Trackers (23 page)

No.

Wickus had been shouting orders from the ground, Flea had
been standing on the roof of the Mercedes. Swannie on the Bedford, with half
the labourers, while Lourens and myself and the remainder of the men had been
pulling on the ropes to shift the rhinos centimetre by centimetre.

Everyone busy, groaning, sweating, focused. The more clearly
I recalled the scene, the more certain I became - there had been no chance to
transfer anything else, to hide it, attach it.

My cellphone beeped in my pocket. I took it out. An SMS. From
Emma. SEE YOU TONIGHT ON D'S FARM. MISSING YOU SO MUCH XXX.

Relief flooded over me, too late I realised Flea was also
staring at the little screen.

She looked at me and her crooked smile said she had gained
new insight.

At a quarter to eleven we crossed the N8 between Kimberley
and Bloemfontein. At eleven Lourens pointed out the signboard to Magersfontein.

'Wasn't that a book?' Flea asked.

'It was a battlefield, in the Boer War,' he said. 'My
great-grandfather was there. Paardeberg is also around here. And Modder River.'

'Did we win?'

'At Magersfontein and Modder River we gave a superior British
force a good hiding. But Paardeberg ... that's a sad story.'

'Tell me,' said Flea.

At two minutes past eleven, in the little town of Jacobsdal,
something drew my attention away from Lourens's history lesson.

I kept my voice even. 'Could you stop here right now,
please?'

'Oom?' he said.

'I just want to say hello to some old friends.' On the main
street, in a tidy row in front of a small hotel, stood four Harley Davidsons.

'OK.' He started to brake.

Flea drew a breath to say something.

'I'll
be quick,' I countered.

Snakes prefer to
flee, and only molestation will cause attack.

The Art of Tracking:
Dangerous animals

Before I went in I made sure. The number plate on the
motorbike closest to the door read NV ME.

I found them in the little bar, all four on high stools, beer
in hand, laughing about something. Hu-hu-hu. I went up to Steel Grey and put my
hand on his shoulder.

'Are you sober?' I asked.

He looked around irritably, then scowled at my swollen eye,
the bruises, trying hard to place me.

'Who mugged you?' he asked. All four were staring at me now.

'Are you sober? I can't
bliksem
you if you're drunk.'

'Loxton,' said Ratface. 'Yesterday ...'

He could remember. They were sober enough. I pulled Steel
Grey by the tassels on his leather jacket, so that he had to get down off his
stool. The tassels tore off. 'Hey!' he said and swung at me. An amateur.

I dodged the blow. 'You called Emma le Roux a scrawny bitch,'
I said.

'Leave him alone,' said the Big Guy, coming at me.

I hit Steel Grey. There was a lot in that blow. My dilemma at
Emma's declaration of love, the stomach-turning flight, hours in the Musina sun,
a night of humiliation, pain all over my body, the frustration of unanswered
questions.

He dropped. Like a stone.

I turned to the Big Guy. 'Come on,' I said.

At sixteen minutes past eleven I climbed back into the cab of
the Mercedes, experiencing a sense of release, a weight unburdened, a brief
taste of paradise.

'Thank you,' I said.

Lourens spotted the blood on my hand and put two and two
together. 'Those guys from yesterday?'

'How did you know?'

'Nicola told me over the phone yesterday, before lunchtime
already He heard about it from Oom Diederik.' No secrets in the Bo-Karoo.

I just shook my head.

'I thought they were your friends,' said Flea.

'I think the friendship is over.'

The expression on Lourens's face gradually changed, the
laughter crept over him, until he threw back his head, and the hilarity
infected Flea, until they were both in gales of laughter. I wanted to smile,
even though my sore face protested, because it was then I knew they would get
over last night.

Flea insisted that Lourens tell her the whole Harley story,
since I refused. It was an interesting experience to hear it from the outlet
end of the Loxton pipeline. Four bikers had become six. The story had expanded
to include the phrases 'ugly customers' and 'Hell's Angels' - Steel Grey would
be flattered by the latter. They had insulted Tannie Wilna and Emma
'dreadfully'. Diederik Brand had stopped my fist in the nick of time, or else,
by all accounts, there would have been 'mayhem'.

Lemmer, hero of Loxton.

'They're not Hell's Angels,' I said, when he was done.

'What are they?' Flea asked.

'Rich Afrikaners.'

'What have you got against rich Afrikaners?' Flea asked
indignantly.

I shook my head. Unwilling.

'Come on,' she prodded. 'Are you jealous?'

'I'm sure that's part of it.'

'And the other part?'

I sighed, not in the mood for this.

'Come
on.'

'Ivory tower whingers.'

'What does
that
mean?'

'It means they sit around eating expensive,
impress-the-neighbours Woollies' food in their huge, luxurious houses behind
high walls and alarm systems, in front of their Hi-Def flat screen TVs, with a
Mercedes ML, two quad bikes, a Harley, and a speedboat squeezed into their
triple garages, and they bitch about how bad things are in this country ...'

'But things
are
bad.'

'For them? Rubbish. The point is, they do nothing about it.
They don't vote, they don't get involved, they say stuff like "I can't
make a difference any more", like vultures, they sit and wait for the
government to make a mistake, and then they say, see, I told you so. They are
racist, but too cowardly to show it openly. They moan about crime, but not one
of them ever thought of starting a neighbourhood watch or becoming a police
reservist. They have no culture apart from spending money and drinking. They
are scared. Of everything. And these are people ...Their forefathers at
Magersfontein and Paardeberg would spin in their graves ...'

