Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  She was nothing if not original. Her business suit was sober, but her glasses were large and bright orange, matching the colour of her closely cropped hair, and large round earrings dangled from her ears. She talked up a torrent between puffs of her cigarette, separated from her lips by a thin silver cigarette-holder.

  ‘I think we can do something very special together,’ Asanda was saying. ‘Right now your public profile is big, thanks to The Marrying Michaels. The ratings for that second episode were off the charts. Something about beautiful people getting it on gets audiences all orgasmic.’ In the weeks and months to come, Zinhle would learn that ‘orgasmic’ was a word Asanda could find all kinds of meanings for. And nothing made her more orgasmic than the sound of her own voice.

  ‘Sorry to ask you this, darling, but word around town is that you and Clifton are not currently together. Please be honest with me – if we do business together, it’ll make it all the more pleasant.’

  To keep up the facade of their marriage, Zinhle had agreed to attend a few public events with Clifton; but the word was already out about the state of their relationship, and after the first outing, there was no talk of a second. ‘We are currently not together,’ she admitted. ‘Living apart.’

  ‘So sorry to hear that. Young love can be so orgasmic, yet at the same time such a let-down.’

  She spoke as if she knew something. Now Zinhle couldn’t help wondering if maybe Clifton’s bisexuality was common knowledge, and she’d been the dupe all along. Swirls of smoke followed as Asanda waved her cigarette in its holder. ‘All that is ancient history, my darling. The Marrying Michaels is doing better than any other South African reality show ever. It’s almost as if the audience doesn’t care whether the two of you are together or not. Oh, audiences can be so fickle, you never know what they really want.’

  For a moment, Zinhle thought Asanda was going to ask for a blow-by-blow account: were there episodes when they were faking it, and, if so, which? But Zinhle had no appetite for dredging up the past. All she could see was the future.

  ‘I really want to get back into acting,’ she said, aware that Asanda was barely listening. ‘It’s always been a passion of mine.’

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll call you,’ Asanda said, waving her hand to dismiss Zinhle. And just like that, the meeting was over.

  She did what she was told, went home and waited. Whenever Mabel asked what she was doing, she had a ready reply: ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘Waiting for Asanda. She said she’d call.’

  ‘Well, if Asanda said she’d call, I suppose she’ll call.’

  Zinhle didn’t dare flinch in the face of her mother’s sarcasm, but inside it hurt. After four days of silence, she called the office.

  ‘Asanda Management?’

  ‘I would like to speak to Asanda.’

  ‘And who am I speaking to?’

  ‘Zinhle Sedibe.’ Should she have said Zinhle Michaels? They’d agreed before the wedding that she would use her maiden name professionally, although Zinhle Sedibe-Michaels had a certain ring to it.

  ‘She is unavailable at present. Is she expecting your call?’

  ‘No, it’s just that she said she would call, and she hasn’t.’

  ‘Well, if she said she would, I’m sure she will,’ the receptionist said, echoing Mabel.

  And so the long wait continued. By the end of the first week, Zinhle was sure that Asanda had lost her number. By the end of the second week, she was convinced that Asanda was a fraud, that the plush offices were a front for something not completely legitimate. She berated herself for trusting the woman, for thinking she could make the slightest difference to her own confused, rambling life.

  When the call came, she was making dinner for her mother and a few of her friends. ‘This is Asanda,’ the voice said. ‘You have an important audition tomorrow in Sandton at ten. Please don’t be late. This is the address.’

  The office she was directed to wasn’t an office at all. It wasn’t really a house, either, more of a mansion, surrounded by high white walls. She had dressed as instructed by Asanda: a short skirt that showed off her legs, a low-cut blouse revealing ample cleavage, high-heeled boots. ‘It’s for the part,’ Asanda had told her, and of course she was willing to comply; anything to make a good impression.

  She rang the buzzer and waited. ‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘Zinhle, to see Hakeem. I think I’m expected.’

