Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  She wanted to go to the funeral, but according to Muslim custom women were not allowed at the graveside. It was a few days before she went to the shop. Many customers had brought flowers and laid them at the door, and some offered their condolences to Zinhle.

  Some days later, she received a call from Abdul’s widow Anita. She wanted to see her; they could meet at the shop.

  When Zinhle arrived, the shutters were open and there was Anita, serving behind the counter.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Zinhle said, gripping Anita’s hand as she felt the tears coming. ‘Abdul was a good man. He was always fair with me.’

  ‘He was very fond of you,’ Anita said. Always a formidable woman, she had put on more weight since the last time Zinhle had seen her. ‘But let me come straight to the point. I will keep the shop going. That is what Abdul would have wanted. But I cannot do it alone. Murad will assist here and there, but I need someone to help me in the shop.’

  ‘You want me to work for you?’

  ‘Just like before, except I would need to you to really help me. I don’t know that much about running a shop.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know that much myself. Abdul was really hands-on. I just helped out here and there.’

  ‘Well, now you can help me here and there.’ A slight pause. ‘If that is OK with you.’

  There was really only one thing to say. After all, it was what Abdul would have wanted. ‘That will be fine.’

  A smile tinged with sadness transformed Anita’s face. ‘Thank you so much. I know Abdul is thankful also.’

  ‘There is only one small thing.’

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘I will need more money.’

  Anita shuffled uneasily. ‘I’m sure we can come to some agreement.’

  ‘Oh, and one last thing.’

  ‘I thought you said there was one thing. One small thing, you said.’

  ‘Yes, but there is another small thing.’

  A laboured sigh. ‘OK. What is it?’

  ‘I will need time off – to go to auditions.’

  ‘Auditions? What kind of auditions?’

  Chapter 7

  CYNTHIA MAZIBUKO SAT down at her desk and opened her bottom drawer to remove the bottle of Cruz vodka, pouring her first for the day. Such a welcome feeling as it went down, burning the back of her throat.

  There’d been times she wanted to give it all up, go back to being a jobbing actress instead of trying to find work for others; but she’d decided to be an agent, and she was determined to make a go of it.

  And there had been successes. Two actresses and one actor placed on Heritage, the country’s top-rated soapie. All but one had since left to find representation elsewhere, but that was their loss. Ingratitude was all too common in this business. Let them go if that was what they wanted. She would find more talent, she would groom them and make them into something special. Those who had left would come back, and then she’d decide whether to take them on or not.

  The search for new faces was constant. Just that morning, she’d received a call from her old friend Dumi. Some years back, they’d been lovers, when he was still a schoolboy and she an established actress, and somehow they had kept in touch. Now he was trying to foist one of his girlfriends on her. A pretty girl, he said, fair in complexion, a real yellowbone, with a lot of spunk. So, what had she done? Nothing, as it turned out, but she was really eager to find work. Could she help?

  Thinking of Dumi always made her feel a little warm inside, remembering him as a lover. Very little finesse with a lot of energy, but that was the thing about young men; it was what she loved about them. And she remembered him being handsomely endowed, stretching her pussy delightfully. Ah, the joys of youth! Too bad we all had to get old.

  Glancing across the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror on the far wall. Not too bad for a woman in her mid-forties, but a tiredness had begun to encroach around her eyes and there were lines where she didn’t need lines. Life happened. If she was ever going to go before the cameras again, she’d need a few touch-ups. Maybe some Botox, or even a medical procedure to get her looking fresh. Someone had suggested she give up the booze, but some things were just not worth doing.

  Maybe she couldn’t do anything for Dumi’s girlfriend, but still she would meet with her, take her three hundred rand signing-on fee and send her out on some cattle-call auditions. You never knew what might happen; people got lucky breaks all the time. Not her clients so much, at least not lately, but there was always hope.

