Water Music (25 page)

But there was nothing. The path took Clare to the place, skirting Savićs electric fence, where Mandla had found Wewerss nocturnal picnic site. Sylvan Estate was below, and the house where Rosas blood streaked the wall.

Clare tried to call Ina Britz, but all she got was voicemail. She tried Mandla Njobe, but the reception had dropped. She sent a message instead and, after a moments consideration,
she sent one to Riedwaan too, saying that she was tracking Rosas last known movements. There would be a bar or two at some point, and she trusted that the messages would be sent.

Clare pushed on along the path. It took her up the steep pitch of the mountain. The path forked above Sylvan Estate.

She checked her map again. The fork was not marked. Had Rosa walked this way, her cello strapped to
her back? Tough going a desperate measure, perhaps, on a dark road late at night. Clare looked back. She could see the road to the KwikShop below, glimpsed the black Pajero cruising along the treed avenue. The car stopped, just shy of the spot where she had turned off the road.

Cwele, his window down, hunting.

For her.

Clare wiped her face. She was sweating, despite the chill air.

But she
couldnt go back. Not yet. Not with Cwele getting out of his vehicle, walking towards the KwikShop.

Clare looked up the overgrown, unmapped path that led up the mountain. Rosa could as easily have stumbled across Wewers, or someone like him, someone worse. She checked her phone; still no reception. The vast silence of the cloud-wreathed peaks behind her seemed to urge her to turn and walk back,
get help. Mandla Njobe, thats who she needed. She considered getting back-up, but another vehicle was pulling in behind the Pajero. Uniformed officers. If she went back now theyd see her, and her chance to retrace Rosas footsteps would be lost.

She pressed on up the mountain.

The trees soon swallowed her. The valley, the estate, the fishing village, the traffic it was all behind her. The fallen
needles on the wet earth absorbed the sound of her footsteps. Apart from the drip of water from the trees, there was no sound or movement. Her only sensation was the tang of her own sweat as she licked her lip. She stopped. Above her, Judas Peak and the cold, dark sweep of the pine forests. The roar of the waterfall was audible even here, the water cascading down smooth rocks and whirling white
and dangerous downhill to swell the already bursting Disa River.

She looked down. Mist shrouded the trees. Fingers of light touched the old farmhouse at the bottom of the valley. A child following behind a woman bending down to the earth.

Paradys.

The place where Rosa had sought peace, sanctuary.

Clares unease was strengthening, but the boy had stopped to look up at her. His mother followed
his gaze. She put her hand over her eyes and looked up at Clare. The child waved at her, his arm jerky. Clare hesitated a moment, then she followed the path down to Paradys.

Riedwaan pushed open the dingy doors of the hospice. His mothers room was quiet; the young nurse was at her bedside, the matron too. They both stepped back. Riedwaan walked over to his mothers bedside. His mother looked up at him, unblinking as she had when hed stayed out too long as a boy.

He put his hand over her face and closed her eyes and his mother was gone for ever.

Im so sorry for
your loss, Captain Faizal, said the nurse, pulling the clean white sheet up over the body. Riedwaan turned towards a window streaked with rain that seemed to dissolve the modest houses beyond the fence.

Sometimes death is a release. The nurse rested a hand on his arm, a cheap engagement ring on her second finger.

When we went in to give her breakfast she had passed. She looked very peaceful.

All dead people look peaceful, said Riedwaan. Thats the way the dead are.

For the funeral arrangement. She gave him the undertakers card:
Muslim Burial Society
. Riedwaan turned it over and read the inscription on the back.
Every soul will taste Death.

W
anie. His mothers nickname for him echoed through his thoughts. After that, the silence between him and his mother was complete. He leaned his
head against the window, grateful for the coolness of the glass.

Riedwaan looked at the jumble of numbers on the undertakers card. Theyd make sense once hed punched them into his phone, which he was reaching for in his breast pocket. Nothing there. Not in his jeans pocket either. Must be thirty thousand feet above sea level, on its way to Johannesburg. Fuck. He hit his forehead against the window
frame. Fuck.