  A loud buzz, and she pushed her way through the metal door, through a small, manicured courtyard and a large wooden door, and there she was in the foyer. High white walls, abstract African art she found vaguely erotic.

  A woman dressed in an elegant business suit directed her to a spacious living room, large white leather couches filling the space. As she sat, the woman asked if she wanted a drink, and she said water, eager to keep a clear head for the audition to come.

  A few minutes later, a man walked in. He was tall, a little overweight, dressed in a brown suit a few shades lighter than his complexion. Teeth that seemed almost too perfect were flashed in a smile.

  ‘I am Hakeem,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘And you are ...’

  ‘I am Zinhle.’

  ‘Ah yes. Of course you are.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said nervously, intimidated by his presence. She expected him to sit opposite her, but moved her body to adjust as he took a seat next to her on the couch.

  ‘I am pleased you could come,’ he said. His accent was Nigerian. ‘Asanda has said such good things about you.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said, trying to relax. ‘But she didn’t tell me much about you.’

  ‘Ah well, allow me to introduce myself. I am Hakeem. I have many business interests, mainly in the entertainment field. I am putting together a number of film projects, and when I was talking to Asanda about one of them, your name came up.’

  The woman re-entered, holding a tray with a plastic bottle of water and a glass containing a generous shot of whisky with ice.

  ‘You are only having water?’ Hakeem asked as she took the bottle. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I try to have my first whisky before midday. Some people, they say I am becoming an alcoholic, but what do they know?’ A loud, haughty laugh filled the space. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you with something a little stronger? Wine, maybe?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Zinhle said, keeping it short, not wanting to say too much.

  ‘No problem. So OK, now we can get down to business. You are an actress, yes?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, feeling a little self-conscious answering such a stupid question.

  ‘That is good, that is good. Now,’ he said, sipping from his whisky, the ice cubes clinking. ‘The movie I have you in mind for, it is Nollywood, yes, except it is not really Nollywood. You understand what I mean?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said honestly.

  ‘Nollywood, it is not always about quality. This, it is pure quality, unlike anything that has been seen before.’

  ‘That sounds interesting,’ Zinhle said, trying hard to stay focused. And why was she feeling sleepy, so early in the day?

  Hakeem was in full flow. ‘The part I have in mind for you, she is a rich businesswoman. She is young, she inherited a lot of money from her dead father, but she is fighting with her brothers. And she uses what God gave her to get whatever man she wants. Her body is her weapon. You understand?’

  ‘I think so,’ Zinhle said, willing to go along with it.

  ‘She likes men, she has a real hunger for them. When it comes to sex, enough is never really enough. Not ever.’

  ‘And this is the part you want me to play?’ Zinhle asked, feeling a little light-headed now, as if she’d been drinking, it was the strangest sensation ...

  ‘I think you may have what is needed for the part,’ he said, downing the rest of his whisky. ‘But still I need to be sure. Take off your clothes.’

  That can’t be right, she though
t to herself. No way could he have said that. ‘What was that?’

  An exasperated sigh from Hakeem. ‘Take off your clothes.’

  ‘But – why would I do that?’

  ‘I need to see if you’ve got what it takes. Her body is her weapon – she uses it to get what she wants. Her body, you see, it is so important.’

  ‘It may be, but I’m not taking anything off.’ As she tried to stand, she almost fell. Everything was spinning, her head didn’t feel right, and suddenly she knew. ‘The water,’ she managed to say. ‘You put something in the water.’

  Looking at Hakeem, she saw something resembling a smile. ‘One thing you need to know, Hakeem always gets what he wants. Always.’

  His hands were at the buttons of her blouse, and somehow she could do nothing about it. And then a hand was under her dress, pulling it up, moving down to her panties, groping her ...

  Standing in Asanda’s office, Zinhle tried to rein in her anger as she glared at the agent behind her desk. ‘What kind of an agent are you? I want you to tell me. Who does such things?’