  She was on time and that was always a good sign. And she looked good, not short and not tall, an alluring figure, well-endowed up top, her short dress showing off shapely legs. ‘I’m Zinhle,’ she said, moving forward to shake Cynthia’s hand. Her cheap scent reeked of poverty and desperation.

  ‘Please, have a seat.’

  ‘Dumi said that maybe you can help me.’

  Coming straight to the point; Cynthia liked that. ‘Well, let’s see what you want, and I’ll tell you whether I can help you get what you want.’

  Behind the forcefulness was a slight hesitancy. ‘I want to be an actress.’

  ‘Have you had any training, any experience?’

  ‘Not really, no … I played Joan of Arc in my school play. I was fourteen, I think.’

  ‘And how old are you now?’

  ‘I’ll be nineteen next birthday.’

  Dumi likes them young these days, Cynthia thought to herself. Times have definitely changed. But then, he was still young himself. She was the one the years were leaving behind.

  ‘It’s a good age to start, although I really have to warn you, this business can be brutal. You need to be prepared for a lot of rejection.’ Careful, Cynthia, don’t lay it on too thick. At least not until I get her signing-on fee.

  ‘I’m not afraid of that,’ Zinhle told her. ‘I know I have what it takes.’

  ‘We all have what it takes, my dear. The question is, can we bring it out when it’s needed?’

  ‘I used to see you on TV,’ Zinhle said, leaning forward, as if searching for something in the older woman’s face. ‘You were a good actress. Why did you give it up?’

  I didn’t give it up; the business gave me up, Cynthia thought. ‘It was time for a change,’ she said. ‘This, it suits me better.’ She was being a little too open with this girl, and she hadn’t even signed her up yet. ‘You’ll need photos. I can send you to someone who will do a good job. But it will cost you.’

  ‘How much?’ Zinhle asked. For the first time, she seemed a little apprehensive. As Cynthia mentioned a figure, the girl winced slightly. ‘I’m not sure I can raise that much,’ she said, beginning to stand. ‘But thank you for taking the time to see me.’

  I don’t believe I’m about to do this, Cynthia said to herself. Not with business the way it is. But there was something about this girl she liked, and coming across people she liked in this job was a rarity. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ she heard herself saying. ‘I’ll cover the cost of the photos and take it out of your first pay-cheque. How would you feel about that?’

  Sitting down again, Zinhle shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Why would you do that?’

  It was a good question. At that precise moment Cynthia wasn’t at all sure herself, but Fortune the photographer owed her a few favours, and she could probably get the photos gratis. ‘I think you may have something,’ she said, not believing a word of what she was saying. ‘But you’re going to have to work hard. Nothing will be easy, I can promise you that.’

  Nothing will be easy, I can promise you that.

  In the months that followed, these words rang in Zinhle’s ears every time she emerged from yet another audition. This one had been for a moisturising cream, not a brand she’d heard of, but the money for commercials was good, or at least that was what Cynthia had told her. Still, she knew it was another one she hadn’t got; the casting director had shown little enthusiasm, barely looking at her photos and résumé. And they ha
dn’t asked her to say the line over. The first time had been far from her best, and she knew she could do it better, but nobody worth anything was in the least bit interested in that.

  The castings and the travelling were getting costly, and there it was, another morning wasted. Now she was late for work. More stress to pile on. Why oh why did she even bother?

  ‘You’re late,’ Anita said, stating the obvious when Zinhle finally made it to the shop. ‘This is really not acceptable.’

  ‘So sorry, but there were loads of people at the audition.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about your fucking audition!’ Anita barked. ‘You are supposed to be here. I can’t do everything myself.’

  As Anita ranted away, Zinhle couldn’t help wondering if she’d spoken to her husband like that, swearing up a storm. Probably yes, she decided. ‘I’m really sorry I’m late, but I couldn’t help it. And I told you I needed time off.’

  ‘Is this how you were, working for my husband? Somehow I don’t think so.’

  ‘I didn’t even have an agent back then. And this has got nothing to do with Abdul.’

