Borderline by Marita van der Vyver

Author:Marita van der Vyver
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House South Africa
Published: 2019-10-18T16:00:00+00:00

17. BROKEN TOYS

When Theresa walks into the dining hall, Ruben is already seated at a table, tucking into an enormous breakfast. Not exactly what she would call a morning meal. His plate is filled with everything from rice and meat to salads, but she remembers Oreste’s playful remark about why Cubans liked buffet meals so much, and decides not to comment.

She quickly goes to pour herself a cup of pitch-black coffee, grabs a bowl of fresh fruit salad from the buffet counter, and plonks herself down next to him, bursting with curiosity. He’s looking mighty pleased with himself while he chews.

‘You’re in a good mood?’ she hints.

‘I had a very successful evening,’ he says, when he finally stops chewing. ‘I phoned Benita.’

‘Benita Madrigal Rosabal?’ The teasing note in her voice is supposed to hide her consternation. She’d been under the impression that it was Benita who was the hunter in this story. The horny huntress. She is instantly ashamed of her condescending attitude. ‘Glad to hear you were successful.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’ He is actually blushing.

She takes a sip of coffee and regards him with new interest.

‘I called her because I suddenly realised, if her family and the Amats exchanged houses, she must know the address of her family’s previous home – where at least one of the Amats might still be living.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know why I did not think of that at her house yesterday afternoon.’ Ruben shakes his head.

‘You were probably just looking for an excuse to see her again,’ she persists.

‘No, it is not …’ He breaks off mid-sentence, takes a mouthful of rice, chews calmly while she waits. Deliberately slowly. To punish her, of course, for her impertinent teasing. ‘She said she will give me the address if I come for dinner. And she will do her best to help me find the people in that house.’

‘And?’

‘She cooked delicious food.’ His dark eyes are twinkling and she wonders if she is now the one being teased. His plate is almost empty, but it is evident that he is not yet done with this breakfast. He takes a bite of the slice of bread with cheese on his side plate and washes it down with coffee. ‘And she did not give me just the address; she called an old friend that lives in the same neighbourhood, and this woman told her that Ramira Amat’s youngest daughter still lives there. Clara Duarte Amat.’

‘Clara,’ Theresa says. ‘Like her grandmother.’

Ruben raises his eyebrows, surprised that she remembers the grandmother’s name.

But she took pictures of the family’s gravestones, and, last night, when she couldn’t sleep, she lay staring at the pictures on her cellphone screen.

Somewhat despondently, because she was starting to fear that Mercedes Perez Amat’s trail would end right there in the graveyard in Cienfuegos.

‘She is apparently a nursery school teacher, at home in the afternoon usually, so we can visit this afternoon.’

‘This afternoon?’ It’s an exclamation rather than a question, a startled sound that rises above the clatter of cutlery and the chatter at the other tables.

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