He opened the drawer beside his mothers bed. Tissues, a dog-eared photograph of Riedwaans father, old copies of
YOU
magazine and the Quran. The cellphone he had bought her lay there, tucked under the Arabic verses shed tried so hard to read ever since going on Hajj with his father.

The phone was dead, but he plugged in the charger and the little Nokia flickered to life. Riedwaan
wanted Clare to say goodbye to his mother. He wanted her there with him. But she wasnt picking up. Not at work, not at home, not her mobile.

Wanie, boy. Riedwaan took a while to realise that someone was calling him. It was his uncle, older than him by thirty years, but turning to him to make the decisions. The time, the mosque for the funeral prayer, the graveyard.

Wanie, tell us what you want.
The family is gathering at your home in preparation for your mothers
Janazah
.

The funeral rite. The decisions to be made within an hour of the passing, the body to be buried before the end of the day. Riedwaan, the oldest and only son, must see to the arrangements, the comforting, numbing rituals a path trodden by many down the centuries. There was a body to be washed, there were prayers to be
said, so that an old woman could be bedded down under the earth before sunset.

Riedwaan dialled the Imams number and the days inevitable events were set in motion.

The skies were lowering and it was starting to rain when Clare reached the woman and boy in the vegetable garden. Nancy Stern, watchful, drew the child towards her as Clare approached.

Hello, Im still trying to find Rosa Wagner, said Clare. She was seen at the KwikShop three weeks ago, and I think she may have been headed back here.

Nobody comes this way unless they have a purpose, said Nancy
Stern. Youve already asked us, anyway. We havent seen her again.

The boy twisted a little, looked up at Clare. His mother settled a firm hand on his shoulder.

Maybe you saw her, Isaac?

The child glanced from his mother to Clare, shook his head wordlessly.

We already told you all we know, said Nancy Stern. Were quite alone up here, as you can see. And you must know that its not safe to walk
alone on this part of the mountain.

I still think she may have tried to come this way, said Clare. She was up at the castle. Something happened to her there, it distressed her terribly.

Milan Savić. There was ice in Nancy Sterns voice. We lived here in peace until he came. He has brought the evil of the world to our valley.

What evil do you mean?

His men walk through our land, said Nancy Stern.
We see them going up towards the mountain. Theyre from Hangberg. Tattoos on their bodies, nothing in their eyes, nothing in their souls. We used to have peace here. Till they came, carrying those loads on their backs. Weve seen them.

The drizzle was turning into cold, hard rain.

Lets go inside, Dr Hart. Tell me what you know, and I will try to help you.

She led the way up the steps and opened
the kitchen door.

We leave our shoes out here, she said, slipping off her boots and putting them on a shelf on the back stoep. Clare did the same. Her socks were wet, so she took them off too. The flagstones were cold, but the wooden floor of the kitchen was better and the Aga emitted a welcome heat.

There were three plates on the kitchen table, with a half-slice of buttered bread on one, though
the house was utterly silent.

Your husbands out?

Youd have seen him if youd driven up. He went down for supplies, said Nancy Stern, busying herself with the kettle. We were running short of a few things, its been hard to get down the road.

She set out a teapot, two pretty floral cups. She put out a mug for the boy. His beanie was pulled low over his ears. He watched as his mother poured tea
and handed Clare a cup, accepting his own in silence.

Three weeks ago, Rosa was at the castle. She did a performance

If you can call it that, interjected Nancy.

Any idea what they do up there?

Of course I know, how can I not know? Its an abomination.

Did Rosa tell you?

Nancy shook her head, sipped her tea.

Who, then?

You hear things, you know.

Clare put her cup down.

Rosa was last seen
at the KwikShop down the valley, then she walked out into the night and simply vanished, said Clare. I think she might have tried to come here.

Seeking sanctuary, said Nancy Stern.

She never arrived?

A door slammed somewhere inside the house and the little boy jumped.

Its the wind, said his mother, instructing him, go close the windows in your fathers study.

The child slid off his chair and
disappeared into the house.

