Immoral Times E-Book

Peter Nell

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

The novel starts with an episode in the youth of three South African kids. Adrian McNeill, his younger brother Johnny and two other childhood friends are engaged in a prank. Adrian is the leader and a fount of monkey tricks. His brother and friends warn him that his inconsiderate shenanigans will someday have dire consequences for him and his loved ones. Adrian ignores them. The story moves forward approximately thirty years. During this time, Adrian has worked for government in Parliament as Legal Adviser. A broken marriage and lovely daughter Zeta follows. He is introduced to Mr. Niedermeyer, a boat-builder who has a civil action against an unscrupulous partner. Adrian lives with the stunning psychologist Minette in Gauteng where he unsuccessfully practises law. Niedermeyer summons him to Cape Town to pursue the litigation against his erstwhile partner. This leads to a High Court case. Adrian reacquaints himself with an old friend from his Parliament days and an angling cruise follows. They experience a hair raising and nearly fatal fishing trip. Adrian next seeks out his Cape Town flame Alicia who wants Adrian back in her life. Her dad is an immensely rich shadowy figure. A dishonest erstwhile business partner of his dad meets Adrian on the flight back to Johannesburg, and lures Adrian into the shadowy world of immoral international finance. Their business partners experience a financial setback and vow to kill Adrian and everyone dear to him. Adrian’s brother, John hosts a party that culminates in a farewell lunch at the Bush Pub. Our friends are ambushed. The first part of the prediction against Adrian comes true. The contract killer proves to be hired by one of the groups Adrian tried to do business with. Adrian and friends extract their revenge on the killer. Our little group retreats to a bushveld farm where they try to get over the foul deed that Adrian has once again perpetrated. Minette and Alicia, get in contact with each other and surprisingly like each other. Adrian and Minette relocate to Llandudno in Cape Town where the well-to-do Alicia lives. Adrian mopes around and develops a passion for flying. Adrian’s friend Krish is a highly talented banker/broker and suggests to Adrian that they perpetrate a gigantic fraud on a bank. Colin is Alicia’s father and a NIA double agent. He is involved with the Islamic Fundamentalist Freedom Fighters of the Cape. Colin is murdered and Adrian and his brood find themselves in dire peril. They decide to flee South Africa, especially as Krish’s swindle seems poised to cause a major upheaval in the international banking sector. Adrian is left wondering whether Krish is a good or evil being. Adrian’s family, is now again exposed to danger in the idyllic Madeira. Will the childhood prediction come true and who will save him? ABOUT THE AUTHOR Peter Nell was a Legal Adviser to Parliament from 1986 up to 2000. He is involved in private enterprise.

Leseprobe

Peter Nell

Immoral Times

Kim To your own self be true and all good things will follow.BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

CHAPTER ONE - The Young Ones

“Not the cry but the flight of the wild duck leads the flock to fly and to follow.”

[Chinese Proverb.]

Johnny was a deeply worried eight-year old. He was hiding behind a willow tree trunk in the dark and knew he would surely die if he showed himself; the adult out there was angrier than a wounded buffalo and he was drunk.

His mischievous ten-year-old brother had done it again. He had always suspected that Adrian had a hidden death wish. I must look out for him and protect him against himself, he reflected. If he dared show himself, retribution would be swift and terrible. He felt heartsick and sorry for the doctor’s kids; they had to go home with this angry, half-drunk adult who was prowling through the darkness looking for all of them.

He heard a twig snap and the doctor passed so close that he could have touched him. Then he heard a thud and a terrible litany of muttered curses. The man had fallen in a newly dug drainage ditch on the golf course’s fairway - must be a lateral hazard to the golfing crowd, he thought.

His mother, an accomplished golfer, had once explained the meaning for and placing of the ditch to him and his brother. Adrian and their three friends had split up, heading for the long rough, after the doctor had chased them into the darkness. He saw the lights of the clubhouse six hundred meters away and heard the sounds of revelry interspersed with the thumping rhythm of the big band playing.

He was starting to hate Adrian. If only he could make it to their mother or father he would be safe, but to move now would be inviting disaster. The incorrigible misfit had filled a mince-and-bread vetkoek with Brylcream and had told Danny to give it to their father, Dr. Johann Strauss, who was holding court in the golf club’s bar.

There, in front of his similarly inebriated golf mates, he had solemnly thanked the apple of his eye young son for his thoughtfulness and had bitten into the vetkoek in front of his watching friends causing the hair cream to squirt into his throat. He had retched horribly, spat, belched, and tried to grab Danny who had disappeared like mist through the dancing crowd. Johnny grinned imagining the hair cream’s taste, but he was still angry with Adrian for landing them into this deep shit.

Adrian, trembling Danny, his brother Johann Jr. and Roy materialized behind him. He gave a yelp and tried to still his fluttering heart. Danny was crying and manhandling Adrian, swinging him round and round; my dad is surely going to kill me tonight, he wailed. Adrian considered and Johnny saw that he was also frightened at the over the top response of the doctor. “Go and tell your mom the story and make sure your dad doesn’t see you, say that you didn’t know what was in the vetkoek, and ask her to calm your dad.”

His brother was a genius at getting out of trouble, Johnny thought. He vividly remembered the time Adrian was hauled to the police station with his-air gun in his hand. They had been hunting wood pigeons and his brother, knowing that the other birds were dark coloured racing doves had shot them as well, (for mingling with the wild pigeons, he had explained). One wounded specimen had barely made it to a distant loft and was dripping blood on the head of its owner who was putting out food and replenishing the water supply.

The guy had gone berserk, chasing them through ditches, a river and into a scrap yard full of abandoned cars. They thought that they had at last eluded him but the angry owner had suddenly popped out of a wrecked bus and nabbed Adrian, dragging him by his ear all the way to the police station three blocks away.

People had stopped and stared at the spectacle of the bloodied pigeon fancier dragging a boy with an airgun by the ear. Adrian had in a loud voice proclaimed his innocence and ignorance of the species of dove. Johnny, Roy, and Matt had discreetly followed after ditching the other air-gun.

They heard Adrian’s strident voice in front of the police station, shouting at the pigeon fancier. It was truly amazing; Adrian was berating the pigeon lover, shrieking at him that he had torn off his ear, had assaulted him and that their father was a famous lawyer who was going to sue the pants off this child bashing deviate. Just who did this guy think he is, dragging a mere child through the streets and since when were children arrested?

The guy was wavering. He had surely not expected this reasoned tirade from a kid.

Johnny experienced a rush of glowing pride, “That’s my brother and he’s clever and cool."

