountain rippled in the wake of the woman plying the lake with powerful strokes. Emmanuel reached the shore moments before the ‘little madam’ emerged, exhausted and panting from her swim.
She moved to the boathouse, dried her hands on a towel and then dug a packet of cigarettes and matches from behind a fishing box. Emmanuel watched her light up and draw deep, savouring the tobacco with an almost post-coital enjoyment.
‘It’s rude to stare,’ she said and exhaled.
‘Just giving you time to enjoy your cigarette.’ He walked across the wooden planks. ‘It looked like you needed it.’
‘Does my brother know you’re talking to me?’
‘No.’ For some reason he suspected that fact might work in his favour.
‘Didn’t think so.’ She held out the crumpled packet. ‘Want one?’
‘Not right now.’
‘I thought all police detectives smoked.’
‘Most but not all.’ He presented his ID card, knowing she’d barely glance at it. Girls with blue blood and family money, even those with plain faces and sturdy limbs, divided the world into two groups: people who counted and those who did not. Detectives were servants in suits – useful but still not equal.
‘I’m Ella.’ She flicked ash onto the lake, drawing a fish to the surface. ‘You’re here about the murder.’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Amahle’s death must have been a shock.’
Ella shrugged and droplets of moisture ran down her bare arms. ‘If it was going to happen to any of the house girls it was going to happen to her.’
‘Why’s that?’ Emmanuel kept his tone casual, almost uninterested. In Ella Reed’s world Amahle was a marginal entity, a housemaid who’d come to a bad end. All madams, big or little, kept mental lists of their servants’ shortcomings. He was happy to hear every one of Ella’s gripes.
‘For starters, she had everything. A job in a nice house, food to eat and all the native men fighting over her.’ Ella pulled off her swimming cap and shook free a coil of lank brown hair. ‘Other girls would have been happy. Not her.’
‘A complainer,’ Emmanuel prompted.
‘ Ja ,’ Ella said. ‘She was always making escape plans. The Kamberg Valley wasn’t good enough. Or big enough.’
‘Fancy that.’ Emmanuel caught the resentment in Ella’s voice. Holding down a job in a European house was supposed to be the apex of a native girl’s dreams. Steady employment, leftover food, hand-me-down clothes . . . to want for more was greedy. He looked across the shimmering water to the sandstone escarpment and said, ‘What place could be better than this?’
‘Exactly.’ Ella ground her cigarette butt against the jetty railing. ‘I went to Durban Girls High and I said to her, “Cities are dirty and dangerous. Not like here in the valley where things are clean and peaceful.”’
‘She didn’t listen,’ Emmanuel said, thinking of the corpses he’d seen strewn across the French and German countryside, some with flowers growing through their rib cages, others with their eye sockets emptied by crows.
‘No. She wanted a house. A car. A business in one of the black townships. Like she could ever have those things.’ Ella returned the butt to the packet and carefully stashed the cigarettes and matches behind the fishing box: smoking was a secret pleasure. ‘She just didn’t see.’
And that, Emmanuel figured, was the beauty of dreams. The impossible was just one sleep away. ‘Empty talk,’ he said. That’s what most dreams came to, his own included. Where was the life too large to be lived in provincial South Africa, the wife he loved with
Good luck, Emmanuel thought. Up till this point at least, straight answers about Amahle were in short supply no matter who you asked.
*
A wooden jetty jutted out from a small boathouse and straddled the silver water. Reflections of sky and mountain rippled in the wake of the woman plying the lake with powerful strokes. Emmanuel reached the shore moments before the ‘little madam’ emerged, exhausted and panting from her swim.
She moved to the boathouse, dried her hands on a towel and then dug a packet of cigarettes and matches from behind a fishing box. Emmanuel watched her light up and draw deep, savouring the tobacco with an almost post-coital enjoyment.
‘It’s rude to stare,’ she said and exhaled.
‘Just giving you time to enjoy your cigarette.’ He walked across the wooden planks. ‘It looked like you needed it.’
‘Does my brother know you’re talking to me?’
‘No.’ For some reason he suspected that fact might work in his favour.
‘Didn’t think so.’ She held out the crumpled packet. ‘Want one?’
‘Not right now.’
‘I thought all police detectives smoked.’
‘Most but not all.’ He presented his ID card, knowing she’d barely glance at it. Girls with blue blood and family money, even those with plain faces and sturdy limbs, divided the world into two groups: people who counted and those who did not. Detectives were servants in suits – useful but still not equal.
‘I’m Ella.’ She flicked ash onto the lake, drawing a fish to the surface. ‘You’re here about the murder.’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Amahle’s death must have been a shock.’
Ella shrugged and droplets of moisture ran down her bare arms. ‘If it was going to happen to any of the house girls it was going to happen to her.’
‘Why’s that?’ Emmanuel kept his tone casual, almost uninterested. In Ella Reed’s world Amahle was a marginal entity, a housemaid who’d come to a bad end. All madams, big or little, kept mental lists of their servants’ shortcomings. He was happy to hear every one of Ella’s gripes.
‘For starters, she had everything. A job in a nice house, food to eat and all the native men fighting over her.’ Ella pulled off her swimming cap and shook free a coil of lank brown hair. ‘Other girls would have been happy. Not her.’
‘A complainer,’ Emmanuel prompted.
‘ Ja ,’ Ella said. ‘She was always making escape plans. The Kamberg Valley wasn’t good enough. Or big enough.’
‘Fancy that.’ Emmanuel caught the resentment in Ella’s voice. Holding down a job in a European house was supposed to be the apex of a native girl’s dreams. Steady employment, leftover food, hand-me-down clothes . . . to want for more was greedy. He looked across the shimmering water to the sandstone escarpment and said, ‘What place could be better than this?’
‘Exactly.’ Ella ground her cigarette butt against the jetty railing. ‘I went to Durban Girls High and I said to her, “Cities are dirty and dangerous. Not like here in the valley where things are clean and peaceful.”’
‘She didn’t listen,’ Emmanuel said, thinking of the corpses he’d seen strewn across the French and German countryside, some with flowers growing through their rib cages, others with their eye sockets emptied by crows.
‘No. She wanted a house. A car. A business in one of the black townships. Like she could ever have those things.’ Ella returned the butt to the packet and carefully stashed the cigarettes and matches behind the fishing box: smoking was a secret pleasure. ‘She just didn’t see.’
And that, Emmanuel figured, was the beauty of dreams. The impossible was just one sleep away. ‘Empty talk,’ he said. That’s what most dreams came to, his own included. Where was the life too large to be lived in provincial South Africa, the wife he loved with
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