This is not a safe country for girls, Dr Hart, said Nancy. You of all people should know this. There are few places that welcome women with open arms. Just look at that mountain.

The mist was pushing against the window, Judas Peak just visible above.

There are endless places there to lose a girl. Or her body. All those crevasses, the tunnel.

But the tunnel runs
the other way, said Clare. From Hells Gate down to Camps Bay. It takes drinking water down from the dams.

Theres an older one too. The Woodhead Tunnel. It was bricked up because it was dry. Dangerous. Nancy Stern pursed her lips. My husband followed those men up there one day. They carry the stuff down into Camps Bay. Drugs, you know. Stuff that delivers people to the devil.

Dealers avoiding
roadblocks on routes leading out of Hout Bay. Clares stomach lurched at the thought of Rosa encountering one of them on the mountain.

Nancy Stern threw Clare a quizzical glance. Did you not arrest one of those men?

Excuse me. Can I use your bathroom? asked Clare, the tea rising in the back of her throat.

Its down there, said Nancy, pointing to where the boy had disappeared.

Across the hall
was Sterns office. On impulse, Clare stepped inside. It was the same as when shed glimpsed it on Friday afternoon. She glanced at the heavy old bookshelf, which held few books apart from an old Bible. She thought she heard a vehicle, but when she listened for it there was nothing but silence.

On the desk were folders, paperwork, accounts and delivery logs. Sterns diary was open. She flicked through
it. A farmers neat listings of orders, sales, modest procurements for the farm, notices of meetings about the land dispute with Savić.

Dr Hart.

Clare turned, guilty and startled. Nancy Stern was standing in the doorway.

The bathroom is that way.

I grew up on a farm, said Clare. This study, the smell, the journals. Just like my fathers.

Nancy looked at her, expressionless.

Sorry. It caught
my attention.

The past does that sometimes, said Nancy, turning on her heel and going back to the kitchen.

Clare walked down the corridor. The doors along it were shut, a childs shoe abandoned outside the last one.

Isaac, said Clare, softly.

There was no answer.

She went into the bathroom, turned on the tap and splashed the icy water onto her face. The nausea was gone but she felt lightheaded;
her face in the mirror ashen.

The door opened and she swivelled round.

The boy had his beanie in his hand and his face was turned up towards her. Clare stared at his dark hair, the widows peak. What she was seeing was impossible.

Isaac. Clare knelt down so that they were at eye level. Esther?

His extended arm was taut as a rod. He was pushing a book into her hands. A rain-damaged, dog-eared
old Penguin. Clare opened it and a photograph fell out. She picked it up. A girl sitting on a white beach; a cerulean lagoon behind her.

Rosa.

Clare looked up, but the boy was gone. The door at the end of the passage was ajar. She ran towards it and pushed it open. Pines pressed close to the back of the house, their comradely branches beckoning. The little boy was zig-zagging between the trees.

The back of Clares neck prickled, but it was too late to run. The blow to her head pitched her forward into darkness.

Riedwaans house in Signal Street was filled to bursting. Aunts and cousins were arriving, solemn as they climbed the stairs to the open door. Riedwaan stepped outside with his uncles to meet the hearse bumping along the cobblestones. He helped the men carry his mothers body back into the house where shed been born. They laid her down and left the women to do the ritual washing before they shrouded
her body in the snow-white cotton of the
kafan
. A cousin recited prayers and verses from the Quran, the familiar intonation holding the mourners together, comforting them until the
Janazah
.

When they were done, Riedwaan went back into the room. It smelt faintly of camphor. His mother lay swaddled for her final rest. The last of the women closed the door behind her and he was alone with her. He
sat down in the chair that had been set there for him and bent his head, seeking the long-forgotten solace of prayer. The words themselves, though, were imprinted in his mind. He had heard them being intoned since before he could speak, and later as a boy in the madrassa. But Riedwaans mind was not on God, and his thoughts drifted instead to his father and his mother this woman with her shrill
love, her swift hand always ready to punish real and imagined transgressions, who had fiercely guarded her fragrant biryani recipe, and whose deft fingers had folded samoosas he would never eat again.