  ‘Are you seriously asking me that?’ Asanda looked up at her, adjusting her glasses. ‘I am the kind of agent who makes money for her clients.’ In one swift movement she was on her feet, both hands on her desk, her whole demeanour proudly defiant. ‘What did Hakeem give you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hakeem gave you something. What did he give you?’

  ‘You mean, besides whatever he put into my water?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Zinhle hesitated before replying. ‘Twenty thousand.’

  ‘Twenty thousand,’ Asanda repeated, as if it was a mantra. ‘Not chicken feed. That’s four thousand for me and sixteen thousand for you. Not too shabby.’

  ‘What he gave me is not the point.’

  ‘Oh, really? Well then, maybe you would like to tell me – exactly what is the point?’

  ‘He did something to me.’

  ‘And what did he do exactly?’

  ‘He forced himself on me.’

  Now Asanda was leaning forward across the desk. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zinhle said, no longer sure about anything.

  ‘He hurt you?’

  ‘No ... not exactly.’

  ‘And you took his money. Oh yes. He didn’t hurt you and you took his money. Not the best case for rape I ever heard.’ Having made her point, Asanda sat down, leaning back into the comfort of her chair. ‘Now, you listen to me, my girl. Hakeem is a big name on the Nollywood scene. At least half a dozen top actresses owe their careers to him. One of them is starring in a TV series on a major American television network. I sent you there because he asked to see you specifically. That does not happen very often. So, leave me my commission, go home and think about what you want to be. I don’t have time to waste on little girls who refuse to face up to reality. Think about what it is you really want to do.’

  Time to think – that was all Zinhle had.

  No way could she go on with Asanda. She could always return to Cynthia, but that relationship had ended badly. And it wasn’t as if people were clamouring for her services. The hype generated by The Marrying Michaels wouldn’t last, and Asanda was the only one who had responded positively.

  And now where was she? Exactly nowhere, and there was no one to blame but herself.

  Had Hakeem really hurt her? Certainly at the beginning he had been forceful, but then she had relented. After that he had been almost gentle. Opening her purse she looked at the crisp bank notes. A cool sixteen thousand, tax free. She could have refused it when it was offered. The money from Clifton was quickly being depleted, and yesterday her mother had come home to say she was losing one of her domestic jobs.

  It was time to make some hard choices. Mabel had looked after her for a lot of years, and now it was time to return the favour.

  Chapter 12

  THE SUN PENETRATED the curtains as Zinhle stirred. She stretched her arms, wondering if she should try to find more sleep, but something was moving by her side. Opening her eyes, she tried to focus on him as he slipped out of the bed.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked between yawns.

  ‘Time to get up,’ Hakeem said. ‘The day will happen without us if we don’t make the effort.’

  ‘I guess we didn’t get too much sleep,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘We got enough.’ He smiled down at her. ‘But take your time. I’ve got a meeting in the CBD.’

  ‘What about breakfast?’ she asked, feeling a gentle twinge of hunger.

  ‘I’ll get something on the way, but Lorna will fix you whatever you need.’

  ‘Hey, we didn’t even talk about the movie. When are we going to start shooting?’

  ‘Everything in its time,’ he said, pulling on his jacket and adjusting his tie in the full-length mirror on the wall. ‘Right now I’m running late.’

  ‘When will I see you again?’ she asked, trying to keep her tone casual.

  ‘I’ll let you know. Last night was great.’ He blew her a kiss. ‘Keep up the good work.’

  After a shaky start to say the least, they had embarked on a relationship of mutual satisfaction. It was some kind of trade-off: he would help her with her movie career, and she would accede to all of his wishes physically. There were times when he was a little too forceful and over-eager, but, for the most part, Hakeem was a generous and thoughtful lover.

