When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) (6 page)

Annamari hesitated, thenpushed the key into the lock. It turned surprisingly easily. Twisting the handle, she pushed the door open and walked into the gloom. She pulled back the curtains and tiny dust motes danced in the unaccustomed rays of sunlight. It was all exactly as she remembered. Her eyes rested on the neat piles of magazines on the coffee table
–
Landbouweekbla
d
,
Koringfoku
s
,
Farmer’s Weekl
y
. Christo had always liked to remain abreast of developments in agriculture...

She walked through to the bedrooms – the rooms, Christo told her when she teased him about building a three-bedroomed house – where his children would sleep, one day. After he found the right girl to marry. He wasn’t in a rush, he was young, there was plenty of time he always said. But time was no match for an AK47.

The bed in the spare room was covered with one of Rosie’s bright, multicoloured crocheted blankets. The cupboards were empty. In Christo’s study, there were papers strewn all over the desk. Odd – Christo had always been so meticulously neat. A ribbon of fax paper curled from the fax machine over the edge of the desk. A new message. She wondered if Christo had ever read it. She opened the cupboards. Books, textbooks mainly.

The second bathroom. Christo had obviously never used it. Not even a tube of toothpaste in the cabinet. She opened the cold tap; it burbled and rattled and some brownish water spluttered out. The tap coughed and fresh, clean water rushed into the dusty basin. She wiped away the splatter with her hand. The toilet flushed and water gurgled in, refilling the cistern. In the bathroom mirror, a white round face; pale blue eyes fringed by pale lashes; mousy hair scraped back into a ponytail; pale lips; double chin – Annamari looked away.

Then reluctantly down the passage, towards the open door at the end. She tiptoed into her brother’s bedroom. Everything was neat, orderly. Like it should be. She gently, softly, stroked the slight indentation in the blue and grey duvet where he must have sat, probably for the last time. To put on his shoes? To get something from his bedside pedestal? Had he had the slightest inkling of the horror that was awaiting him just a few hundred metres away? She wrenched her eyes away and focused on the cupboard. She pulled the door open, and quickly closed it. She’d ask Petrus to go through Christo’s clothes – take what he wanted, give the rest away.

Into the ensuite bathroom: a small bundle of clothing in the laundry basket, a brown and green towel hanging over the rail next to the shower, Colgate shampoo and a cake of blue soap in the shower, a half-empty tube of Aquafresh toothpaste in the mug on the basin along with a red toothbrush. In the cabinet, a razor, Gillette shaving cream, a packet of Panado tablets, some Band Aid plasters, a tube of Dettol antiseptic cream. And a green bottle of Brut aftershave. Her favourite. She’d bought Christo his first bottle for his fourteenth birthday, a joke really. He’d never understood why he used it up so much faster in the holidays when they were both home from school. He obviously continued to use it... had continued to use it.

She stumbled back into the bedroom, blew her nose on the ragged tissue clenched in her sweaty fist. The red pain tearing at the back of her throat reminded her that time didn’t heal anything. Perhaps she’d feel better if they caught the bloody terrorists – but that didn’t seem likely. And even if they did get them, what would it matter? They’d stopped hanging killers. They’d probably get a medal from Mandela.

With a trembling hand, she lifted the top book on the pile next to Christo’s bed: Francois Bloemhof’
s
Die Nag het net Een Oo
g
. He’d promised to lend it to her when he finished it. Underneath was Andre Brink’
s
Die Eerste Lewe van Adamasta
r
–she didn’t like Brink, but Christo would read anything. And there, at the bottom of the pile, was Thys’ copy of Wilbur Smith’
s
Golden Fo
x
. So that was where it had got to. Thys had thought they’d lost it in the confusion when they moved to Steynspruit after the murders. She hugged it. She wondered if Christo had enjoyed it. Or if he’d even had a chance to read it.

Enough.

Outside, tears seeped through her clenched lids. She drank in the warm air while the sun tried to thaw her frozen veins. Petrus and Pretty and the others – they could come and clear everything out. And paint the house. Nice bright colours.