  ‘It has everything to do with him!’ Anita shouted. Looking around, Zinhle was grateful there were no customers in the shop. ‘And I know you wanted him. You think I don’t know, but I do.’

  ‘Why would I want him? He was your husband, not mine. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘All those nights you worked alone with him, you think I don’t know what was going on?’

  ‘Nothing was going on. He was my boss. We worked together. That is all.’

  A haughty, abrupt laugh from Anita. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘You can believe whatever you like, I don’t care.’ For a brief moment she thought of bringing up what happened that last time she worked with Abdul, but then thought better of it.

  ‘Everything you say is a lie,’ Anita spat back. ‘You are nothing but a silly little whore.’

  Zinhle’s hand came round quickly to connect with Anita’s face. Shocked, Anita brought a hand up to massage her reddening cheek while Zinhle just stood there, waiting for the return slap, ready to receive it. When none came she backed off, almost bumping into a customer as she rushed out the door, vowing never to return. It was more than a year since Abdul’s death. If she’d ever owed him anything, the debt had long been repaid.

  ‘Secretarial. That will be perfect for you.’

  Zinhle couldn’t help frowning. ‘I don’t know, Ma. Let me think about it.’

  ‘Damelin has a course. Reasonable in price also.’

  ‘I said I’ll think about it.’

  They were washing the dishes after eating the meal Zinhle had cooked for her mother’s birthday: oxtail, Mabel’s favourite. She was always careful not to overcook it. It was something she liked doing for her mother, and it helped to take her mind off everything. All Cynthia had done was send her to cattle call after cattle call, and the whole process was weighing her down. Maybe the universe was trying to tell her that she was on the wrong path, that she should think about trying something else.

  It was as if Mabel was privy to her thoughts. ‘This acting thing, you have tried, done your best, but it is enough now. You need to learn something that will give you a chance of a job. I don’t want you to struggle like me.’

  ‘I know, Ma.’ She was genuinely touched by her mother’s concern, and, besides, there was nothing wrong with being a secretary. Some of her friends from school were already doing it.

  The following day, she made her way to Cynthia’s office in Melville, and was glad to catch her before she’d consumed too much vodka. You couldn’t smell it on her breath, but after her second or third it was there in her speech, the careful way she pronounced each syllable, as if afraid of slurring.

  Today Cynthia was smoking a joint, the air thick with the smell, and there was a brightness about her that was unusual.

  ‘What are you so happy about?’ Zinhle asked. A kind of friendship had developed between them in past weeks, and they both enjoyed their lively banter.

  ‘Got me some great sex last night,’ Cynthia said unashamedly, passing the weed over to Zinhle. ‘Far from a monster cock, but oh boy was he young, and he knew how to use it.’

  Getting into the spirit of the moment, Zinhle couldn’t help laughing as she pulled the smoke deep into her lungs, liking the sensation. ‘Have you no shame?’

  Behind her desk, Cynthia spread out her arms. ‘What do I have to be ashamed of? I’m just having fun, and so is my pussy. You should be getting some too, a sexy number like you.’

  ‘How do you know I’m not?’ She’d actually not seen Dumi in weeks. She missed him.

  ‘Oh, please!’ Cynthia leaned forward in her chair and shuffled some papers. ‘I send you to so many auditions you never have the time to get laid. But seriously, it would do you some good. Of course you have to be safe, but you can still be bold. That’s how it is done these days.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Girl, I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘So this stud you were with last night – where did you meet him?’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone, but he’s one of my clients.’

  Zinhle didn’t even try to hide her shock. ‘Isn’t that a little –’

  ‘Unethical? Maybe, but who really cares? It’s not like I don’t get him work. Nothing wrong with enjoying the fringe benefits if they’re on offer.’

  ‘As long as you’re both having fun.’

  ‘That we are, my dear. And you know what? You should try it. In fact, I have all your details on file. I’m going to set you up.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Zinhle said, raising a hand in protest. ‘I’m not ready for anything like that. I’m not looking for a relationship.’