  It wasn’t so much what he did with his penis, which was miniscule compared to the prodigious Clifton Michaels’. Hakeem had a skilful tongue that he used to good effect, sucking gently on her clitoris before delving deeper. Whatever the G-spot was – and Zinhle had read enough women’s magazines to know that it had to exist – Hakeem had no problem finding it with his tongue. Orgasm after orgasm assaulted Zinhle’s body, until finally he would move on top of her, pounding away with his diminutive penis until he came, then roll off her into sleep.

  The envelope was there on the bedside table, as it always was. She reached over and counted the notes within. A cool forty thousand, a down payment on what would be a long and prestigious Nollywood career – at least that was the way she chose to look at it. And there was a vicarious thrill whenever she hooked up with Hakeem, revelling in his hunger for her, the way he tore at her clothes in his eagerness and lust.

  However she tried to justify it all, it had made all the difference to her life. The extra money enabled her to move out of Mabel’s home and rent a comfortable cottage in Melville, situated far enough from the main house to afford her privacy. Her landlord, a white banker recovering from a messy divorce, was happy to be paid in cash.

  After a tasty breakfast cooked up by Hakeem’s trusted housekeeper Lorna, she left at ten and took a metered taxi to Asanda’s office. The agent still demanded her twenty per cent cut, and Zinhle suspected that most of it never found its way into the company books.

  ‘Eight thousand, thank you,’ she said, poring over the notes. ‘Making money, that’s what it’s all about.’

  For the briefest of moments, Zinhle thought of saying no, there was so much more than money; but she wasn’t at all sure she believed that anymore.

  ‘OK, maybe the time is right to go after some real cash.’ There was a wicked glint in Asanda’s eye.

  What was it this time? More shady auditions for movies that were never going to happen?

  ‘Fancy going to a party?’

  They were called Yellowbone parties, and Zinhle’s fair complexion was the price of entry. Asanda dropped her outside the house but did not go in, because she was not yellowbone; she was too dark to ever be considered as such. Inside, some of the other women were a few shades darker, but not by much, because then they would not have been welcome.

  It seemed like just another party, except most of the men had darker complexions than the women, and many had a look of eager expectation they tried and failed to conceal. Alcohol was freely available, almost as if a certain amount had to be consumed bef
ore things could move to the next level.

  Already briefed by Asanda, Zinhle had a vague idea of what to expect, but still the events of the evening took her by surprise. Much later, when she looked back, she’d remember it all as if it had happened to someone else.

  There was a manufactured elegance to the whole set-up. Almost without exception, the men were dressed in suits and ties, as if they’d just come from a long day in the boardroom, and the women wore dresses that heightened their sensuality without making them appear cheap or sluttish. Some of the men puffed on cigars, the strong aroma invading the air, while the women sipped their drinks from cocktail glasses.

  Many men engaged Zinhle in conversation before moving on, perhaps measuring her keenness for what was to come. Was she sufficiently compliant, and were her senses heightened or dulled by the alcohol?

  One man who claimed to be something major in the financial sector was talking to her when another came up behind her and kissed her neck. It was not at all an unpleasant experience. As she brought her head back to kiss the man open-mouthed, the financier took the opportunity to pull up her short dress, pull her panties aside and lick her honey pot. And when she stopped kissing the second man, he pulled the strap of her dress down to expose one generous breast, teasing the nipple with his tongue.

  The rules of the house were that the yellowbone could decide whether or not to have vaginal intercourse with any one man. ‘Sloppy seconds’ in this regard were not allowed, but oral sex, fondling and kissing were fair game for everyone.

  That first night, Zinhle had vaginal sex with no one, but otherwise her body was well groped, kissed, licked and fondled. She gave blowjobs to at least three men who had the good grace to wear flavoured condoms, all of this conducted in a choice of rooms kitted out for the occasion not with conventional beds but with a diversity of cushions littering the floor. Music designed to soothe and entice was piped into all the rooms, although at times it was turned off, presumably at the request of the men.