Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  The other women Zinhle saw only sporadically after the initial drinks. One of them she thought she recognised from a short-lived drama series, while another had graced international catwalks from Cape Town to Milan. That she was in such august company gave her the freedom to explore, bolstered by the effects of the drink and the occasional passed-around spliff that found its way to her eager lips.

  At the end of the evening, after all had washed, dressed and tidied up in preparation for departure, each of the girls was handed an envelope by the man who’d been the bartender for the night. Zinhle had no way of knowing whether each girl got the same or if it was calculated on an erotic scale: a passionate kiss counting for so much, a blowjob so much more, but not as much as allowing a man to lick your pussy. No ways of knowing, but she didn’t really care when her take for the night was a tidy eighty thousand rand. That would do her nicely, at least until the next Yellowbone party could be organised.

  Chapter 13

  THEY MET WHEN she gave him the blowjob to end all blowjobs. His penis was substantial, clad in yellow. Banana flavour, she remembered. After that, he’d always be The Big Banana to her. ‘I’m Zola,’ he said.

  The first thing she liked about him was his smile. And those eyes – they were piercing, almost devilish. He’d just broken the one hard-and-fast rule about the Yellowbone parties: no names, or at least not real ones.

  ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Halle Berry.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Halle,’ he said, taking her hand and gently massaging it. ‘So at last we’ve been formally introduced.’

  There was something easy about him, immediately comfortable. ‘So, what do you do when you’re not hunting the yellowbone in their natural habitat?’

  That cracked him up a little. ‘Sometimes I try and play soccer. I don’t always succeed, but at least I try.’

  And then all at once she knew who he was, knew he was telling the truth. His name was Zola, but there was something else besides, some special name … and then it came to her. ‘I know you. You’re Zinger.’

  ‘Shh,’ he said, bringing a finger to his lips. ‘Not too loud, or everybody will be wanting a wing.’

  That was it. Zola ‘Zinger’ Baptiste, right-winger for the Mamelodi Mavericks, sitting pretty at the top of the Premier League. He was a South African international, a goal-maker rather than a goal scorer, clever and fast on the ball.

  ‘I’m Zinhle,’ she said in the face of his unswerving honesty.

  ‘You want to get out of here, Zinhle?’ he asked, his voice low and intimate.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe get something to eat.’

  ‘There isn’t enough food here?’ Yellowbone parties were always equipped with hot plates serving up an assortment of mouth-watering culinary delights.

  ‘It’s not so much the food,’ Zola admitted. ‘I just wanted to be somewhere alone with you, maybe get to know you better.’ There was something earnest in his expression that Zinhle found endearing.

  ‘OK, sure,’ she said, ‘but we’d better not leave together. Wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Whatever you feel is best.’

  He left ten minutes later, and she waited at least another ten before following. She would normally have called a metered taxi and there would be one waiting for her out on the street; but not tonight. As she walked along the empty pavement, she was sure that he’d tired of waiting and was gone. So much for ‘Zinger’, she thought as she contemplated a return to the party. Never before had she left this early, and her envelope seemed a little on the light side, but this was her fourth or fifth party and she could afford to let her income drop a little.

  She was distracted by the sound of a powerful engine being revved as bright headlights lit up the street. The car thundered slowly along until it pulled up beside her.

  It was a sports car, low-slung, a Ferrari she guessed, although she couldn’t be sure. As if by magic, the passenger door swung open, and there was Zola in the driver’s seat, the engine purring erotically. ‘Get in,’ he said.

  Climbing into the passenger seat, Zinhle was thinking only one thing.

  I have got to get me one of these.

  They drove to an Italian restaurant off one of the main streets in Rosebank, away from the hustle and bustle. The manager greeted Zola like an old friend, giving them a table near the back. Zola ordered champagne for her but drank only sparkling bottled water. ‘I’m in training,’ he explained. ‘No alcohol for me. At least not until after the game on Saturday.’ Feeling a little peckish, Zinhle ordered a small green salad, and then they began to talk.

