Just a Dead Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

of immigrants who patrolled their area. There had been a couple of scuffles, and he had been among those taken in for questioning. No one had been charged, and it all seemed to have died down. I got the feeling he wasn’t telling me the whole story, but maybe it went some way to explaining his reluctance to have anything to do with the police.
    â€œCome on, let’s see if we can do a photograph. What fruit have you got?” he asked, changing the subject. I had found mangos in the supermarket that morning, and I showed him.
    â€œThey’re quite nice big ones, and they’re tropical. And the colour’s good. I like that green and red. Stronger colours, deeper than on the apple, but in the same palette. And the inside should be a good contrast. What do you think?”
    â€œLet’s see once they’ve been bitten into.”
    We took the mangos and camera and went into the studio, positioning Dan against a wall to catch the light. It was the same spot where Mike had photographed my hand, but while the apple had been in my right, we put the mango in Dan’s left to create a mirror image. I had a piece of orange-coloured, hand-printed cloth, which we hung as a backdrop.
    Dan sliced into a mango, then took a bite and we contemplated the result. The colour was good, a vibrant orange, a more powerful shade than the background cloth. The fruit was ripe, and the juice began to trickle out of the bite.
    â€œGreat. That looks luscious and you can exaggerate the drip. Go for it.”
    I got the camera, and fired off various shots. “Just try another one, Dan. See if the colour’s different.”
    We photographed three of the mangos, with different-sized and angled bites. For a while, we managed to put yesterday out of our minds and worked together for the best part of an hour. Then I switched on the computer and began to download the pictures. Dan lounged on the sofa, and picked up a guava from the fruit bowl, taking a bite. I had bought a couple of early ones in case they worked better than the mangos, but the colour was too muted, the fruit too small.
    â€œYeuuch!”
    I turned. “It’s got a worm.” Dan spat the flesh of the guava into his hand as we contemplated the maggotjerking up and down in the fruit he was holding.
    â€œDon’t worry. It’s a whole worm. It’s when you see half a worm that you need to worry.”
    Dan gave me a dirty look, and got up to wash his hand. But somehow the mood had soured. The maggot had made me think of the corpse, and Dan too seemed to be preoccupied as he sat down again.
    â€œLaura, you know that photograph the cops found on the body?”
    He stopped. I nodded, but for a long moment he sat, looking at his knees. Then he got up. “I didn’t know the man – never seen him before. But I wonder if he was looking for me.”
    â€œWhy? Why would he be looking for you ?”
    â€œI told you I was thinking about this exhibition of colonial stuff. Well. I had been trying to make contact with descendants of Mendi survivors. I wanted to hear the stories, see if there was something I could use. I had heard of a man originally from the Eastern Cape, the Pondoland area, who was a teacher in Durban. His grandfather had been on the Mendi , and had been rescued after the sinking, gone on to the war, and had come back to South Africa at the end of it. I contacted this teacher chap on the phone, and he said he would like to talk to me. I told him I was coming down here, and if he was around, coming up to Pietermaritzburg at all, maybe we could meet. So … I suppose that could have been him. When I saw the photograph of the man with the bicycle, just before we walked back up here, then I began to wonder. And when the sergeant asked about the Mendi , well, it seemed too much of a coincidence.” Dan turned to look at me.
    â€œBut why didn’t you say anything to the cops yesterday? I mean, if you think he might