‘Ma, Ma, I’m home.’ Arno, all gangly arms and legs, was rushing down the path from the main house towards her, Beauty hot on his heels.

They panted to a halt at the foot of the stairs.

‘So what do you think, Ma? Will Ma do it, what Pa said?’ Arno asked.

Beauty, beaming with joy, nodded vigorously.

Annamari looked down at the two pairs of bright blue eyes staring anxiously up at her, pleading. And she knew. In that instant, she knew exactly who Pretty’s... she knew who Beauty’s father was.

Annamari choked back the wail forcing its way past her clenched teeth. She felt his breath on her ear but the roar drowned his words. She was being bumped, shaken, as she hurtled towards certain death. A lurch liberated a tiny moan of terror from behind her clenched teeth. She could feel herself being forced down, paralysed as the high-pitched whine rose higher yet, protesting in unearthly rage. Her lungs were bursting; the tiny hairs in her inner ear were quivering like a piano tuner’s fork. She felt the unbearable whine die and braced herself for the shudder as gravity caught them and punished them for daring to presume they could fly.

‘You can open your eyes now,’ Thys said. ‘We’re up.’

She released his hand. The little boy in seat 34 D stared scornfully at her. In a resonating soprano, his unintelligible guttural words announced her shameful terror to the entire aircraft
.

‘The first time is always the worst, you’ll see,’ Thys said.

She didn’t want to see. She wished she’d never agreed to leave Driespruitfontein, leave mother earth, on this crazy, crazy escapade. It was all Thys’ father’s fault. She knew Dominee van Zyl disliked her. That’s why he’d insisted, even after she told him she didn’t like flying, that she and Thys go and check everything out for him before he led his flock on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land later in the year.

‘You’ve never flown, Annamari – so how do you know that you don’t like it?’ he’d said, while the silver carving knife meticulously dissected the leg of lamb on Easter Sunday. ‘Anyway,’ he proclaimed to his admiring audience in the bi
g
pastori
e
dining room – Thys, her mother-in-law, the deacon, th
e
ouderlin
g
and their primped wives – ‘it’s about time Annamari saw something more of the world than that farm. A visit to the Holy Land, to walk in the footsteps of our Lord – it will be good for her.’

Ma van Zyl pursed her lips.

Annamari knew that everyone in that room, with the exception of Thys, knew that th
e
domine
e
meant it would be good for “a sinner like her”. She knew that th
e
domine
e
had never forgiven her for “trapping” Thys into marriage. His disdain and dislike had deepened – something she hadn’t thought possible – when they decided to move to Steynspruit after the murders, thus depriving his only son and heir of the opportunity to either coach the Springboks or be appointed headmaster of Grey College. Probably both. How often had he sniped at her (out of Thys’ hearing, of course), that it was all her fault that Thys was languishing in educational and rugby exile, depriving South Africa of his considerable talents – and (although this was never actually said) his parents of their rightful reflected glory. Sometimes she wondered if Thys had any regrets. He never said anything, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask him. She just couldn’t.

Thys was so excited at the prospect of visiting the Holy Land that she hadn’t protested further. He made their reservations for the July school holidays, and he arranged for Arno and De Wet to go and stay with friends. Arno had protested that at fifteen, he was old enough to stay on Steynspruit alone. Petrus and Pretty would be there, and he wanted to spend time with Bootie. Annamari shuddered at the thought of Arno, all raging hormones, alone in the house with sixteen-year-old Beauty, who was truly starting to live up to her name.

Thys always laughed at her concern that Arno was far too fond of Beauty. She wasn’t sure how Beauty felt about Arno but she had her suspicions and it filled her with dread. She and Beauty watche
d
Egol
i
together on TV, and spoke about her schoolwork, her dreams for the future, cooking, fashion... everything except anything even vaguely related to boys or sex. Annamari had tried to talk to her about what had happened with Stefan Smit. There was an article i
n
Huisgenoo
t
that said rape victims should talk about their experience. But whenever she tried to broach the topic, Beauty simply changed the subject or walked out.

