Endgame. Wilna Adriaanse

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      “What bee have you got in your bonnet this morning?”

      She pushed back her hair and smiled up at him. “When did you become so nosy?”

      He turned and she followed him into the kitchen, where he lifted a key from a hook on the wall.

      “I’ll get the helmet.”

      “Is Gerda back from church yet?”

      Wynand shook his head. “No, she’s probably having tea.”

      “Better not tell her I was here … or about the bike.”

      He held out the helmet and nodded. “You’re not going to ride in that outfit, are you?”

      “Just home.”

      “Where’s your car?”

      “I left it at the church.” She handed him her car keys. “Do me a favour and ask Manie to fetch it tomorrow and keep it for me? And while it’s there, he might as well give it a service and check the ignition. It plays up now and again.”

      “Anything else?”

      “No, that’s all.”

      “Will you be at work on Wednesday?”

      She tucked her hair under the helmet. “I’ll call you.”

      “Don’t make me regret the day I taught you to ride!” he called after her as she hurried down the steps. “Take care.”

      Ellie walked around the back of the house to the outbuilding where the bike was kept. Moments later she rode through the gate, waving at Wynand who was watching from the porch, frowning. She set off through the veld. It had been a dry summer and the soil was baked solid. The first autumn rain had not yet fallen. The sun scorched her skin and the air was hot – but gradually the tight knot at the pit of her stomach relaxed and she sat more easily, her body finding the rhythm of the bike. Her dress had escaped from between her knees and fluttered up to expose her thighs. The day Wynand had taught her to ride she’d discovered a brand-new love. She had begged him to sell her the bike, but he’d refused. Just the sight of it probably still gave him a sense of freedom.

      “It’s not that I can’t or don’t want to ride any more. It’s just not worth getting the silent treatment for the next week. Gerda says it’s silly at my age and she refuses to visit me in hospital or take care of me if I break something,” he said one day when she asked why he didn’t ride any more.

      She stopped behind a cactus and walked to the first rock, from where she had an unrestricted view of her house. The yard was deserted. Only the swing under the jacaranda tree moved slightly. The water in the dam nearly made her change her mind, but it wasn’t worth it. She dabbed at the sweat in her neck but a trickle escaped and ran down her chest.

      She turned and walked to the ruins of an old building. In a corner of what used to be the front room she lifted a sheet of corrugated iron and retrieved the plastic bag with her backpack. The metal sheet was hot and she dropped it hastily. The bag was covered in dust and cobwebs. She shook off the worst of it and removed the backpack. She pulled her dress over her head and took out a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a short leather jacket. She exchanged her sandals for woollen socks and leather boots, pinned up her hair and put the helmet back on. Then she sent Marius a message.

      Sorry I left in such a hurry. Won’t make it for lunch. Something urgent has come up. Talk to you later.

      She switched off her cellphone and hesitated before putting it into her handbag. She pushed the handbag, dress and sandals into the backpack, strapped it to the bike and climbed on. She let the bike run down the hill before she started the engine. The incline was steep and she had to concentrate to keep her balance. Ten minutes later she was on the tarred road. She took a deep breath, opened the throttle and felt the bike respond.

      She had hidden the bag of clothing under the metal sheet about a week after her arrival in the town. She wasn’t sure why, but a nagging unease inside her had subsided after she had done it.

      She could ride the road with her eyes closed. She felt her body anticipate the bends. She suspected it was the kloof that had made her stop that first evening. When it was behind her and the town lay ahead of her, she breathed easily for the first time in a long while. Like a baby taking its first breath, having passed through the birth canal. The world on this side of the kloof looked different from the one she had come from. It was a new world, with a slower rhythm. Even the colours seemed brighter. If you listened carefully, you could make out faint sounds. A guinea fowl, a car pulling away, two dogs barking in turn. A hadeda taking flight from the roof of a house. Things here had not been reduced to a cacophony, where separate sounds could no longer be distinguished.

      She was aware of every car on the road and her eyes kept shifting to the rearview mirror. On the other side of Worcester she stopped at a filling station, filled the tank and bought a sandwich and some fruit juice. She parked the bike under an awning and ate the sandwich standing next to the bike, watching the vehicles that were pulling up. Most were occupied by families on a Sunday outing. Were they on their way to visit someone, or just taking a drive to get out of the house?

      At the turnoff on the Du Toitskloof Pass she chose the road over the mountain. Better not to drive through the tollgate and past the cameras. When she crested the ridge, the Peninsula lay beneath her in a haze. There had to be a fire somewhere.

      She could have been swimming in the dam under the tree now, she thought with some irritation.

      Once she was over the pass, she was glad to speed up again. At the Goodwood off-ramp forty-five minutes later, she hesitated a moment, then carried on. She would come back another day. When she didn’t have to look over her shoulder.

      The backpackers’ lodge in Sea Point had secure parking for the bike. The young man at reception got to his feet slowly, sleepily. The small television set behind him was tuned to a reality show.

      He handed her a room key and sat back down. On days like these she was glad of people’s inherent laziness and lack of attention.

      The room was like any other room in a backpackers’ lodge. Two single beds. Clean linen that had seen better days. The guests who stayed here were not looking for a luxury experience. They believed they were seeing the real South Africa. Like people who choose to sit in the front row at the circus to be salivated on by the clowns and elephants.

      Ellie locked her backpack in the wardrobe, locked the door behind her and walked down the passage. The wooden floorboards creaked under her weight.

      There was a convenience store on the corner and she was glad to see they still had the Sunday papers. She walked back, carrying the newspapers and a bottle of water. In her room she took off her jacket and boots and lay down on the bed. A few minutes later she got rid of her jeans as well. She opened the curtains and the window. She could smell the sea. It wasn’t a fresh smell – old kelp that had lain in the sun too long, and fish. The room smelled of people.

      She scanned the articles in the papers. Nothing drew her attention. There was the usual violence, politics, scandal. All over the world. The shadow on the opposite wall had disappeared, which meant the sun had gone down over the ocean. When she looked at her watch, she saw it was almost six o’clock. She stretched and put her jeans and boots back on. She retrieved a cap from her backpack and put it on her head. The young man was no longer at reception. СКАЧАТЬ