Hard Rain by Irma Venter

Author:Irma Venter [Venter, Irma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-04-15T16:00:00+00:00

7

The man in the white cap is sitting at the bar, like every other night, drinking beer. I sit down next to him. He looks at me as if I’ve lost my way but doesn’t say a word.

The bottle in his enormous hand is a Tusker. There are no rings on his fingers and no jewelry around his rugby player’s neck. Most of his nails are bitten to the quick. An illegible tattoo protrudes from the right sleeve of his red T-shirt. As always, he’s wearing the ubiquitous white headgear.

Behind the counter Maggie stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Above our heads Billy Idol screams something about a white wedding.

“Can I have one of those too?” I ask her.

“A Tusker?” She frowns sharply.

“Please.”

Next to me the man raises the beer and takes a sip. “Not your usual poison. You always drink Kilimanjaro.”

Under the cap his face is red and weary. His eyes, which appear to be light green, seem to regard me with interest, but it’s hard to be sure with the shadow of the hat over his face. His eyebrows are thick, his beard at least three days old.

From up close he’s younger than I thought. On the right side of forty, even if it’s only just. He has an average kind of attractiveness, which I suspect will improve with age. Yet he’d disappear in a large group. If not for his white cap, I wouldn’t have noticed him sitting here night after night.

“You’re right, it’s not my usual poison. But I don’t fancy a Kili tonight.”

“It’s not where you usually sit either.”

“Ten out of ten for noticing.”

“It’s impossible to miss you.”

My mouth goes dry. Is he the man who has been making my life a living hell? For someone who’s always drinking alone in a corner, he certainly notices a lot. On the other hand, being tall I stand out—whether I want to or not. But how does he know what I usually drink?

I extend my hand. “Ranna Abramson.”

“Jaco Steyn.” He runs his hand over his beard. “Everyone calls me Jakes.”

The name gives away what the accent made me suspect. “You’re South African?”

He nods, but his eyes remain lifeless. Too lifeless. As if he purposely avoids revealing anything but a general kind of courtesy.

Maggie puts the beer in front of me. Her eyes flash a warning, but I ignore it. I take a sip of the Tusker. It’s warm. Damn, Maggie.

“What are you doing in Dar?” I ask in Afrikaans.

Jakes laughs, and his rigid body relaxes a little. He runs his hand across his jaw again, as if he suddenly regrets not having shaved this morning.

“I work for the brewery. We’re installing a new production line. I have three more weeks left of my contract.”

“And then?”

“Back to Joburg, until the next contract. Bosses are talking about Benin.”

“Sounds exciting. Do you travel a lot?”

He tosses the last of his beer down and wipes his mouth with his hand. “Quite a lot.”

“Where have you been?”

“Many places. Too many to name.

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