window.’
‘You found it offensive?’
Father Jacobus breathes in deeply.
‘It is offensive.’
De Vries stares at him, scrutinizes the certainty in his expression. De Vries lives in a world of evidence and fact; he finds dogma inexplicable.
‘What was Miss Holt’s response?’
‘Freedom of expression, human rights, artistic license. Pornography comes in many guises, and boasts myriad defenders.’
‘This is artwork, sir. Paint on canvas. You can turn away if you do not like the subject.’
Jacobus leans forward.
‘It is not always easy to turn away from evil. You should know that.’
De Vries stares at him a moment, smiles in the right-hand corner of his mouth.
‘We have been told that the pictures were painted by a female artist, protesting against the mistreatment of women in Africa. Is that pornography?’
‘The treatment of women is exaggerated. If you see what these African women who claim to be raped are wearing. Most are prostitutes or, if not, they are seeking sexual pleasure.’ He flicks his wrist, dismissing the matter. ‘In any case, the process behind the pictures is irrelevant; the images are an affront to God, disturbing to children and to all impressionable minds.’
De Vries finds Jacobus hubristic and pompous but represses the urge to challenge him, knows that he must not become distracted.
‘Why did you speak with her twice?’
‘I wanted to lodge a final plea. I went to her home, hoping that, alone, she might see reason . . .’ He stares past De Vries, into the dark, small cavern of his church.
‘Did you threaten Miss Holt?’
‘Threaten? We do not threaten.’
De Vries raises his eyebrows. Jacobus continues:
‘We explained that we would picket the gallery, attend the opening from the street, that our vigil would not be broken. That is what we did. Ours was a peaceful protest.’
‘Apart from you and members of this women’s group, who else demonstrated?’
‘A few I did not recognize . . .’
‘And did you hear threats or intimidation?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see who threw the brick which broke one of the gallery’s windows?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see or speak to Miss Holt after talking with her at her home?’
‘No.’
De Vries follows Jacobus’s skewed focus, sees Don scrutinizing him.
‘Did she invite you into her house?’
‘She did. I did not sit. My reasoned request was quickly denied. I left.’
‘You didn’t return at a later stage?’
‘That would have served no purpose.’
‘How did you travel to visit her?’
Jacobus looks up.
‘What do you mean?’
‘How did you get to her house? Did you drive?’
‘I walked.’
‘From here?’
Jacobus nods. De Vries wonders how far from Taryn Holt’s house they might be now, wonders how much higher Jacobus would have had to climb. It seems a strange lie to tell.
‘This women’s group: it is part of this church?’
‘Some of their members worship here. Others not. I provide moral and spiritual guidance to those in need.’
‘They attended these demonstrations as individuals or as a group?’
‘Four women run the group. They were offended by those paintings and appalled that anyone could walk in off the street to view them. Those who chose to join them did so.’
‘When does this group meet?’
‘Every week day. From 2 p.m. One of the conveners will open up the hall . . .’ He reaches inside his robes and produces a small, gold pocket watch. ‘Any minute now.’
‘You didn’t see Taryn Holt again after your meeting?’
‘That woman lacked a moral compass; she showed no respect for her fellow human beings. We reached out to her but she spurned us . . .’
‘No, then?’
‘No.’
De Vries waits, but the priest says nothing more.
‘Where were you last night between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m.?’
‘You ask me that?’
‘I ask anyone who might be a suspect that question.’
‘Do you people understand who I am; who I represent?’
De Vries leans over the table at the
‘You found it offensive?’
Father Jacobus breathes in deeply.
‘It is offensive.’
De Vries stares at him, scrutinizes the certainty in his expression. De Vries lives in a world of evidence and fact; he finds dogma inexplicable.
‘What was Miss Holt’s response?’
‘Freedom of expression, human rights, artistic license. Pornography comes in many guises, and boasts myriad defenders.’
‘This is artwork, sir. Paint on canvas. You can turn away if you do not like the subject.’
Jacobus leans forward.
‘It is not always easy to turn away from evil. You should know that.’
De Vries stares at him a moment, smiles in the right-hand corner of his mouth.
‘We have been told that the pictures were painted by a female artist, protesting against the mistreatment of women in Africa. Is that pornography?’
‘The treatment of women is exaggerated. If you see what these African women who claim to be raped are wearing. Most are prostitutes or, if not, they are seeking sexual pleasure.’ He flicks his wrist, dismissing the matter. ‘In any case, the process behind the pictures is irrelevant; the images are an affront to God, disturbing to children and to all impressionable minds.’
De Vries finds Jacobus hubristic and pompous but represses the urge to challenge him, knows that he must not become distracted.
‘Why did you speak with her twice?’
‘I wanted to lodge a final plea. I went to her home, hoping that, alone, she might see reason . . .’ He stares past De Vries, into the dark, small cavern of his church.
‘Did you threaten Miss Holt?’
‘Threaten? We do not threaten.’
De Vries raises his eyebrows. Jacobus continues:
‘We explained that we would picket the gallery, attend the opening from the street, that our vigil would not be broken. That is what we did. Ours was a peaceful protest.’
‘Apart from you and members of this women’s group, who else demonstrated?’
‘A few I did not recognize . . .’
‘And did you hear threats or intimidation?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see who threw the brick which broke one of the gallery’s windows?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see or speak to Miss Holt after talking with her at her home?’
‘No.’
De Vries follows Jacobus’s skewed focus, sees Don scrutinizing him.
‘Did she invite you into her house?’
‘She did. I did not sit. My reasoned request was quickly denied. I left.’
‘You didn’t return at a later stage?’
‘That would have served no purpose.’
‘How did you travel to visit her?’
Jacobus looks up.
‘What do you mean?’
‘How did you get to her house? Did you drive?’
‘I walked.’
‘From here?’
Jacobus nods. De Vries wonders how far from Taryn Holt’s house they might be now, wonders how much higher Jacobus would have had to climb. It seems a strange lie to tell.
‘This women’s group: it is part of this church?’
‘Some of their members worship here. Others not. I provide moral and spiritual guidance to those in need.’
‘They attended these demonstrations as individuals or as a group?’
‘Four women run the group. They were offended by those paintings and appalled that anyone could walk in off the street to view them. Those who chose to join them did so.’
‘When does this group meet?’
‘Every week day. From 2 p.m. One of the conveners will open up the hall . . .’ He reaches inside his robes and produces a small, gold pocket watch. ‘Any minute now.’
‘You didn’t see Taryn Holt again after your meeting?’
‘That woman lacked a moral compass; she showed no respect for her fellow human beings. We reached out to her but she spurned us . . .’
‘No, then?’
‘No.’
De Vries waits, but the priest says nothing more.
‘Where were you last night between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m.?’
‘You ask me that?’
‘I ask anyone who might be a suspect that question.’
‘Do you people understand who I am; who I represent?’
De Vries leans over the table at the
Similar Books