However, the next moment Adrian was unceremoniously hauled backwards and flung into the charge office, silence ensued and Adrian emerged a few minutes later. The black sergeant major on duty had recognized Adrian and heaven knows what lies he must have told the astonished policeman. Adrian held his arms like a prize-winning boxer, bowed at the pigeon racer, who kicked his butt, however Adrian had indeed walked free.

“Remember how you assaulted me, I’m telling my father,” Adrian crowed and ducked as the big fellow flung a roundhouse slap at him.

Johnny was jerked back to their present predicament by the sound of Danny’s whimpering, and they slowly walked back towards the clubhouse keeping an eagle-eyed lookout and studying each shrub and dark depression on the fairway. Adrian coached his friends and shepherded them through the back door of the clubhouse.

“It might just work, go, and tell mom we’re bored and well walk home,” he instructed Johnny.

It took all Johnny’s evasion and low-profile skills to approach their mom, who nodded. They walked home in silence; Roy was afraid of the dark and kept close.

Johnny berated Adrian; “You’re always pulling the craziest stunts, knowing that you can talk your way out of trouble, but you never think what awful things will happen to the rest of us.”

“You keep on doing it. God is keeping a list of your pranks. It'll come back to you one day, maybe not this time but it will happen and you'll be sorry.

“What do you think is going to happen tonight to Danny and Johann, the doctor is half-drunk and mad because of you. You'll see, someday you'll pay for what you've done. Roy and I won’t play with you anymore; we’d rather play with Annelize.”

Adrian was silent for once. He considered the angry words and decided to keep quiet, heck they were upset with him. The worst was the Annelize bit. She was his girlfriend and he had recently thought of initiating her into some sort of Adam and Eve game. Maybe she’ll enjoy it and they could pretend that Adam and Eve were married. Whom was he going to play with now?

The doctor was a jerk and Adrian vowed to tell mom that he preferred Doctor Chris Lemmer. Heavens knew what that crazy doctor Strauss would do to him with an injection needle the next time he was sick.

Roy the Rogue, added his little stream of pee to the resentment expressed by Johnny, “You still owe me for that terrible hiding my dad gave me after you put thumbtacks under the shower-mats at the club and the slap my mother gave me when you put syrup in the hand cream in the ladies’ toilet, last week.”

He added ominously. “It’s not worth the trouble being your friend, you always get off scot-free, and we get the hidings."

Roy, now beetroot red in the face shouted, "Johnny’s right, we don’t want to be your friend anymore!"

"You'll cause the deaths of loved ones close to you, some day!” he screamed self righteously.

Adrian retorted spitefully that Roy’s father was always hitting him in any event; his brother and his friend ignored him - that hurt.

Two sudden dark turning shapes made Adrian look up. It was Dixie, his brother’s dog, and his own dog Sam, a brown red Doberman with yellow eyes. He fondled the dog’s crown, ears, and thought, at least I have my dog, and maybe I'll let him sleep next to my bed while I’m reading a few Battle comics.

He wisely let his companions walk away from him, they were too angry; maybe they had a small point. They weren’t totally right, of course he had put the thumbtacks under the shower-mats because the men were always singing bawdy songs in the bar and showers. It irritated him immensely.

Adrian didn’t know why mischief always sought him out, he definitely didn't look for it. Maybe because he was cleverer than the others, but he doubted it. The awful prediction of his own brother and that stinking traitor of a Roy, the Rogue, upset him.

If you believe something negative, it will surely come true, he had read in one of his favourite stories. Don’t believe their stupid warning, he thought on a positive note. It was still relatively early on Saturday evening and he headed towards the primary school planning to set off a few fire extinguishers.

He had noted that their inspection date was two years ago and reckoned that he was doing the school a favour because they’d have to refill the empty ones with fresh powder. He’d arrange the empty ones in front of the principal’s office, old Mr. Meyer.

The egghead principal would flip, develop a migraine, and take the rest of the day off as he had done when Adrian had dropped two stink-bombs in the hall during school assembly. It proved that if you pretended ignorance and didn’t tell anybody what you were going to do, you were quite safe. Hide in the herd, he thought.

It would be wise to pull his socks over his hands, you never know... His dog trotted faithfully beside him. At least this friend won’t complain and blab, he thought. He was still upset about the two wanting to play with Annelize and would pre-empt them by visiting her early tomorrow morning and invite her round for tennis.

He would let her win and then kiss her and try to touch her budding breasts. The two mounds with their rosy pink points fascinated him. He again wished they were married so that he could touch them.

He had explained to Annelize that sucking her breasts regularly would make them as big as her mom’s and that they would have an upturned tilt. Little Danny’s mother had told some adult to rub her titties with suntan lotion and had dropped this little secret.

“I'll have to do some more reading up on breasts,” he mumbled.

Luckily, the librarian’s buxom daughter liked him. She had just the previous Saturday morning, with the library empty as usual, called him into her mom’s empty little office. The room with the one-way mirror. She had said that she was seventeen years old and asked him what he knew about human anatomy. He had said nothing and shaken his head.

She had instructed him to stand close to her chair and had told him that her young brother had already grown hair down there. It was understandable; the stupid guy was much older!

He had a sudden bright idea, he would ask her to show him her hair and ask about Annelize’s small titties - maybe she would explain that mystery to him. He couldn’t wait for next Saturday morning to roll around.

CHAPTER TWO - Our Client

“...And you experts in the law, woe to you, because you load people down with burdens they can hardly carry, and you yourselves will not lift one finger to help them.”

[Bible, New Testament, Luke 11.]

I stretched in bed and smelt the sea wishing that I could live in Cape Town again for the next fifteen years. It was as long as I had been fortunate enough to be a Capetonian resident previously securing a post as legal officer for a national government department sixteen years ago.

Although I was originally appointed in Pretoria, I was initially sent down to do Parliamentary sessional duty for six months. It was a cakewalk and I ensured that I regularly stayed behind in Cape Town during recesses of Parliament when the rest of the crowd moved back to Pretoria.

After obtaining my LLB-degree, the Justice department roped me in and offered me a job as prosecutor in the Cape High Criminal Circuit Court division. I was later among the fortunates to be granted a Voluntary Retrenchment Package (or VSP), after my fifteen-year stint and elected to stay in Cape Town to see whether a future could be hewn from this fairest cape of all.

It soon transpired that jobs for ex civil servants were extremely scarce. It was with a heavy heart that I relocated on a ‘temporary basis’, to Pretoria.

I started practicing as advocate in Pretoria and Johannesburg. The fact that I was a so-called independent advocate, being neither a member of the Johannesburg or Pretoria traditional bar didn’t help much. I persevered and took all opportunities I could, even a couple of Legal Aid Board cases, (acting for the defence on the Government’s expense) and others as Assessor, which set me travelling all over South Africa, for nearly two years.