  ‘And you think I am? Come on, girl, what are you smoking, besides my zol? All I want is a little TLC in the most sexy, sensual way possible. Nothing wrong with that.’

  She left Cynthia’s office without even mentioning what she’d wanted to talk about – her career, or rather, her lack of one. That settled it for Zinhle. She would tell her mother yes, she’d go for that secretarial course. No more reaching for the unreachable. And no more weed.

  Mabel was nowhere to be seen when she got home, but in her bedroom on the bedside table Zinhle found the Damelin secretarial course prospectus. Her mother was right, she had to be realistic about her expectations. Losing the job with Anita meant she had zero money coming in, and that would never do. She refused to become a burden on Mabel; whatever she ended up doing, she would pay her own way. Let Cynthia have her spectacular sex sleeping with her clients. As an agent, she had yet to come good with even one promising job offer.

  Zinhle was just about to get dinner ready when the phone rang – probably her mother, running late. But Cynthia’s voice on the other end surprised her.

  ‘Hey, girl, doll yourself up and get your ass to Cresta,’ she said, sounding positively tipsy.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because one of my clients wants to meet you. Well OK, he’s not exactly my client, but I’m hoping he soon will be. He was very insistent, wants to see you tonight. I told him I couldn’t promise, but I would see what I could do.’

  ‘Tell him you tried and failed. I’m not going.’

  ‘Not going?’ Cynthia sounded outraged. ‘Of course you’re going, girl. You need to get your groove on right now.’

  The gentle bullying was becoming tiresome. ‘I don’t want to sound rude, but there’s no way I’m going anywhere near Cresta tonight or any other night.’

  Cynthia’s tone softened. ‘Look, I know I haven’t done wonders for you as your agent, but I would consider it a personal favour if you would do this. I’ve been trying to land him as a client for a while, and you meeting him could really help make that happen.’

  ‘But Cresta’s such a long way –’

  ‘It will be well worth it, I promise you. Look, you know as well as I do that nothin
g will happen to any of us if we shut ourselves away in our homes and do nothing.’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s just –’

  ‘It’s just that you are going out tonight and you are going to have a good time. No arguments. Now, go and get ready.’

  Chapter 8

  GETTING AROUND JOZI with public transport was not easy at the best of times, and Zinhle struggled to get to Cresta by six-thirty. She got caught up in the whole ritual: the marshals straightening the lines of commuters waiting for their taxis, infants crying on their mothers’ backs, the smell of the meat being roasted on open fires. By the time she got to the mall, she was already late – and then she realised she’d forgotten the name of the restaurant. It was a girl’s name, something vaguely foreign … she wished she’d written it down on a piece of paper. Yes, that would have been the most sensible thing to do … but then she turned a corner and there it was: Justine. And she hadn’t forgotten his name – Clifton. That was ordinary enough to register.

  According to Cynthia, he would be wearing a red shirt, but was that enough? What if there was more than one guy sitting in the restaurant wearing red?

  She needn’t have worried, for as soon as she walked in he stood up. The first thing she noticed was how good he looked. The red shirt clung to his body as if it had been made for him, and the jeans also looked tailored. There was something familiar about him, although she couldn’t immediately say what. His eyes were light blue, and there was a softness in his angular features. And that body; already she was wondering what it looked like under his clothes.

  ‘Zinhle,’ he said as she approached, and she loved the way he said her name, with confidence. A lot of coloured boys stumbled a little, but not him.

  ‘Clifton?’

  ‘In the flesh.’ He pulled a chair out for her and she sat, taking in his subtle yet intoxicating fragrance. ‘You look great,’ he said as he sat down opposite her. ‘I mean, really good.’

  She’d tried on several outfits before settling on a simple flowered dress, the cut in front showing the barest hint of cleavage. A little slutty with a hint of class – at least that was what she was going for.