Michael Ridpath - See No Evil

I was silenced. Neels smiled at me. “How long are you in South Africa?”

“A week.”

“Well, why don’t you spend that week in the Mail’s offices? You can write an article or two on America for us. And you’ll get a better idea of how the press in South Africa really works.”

So I stayed a week. Then extended it for another week. Then a month. He persuaded me. And we fell in love. There was his wife — but I don’t want to think about that now.

I am glad I have written about when we met. It’s brought back to me not just the ideals which we shared then, but how much I loved him. Still do love him.

Which makes it all so much more painful when he betrays me.

July 12

Neels is back from Philadelphia, although it’s only for a few days; he’ll be going back there on Friday. Which makes me wonder, why does he spend the weekend there and not here? As usual these days he went straight into the office from the airport and didn’t get back here until nine at night. He looks exhausted. He’s been very distracted these last few weeks. I assumed that it was to do with our marriage or with Hennie’s death, but thinking about what Benton told me perhaps there’s something else. I decided to find out.

I asked him if I could pour him a drink. He glanced at me quickly, checking for signs of sarcasm I suppose. Not seeing any he gave me a weary smile. “Yes, please,” he said.

I poured him a brandy and Coke and myself a glass of wine, and we sat down by the fire. The scent of the blue-gum firewood hung in the air.

“Is the Herald deal not going well?” I asked.

Neels checked again for signs of gloating, but he could see my concern was genuine.

He sighed. “No. I thought we had it in the bag. But it looks as if I can’t raise the money they’re asking. The junk-bond markets are still tough. The crash last October has scared everyone; they all think I’m too big a risk.”

“Do you have to use these junk bonds?” I said. “They always sounded pretty awful to me. Can’t you just borrow money from a bank?”

Neels shook his head. “The bankers are just as scared as the bond investors.”

“Never mind,” I said. “There will be other opportunities.”

“I’m not so sure Zyl News will be around to see other opportunities, liefie .”

This is the first time Neels has admitted what Benton hinted to me: that Zyl News is so overstretched it’s on the point of bankruptcy. It’s also the first time we’ve spoken about the company since he told me he’s planning to close the Cape Daily Mail. Before, in the old days of our marriage, we talked about the business all the time. Discussing what was going on with the newspapers was his way of unwinding, and I was always interested. He is an astute businessman and I like to hear about his exploits.

“Could you sell the US papers and keep the South African ones?” I asked.

Neels glanced at me quickly, his eyes betraying a flash of irritation. But he considered the question. “It’s a bad time to sell anything in the States. Everything’s on hold, no one’s making any plans. No. I’ve got to figure out a way of funding the Herald deal. That’s all there is to it.”

For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. Then I remembered the night he hadn’t come home.

I drank my wine. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, an international media mogul like you.” This time, Neels didn’t have to look for the sarcasm.

July 14

I’m sitting here, at the picnic place halfway up the Hondekop, shaking as I write this. I have got to be so careful how and where I write in this diary. At least up here I won’t be disturbed and I want to get down as much of this as I can before I forget it. There’s no point in worrying about what I write in here now — with that list in the back, the book is dynamite if anyone finds it.

Down in the valley, in the house, our house, is Neels. What’s he thinking? I have no idea what’s in his mind. I was absolutely right when I wrote at the beginning of this diary that I had lost him. He’s betrayed everything, his beliefs, me. I don’t know who he is anymore.

And I’m afraid of this new Neels.

He said he wanted to spend the morning working from home, which struck me as a little odd, given how he likes to escape to the office whenever he can these days. I was getting ready to drive Caroline into Stellenbosch. Neels bought a new compact-disc player last month and the result, which we should have anticipated, is that Caroline wants to buy a whole bunch of new compact discs to replicate her record collection, such as it is. As will Todd, no doubt, when he gets home. Anyway, just as we were leaving, Daniel Havenga drove up with another man, a neat little fellow with a limp. Daniel was his usual cheery self, and was telling his companion how wonderful our garden was, when Neels appeared. It was clear that the visit had been arranged, although I knew nothing about it. This wasn’t necessarily surprising since Neels and I say precious little to each other these days, although he had mumbled something about working from home this morning. Daniel introduced his friend as Andries Visser and Neels took them off to the study.

My curiosity was aroused. All our dealings with Daniel have been social, but this was business. Visser was wearing a gray suit and he was carrying one of those slim black businessman briefcases. He looked like a man about to enter an important meeting rather than someone dropping in on a friend in the country.

So, I told Caroline I just wanted to finish something off in the garden, and I strolled around the side of the house. Neels’s study is by the slave bell, and I rooted around in the tulip beds there to try to catch their conversation. The window, which he usually likes to keep open unless it is very cold, was shut. I could hear murmuring inside, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying, especially since the bok-makieries decided to take that moment to start yelling to each other.

I was desperate to find out what it was they were discussing. I even considered standing outside the room with my ear to the door, but that would have been too obvious. I went around to the front of the house, where Daniel’s Renault was parked. I looked inside. The car was a mess, wine-gum wrappers all over the place and a load of books slung on the back seat with Daniel’s raincoat. The books were university textbooks on media and journalism. I wondered if there was anything in the trunk. I glanced around. No sign of Caroline or Doris or Finneas or anyone else. I quickly opened it up and peeked in. Inside was a mess of plastic bags, some boots and a small bag of rose fertilizer. I snapped the trunk shut.

I had a last look into the car through the rear window, and caught a glimpse of brown leather poking out from under the coat. Another quick look around to see if anyone was watching and I checked the car door. Unlocked. I opened it. Pushed back the coat to reveal a battered brown briefcase. Opened the briefcase.

Like the car, it was a mess, full of loose crinkled papers, some of which bore the University of Stellenbosch crest. In the back was a plastic folder with a thick sheaf of papers. I glanced at the top sheet. It was a survey of the British newspaper market. I was about to shove it back in the briefcase, when I noticed the words “Zyl News.”

I flicked through the report. Lots of figures, lots of analysis of the media markets in South Africa, Europe and the US.

Behind that was a two-page memo. It was headed “Cornelius van Zyl.”

I hesitated. I had no idea how long the meeting with Neels would take. But curiosity overcame caution and I read on. It was in Afrikaans, of course, which was a blow, but not an insurmountable one. I made an effort to learn the language once I realized I was in South Africa for the long haul, and I can read an Afrikaans newspaper quite comfortably. With a little care and imagination I could work out the gist of most of the memo.