She was quiet for a long time before she said: 'They're not
all like that.'

'That's true,' I said, because Emma was the exception.

Flea nodded, seeming satisfied.

Their conversation took on a natural flow, a rhythm. I became
the fifth wheel to the wagon, a spectator to the burgeoning friendship between
them. She was a couple of years older than Lourens, wrestling with a few
demons, perhaps, but her arrogance had gone. Maybe because she now knew who and
what he was. The shared trauma would also play a part, create a foundation.

So I withdrew, let them have room, prepared myself for
meeting Diederik Brand again. Emma would be there. I would have to hold back.

We stopped twice more. At Britstown, for pies and cool
drinks, at Victoria West, to sedate the rhinos one last time. Flea was worried.
'They are tired and thirsty. The bull should be OK, but the cow ...'

We drove through Loxton after six, the pear blossoms were a
white snowstorm along the streets. Lourens phoned Nicola to give a progress
report, then took the shortest route through Slangfontein and
the Sak River Poort. At the next junction we turned left one final time to
Skuinskop, Diederik Brand's farm in the Nuweveld Mountains, alongside the
Karoo National Park.

In order to recognise a
specific sign, a tracker often has a preconceived image of what a typical sign
looks like.

Principles of Tracking:
Recognition of signs

They were waiting for us in front of
the big shed - Diederik Brand, his wife Marika, Emma, and a horde of labourers.
Diederik only had eyes for the rhino, he began opening the rear doors straight
away. Emma came to my door full of happiness. That disappeared when she saw my
face. 'What happened?'

'We had a bit of trouble,' I said.

'A bit?'

I looked in Diederik's direction and
said: 'I will tell you later.'

'Are you ...?'

'Nothing serious.'

She hesitated a moment before
embracing me. 'Thank God,' she said. 'Thank God.'

'Holy shit,' said Brand from the
back. 'Where's Cornel? These animals are sick ...'

'It's Necrolytic Dermatitis,' said
Flea and jumped down. 'We must get them offloaded and relaxed as soon as possible.'

Only then did he come around the
truck. 'OK. Then,' said Brand, 'the camp is just around the back here ...' He
saw my damage. 'Lemmer! What happened?'

'Let's offload, then we'll talk,' I
said.

At the tone of my voice, Emma
stiffened against me.

His 'workroom' was a messy place. Big
desk with a PC on top, papers in untidy heaps. Framed photographs on the walls
of ancestors, stud rams, hunting parties, and his pretty blonde wife Marika as
the Wool

Queen in her young days. One dark wood bookshelf with
decorative oil lamps, files, farming and investment guides and a big collection
of old
Landbou Weekblad
and
Farmer's Weekly
magazines. In the corner was a
golf bag of worn leather, the heads of antique golf clubs protruding. He sat
on the edge of the desk, legs straight, arms folded like someone who had
something to hide. I sat on the end of the couch. It was covered with Nguni cow
hide, brown with white speckles.

'You lied to me, Diederik,' I said.

'No! I can't understand this whole thing,' he said, because
he had extracted the story bit by bit from Lourens during the offloading,
casting worried eyes in my direction.

'You're lying.'

'Lemmer, I swear.' That was always
the first thing they said.

'Diederik, I'm not in the mood for games. I know all your stories.
You are a cheat and a liar. You haven't paid my account yet, so you are not a
client. Now you have a choice. You can talk, or you can bleed.'

'Lemmer, buddy, looks like this is one big misunderstanding.'
Hands raised in innocence, charm turned up to the maximum. 'I haven't got
around to the payment yet, I'll do it right now. And that hijacking ...'

I sighed and stood up.

'... if they weren't after the horns ...' said Diederik.
'What on earth, I mean ... it... I don't understand it...'

I walked over to the golf bag and selected a big wood,
because my knuckles hurt after the Harley Knights.

'Do you think this is a game, Diederik? Like the time you
sold the Toyota truck?'

'What Toyota? There are so many stories, Lemmer, people
exaggerate.'

Which was partly true. I pulled the club back and swung at
him, aiming for his ribs. For a big man he was remarkably quick on his feet. I
missed. 'Lemmer, please,' as he dashed for the door. I grabbed him by the
shirt, and dragged him back. I went to the door, locked it and put the key in
my pocket.

'Please, buddy ...' His eyes were
wide, charm on the wane.

'Did Lourens tell you how they held a revolver to his head?
After they blew the head off the one we ran down with the truck?'

'No ..

'Because he's far too
decent
,
Diederik. He should have told you what it feels like to hear the shot and
believe you are dying. The sound you make, the fear, the humiliation when they
deliberately miss. Did he tell you how Cornel begged and cried?'

'Christ, Lemmer, I didn't know ...'

'Damage has been done. On your account. And now you are going
to
pay.'

'Lemmer, I swear ...'

I hit him quickly, struck him on the lower ribs.

'Lemmer!' A shriek. 'Jesus, please ...'

I hit him again. He defended with his hands, the club clipped
his forearm.

'Please!' Bellowing, pleading.

'Pappa?' his wife's voice through the locked door.

I raised the club again. 'Tell her everything is all right,'
I said softly.

'Everything's OK.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, dead sure.' He was breathing fast, his eyes flickering
between me and the door.