Zulu by Caryl Férey

up the side of the hill—it was already too late to save the landscape.
    25 West Point. With its gilt and lacquer and profusion of mirrors, the Botha family apartment was as heavily made up as a Sydney drag queen, a monument to eighties glitz. In a living room with a panoramic view, Flora, her face drawn by the sun and foundation cream, was sitting on the couch waiting for Judith to return. Her husband, pacing restlessly around the coffee table, was talking for the two of them. In lying to everyone, the stupid girl had created a deep rift between the two families. Stewart Wiese had called a little earlier, and they’d had a heated argument that had solved nothing. The Springbok had finished his career in Nils Botha’s Stormers, and the two men had remained friends. Their daughters had been at school together, had the same circle of friends, went out to the same places, they had never wanted for anything or ever caused the slightest concern. They were supposed to be revising for their exams, not spending the night on the streets, or going for weekends to the coast. Botha was boiling with anger, incomprehension, and a sense of betrayal. Dan Fletcher let him stew, while his wife sat on the flowered couch, twisting her fingers.
    Dan was thinking about his wife, Claire—he’d be picking her up from the hospital in a while—when there was a ring from the entry phone. Flora jumped up like a spring, and trotted across the marble floor in her high heels, but Nils got there first. It was the doorman, announcing that their daughter had arrived.
    After a few moments, the door of the private elevator opened and Judith appeared, together with her friend Peter, a local boy who had swapped his Ray-Bans for blond streaks.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Judith asked when she saw her mother’s distraught face. “Has something happened?”
    Botha pushed his wife aside, swooped on his daughter, and slapped her across the face. Flora let out a stunned cry. With a whine, Judith collapsed on the floor.
    â€œNils!” Flora said. “You—”
    â€œShut up! And you, listen to me,” he roared at his daughter. “Yes, something’s happened. Nicole has been murdered! Do you hear! Someone killed Nicole!”
    The maid, who had been hiding at the end of the corridor, ran to the kitchen. Judith burst into tears. Peter retreated toward the elevator. Botha glared at him, then bent over Judith and grabbed her by the arm as if pulling a weed from the ground.
    â€œDo you think this is quite appropriate?” Dan Fletcher said.
    â€œI’ll treat my daughter as I see fit!”
    â€œCan’t you see, she can hardly stand.”
    Botha didn’t give a damn. He had beaten men to the ground before. If you could do it in rugby, why not in life? All he could see was the lying, the deception, the rift with Stewart Wiese, the loss of business contacts, and all the other trouble that would ensue. All because of this young fool, his daughter.
    Judith was still on the floor, her hands over her face. Flora went to her, ill at ease, not knowing how to deal with her.
    â€œI’d like to speak to Judith alone,” Dan said.
    â€œI have a right to know why my daughter lied to us!”
    â€œPlease, Mr. Botha, let me do my job.”
    Botha made a sour face. The little cop was talking in a low voice and looking at Judith with a compassion that set his nerves on edge. She huddled pitifully against the elevator door, while her mother tried awkwardly, and inaudibly, to console her.
    Now Dan kneeled and looked at her, noticing the freckles behind her disheveled hair. He took her hand and helped her to her feet. Her mascara had run, staining her fingers. Peter Deblink stood with his back to the elevator and his eyes on the floor, as if counting the marble tiles.
    â€œYou too,” Dan said.
    Swerving past Nils Botha, the young couple followed Dan out onto the terrace.
    A cool wind was blowing,