‘
OK, OK,’ he said, laughing and confirming the mood change. ‘He was a great father who made a mistake. What now?’
‘
Well, let’s see what else we can find out about your father.’
‘
I’ve already done most of that.’
‘
Not those people we had to deal with outside of surgery,’ she corrected.
‘
I’m not sure that even if we could find them that they would talk to us,’ Christian lamely replied, sensing that Isabella was becoming the co-driver of his mission.
‘
You’re not giving up,’ she teased. ‘If I’m going to spend more time with you I want you completely healed.’
Christian laughed at the fact that her cheekiness had returned so quickly.
‘And don’t forget that you’re taking me out to dinner tonight.’
‘
And your mother said to make certain that I don’t pay for everything like the other men that have been in your life,’ said Christian, by way of a playful reply.
‘
Very funny. There’s one thing that struck me about the letter that was a little bit out of the ordinary,’ said Isabella. ‘That quote from
The Wind in the Willows
, I remember doing that for matriculation and loved Kenneth Grahame, but I’m sure that’s not the exact quote, at least not the one that I learned. Part of it has been changed. Perhaps it was a message from your father that he wanted just for you. I’ll look it up when I get home.’
‘
Maybe Mike has got a copy in the library,’ said Christian.
‘
No, no, wait. It’s coming back to me; I learnt this so well for matriculation,’ said Isabella. ‘It should read “By the side of the river”. He changed “river” to “pool”!—and then added, “he sat beneath the willow”. Isn’t there a pool at the house in Wynberg? And maybe there’s a willow there as well.’
‘
Or perhaps he just mixed up the quote,’ said Christian, an eyebrow raised questioningly in Isabella’s direction. ‘He was a surgeon, but that doesn’t convey perfection, does it?’
‘
And I thought you were the one who could see a conspiracy behind everything here,’ said Isabella, slightly miffed that he was not taking her seriously.
‘
OK, well, since I’m going to the Wynberg house tomorrow, I’ll keep an eye out in case there is a willow tree there,’ said Christian, smiling sheepishly.
‘
I’ll pick you up later.’
Christian slept more soundly that night and woke the following morning refreshed. The sounds of Mike and Sian mixed in with Ruby’s laughter reminded him how delightful it was to be staying with them while in Cape Town. As he stretched and prepared to shower
, the familiar smell of Ruby’s coffee percolated through the window and stimulated his taste buds. Having coffee out on Mike and Sian’s stoep had become a regular start to the day. With the sun coming up and the birds chirping in the background, it always seemed like a perfect place to begin any day. He sat down and looked at the black espresso with its creamy insignia, which Ruby had made him as she heard him coming down the stairs.
Mike greeted him as he sat down
. ‘How did you get on yesterday?’
Christian felt the need to drink his coffee before he could explain what had happened and how he felt about his father’s letter.
‘There are many things that I’d like to talk to you about in that letter,’ said Christian. ‘Isabella has lots of insight into feelings, but you’re the one that knew my father.’
‘
Well, let’s talk about it when you feel more comfortable, but perhaps today we could have a look at the old Wynberg house. We’ll see how you feel after that because you may have questions once you’ve had that experience. But I need talk to you about a few things before we do that.’
Taking a sip of the coffee, he wondered what Mike was about to tell him, his mind briefly wandering to the fragrant coffee that Ruby had made, wondering whether it could be found in Australia.
‘Christian.’ Mike brought him back to reality. ‘You know that you had some concerns yesterday about the two men that you met in Stellenbosch and whether someone might be following you.’
‘
Yes. I thought you told me that I was being paranoid.’
‘
I wanted you to sleep, as I knew that you hadn’t slept well the night before. However, Sian and I discussed it later and we agreed that there are some things that you need to know. For example, there were foreign countries involved with the apartheid government in South Africa, and your father may have had access to a range of apartheid government secrets that many would not want revealed. In addition, while much has changed since the white government, there is still a hard-core group of white South Africans who make up the Afrikaner Resistance movement. The person that your father was involved with, Andre van der Walt, disappeared from view when the black government gained power, ostensibly to avoid being tried for war crimes. It’s rumoured that he became and is a leader in the underground movement, and that they’re determined to return a white government to South Africa. They’d also be very interested in any information and research that they suspect your father may have hidden. Since we started communicating with you by phone and e-mail, we too have had the sense that we’ve been watched. So this is not to scare you but just to let you know to be careful and let us know where you are at any time.’