I had the suspicion before the end of each month that I was barely breaking even and afterwards was proved right repeatedly. I eventually started hating this migrant existence.

I was continually looking for the ‘big break’, which would enable me to live like a king. It is hard being as lazy, but money oriented like I am. A colleague once remarked that my circumstances were those of a hobo with a champagne taste and a Coca Cola budget. It wasn't even worth the effort getting upset - the guy was right. I’m too laid-back to hold a grudge in any event.

One example of my endeavours to ‘get rich quick’ ended up with me being part owner of a boatyard. I met Niedermayer through a friend who practiced as lawyer in Cape Town, and reckoned that this could be the chance that only comes around once in your lifetime.

Niedermayer had initially promised me a lifelong ten percent per year share of his boatyard if I won a case against a former partner of his. The agreement between us was signed and I wished I could stop practicing if we won.

I got up from the cool bed, stretched and looked out of the window; the view was spectacular over the Sea Point coastline stretching to Cape Town harbour and the city nestling below Table Mountain. The room was on the 17th floor of the Ritz Hotel, Sea Point.

The most appealing aspect was that this was my first night. The booking was for a week and fully paid for by my client. My lovely daughter, Zeta had accompanied me and was visiting my ex wife’s family on their Malmesbury farm for the period.

I could have contacted some of my old flames but decided against it, as most of my time would be taken up by preliminary preparations for the major Niedermayer court case. It still seemed strange that Niedermayer, an expatriate German boat builder had decided, hell, was adamant that I should continue handling his civil action, even though my move to Johannesburg had been nearly three years ago.

Niedermayer was a designer and builder of catamaran motorized glass fibre ski-boats. His partner for many years, Bass had five years ago started clandestinely infringing on Niedermayer’s patent rights and had made himself a fortune on the side.

This lawsuit had languished and had taken very little of my time and attention as Niedermayer had twice caused the issue to stand over whilst he had instructed me and his attorney Rex Schultz to seek alternative means to resolve the matter. Rex and one of my family members were partners. He had been convinced to retain my services and was now my briefing attorney.

We had embarked on Alternative Dispute Resolution procedures twice. Niedermayer had refused to sign a proposed settlement the first time and Bass his former loyal friend had pulled out during the second round. Bass had apparently contacted Niedermayer behind our backs and had pleaded with him for an amicable solution. Rex and I were thoroughly disgruntled, but what the heck; Niedermayer kept footing our hefty fees.

I often wondered exactly what had happened between Niedermayer and Bass after the second impasse. Niedermayer had requested me to fly down to his Milnerton office and boatyard. He had asked, no, instructed Rex and me to wipe the floor with Bass. He sounded like a man who had taken leave of all his senses.

He alternately shouted, ranted and raved, turned purple, and had nearly chewed his plush carpet. His old secretary had rushed in with his blood pressure and angina pills plus a glass of water, which the puce-coloured gasping man had difficulty swallowing down.

Even Rex was shocked and dumbstruck, he had saved this demented German’s hide many a time, he had even taken cases and won them on instructions from the man’s wife and daughter, commands and other rubbish claims which he could have rejected out of hand, with no reflection on his professional integrity. In fact he could have saved himself a lot of bother. We indicated our willingness, looked brisk and legally eagle-eyed, voracious and efficient, and got the hell out of there.

“I know a quiet little place for a beer and some strategic discourse,” Rex remarked.

The last time he had said this we had gone to an up-market strip club. Not today though, we stopped in front of a quaint little beachside restaurant/pub in Table View.

Rex must have been too rattled by Niedermayer’s histrionics, but I was sure that he would come round, a few brewskis down the line.

I looked at Rex critically. He was about my age, around forty. His eyes were a light green-gray topped by a full head of bleached, longish blond hair. He had a severe little bristly, blonde moustache. He was solidly built weighing nearly fifty kilograms more than me and well over six foot four.

Rex always dressed in either subdued winter mohair or lightweight darkish summer suits. He was a true giant of a guy with not a gram of fat on his enormous frame, ready to laugh, and an accomplished storyteller. I often wondered where he procured the horribly expensive looking, flat heeled, handmade Italian shoes he was so fond of.

Rex had one outstanding characteristic that made him a less than perfect human. He was the world’s biggest damn coward, and I had seen this on many occasions. Some people never get angry, rarely get bothered or put off their stride, not Rex, he was the prima donna, and the princeps inter partes of running cowards.

It was sometimes funny, but rarely too entertaining. He wasn't gay or retiring, just straight forward shit-scared of rejection or anything negative from any person on earth, including mice, I’m sure.

Rex looked flustered as he drank his first mouthful of beer.

"What’s the old guy’s problem?" I ventured.

He shook his head dejectedly. I prodded again; it seems to me that Mr. Bass nobbed either Niedermayer’s girlfriend, his horsy wife or delinquent femme fatale of a daughter.

Still no reply, so we finished another two beers each and arranged to meet at his office tomorrow at ten. He was too down to even open his mouth properly to thank the friendly buxom waitress.

Rex was still taciturn and tightly rectum challenged the next morning as we discussed the civil action and agreed that the facts were as following:

This civil action would firstly be based on Trade and Trademark infringements by Bass. Rex and I would separately research the Trade and Unfair Competition requirements for the Aquilian action based on unlawfulness. It appeared as if these trade and specifically unfair competition requirements were not limited to a category of clearly recognized illegality.

Rex mumbled that fairness and honesty were both criteria relevant to the question of unlawfulness. Here regard had to be had to 'Boni Mores' and the general sense of justice of the community.

Public policy may also be important. Niedermayer had designed the hull of a catamaran-like ski-boat. His design had evolved over a long period with considerable expenditure of time, labour, and money.

His buddy Bass had furtively made a mould of the hull and had then set-up a rival boat building concern that had started making and selling boats in competition with Niedermayer. Bass had been a silent partner in this concern and was caught out by the sheerest chance.

A disgruntled employee, whom he had fired for being pissed on the job, had gone straight as an arrow to Niedermayer who had initially refused to believe him. Bass’ action constituted unfair and unjust competition.

There was no countervailing public interest to displace such a conclusion or better put none that we were aware of. The morose Rex would research this as well. I thought that a few weeks of dedicated honest toil would bring him out of his funk.

Bass had previously alleged through his shyster attorneys that they were of the considered opinion that Niedermayer’s design was not new or original as intended in the Patents Act. This was bull and had we conceded this, the action would have been lost before we had even begun.