  It should have been strange, getting to know someone whose penis had already been in her mouth, but somehow it seemed perfectly natural. Like most people in the public eye, Zola liked talking about himself, but he wanted to know about her as well, though she wasn’t sure how much she wanted to reveal. She found herself talking about her short-lived marriage without saying how and why it ended, and the trouble she was having finding an agent who would push her acting career. He told her about his broken engagement to a former Miss Mamelodi Mavericks. ‘I think we just grew apart. There was love there, on both sides, but ultimately we wanted different things.’

  Neither of them spoke about what had brought them both there, the Yellowbone parties. In the end it really didn’t matter. They talked for so long, the manager had to give them a gentle reminder that they were closing, and the staff needed to go home.

  There were several ways that being with Zola ‘Zinger’ Baptiste was different to being with Clifton Michaels. One was that Zola had no interest in parading her in public. Although she went to the occasional match, he made it clear that soccer was his work, and when he was working he needed to focus, and she was a distraction.

  Unlike when she was with Clifton, she had her own place and could escape any time she wanted. It wasn’t as if Zola didn’t want her around, but it was good to have the option if ever she needed it. When he was home, it was just the two of them, and they both liked it that way. And she was not in love with him. That they had affection for each other was evident, but their own version of mutual non-commitment seemed to suit both of them down to the ground.

  The press appeared to be unaware that she was a feature in the life of ‘Zinger’ Baptiste. The tabloids were constantly trying to link him with other women, but never with her, and that was how she preferred it. If he was having sex with any of those other girls he deserved some kind of medal, because almost every night he was home and they were indulging in some kind of sexual activity. They did it all over his palatial home: in the Jacuzzi when the weather was warm enough, in all five bedrooms, on the mahogany dining-room table. The man was prodigious, more than matching her in energy and inventiveness. It was alright for her – after one of their marathon sex sessions she could sleep in, recover in her own time – but he was either training or playing almost every day, with precious little time off.

  If anything, his performance on the pitch seemed to enhance his sex life, and vice versa. With his help, the Mamelodi Mavericks had built an unassailable lead at the top of the table, with a whole lot of wins, a handful of draws and zero losses. When she asked him what his secret was, he was generous in his praise: ‘It’s all down to you, my sweetness. You inspire me. Your pussy is a goldmine.’

  Of course it wasn’t true, for he’d been making magic on the soccer pitch long before they met, but then some other girl must have been his muse – maybe his long-lamented fiancée, maybe somebody else. Certainly, she was constantly finding evidence of past conquests: a bra wedged between his shirts in a drawer, assorted earrings (usually only one of a pair), the odd g-string, and once a vibrator. ‘I doubt she found much use for this when you were around,’ she commented.

  Of all the things to do with Zola, she liked his house the best. It was all white and spacious, the master bedroom leading out to a balcony that looked over the swimming pool. There was an entertainment room that was just for watchi
ng movies on a large screen (Zola was a fan of Bruce Lee and blaxploitation movies like Shaft and Super Fly), and an open-plan kitchen that Zinhle loved to exploit, cooking Zola his favourite pasta dishes. The living room was divided into two parts, half inside the house and the other half part of a massive courtyard that led out to the garden.

  The day Mabel came to visit, Zola had been called away for an extra training session. ‘Are you sure he’s training?’ she asked. ‘Doesn’t seem right, on a Sunday.’

  ‘They’ve got a big cup game coming up,’ Zinhle said. ‘It’s not that unusual.’ They began the grand tour of the house, but the more Mabel saw the more morose she seemed to get. ‘OK, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ she asked as her mother let out a deep sigh at the sight of yet another bedroom.

  Over a cup of tea in the kitchen Mabel began to relax, and slowly she opened up. ‘It’s not the house, it’s perfectly fine.’

