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said.
    ‘Where are you?’ said Antjie Barnard in her deep, incredibly sensual voice.
    ‘Working. I’ll be away a week or so.’
    ‘That’s what I thought. What about your turn for irrigation? It’s hot here.’
    ‘I’ll have to ask you to do it.’
    ‘Then I will. If I don’t see you before then, Happy New Year.’
    ‘Thanks, Antjie, same to you. Look after yourself.’
    ‘What for?’ She laughed and rang off.
    When I turned, Emma was right behind me, with the light of new information shining in her eyes. I said nothing, just took thekey of a white BMW 318i that she held out to me. It was parked outside in the sun. I loaded our bags in the boot and did a 360-degree reconnaissance. Nobody was interested in us. I got in and started the engine so the air conditioner could kick in. Emma unfolded a map on her lap.
    ‘I thought we should go to Hoedspruit first,’ she said. Her index finger sought out the road. I noticed that she wasn’t wearing nail polish. ‘Here, past Hazyview and Klaserie, it looks like the shortest route. Do you know this part of the country, Lemmer?’
    ‘Not well’
    ‘I’ll navigate.’
    We drove. There was more traffic than I had expected, pickups, 4 × 4s, trucks and minibus-taxis. No sign of anyone following. Through White River the contrast with the Cape was sharp – here the colours of nature were bright and over the top in the foliage of the endless trees, the blood red of nearly every flower, the deep dark mahogany of the people manning stalls along the roadside. Ugly, amateurish signs shouted names, prices and directions to campsites, guest houses and private game farms.
    Emma gave directions; we found the R538 and drove on, initially in silence.
    When the question eventually came, it was no surprise. No woman can suppress her curiosity over certain things.
    ‘Was that your …’ An instant of hesitation to indicate that the term would be broadly inclusive: ‘friend?’
    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