We contended that it was sufficiently new and original to impart a character of novelty and originality to the whole design. Bass’ legal crowd responded by putting in dispute that Niedermayer alone had designed and developed the ski-boat; they contended that Bass had developed the window structure of the ski-boats and that Niedermayer was only partly responsible for the hull.

This was fancy footwork from Bass’ lawyers as Niedermayer, in order to succeed in an Aquilian action based on unfair competition, now had to establish all the requisites of Aquilian liability, including proof that Bass has committed a wrongful act.

We were now faced with the unenviable task of how to find and prove unlawfulness, which is a requisite of Aquilian liability.

There were many categories of clearly recognized illegality, such as trading in contravention of an express statutory prohibition. The making of fraudulent misrepresentations by a rival trader as to his own business. The passing off by a rival trader of his goods or business as being a competing trader’s. The publication by the rival trader of injurious falsehood concerning his competitor’s business.

And lastly, even the employment of physical assaults and intimidation to prevent a competitor from pursuing his trade.

I sat back and groaned.

What the hell were we going to do; I had a great idea and vaguely remembered Rex’s earlier remarks concerning the role of the fairness and honesty criteria as applicable to competition. Let him do all the legwork I cruelly decided, it would keep him out of mischief, his strange melancholy, and further enable us to further financially ream out his nutty client Niedermayer.

I quickly outlined how this cowardly compadre of mine should prepare his newest brief to me while he listened attentively and kept scribbling notes. Rex should start with the fact that with the judging of fairness and honesty, regard is to be had to the Boni Mores and to the general sense of justice of the community.

While fairness and honesty are relevant criteria in deciding whether competition is unfair, they are not the only criteria. Rex should include factors such as questions of public policy and for example the importance of a free market and competition in our economic system.

We therefore had to convince the court that the primary question to be decided was whether Bass was competing unfairly with Niedermayer by making a mould of a hull of a ski-boat designed by Niedermayer whose design had evolved over a long period of time, with considerable expenditure of time, labour, and money.

Moreover, we had to convince the Court that such making of a copy of Niedermayer’s mould in order to manufacture and sell boats in competition against him was unfair and unjust.

Rex should further concentrate on the fact that Bass had trespassed on Niedermayer’s field and added impudence to dishonesty by obtaining a design registration, in terms of the Designs Act, in his own name for Niedermayer’s hull design, thus trying to keep other competitors from filching the design from him. Rex should keep playing the, by now, jaded tune that Bass’ methods of competition were unfair and unjust.

He looked a bit better and I reflected that maybe a little legal challenge such as this one would do his prima donna molested self-image a world of good. We shook hands, no beers this time for him; he had to work off his petulance!

Back at the hotel I thought about the case, believing that I had all the facts at my fingertips and was proud that I had successfully evaded a hell of a lot of legal research, which Rex would be doing. I had further scored some extra time of sheer leisure at this fantastic hotel.

I would cover myself by visiting Rex’s offices each alternative day during the week, good enough for billing purposes and to see how Rex was shaping, I reckoned. The rest of today was going to be dedicated to pleasure.

My former civil service colleague Wim du Plooy, with whom I had endured and survived many fantastic escapades, had lined up nautical, culinary, and female pleasures to be compressed into a standard weekend. I concluded that I was going to be very tired on Sunday night.

Wim had moved to the Cape Argus newspaper after leaving the civil service. He was a tall easygoing, mature guy with a gray beard and a thinning mop of gray hair, which stood out in all directions.

Wim had also been responsible for covering the Cape of Good Hope High Court circuit a few years ago and we often met, usually over a few beers. Reception phoned, Wim was waiting in his pickup truck, outside.

It was good seeing the old codger, he looked thinner and older but the grin, and slow deliberate way in which he could look at man or monument was still there. He remarked that I had not visibly aged but added that after forty the shite would begin to fly.

CHAPTER THREE - The Angling Outing

“It takes a rough sea, to make a great captain.”

[Anonymous.]

We boarded his twelve-meter boat at Granger Bay Boat Club and cast off. I was introduced to two old chaps, who were friendly enough but it was apparent that their main concern was fishing, angling, and more fishing. Wim had charged them a premium for the opportunity. His boat was custom-built and could fit five at a pinch in the functional saloon, but the two massive outboard engines sucked petrol at an amazing rate.

The weather forecast was favourable. The last unseasonable cold front had passed two days ago. Sunny skies and a reasonably calm sea awaited us. Wim mentioned that he had the boat overhauled a week ago as he experienced some problems with hairline cracks in the keel. This was the first opportunity for a test run.

He slowed and we watched a massive cargo carrier making its way into the harbour, headed for the Milnerton container depot. The ship appeared as big as a WWII aircraft carrier. Skirting Robben Island he set a course in a North Westerly direction, by pointing the bows in the general direction of Dassen Island.

Every time Wim sailed past Robben Island it made him heave a heartfelt sigh telling us about crayfish the size of your forearm at least, abalone bigger than soup plates and mussels as fat as your palm, all dying from ripe old age. It was true as Robben Island was ringed and formed part of the Cape Protected Nature Reserve that was fiercely protected.

I had seen and tasted some of the specimens caught in the protected area in various upmarket restaurants where money talks and no questions are asked and yes, they were monstrously big. I personally had found that bigger crayfish, abalone, oysters, and mussels tend to lose their unique taste the older they get.

Wim was trying to find snoek for the two old coots who were offering some sound old timer’s advice. Snoek is a vicious raptor fish, which seemed to me similar to barracudas but smaller, the average size being about a grown man’s arm length. The trick was to discover where the semi-commercial small snoek boats were. These were owned, crewed, and operated exclusively by Cape Coloured fishermen as their ancestors had done for centuries.

He found the semi-commercials by sheer chance but it seemed quiet. This was deceptive as everybody urged me to bait my hand-line and put on the finger protector. A sound idea for my soft office hands was to put on the right-hand glove, which I gratefully accepted from Wim.

Sea birds circling the waves, a few hundred meters ahead showed the progress of the school of raptor fish. A volley of curses from the open boats was hurled at us, mostly to do with our dubious parentage and us being various parts of male or female sexual organs, the old guys joined the verbal assault with boyish gusto.

Wim quietly explained that the animosity between the semi-commercials and recreational fishermen had become fiercer since we had last fished together, due to the uncertainty that beset the fishing industry as a new policy had been passed through Parliament a while ago. The new Marine Living Resources Act was enacted and a continual stream of amending legislation passed.

The crux was that everybody, especially groups with long-standing vested rights, had the right to exploit the sea, but that special attention was promised to historically disadvantaged groups. Such special attention promised, had to be weighed against the rights of the rest, and generally came to naught. No wonder these fishermen were trying to keep us away from the snoek.

