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who handles a lot of weird phone calls. ‘He is De Villiers.’
    ‘I know he is De Villiers now, but his name might have once been Le Roux.’
    The patience diminished. ‘How can that be? He’s been here all his life. Everybody knows him.’
    She apologised and thanked him and ended the call. At least now she knew.
    She went to sleep with the longing unstilled, as though her losses had been renewed after all these years.
    ‘And then, yesterday afternoon, I was standing outside with the man who was replacing my front door. The sergeant, the policeman, had found someone from Hanover Park, a carpenter. I heard the phone ring in the study. When I picked it up there was static on the line, I couldn’t hear very well, I thought he said “Miss Emma?” It sounded like a black man. When I said “yes”, he said something that sounded like “Jacobus”. I said I couldn’t hear him. Then he said “Jacobus says you must…” and I said I couldn’t hear, but he didn’t repeat it. I asked “Who is this?” but the line went dead …’
    For a moment she drifted off in her thoughts, her focus far away, then she came back, turned her head to look at me and said, ‘I’m not even sure that’s what he said. The call was so short.’ She was speaking more rapidly, as if she were in a rush to finish. ‘I drove over here last night. When Carel heard the story …’
    She left it at that. She wanted a response from me, an indication that I understood, an assurance that I would protect her from everything. This was her moment of buyer’s remorse, like someone who has bought a new car and reads the advertisement again. I am familiar with it, this moment when you commit yourself to the unwritten part of the contract that says ‘I accept unconditionally’.
    I nodded my head sagely and said, ‘I understand. I’m sorry …’ and made a semicircle with my hands to show that I included everything – her loss, her pain, her dilemma.
    There was a short silence between us, the agreement sealed. She expected action now, some sort of guidance.
    ‘The first thing I must do is inspect the house, inside and out.’
    ‘Ah, of course,’ she said, and we rose.
    ‘But we’re only staying here for one night, Mr Lemmer.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘I have to know what’s going on, Mr Lemmer. It… I find it all so disturbing. I can’t just sit here and wonder. Is it OK for us to travel? Can you travel with me? Because I’m going to the Lowveld tomorrow.’

4
    It was dark outside, but the street lights were bright. I walked around the house. It was no fortress. There was burglar-proofing on the ground floor only, subtle enough not to offend the aesthetics. The weakest point was the sliding glass doors that opened on to the big veranda overlooking the sea. Tuscan pillars, corners and protuberances offered four or five alternatives to access the windows on the first and second storeys.
    Inside, I knew, was the usual alarm system with motion sensors and a connection to a local private security firm. Their blue-and-white sign was prominently displayed beside the garage. It was holiday home security, designed as an optimistic deterrent and to keep insurance premiums down.
    The house was about three years old. I wondered what had been here before, what did they knock down to build this excess and splendour, and what that had cost.
    Lemmer’s Law of Rich Afrikaners: If a Rich Afrikaner can show off, he will.
    The first thing a Rich Afrikaner buys is bigger boobs for his wife. The second thing a Rich Afrikaner buys is an expensive pair of dark glasses (with brand name prominently displayed), which he only removes when it is totally dark. It serves to create the first barrier between himself and the poor. ‘I can see you, but you can’t see me any more.’ The third thing the Rich Afrikaner buys is a double-storey house in the Tuscan style. (And the fourth is a vanity number plate for his car, with his name or the number of his rugby jersey.) How much