‘Arno could do a whole lot worse,’ Thys always said. ‘Beauty’s a lovely girl, very bright and we’ll have to start getting used to – what do they call them? Inter-racial relationships – in the new South Africa. Anyway, I strongly suspect that Beauty’s father was white – not Coloured.’

Annamari gasped but Thys didn’t seem to notice. ‘Anyway,’ he went on reassuringly, ‘I really don’t think young Arno thinks of her like that at all – he still insists on calling her Bootie. I’m sure he regards her as a sister.’

She’d choked and Thys had patted her on the back.

So here she was, terrified anticipation gnawing at her stomach, squashed into a flimsy metal capsule and being catapulted through the air at forty thousand feet towards a country she knew absolutely nothing about except for what she could remember from Sunday School. And that there always seemed to be a war going on there – a real war. And that they didn’t keep the Sabbath like the rest of the civilised world.

‘The guidebook says everything’s open on Sundays,’ Thys said when she expressed her concern about arriving in Tel Aviv on a Sunday. ‘It’s not like Driespruitfontein, or Bloem. But we won’t have to shop for food. We can just order from room service or go to a restaurant.’

She was relieved Thys was so knowledgeable and sophisticated. She’d never stayed in a hotel with room service before. She’d never stayed in a hotel before. Her ma had always said it was a waste of money to stay in a hotel when they could stay in a nice, big beachfront flat with a full kitchen, three bedrooms and an incredible view from the twelfth floor when they went to Amanzimtoti for two weeks every Christmas. But Thys had stayed in big, fancy hotels in Johannesburg and Pretoria and Durban and Cape Town when he used to go on rugby tours.

***

Annamari looked out the window, the noise of the traffic roaring along the road eight floors below muted, the low hum of the air conditioner reassuringly cool. It looked like Durban, with all the high-rise hotels lining the Golden Mile. Except the street names and shop signs were written in a strange mess of funny lines and squiggles; all the cars and taxis and buses were driving on the wrong side of the road; and the sea looked remarkably calm, flat and blue – not a single white horse to be seen. And even though it was July, it was hot, probably even hotter than Amanzimtoti in December. It was also humid, horribly humid. Stepping out of the air conditioned taxi had been like stepping into a furnace. She’d caught her breath and hurried behind Thys into the hotel foyer, her pretty new pink blouse already sticking to her back.

The drive from the airport had passed in a blur of bewildered impressions: where were the camels, the donkeys – anything to indicate that this was the Holy Land? The busy highway rushed past some dusty, barren-looking fields and distant towns and then they were swallowed by high-rise buildings and chaotic, noisy traffic. Welcome to Tel Aviv.

Armed with the map provided – free of charge – by the man at the front desk, she and Thys ventured out. First across the road to the promenade, strolling along trying to catch the drips of her ice cream with her tongue before they stained her fresh, yellow blouse. Then into a cool little restaurant with red Formica tables and chairs.

They studied the indecipherable menu. ‘What do you recommend?’ Thys asked the pretty, red-haired waitress.

‘A toast?’ the waitress said. ‘Israeli salad? Cola?’

They chomped their way through a large bowl of finely diced tomato, onion, cucumber and some other unidentifiable vegetables, finished their Cokes and reluctantly left the air-conditioned cocoon. Turning left at the corner, they found themselves on a tree-lined boulevard and stopped to watch two old men playing a board game she had never seen before; then around the corner into a narrow street and right into another road that seemed to have nothing but fabric shops and then they were in a market with piles of fruit and fish and cheese and toys and souvenirs and people shouting and pushing and calling to them to come in, come see, come buy... Thys bought two oranges and two Cokes.

They were lost. A woman directed them back to the sea. They found their hotel. Annamari collapsed on the bed, exhausted, exhilarated. Her first day as a tourist in a strange – a very strange – land, and she’d handled it like a pro. Tomorrow, their guide would meet them and take them to the places from Sunday School: Jerusalem, the Sea of Galilee, Tiberius... She knew she’d never sleep. That night, after Steyn was conceived, she slept, curled up against her husband’s warm body, while the air conditioner hummed.