The mutual cursing died down as the first snoek run churned beneath the commercial boats. The action became thick and fast. A hell of a jarring strike hit my line and I hauled in as fast as I could. The snoek came onboard, its teeth crashing together as it snapped buzz saw fashion.

I tried to stamp on its head with my thick-soled shoes but the boat’s motion made it impossible. No way was I going to approach that vicious thing until it stopped behaving like something that should have died out with the dinosaurs.

Amateurs such as me have lost many fingers or toes. The old timer next to me lost no beat in the frantic hauling in of his catch and scooped my thrashing; gnashing fish by the tail and in an instant had broken its neck under his armpit. I shouted that he could have all my fish if he killed them.

“Next one, just warn me in time”, was his laconic reply. This frenzied fishing bonanza continued for fifteen minutes and then suddenly it was over.

My catch stood at five, Wim’s at nine and the old dodders had caught thirteen each. Relief coursed through me, this was bloody dangerous, especially breaking the neck under an arm to save time, it could take your whole bicep or tit off. My helper was all smiles and wasn't even breathing hard.

Wim asked me why I hadn't used a wooden mallet as I did all those times we went out together years ago.

“Fucking forgot all about it”, was my reply.

At that moment, my mind was very far from the semi-lunatic Niedermayer and his ex-partner.

The plan was to cruise slowly in the direction of Dassen Island, still to my landlubber reckoning about forty kilos away as I could see a boat or two obviously from Melkbosstrand to the right.

Stuff this nautical mile shit, I thought, when Wim’s cellphone, rang. He cut the engines to enable him to hear and every word was audible to us. It was his editor wanting to know where at sea he was. Strange question, I thought. Wim said that we were nearing Dassen Island. The editor told him to get his ass back to the office as soon as possible as a big story was breaking with the national weekend newspapers far in the lead.

His newspaper’s junior reporter was making all the local reporters look inept. Wim promised that he would be in later tonight. I felt relieved, as this was enough fishing for a day.

The big twins took ages to start and Wim remarked that we had shipped a hell of a lot of water, the boat wallowed, and we could feel the weight of the water sloshing in the hull, reminding me of the hairline crack story. Wim explained this to the two old veterans who turned simultaneously and eyed me with looks ranging from speculation to interest. I idly wondered why they were all staring at me.

“As you can see we’re sinking, we won’t go under as this boat has sealed air tanks inside the hull, but we might end up to our waists in water and we'll be wallowing and drifting without power for quite a while,” he explained.

"The hairline cracks the boatyard scoured and sealed have opened,” he added lamely, saying that we were too far from land for him to sue them or kick their asses blue, a feeble attempt at a joke.

He explained that it would be impossible to keep the engines running within ten minutes, as they were, at this stage, nearly underwater.

A quick peek proved him right, what now? Wim said that he was going to rev up the engines and that I would have to open the seacocks, which were situated at the back on the outer side of each engine. I nodded thinking of my beloved daughter Zeta and quite pleased that my last will and testament was up to date.

My question exactly how far these cocks are down the outer side of the hull brings a vague response, something to the effect quite far down. My next question on how I must open them brings another unsatisfactory answer.

“I've never done this before,” Wim hollers in my ear.

Now I really hate this massive leaking nightmarish tub posing as a sleek cabin cruiser.

“I don’t think they've ever been opened before and it’s possible that the mechanisms are stuck through the long submersion in salt water”, is the next bit of worthless news from Wim.

I shudder as I see the thick jets of bilge water being pumped out and scream that I’m preparing to start the search. My strong sense of self-preservation actually means that I’m only prepared to take a quick peek.

He was relieved and the massive twin engine’s RPM’s screeched through the aural range. The boat was not travelling on an even horizontal plane but was sliding from side to side like a pig rolling in its favourite mud bath.

The old farts were by now just as scared as I was, but gamely offered to hold onto whatever part of my legs and feet they could whilst bracing themselves. I clung to the bottom rail with maniacal strength, deafened, and numbed from sheer terror. I was lowered to just above the submerged howling propellers.

The wake was a roaring tower of water three feet behind the propellers, threatening to engulf me if the engines missed a beat. Five minutes gone and I could see no seacocks, human cocks, chock blocks, or even chocolate logs. I could feel their hands slipping.

I wriggled back and shat them out, as they had never before heard an advocate of the high court rant and rave.

They were flustered, embarrassed, and then angry. I heard Wim’s booming laugh in the background and it sounded like the devil, but it was just stress relieving from his part.

The two angry septuagenarian fogies almost threw me down there and just as closely nearly lost me, into the howling propellers. I found the first son of a bitch seacock and the ‘O’ ring, which folded back on an arm into its recess.

For a nanosecond, I could picture a boatyard worker with thick gloves using a hook with a comfortable padded double handgrip struggling to open the accursed thing. Luckily my nails were clipped short, I grabbed the O- ring and managed to slip two fingers in as far as their first digits, and gave a mighty yank, it stayed stuck, packed with salt and bonded tight by time.

My second effort nearly cost me two fingers but it budged, a third mighty yank tore a tendon in my right shoulder and I could feel agony flaring down my spine, back muscles and flank. I shrieked in pain.

It opened, and in another few minutes, I was drenched with petrol smelling water that got into both eyes.

“Te moer, with this bloody business.” I shouted.

Getting back up proved more difficult than imagined. The two arseholes kept me right down there between the engines and propellers. I could feel the insane shits start applying more of their considerable strength to keep me down rather than holding onto me, I was inexorably being manhandled into the howling cacophony that encompassed the big propellers.

Only after frantic signals similar to a demented hitchhiker did they relent and struggled nearly in vain to pull me back. My right arm was useless and my left hand kept slipping on the wet hull, twice nearly disappearing into the churning maelstrom fountaining from both propellers. This had to do for the time being. I was never ever going down again not even if it meant that the bloody planet would be saved from whatever threatened it.

Wim motioned down into the cabin and the more intelligent of the two old men brought the first aid kit and squirted eye drops into my nearly blind eyes.

The boat’s handling improved after twenty minutes or so and we left the seacocks open for the time being. Wim shouted over the roar of the twins that he would tell me before he reduced speed in order for me to plug the seacock again. It made perfect sense, otherwise the water would rush back into the opening, and we would be swamped in any event, on the positive side, nearer to land.

I was stunned and asked for a cold beer to wash the seawater tinged with petrol from my mouth. One of the oldsters complied with alacrity bringing back three, I snatched two, and he had to return for more. They went down like spring water but I could feel vomit rising as it hit my empty petrol lined stomach thinking what a sodden life this was.

