Deon Meyer: Blood Safari

I knew what she meant, but feigned ignorance.

‘The one who phoned just now?’ Emma’s tone was in chit-chat mode, that neutrally friendly style that indicated mere curiosity, a matter of interest. It was not necessarily untrue. That is how women’s brains work. They use such information to colour in the picture. If you have a girlfriend, you can’t be a total psychopath. The art is to answer them in such a way that you avoid the annoying follow-up questions. What does she do? (To determine your and your girlfriend’s status.) Have you been together long? (To gauge the degree of the relationship.) How did you meet? (To satisfy their craving for romance.)

I just grinned and made a non-committal noise. It worked every time, because it said to them she was not the sort of friend they had in mind and that it actually was none of their business. Emma took it bravely.

We drove through Nsikazi, Legogoto, Manzini, little villages, a continuous monotony of poor houses and restless people wandering about in the incredible baking heat, children squatting on their haunches beside the road, swimming in a river under a bridge.

Emma looked to the left, at the horizon. ‘What mountain is that?’ She was determined to pursue a conversation.

‘Mariepskop,’ I said.

‘I thought you didn’t know this area.’

‘I don’t know the roads.’

She looked at me expectantly.

‘When the ministers come to the Kruger Park for a weekend, they fly into Hoedspruit. There’s a military airport.’

She looked at the mountain again. ‘How many ministers have you guarded, Lemmer?’ Carefully adding: ‘If you can talk about it …’

‘Two.’

‘Oh?’

‘Transport and Agriculture. Mostly Agriculture.’

She glanced back at me. She didn’t say a word, but I knew what she was thinking. Not exactly high risk. Her bodyguard – an unarmed former minder of the Minister of Agriculture. I knew she felt really safe.

‘I’m looking for Inspector Jack Phatudi,’ Emma said to the constable in the Hoedspruit charge office.

The hefty policewoman had an inscrutable expression. ‘I do not know that man.’

‘I think he works here.’

‘No.’

‘He is investigating the Khokhovela murders.’ Emma’s voice was light and friendly, as if she were talking to a loved one.

The constable looked at Emma without comprehension.

‘The traditional healer and three other men who were killed.’

‘Oh. That one.’

‘Yes.’

The policewoman moved slowly as if the searing heat were holding her back. She pulled a telephone closer. The phone might have been white once. It was battered and coffee coloured now. She tapped in a number and waited. Then she spoke in staccato sePedi – phrases like bursts of machine-gun fire. She put the phone down.

‘He is not here.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘No.’

‘Will he be coming back?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Is there somewhere I can find out?’

‘You will have to wait.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’ Still without inflection.

‘I … uh …’ Emma looked at the hard wooden bench against the wall, then back to the constable. ‘I’m not sure …’

‘They will phone,’ the constable said.

‘Oh?’

‘To say where he is.’

‘OK,’ said Emma with relief. ‘Thank you.’ She went over to the bench. Her skin had a sheen of perspiration. She sat down and gave the constable a smile of patient goodwill. I stood beside the bench and leaned against the wall. It wasn’t as cool as I had expected. I watched the constable. She was busy writing up a dossier. She did not perspire. Two black men came in and went up to the desk. They spoke to her. She scowled and upbraided them in short bursts. They answered apologetically. The phone rang. She held up a hand. The men stopped and looked down at their shoes. She answered the phone, listened and then replaced the receiver.

‘He has gone back to Tzaneen,’ she said in Emma’s direction. But Emma was gazing out through the door.

‘Lady!’

Emma jumped and stood up.

‘He has gone back to Tzaneen.’

‘Inspector Phatudi?’

‘Yes. That is where his office is. Violent Crimes.’

‘Oh …’

‘But he will come tomorrow. Early. Eight o’clock.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emma, but the constable was busy with the two men again, talking to them as if they were boys who had been up to no good.

She navigated the way to the Mohlolobe Private Game Reserve with a printout of their web page in her hand. ‘There are so many places here,’ she said as we passed the dramatic entrance gates of the Kapama Game Reserve, the Mtuma Sands Wildlife Lodge and the Cheetah Inn, each a variation on the postmodern Lowveld theme of rough stone, thatched roof, animal motif and fancy lettering. I suspected that the room rates were directly proportional to the subtlety of these portals to Eden.

Mohlolobe’s unique selling point was a pair of slender, tasteful elephant tusks moulded from concrete to guard the entrance. There was a gate guard wearing a uniform of khaki and olive green. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that was marginally too big for him and carried a clipboard with a couple of sheets of paper. On his chest was a metal name tag. It read Edwin. Security Official. ‘Welcome to Mohlolobe,’ he said on my side of the BMW with a glittering white smile. ‘Do you have a reservation?’

‘Good afternoon,’ Emma answered. ‘It’s in the name of Le Roux.’

‘Le Roux?’ He consulted his list, eyebrows raised hopefully. His face brightened. ‘Indeed, indeed, Mr and Mrs Le Roux, you are most welcome. It is seven kilometres to the main camp, just follow the signs, and please do not leave the vehicle under any circumstances.’ He swung open the big gate and waved us through with a flourish of his arm.

The dirt road twisted through thick mopane forest, here and there a piece of open grassveld. A herd of impala trotted into the undergrowth in annoyance. ‘Look,’ said Emma. And then she inexplicably pressed her hand over her mouth, and stared, entranced. Hornbills swooped from tree to tree. A herd of buffalo chewed the cud and stared in boredom. Emma was silent. Even when I pointed at the heaps of digested grass and said, ‘Elephant dung.’

Mohlolobe Main Camp smelt of big money. The thatched roofs of the guest units were disguised along the banks of the Mohlolobe river, paved roads, hidden lighting, forced joviality from the staff in their khaki and olive uniforms. This was Africa for the rich American tourist, eco-friendly five-star luxury, an oasis of civilisation in the wild, cruel bush. I followed the signs to reception and we got out into a wall of heat, but inside the building it was suddenly cool. We walked down the passage to the reception desk. There was an Internet room on the left. They called it ‘The Bush Telegraph’. An expensive curio shop on the right was ‘The Trading Post’.

A pretty blonde waited at reception. On the olive green of her shirt was a name tag. Susan. Hospitality Official. ‘Hi. I’m Susan. Welcome to Mohlolobe,’ with a big smile and a well-concealed Afrikaans accent. Sue-zin, not Soe-sun as it would have been pronounced in Afrikaans.

‘Hi. I’m Emma le Roux and this is Mr Lemmer,’ she said, equally friendly, to Sue-zin.

‘You wanted a two-bedroom suite?’ the blonde enquired discreetly.

‘That’s right.’

‘We’re going to give you the Bateleur,’ as if she were doing us a big favour. ‘It’s right in front of the waterhole.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Emma, and I wondered why she didn’t speak to the woman in Afrikaans.

‘Now, I just need a credit card, please,’ she said, looking at me. When Emma took out her purse there was a little moment when Sue-zin looked at me in a new light.