Christian wondered what secrets his father could have had that would still interest people and governments.
‘Perhaps if he did have that kind of information, it might explain why he was killed.’
‘
Indeed, so promise me that you’ll let us know where you’re going, so that we can advise on the relative safety or otherwise.’
Christian noted the concern on Mike’s face and nodded in agreement.
After breakfast, they drove out through the gate, and Christian sensed it was in a direction away from the hospital with which he had become quite familiar. They drove through Claremont, which appeared to be another upper-class, mostly white suburb, before they came to the Wynberg area. He had been able to Google Earth the address so that there was a vague familiarity as they drove down the street. Then there it was, forty-nine, with the big brass plaque he had heard his mother talk of and the solid yellow-wood door protected by a large cast iron security screen.
Mike got out of the car and stood looking at the front door before glancing back to Christian
. ‘So, my young friend, are you going to be able to manage this by yourself or would you like me to come in?’
Christian took the key and security code from him
. ‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks. Just give me half an hour and then it would be great to talk to you about your memories of the house.’
At the entrance to the Cape Dutch cottage, he tried to imagine what it had been like living here. It had been fifteen years since he and his mother had left to begin a new life in Australia, and he struggled to remember anything more than impressions as to what life had been like. Standing at the front door of his early life, he tried to absorb the atmosphere. There was a certain familiarity, but little else seemed to touch him. He was uncertain whether he did, really deep down, recognise certain features or was it just the subconscious impregnation of the trauma of his father’s murder in this place which caused that feeling.
The early summer warmth broke through his thoughts; the light reflecting off the whitewash front wall ran up the small footpath to the entrance. The front garden sparkled with the colour of petunias and geraniums. In a strange way, it seemed to be welcoming and inviting happy recollections. As he turned to face the door its solid screen mesh and the foreboding security keypad reintroduced reality. Alongside the door were the equally imposing black solid iron bars on the windows. They provided a sharp contrast to the natural beauty that surrounded the house and reminded him that this was a city very different to his home in Adelaide, where personal violence was rare. It was also a reminder of the very violent past that he wanted to explore and have answers to.
Christian unlocked the door and keyed in the security code. The door sprung open almost inviting him in, which seemed to him to be a good omen. Leading from the doorway was a long hall with beautiful Oregon pine flooring. He had often heard his mother describe the flooring in this house with great fondness and he realised that it was something which was probably peculiar to these old Cape Dutch cottages—something that their maid had taken great pride in polishing. He also remembered her talking about their Golden Cocker Spaniels who had tended to slide all over it and the great delight they seemed to take in doing so.
He walked in, carefully closing the door behind him and locking it like he had been instructed. Walking through the house, he tried to gain a sense of what it must have been like when he was there with his parents. The passageway led to a family room with two bedrooms running off on the left. He was told that his bedroom had been the second on the left. He peered in and saw that it now had pop posters on the wall, including one of his favourite groups, Powder Finger. A teenage girl seemed to occupy the room, judging by the range of clothes piled untidily on the bed.
The lounge was quite small and only a few paces from his old bedroom. It was smaller than he thought it would be, but he did remember that this was the first home that his parents lived in. He was struck by the beautiful yellow-wood cabinets that were built into the lounge giving it almost a golden hue and warmth that he had not expected. The French doors were also yellow-wood and led out to a small patio where there were plants that looked remarkably like the ficus that they had growing in Adelaide.
The backdoor opened out to a small wooden veranda; something he had subsequently learned in Cape Town would be called more commonly a stoep. Standing there, he could see the pool towards the back of the garden surrounded by large white standard roses. The tranquillity that it projected surprised him; it was not consistent with the picture he had or the extreme brutality of his father’s death. He walked slowly towards the pool noticing the security netting stretched across the pool, which, his mother had mentioned, had probably prevented his father from drowning after he had been shot.
Then he noticed it—at the edge of the pool was a faded bloodstain. Shaped like the head of a hyena, it focused all his attention. A part of the stain had retained its colour and was a deeper red and almost appeared fresh. He realised this was where his father had lain and was the last connection with him. He wondered if he touched the outline whether there might be some supernatural connection. He moved closer to touch the bloodstain, but before he could, he had a strange déjà vu feeling and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck, almost as if the bloodstain had memories of its own to give.