The plugging expedition was just as difficult, but by now the shitboat wasn't wallowing from side to side anymore and the seacocks were not welded shut by salt. However, the torn tendon in my right shoulder was shooting bolts of pain that made screaming and breathing impossible for moments.

I vowed to spend the rest of the weekend in bed with a former sympathetic girlfriend, after forcing the best doctor in Cape Town to make a house call, even if it meant that they had to haul his ass from some snobbish golf course.

Sympathetic, smooth, considerate room service, good food, and drinks were not even given consideration - it was just there in my vision.

Wim’s cell proved to be a blessing; the doctor was phoned from the boat and would be waiting at the hotel. Alicia, a former lover who does research at Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, first invited me to her place in Oranjezicht. Her penthouse was on top of one of the highest tower blocks situated snugly below Table Mountain.

She relented after Wim took the cell and tactfully informed her that a doctor was waiting for me at my hotel where I was staying.

Alicia undertook to pack an overnight bag, and promised that she would be waiting at the hotel. She was shocked at the weariness in my voice.

Wim and I slurped a quick KWV brandy in the yacht club’s members bar, waiting for my taxi. He was loath to leave for his office and was expecting the marine engineers first.

I felt truly sorry for them; Wim was building himself into a towering rage looking at his boat, which was perceptibly settling lower and lower in the water. It was time to go and we said our belated farewells.

“Adrian you saved my boat,” he said gruffly when we parted.

I reminded him of the law of the sea and its stipulations regarding compensation for a party saving a vessel on the high seas, he sighed deeply and said that he would make up for every inconvenience and would be in touch so that we could savour less traumatic escapades.

The story of the law of the sea was just shite; one of the prerequisites was that the saving or salvaging extraneous party had to have their own vessel or seagoing means, whatever.

I wasn't so sharp on that part of the law but, if I could wring some sort of free jol (fun filled expedition), out of Wim, it was worth a long shot. He knew the law of the sea of course but must have felt too grateful and frazzled to correct me.

The receptionist gasped when she saw a hunched, sunburnt, grimacing apparition lurching up to the counter. “Are you all right sir? You look done in.”

I groaned something and the next moment Alicia was next to me, kissing me demurely, while the doctor, definitely not a golfer from the looks of him, eyed me with apprehension. I must have looked ready to bite him, like some hurt wild cat. We went on to my room where he tutted and prodded and gave me a thorough examination.

He declared that I had indeed torn a ligament and gave me some antibiotics, painkillers and a big bottle of green semi gelled stuff, which reminded me of dishwashing liquid. A sling completed the ensemble, as well as three disposable ones.

Apparently two fingers and my wrist were also badly sprained. Moreover, my elbow had in the meantime swollen as big as a tennis ball, and so tennis elbow it was going to be. The best news, he kept for last, not saying a word as he had only moments ago bandaged my chest tightly.

“Be extra careful with that broken third right rib, if you fall on it, it might puncture your lung."

"Welcome to Cape Town, enjoy your stay,” he said laconically when he let himself out.

If you were as expensive as he was, I suppose you had the right to have such a warped sense of humour.

“What exactly, the blazes have you done to yourself?” Alicia demanded when we were alone.

I didn’t have the energy to reply so I just stared at this beautiful former girlfriend of mine.

She was about thirty-one years old, not too thin with a goddess like proportioned face and brilliant azure eyes. She had a short mop of incredibly thick platinum blond hair and medium sized saucy breasts. Alicia was always casually dressed and it made the surprise so much sweeter seeing her more dressed up.

She had the cutest little round buns and was like a long limbed colt. I remembered how angry she could get when we had gone steady all those years ago. She had the most delectable full mouth with sharp little teeth; she used to love biting me on the ear. I felt like a world-class bozo for not marrying her at the first opportunity I had.

She suggested it hundreds of times during our previous shacking-up exercise. I must have been a stupid fool - and I knew I was.

Drinks and snacks for two were ordered first, as this was going to be a long tale. I was going to dine out a lot on this story. Especially in the land-locked Gauteng province in the centre of South Africa where I reluctantly lived. Alicia was truly shocked by my account, especially the part of being kept under by the two maniacal old ones; she turned ash white during the telling and kept replenishing her glass from the drinks trolley.

I softly wondered what we were going to do for the rest of the night, she glanced at me, and I saw the glimmer of lust in her eyes, which quickly faded as harsh reality took over. She murmured that we would think of something and wanted to show me some of the genetic achievements in her laboratory in Kirstenbosch.

She helped me into the piping hot shower. I hate too hot showers and turned the water to luke-warm. I stood there for a long time. The shower door opened and she got in ravishingly naked.

I started nuzzling her full comforting breasts, whilst she continued soaping and scrubbing me vigorously. Shampoo got into my eyes and my passion disappeared as I had endured enough pain, anxiety, and fear today to last me a lifetime.

A last toddy washed down another dose of medicine; the big bottle did taste the same as dishwashing liquid, without the bubbles and then had a two-hour nap with Alicia reading some magazines on the other bed.

I woke up incredibly stiff, joints aching all over and took more medicine.

Alicia said that she didn’t want to expose me to more agony and suggested that we just take it easy. I considered these to be the wisest words I had ever heard and mentioned that I felt nauseously hungry and woozy.

Whatever “woozy or doozy” meant; it was a female expression and had the desired effect. Her protective mothering instincts took over. I could clearly see the love and goodness radiating from her as she kissed me for a long time while gazing into my eyes. Damn! It was great to have the gift of the gab.

I had obviously not erred when choosing law as a career. I remembered an episode when I had made an impassioned plea in some stupid little town on the Mpumalanga Province High Circuit Court’s travels. Mpumalanga is South Africa’s eastern land-locked province.

My black client, a giant of a man had gone berserk, after a three-day beer drink, stabbing four assailants who had tried to assault and rob him. He was duly charged with attempted murder and aggravated assault. One attacker had been hovering on the brink of death for quite a long time before recovering to face a life vastly different from the one he had been used to, as he had been paralyzed.

The dour black judge had looked at me with an expression of sorrow and complimented me on my compassion that had overshadowed and muddled all legal tenets. I could even make a successful career in marketing ceiling fans in Van Rheenen's Pass, he blandly and straight-faced, observed.

Last-mentioned pass is the windiest locale in the whole of South Africa. However, he only sentenced my client to two years imprisonment suspended for three years, reasoning that my client, now a gentle sober giant filled with remorse and stifling tears at the right places, (my unethical coaching of the giant was better than that of a Hollywood movie director), had overstepped the bounds of self-defence.