  ‘So what is it? Tell me.’

  ‘It’s just ...’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘It’s not yours.’

  ‘So? What does that matter?’

  ‘It matters a lot.’ And then, as slowly and simply as she could manage, Mabel tried to explain. Living in the house of Zola ‘Zinger’ Baptiste was fine, but none of it would ever be hers.

  ‘But I like being here. I like being with him.’

  ‘But do you love him?’

  A pregnant pause from Zinhle. ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters.’

  ‘You can’t have everything,’ Zinhle said in the face of her crumbling argument.

  ‘Why not?’ Mabel reached for her daughter’s hand across the kitchen table. ‘You can have whatever you want.’

  ‘What if this is what I want?’

  ‘That’s fine if it is. But I know it isn’t. I know you.’ Mabel paused for a moment, looking hard at her daughter. ‘He doesn’t even take you out.’

  ‘I go to the games sometimes,’ said Zinhle, realising how ridiculous she was beginning to sound.

  ‘But apart from that, where does he take you?’

  ‘We both like being at home.’

  ‘And besides looking after his needs, what do you do?’

  ‘I do things,’ Zinhle said, sounding defensive.

  ‘Things like what?’ Mabel waited for a reply that would not come. ‘You wanted to be an actress. What happened to that?’

  ‘Ma, I wasn’t good. Everybody said so.’

  ‘Who is everybody, and what do they know?’

  ‘I was rubbish.’

  ‘So get better!’ It was the first time Mabel had raised her voice. ‘And if you decide you don’t want to be an actress, fine. But you need to do something!’

  Chapter 14

  JENSON LOWRY WAS nothing without her reputation, and she had cultivated it carefully. Her years as a working actress, on stage, on television and occasionally on the big screen had stood her in good stead when she decided to start an acting class. At the beginning, there hadn’t been many students, but when one of her students got a part in Heritage, word began to spread, and before long she was able to pick who she wanted to work with.

  Despite her growing popularity, she’d never lowered her standards. Her intensive methods meant that nobody got a free ride. All students were subject to rigorous tests, making sure of their commitment to the process. Her long-term goal was to lift acting standards in all fields, from theatre to TV commercials to TV dramas to soapies to motion pictures. She saw acting as a craft that could never be mastered, putting you on a life-long learning curve.

  And so she frowned when she saw Zinhle Sedibe at one of her introductory classes. She recognised the girl from that tacky reality show The Marrying Michaels. Marriage as mass entertainment, that was the level they’d stooped to. Never could she approve of such rubbish. For one thing, it took work away from actors, this cheap television with tawdry moral values. The marriage had imploded, her fifteen minutes of fame long over, and now she wanted to learn how to act? The nerve of the woman.

  The introductory class was always on the large side – today Jenson counted over thirty heads – but by the time she was through with them, that number would be more than halved. It was a paying course, but Jenson didn’t really need the money. Her late husband Brian, a top financier and a major supporter of the ANC through the struggle years, had left her more than comfortable. She would pick ten students for the year, but no way would Zinhle Sedibe be one of them.

  ‘If you’re here because you want to be famous, please leave. If you’re here because you want to win an Oscar, please leave. If you’re here because you want to be rich, please leave, this class is not for you.’ As she spoke her eyes scanned the faces in front of her, and there was Zinhle, near the back.

  ‘Being an actor is a vocation,’ she continued. ‘It’s the commitment of a lifetime. There will be times when you will not work, but still you will be an actor. The process of learning that is about to begin for some of you will never end, so if you want to commit your life to something else, please leave.’

  By the time they started the basic warm-up exercises, some had already gone, disillusioned by Jenson’s little pep talk. But Zinhle was still there, still interested, still engaged.