Christian was so unnerved by the reaction that he quickly lifted his eyes to distract himself and to take in the surroundings. The pool was protected on the one side by large weeping willows immediately in front of a grey layered concrete sleeper wall. The branches draped over both sides, but it was the impressive roots that protruded well above the ground that mostly caught his eye. They looked like thicker richer versions of the branches protecting the tree from the wind. As much as it looked like a painting, the beauty did not relieve him from the impression the bloodstain had induced. Something inside was trying to trigger a distant memory.
Not sure what to do next he turned his attention to the small upturnings in the lawn. He stared intently at them until he realised that they must be grass moles
; the cute nocturnal creatures that were a terrible pest to those who loved their back lawns in the Cape. His mother had mentioned them many times, including one story he remembered when she put a hose down one of the holes with the result that small fountains and moles appeared in various parts of the lawn. That distractive tactic only worked for a few seconds and again he started wondering whether his uneasiness was due to him being present here when his father was killed.
The bloodstain kept demanding his attention, remaining in the corner of his eye no matter where he tried to look. Finally, he thought he would just have to deal with it and, summoning extra courage, reached down to touch it. He traced the outline with his fingers, feeling the roughness of the tiled paver while trying to free his mind in case there was any subconscious communication. He tried to imagine what it had been like being trapped and confronted by someone who obviously was going to kill you. Had his father been afraid? Had he recognised the killer? Looking back towards the door, he tried to picture his father’s killer. Was he tall, muscular, menacing? Was he black or white? From old photos, he knew he was quite athletic, having played rugby while at the University of Cape Town, and briefly wondered why he had not reacted and escaped over the concrete wall.
As he stood there looking at the path that must have been trodden on by someone intent on killing his father the strange feeling returned. It was as though there was more information somewhere in the garden. He looked again towards the wall. The leaves on the trees rustled and appeared to be whispering to him. This is absurd, he thought. Plants and trees are inanimate; they do not have memories and most certainly, they do not whisper. But his rationality was powerless against the nagging feeling; he was missing something, he was sure.
He looked at the wall again, searching for old bullet marks. Closer inspection revealed nothing that he remotely imagined could be a bullet scar. Reaching for the highest concrete pillar, he stood on his toes and looked over. On the other side was another beautiful garden with rows of expertly grown and manicured blood red camellias contrasting the deep green leaves. Again, something familiar kept tugging at his subconscious. And then it happened; as he turned back to look at the bloodstain, flooding into his consciousness like a tsunami, he could see his father lying in a pool of blood with two men standing over him with guns, one black and one white. Momentarily stunned at the images, it took him a few seconds to realise he must have seen the killing and that his mind had suppressed the memory. He stepped back from the wall and sat down trying to breathe normally. As his mind calmed down he looked back, wondering how he could have seen over the wall, and then noticed the big tree on the far side—he must have climbed it.
The setting was no longer tranquil, and he was anxious to escape the memory. As he headed to the back door, he suddenly remembered the altered verse Isabella had mentioned from
The Wind in the Willows
. Observing the willows again, one in particular attracted his attention. It had a knotty, knurled root system partly above the ground, like muscular legs reaching down into the soil. Racking his brain to remember what she had said, he suddenly felt the letter in his pocket. He took it out and read the last paragraph again.
Isabella had pointed out that the original verse read
‘besides the river’. Perhaps there was something here beneath the willow beside the pool—something that his father may have left. He looked around anxiously for something to dig with but could only see a rake beside the back door. At the side of the house, he found a small trowel and returned to the base of the willow.
He started to carefully dig wondering whether there would be anything to find, trying to rationalise the expectation that his father had left something at all, while balancing it with the knowledge that perhaps all his father had left him had been a fondness for this verse. Having excavated nearly a metre below one of the big roots, he was starting to think that it was Isabella’s fanciful interpretation when he saw the edge of a container. Apprehensively, he dug bit by bit around the edges so as not to damage what he had found. Slowly it emerged, a large wrapped plastic container with a folder inside marked in bold yellow
‘South African Government—CLASSIFIED’. He brushed off the dirt and glanced around—concerned that he might have been observed—before placing it inside his shirt. He quickly filled in the hole and covered it over with leaves.