I was elated and was invited to join the judge for tea in his temporary chambers in the magistrate’s court building. We had become firm friends whilst polishing off a bottle of Bushmills whisky out of civil service teacups.

Maybe it was because I was not being totally honest with Alicia, but I started feeling really woozy whilst waiting for our evening meal at a nearby restaurant specializing in French cuisine. I guzzled more wine. A young pretty French exchange student was our waitress, she replenished Alicia's glass, and they discussed the menu.

Their well-modulated French sounded more baffling than the printed menu, thank heavens for the English subtitles. Alicia had taught me the basics of the language when we lived together, but I had forgotten everything.

I looked at the decor instead. It was designed by some arty farty to resemble an outdoor café. I could imagine the traffic's petrol fumes and pavement crowds flowing over the bloody uncomfortable cast iron chairs and tables. The thin seat cushions couldn’t even serve as a sleeping mattress for an emaciated rat.

For a moment, I wondered what further progress Rex had made before turning my attention back to the restaurant. These people were heavily into table decorating and I observed all kinds of exotic flowers and little decorative rubbish on the other tables. We were going to get up hungry, I thought sourly.

Alicia had placed her order and looked at me with a hint of exasperation, the waitress was hovering expectantly. I asked whether she would mind if I ‘concocted’ my own dish and added that I was feeling creative, flapping a wrist. The girl’s eyes widened but she assured me that I was welcome to request it. A question as to the weight of a serving of ‘blue’ or ‘blau’ or whatever fillet made Alicia blush scarlet.

It transpired that the weight was two hundred and fifty grams.

I subsequently ordered a double very rare portion with no flowers on my plate, a big baked potato, another bottle of wine and a bottle of Tabasco with my meal. I generously informed her that the chef could throw any sort of herbs on the fillet, that he deemed fit. The girl left giggling. Alicia was red-faced furious at me, but softened when she saw that I was indeed uncomfortable and in pain.

We sipped the lovely Cape wine and I nearly drowned in the pools of her eyes, observing the play of the candlelight on the golden flecks of her irises.

“You know, I’ve never gotten over you,” she whispered. I nodded sagaciously and thought of getting all over her bounteous bosom.

“Nor have I,” I said softly and groaned as my nearly propeller-chopped member urgently shifted position.

The waitress floated over, perplexed at this apparently limp-wristed chappie’s uncanny possession of this goddess-like creature. She poured us some excellent Rosé wine and collected the trolley. It contained Alicia’s fare under silver salvers with air holes punched in them that defeated the purpose of covering the food, I thought.

Alicia’s two baby soles were done to perfection, garnished with what I thought was a little edible flower arrangement of its own. I took another mouthful of the fine red wine and observed the rest of the diners. Most still looked hungry after their meal, some were tucking into French breads of all descriptions and cheeses to fill their tummies. The server conversed in French with Alicia and disappeared to the kitchen.

The chef majestically waddled out with a big octagonal plate on a bigger tray. He was as fat as a damn hog with a luxuriant stiff gray moustache. He solemnly and carefully deposited the hot plate in front of me, winked, and asked in French if the preparation was to my satisfaction.

Alicia was back to her red-faced mode and zombie-like translated. I tasted the nearly square piece of slightly blackened meat, with the sharp steak knife the chef had ceremoniously handed me. The knife glided through the slight crust and the pink steaming meat released its herbal scent. I slowly brought it to my mouth, savouring the aroma. I slowly informed Alicia to tell this instructor of masters that he had outdone himself as per usual.

The chef beamed solemnly, bowed, and whispered, “Buddy you’ve caused all the patrons to order the same meal, I hope I have enough fillet, enjoy yours!”

Alicia was burning with curiosity but I kept quiet about the chef’s remarks until I saw that she was becoming fed-up with me. She bit her napkin upon being told - we thought it was hilarious.

I ordered another bottle of wine, Cabernet Sauvignon this time. Alicia finished her meal and proclaimed it a culinary masterpiece. She scowled at me when I asked whether she was still peckish.

It took only thirty seconds for her to politely ask how the fillet tasted, upon which I fed her and myself alternatively. We finished the wine and couldn’t bear the sight of sweets, leaving a mammoth tip for the chef and an ample one for the grateful waitress.

It was a calm windless evening and a mist was rolling in from the sea. I sorely missed the deep bass warning note of Mouillie Point’s lighthouse foghorn. It had been decommissioned during the late eighties and it brought back fond memories of Alicia and me lying under a thick duvet listening to its mournful notes and making prolonged and exquisite love.

She squeezed my hand and said, “A penny for your lighthouse memories?” I kissed her long and passionately.

Back in our room, she insisted on giving me the full dose of the horrid, prescribed medicine. She shifted our beds together and held me until we both fell asleep.

I woke at eight thirty and heard the sounds of the shower. It was too late for breakfast so I ordered coffee and croissants. Alicia laughed at me and asked who Minette was, pouring medicine down my gullet with all the tenderness of a female wrestler.

“Later,” I begged and was saved by the knocking of the room service waiter. Alicia squealed and disappeared into the bathroom.

We slowly dressed with some unresolved tension hanging heavily between us. I battled with my clothes as I dressed, sling and all, with no help from Alicia. I followed her to her car; it took ages to get into the damn thing. It was one of the new VW Beetles and the figure-contoured seats attacked me from all sides.

I groaned and she made soothing noises as for a crotchety baby but I became less cantankerous as the medication soothed the pain away. My crotch was clamouring for attention and she brushed it ever so often while driving. I explained to her that I had long ago fallen in love with Minette and described her in detail.

Minette was a Libra and thirty-two years old, a brilliant psychologist with the world before her. Her IQ, she once remarked after I called her dumb, had tested well into the gifted range.

Minette was of medium height with thick light brown hair that she never allowed to reach her shoulders. Her eyes were a sparkling green with golden-yellow flecks when observed in direct sunlight, reminding me of an exquisite rare feline’s.

She had the widest gap between her thighs above her endlessly long legs that I had ever seen. She constantly drove me crazy when wearing swimsuits, jeans, or shorts. Her nose was straight and narrow and her face classically Caucasian, which to me was long with a beautiful chin.

To round it all off into a perfect ten, Minette had perfect evenly spaced teeth and had once done a toothpaste commercial on TV. Her breasts were pertly upturned, slightly more than a mouthful with large pink areolas topped with nipples, which could erect it seemed at will. Her body was narrow and beautifully proportioned with surprisingly slim hips and colt-like long legs.

I always made fun of her and said that her cunny was her best feature. She had the fattest longest pink labia on this side of the globe and was terribly shy of this feature. I loved her unreservedly and often lay awake holding her at night, thinking what a hound I am. She of course supported this deduction of mine forthrightly.

