Blood Rose

thirty-seven

It took forever for the lights of Walvis Bay to roll up towards Riedwaan. He had slept over in Solitaire, a half-abandoned hamlet in the southern Namib Desert. The miles are longer on roads where there is nothing to measure distance. The last stretch through the Namib had been bone-shattering. No other vehicles except a donkey cart. Not even telephone poles. He tried phoning Clare, but all he got was an automated voice telling him she was out of range and that he should try later.

‘This whole country is out of range.’ He said it aloud, just to hear a human voice. Then he dialled Tamar Damases’s number.

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry to call so late,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d be in before sunset.’

Tamar laughed. ‘Did you believe the map? They make things look much closer than they are. You must be finished.’

‘I am,’ said Riedwaan. ‘I need a shower and some sleep before I do anything.’

‘You’re booked into a guesthouse on the lagoon. It’s called Burning Shore Lodge. Don’t be deceived by the fancy name, but it’s close to the station and to where Clare’s staying.’

Riedwaan jotted down the address. The town was quiet, only the pizza place open. He was hungry but too tired to stop. He hoped there would be something for him to eat where he was headed.

The guesthouse was a facebrick nightmare on the lagoon. It seemed to have been designed to avoid the view. Riedwaan rang three times before someone buzzed him in. He pushed his bike into the courtyard.

The only light on was at the bar. Inside, the walls were covered with signed snaps of Hollywood celebrities who had washed up on this barren stretch of coast to make B-grade movies, a couple to give birth to A-list children.

An overweight man took down Riedwaan’s details and gave him a key.

‘Show him to his room, Rusty,’ he said to a morose youth hunched over a beer at the counter.

The boy heaved himself off his stool. He was a replica of his father, down to the tatty white vest and the plain cigarette curling smoke between his fingers.

‘This way.’ The boy eyed Riedwaan and thought better of offering to take his bags.

The room was clean and, if one ignored the red and black colour scheme, comfortable.

‘Thanks.’ Riedwaan dumped his bags on the floor. ‘Can I get something to eat?’

‘Nah,’ said the boy. ‘We only do breakfast.’

‘Jesus, man. I’ve ridden from Solitaire with nothing to eat. Can’t you do me a toasted sandwich or something?’

‘Ham?’ said Rusty.

‘With a name like Faizal? You must be joking,’ said Riedwaan.

The boy looked blank.

‘Get me cheese or something.’

‘Come through to the bar. I’ll get it for you. But you explain to my dad.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

Riedwaan opened the curtains. The fog had closed in. He couldn’t make out if he was looking at a parking lot or the lagoon. He closed them again and went to shower. The hot water dissolved two days of grime and stiff muscles. He pulled on his jeans and a clean shirt and went through to the bar.

His supper was waiting: toasted white bread and cheese, swimming in butter, no sign of salad. Lots of tomato sauce. Just how he liked it.

‘You want a drink to go with that?’ said the old man.

‘Whisky. No ice,’ said Riedwaan.

The man poured him a double. ‘Name’s Boss,’ he said. ‘What you doing up here? A holiday?’

‘Kind of,’ said Riedwaan, his mouth full. ‘This is a good sandwich.’ He washed it down with the whisky. ‘Boss. Is that a nickname?’

‘Short for Basson. My surname.’ He poured himself a shot and shook a cigarette out of the pack lying on the bar. ‘You want one?’

Riedwaan took one and leant forward so his host could light it for him.

‘So where you headed?’ asked Boss.

‘I’m going to be here for a bit. Not sure how long.’

‘Where you from?’

‘Cape Town.’ Food, whisky and a cigarette. Riedwaan felt human again.

‘Oh,’ said Boss. ‘The States.’

It was Riedwaan’s turn to look blank. ‘The States?’

Rusty rolled his eyes back. ‘It’s what they used to call South Africa pre-94, when there were all those little fake countries. Transkei, Ciskei. All those independent states. You remember, the whole apartheid thing.’

‘Oh that,’ Riedwaan said dryly. ‘I remember.’

‘What line of work are you in?’ asked Boss.

‘Investigations,’ said Riedwaan.

‘Insurance?’

‘No.’ Riedwaan pushed his glass forward for another shot.

‘You must be in the police,’ said Rusty, a rare flash of understanding in his eyes. ‘Remember, Pop, Captain Damases made the booking?’

They both eyed Riedwaan. Riedwaan stubbed out his cigarette.

‘You working up here then?’ asked Boss.

‘A bit.’ Riedwaan did not care to elaborate.

‘Those fishing scams?’

‘Not really,’ said Riedwaan. ‘Thanks for supper. I need to sleep.’

‘It’s those kids they keep finding in the desert, I bet,’ said Rusty. Another light-bulb flash. He was going to wear himself out at this rate. ‘I think it’s a sailor. One of those Russians. They’re all faggots. Drinking vodka, living on those ships for so long. What do you say, Pop?’

Boss ignored his son, turning to rinse the glasses in the sink.

‘You must know that lady policeman staying at the cottages down the road,’ Rusty said excitedly.

‘I think I do,’ said Riedwaan, getting up.

‘She’s hot,’ said Rusty. ‘I’ve seen her run past here in the mornings. Nice little tits. I bet I could get her to work up a sweat for me.’

Rusty’s fingers were in Riedwaan’s muscular hand, bent further back than their original specifications should have allowed. Riedwaan’s voice was low, intimate in Rusty’s ear. ‘You go near her and you’ll be combing the desert for your balls.’

The boy rubbed his hand. He decided it was best to say nothing.

Riedwaan finished his whisky. ‘What time is breakfast?’

‘Six-thirty on. You want bacon and eggs?’

‘No bacon. Just the eggs. Thanks.’

Riedwaan went back to his room and checked his cellphone. A missed call. Yasmin, his daughter. Damn, he’d forgotten his biweekly call. He pulled off his boots and lay on the bed, meaning to phone Clare. Instead, he fell at once into that deep, untroubled sleep that is the gift of innocence or physical exhaustion.