  Once the wannabes had been whittled down to twenty, she laid into them once again. ‘There may be such a thing as “talent”,’ she said, with air quotes for emphasis, ‘but it’s something I don’t really believe in. I became an actor because I had a deep longing to be one. I worked hard and, despite a marked lack of ability in many areas, I persevered. I failed probably more than I succeeded, but still I persisted. That is what you all must do if you want to have any chance of making a difference. I can only teach you so much. The rest is up to you.’

  By now, Jenson was more convinced than ever that Zinhle Sedibe would not make the cut. She had no time for prima donnas, for washed-up celebs, and could see in the young woman’s face all she was and wanted to be. Yet still, when she had it down to fifteen, seven women and eight men, Zinhle was one of them. Surely any minute she would start complaining, tire of these meaningless exercises that really had little to do with the craft of acting. It was only a matter of time.

  Then it was on to the last activity of the day. Each potential student would come up to the stage in turn to speak for two minutes and no longer on any subject they chose. Some spoke about why they wanted to be actors, while a few told the class about their love of God and how they felt acting would bring them a step closer to their Creator. Some went on too long and had to be cut off mid-sentence. None were shorter than two minutes.

  Jenson kept Zinhle back until the end on purpose. Sitting alone on a chair, clad in T-shirt and cut-off jeans, she cut a lonely figure, isolated and vulnerable. For the longest moment, the small theatre was quiet. And then she began to speak.

  ‘I’ve made mistakes. I’ve allowed myself to be used, by both men and women, in ways I would never have believed. I have prostituted myself in many different ways. I have acted on television, even though I know nothing about acting. I thought I knew it all. I know nothing. I am a blank canvas. I am ready to learn.’ Without another word, she walked off the stage.

  When Jenson Lowry selected her final ten students, Zinhle Sedibe was among them.

  The acting classes took over her life, became the very centre of her existence, and all she could do was embrace the experience, squeeze everything out of it she could.

  Not that it was easy. Jenson Lowry was a hard task-mistress, taking the raw material that was Zinhle Sedibe and turning it into something still recognisably her, but at the same time completely new.

  Her obsession had its inevitable fall-out. When Zola came home, he often found Zinhle absorbed in one of the acting exercises Jenson had taught her. And for the first time in her life she was reading a book: An Actor Prepares by Stanislavski.

  At first Zola tried to adapt to the new Zinhle, making an effort to be supportive, but he was use
d to having his own way. ‘I don’t know why you have to do this acting thing,’ he said one day, venting his frustration. ‘Don’t you have everything you need here? Don’t I provide for you?’

  ‘Of course you do, but I need more. You have your soccer. I need to find my own way.’

  Still they managed to get in the occasional marathon sex session, and if anything Zola was more passionate than ever, as if in the act of fucking her he was trying to possess her completely. Even when he uttered those words, ‘I love you’, she knew he didn’t really mean them: it was just his way of trying to grab a part of her he could never have.

  In South Africa there were many agents servicing the needs of their clients, but it was generally acknowledged that Brenda Archer was the queen. As an African-American woman, she’d fought for her reputation in the industry. Her twenty years in South Africa had served her well; she spoke isiZulu and Sesotho fluently, isiXhosa and Afrikaans passably, and could get by in Tshivenda. Her client roster was hand-picked, and she was always on the look-out for new talent, but when she heard that Zinhle Sedibe was in reception, her hackles rose. ‘What is she doing here?’ she asked the receptionist.

  ‘I don’t know. She says she wants to see you.’

  ‘I only see people whose careers I represent. Please tell her that.’

  Less than a minute later, the door to her office flew open and there was Zinhle, the harried receptionist one step behind. ‘She just flew right past me. So sorry –’

  ‘It’s alright, Ruby. Some people have no respect for the work habits of others. It’s fine, leave us.’

  Once the door was closed, Zinhle just stood there, saying nothing. Brenda was all too eager to fill the silence: ‘I really don’t know what you’re doing here. Even if I had been thinking of representing you, barging your way in here would have made that impossible. I cannot abide rudeness in any form.’