Alicia conceded that she met a few eligible guys and had then become thoroughly disillusioned with men and had thrown herself into her research. We agreed that it was the best thing for any future involvement that we had been brave enough to clear the air as she slowly turned into the imposing entrance to Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens.

Kirstenbosch is a world famous tourist attraction and its botanical value and research achievements rank amongst the foremost in the world. The gardens nestle below Table Mountain in a unique setting donated by Cecil John Rhodes, a rogue, empire builder, and philanthropist of colonial times - apparently as gay as a blade. He was a prime minister of the Cape Colony at some ancient time, actually during the late 1880, I guess.

We got out, me with oaths causing people to look. I scowled ferociously and we slowly ambled into the administration and laboratory section.

Alicia was in her domain now and explained in a long monologue exactly what research was being done and what progress had been achieved. I feigned interest but she caught me out when I said ‘wow’ at the wrong moment. She blushed and told me to behave myself or she was going to slap my shoulder, after which I really started paying close attention.

The most interesting part was the topic dealing with which plants were more suitable to South African gardens, requiring little water but displaying the same or even more uniqueness and beauty than the usual commonly utilized exotic species that dumb gardeners seemed to prefer.

I told her that Kirstenbosch was also to blame; they should team up with nurseries countrywide and market indigenous species and the advantages of using them. One cannot disparage gardeners if they don’t have the information at their disposal in order to make an informed decision.

She looked at me and said that she forgot that I also had an MBL-degree that included marketing. I preened modestly, which caused my shoulder to send sparks down my arm. I took another dose of medicine, washed down with distilled laboratory water out of a measuring beaker.

We prepared for one of Kirstenbosch’s famous meals, which are known to be superb. I decided to forego the usual late brunch buffet and chose mushrooms stuffed with Malay mince, a fluffy omelette with thick ham, spinach, cheese and herbs, and thick toasted caraway bread. Alicia stuck with basic fare.

We were languidly satiated afterwards but non-the less consumed several Mocha Java coffees, before ambling through the gardens. The seaward view was spectacular as seen from the highest part of the garden.

We slowly made our way down to the lady Anne Barnard pool. A governor’s wife from early colonial times when the Cape Colony was administered by England, she apparently scandalized the poor governor with her licentious conduct, which made me think of the behaviour of the flappers in the twenties and the suffragists before and during the First World War. Lady Barnard was rumoured to be fond of bathing naked in this very pool, which looked cold even on this gloriously warm day.

CHAPTER FOUR - Hout Bay 'Jol'

"Not life, but good life, is to be chiefly valued."

[Socrates.]

We decided to visit the Hout Bay Hotel where an old golf partner and pal, Jeff Meyerson was performing with his big band on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. I phoned Pietie, another colleague and former golf partner who lives in Hout Bay. He and his sister; Isidora would join us. The Hout Bay Hotel is situated in a natural depression beneath an extension of the Twelve Apostles mountain range. The ancient oaks were rumoured to have been planted by Cecil John Rhodes and stretched on both sides of a track right up to Cape Town. The idea was that Rhodes could be driven in his horse drawn carriage all the way to Parliament in Cape Town in the shade of the oaks.

Enough of this, we were ready for some excitement and thirsty.

Jeff greeted me with unrestrained joy, “Been in the wars?” he asked. “Been in the whores,” I retorted, and Alicia kicked my shin.

We were introduced to the most recent of Jeff’s girls; this one was about six foot six, blond, plump, but with a tight ass, broad shoulders with gigantic braless mammalian dream hooters. Picture this creature oozing female oestrogen hormonal scent, poured into seamless skin-tight green pants.

She wore such tight fluorescent light-green gym shorts that I was certain that Zelda could not be wearing any panties. I could take a vow on this fact because her Mons pubis was pouting and straining in front. She wore a sheer white see-through top that advertised her big areolas and thumb sized nipples.

Jeff must have cornered the whole available range of these Barbie-like dolls, because all his girls were variations on this theme. Zelda had the biggest Pacific Ocean blue eyes in the whole of the Western Cape Province. She was as friendly and ebullient as the day was glorious.

Her high heels made me strain my neck as she chatted to me; I gave up and stared at her hooters. Jeff had introduced me as his pal who had lived in a top deck apartment in Sea Point, where we had hosted many bacchanalian and other raunchy escapades.

He mitigated this by saying how frantically and continuously I had persevered to qualify for the LLB-degree and how I had single-mindedly pursued my dream of being an advocate.

This did nothing for Alicia who had always detested Jeff. She was fully aware of my “studies” in any event, having shacked up with me. Alicia now thoroughly abhorred Zelda as well. My history of countless “golfing trips” with Jeff must be giving her flashbacks even at this moment, years later.

The arrival of my friend Pietie and his rather mousy sister who was a high court judge saved the dark cloud over the day. I had met her a few times, luckily never in court, as she was peppery and caustic on the bench, blocking any attempts by both parties’ legal eagles to baffle her with bullshit.

It was either dazzle her with jurisprudence or get your ass thoroughly reamed out - the court reporters adored her. She was exceptionally friendly to me and we chatted amiably, touching now and again on the case I was handling.

We lorded it at our preferential table under a massive shady oak, which Jeff had organised. Alicia came out of her sulk with a vengeance and was enjoying herself at last. Isidora and Alicia clicked and were soon discussing Alicia’s job at Kirstenbosch. I noticed them exchanging business cards with secret unlisted numbers and knew that all was going to be exceptionally well.

Poor Pietie was one of the casualties of divorce who never seemed to get over it. He had the habit of going into two-week long alcoholic benders usually surfacing in the hospital next to the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront in Green Point.

The medical community knew him quite well, Isidora and I had taken him there many times, and whenever one of us discovered him we would phone the other. Maybe I should try a hopeless case in front of her judicial bench, as both owed me big time.

I shuddered to think what she said to him after each episode; she usually locked her pad and went to live with him exclusively for months afterwards, commuting to the High Court in Cape Town each day.

She was a spinster but beneath the forbidding appearance was a genuine and compassionate human being, with an exceptional intellect.

I had once observed her demonstrate her photographic memory on a dare. She memorised five pages of an ichthyology textbook, at rickety-tick speed and repeated it letter for letter, word for word. She spelled the fish names that she could not pronounce; it was a formidable performance indeed.

Pietie was writing a book on his experiences as journalist with the now defunct Cape Times daily newspaper and the political factors that spelt its demise, coupled with his experiences as ministerial spokesman for several Ministers of Finance over the years.