Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  ‘Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?’

  This took Brenda by surprise. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A pen and a piece of paper. That’s all I want, then I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘Alright, fine.’ Brenda placed a notepad and pen in front of Zinhle on the desk. ‘Whatever you have to do, do it and then please leave.’

  Zinhle wrote on the pad, then tore off the top sheet and handed it to the somewhat harassed Brenda Archer.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘That is how much I will make you in commission in the next twelve months. If I do not, I will pay you out of my own pocket to make up the shortfall.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Brenda said, studying the number on the paper as if it was a secret text.

  ‘Look,’ Zinhle said, softening her tone while maintaining an edge. ‘I know you think I’m a loser, but that’s not even nearly true. I’m committed to having a career in this business. Jenson Lowry has taken me on as a student and I’m learning a whole lot.’

  ‘Jenson’s overrated as a teacher,’ Brenda said. ‘I think she’s a bit of a quack, acting-wise.’

  ‘We might have to agree to disagree on that one. But on the financial front, I’m deadly serious. If you take me on as a client, that amount is guaranteed to you. Now, do we have a deal?’

  When Zola started bringing girls back to the house, it was almost a relief. Of course it was rude, obnoxious and disrespectful, but after all, it was his house, and it was becoming increasingly clear that the two of them were moving in different directions. Something had to give, and this was the only way Zola knew of raising a meaningful objection.

  Some of the girls seemed pleasantly surprised to see her there, possibly at the prospect of some kind of threesome. Others were offended that Zola had brought them into another woman’s house, and demanded that he drive them to their home.

  More and more, Zinhle was beginning to realise that she no longer belonged. Once again it was time to move on, and she was glad that she’d kept her own place, even though she’d recently rented it out to one of her fellow acting students for a year. There was nowhere else to go, so once again she packed her bags and moved back in with Mabel.

  Brenda Archer called her soon after the move. ‘The Heritage people want to see you. Get over there by ten.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I never joke about work. Get your ass in gear.’

  By the time she got to the studios where Heritage was shot, deep in the northern suburbs, Zinhle had convinced herself she’d be the only one there – after all, they had asked for her personally. Reality soon came knocking. There were twelve other girls vying for the same part and here she was, unlucky thirteen. She even recognised an actress who’d played a part in one of the rival shows. Not a small part, either. Not one of the leads, but significant enough to be noticed.

  Heritage had not become the number-one show by accident, and it thrived on a certain level of professionalism. No sooner had Zinhle sat down than a girl brought her the ‘sides’ – the script pages she’d be using. She tried to remember what Jenson had said about the audition process: ‘In their heart of hearts, they want to reject you. Your job is to not give them that option.’ Something like that … there was probably more to it, but for now that would have to do.

  Although she’d been the last to arrive, she was the first one called. This was only fleeting encouragement, however. There were twelve more to go in after her; surely she would not be remembered after them?

  Three people were sitting behind a table when she was ushered into the room, none of whom she recognised. She’d been half-expecting to see the creator of Heritage, Caesar Mabaso, but nobody there matched his description. And wasn’t he supposed to be a recluse, hiding behind the walls of his Bryanston mansion? Why would he bother to attend a lowly audition?

  There was a white man behind the table, and Zinhle guessed this was Gunther, the man who oversaw the day-to-day running of the world’s most popular African soapie. Probably in his fifties, he looked almost boyish with his clean-shaven, angular features and long, though greying, locks.

  It was the woman who spoke. She was young and black, her voice calm yet authoritative. ‘Please state your name, age and representation for the camera,’ she said, and Zinhle did just that. Were they impressed by the reference to Brenda Archer? Of course not, they dealt with actors represented by her every day. And what did it matter who you were represented by if you couldn’t deliver the goods?

  ‘Sandile will read with you,’ the woman said. A young man stepped forward, his dreadlocks framing an elfin face that smiled at her, putting her at ease.

  She’d had barely more than a few minutes to go over the sides, so she held them up for reference. ‘Without the pages, please,’ the woman’s voice boomed across, hitting like a sledgehammer.

  The word ‘but’ was poised on her lips, then she quickly checked herself. This was Heritage, the home of quality daily drama. Here there were no buts. Here there was only action.

  She let her hand fall, the sides dropping from her fingers. ‘Ready,’ she said.

  She’d barely arrived home when the phone rang. It had to be Brenda.

  ‘Tell me I got a call-back at least,’ she said, but Brenda’s tone was far from upbeat.

  ‘Sorry, kid. No call-back.’

  Her heart sank, and in her head she began to run through the gamut of excuses; she was called first, she’d fluffed her lines, there wasn’t enough emotion in her delivery, there was too much emotion, she’d come across as too young, too old ...

  ‘OK, Brenda. Sorry. I tried my best.’

  ‘You sure did, but you didn’t let me finish. You didn’t get a call-back because you got the part. Congrats, kid. You’re in.’

  Chapter 15

  DAILY DRAMA, SOAPIES, whatever you wanted to call them, one thing was for sure. They were not for pussies.

  Jenson Lowry had sneered at the soapie world, calling it ‘a necessary evil’, and that just about summed it up. With reality shows taking hold, work for actors appeared to be shrinking. Not enough movies were being made, not enough real drama or sitcoms. Soapies were a sure thing in a business that was economically shaky at best. They were a safe place to land for an actor who wanted to build a financial base, but along with a regular pay-cheque came other challenges.

  In a highly competitive industry, ratings were everything. If certain characters did not appear to resonate with viewers, the actors would not be offered another contract – simple as that. In the soapie world, you had to fight for your place. There were no free rides.

  And then there was the work schedule: long days blocking scenes, with minimal rehearsal in the morning and shooting in the afternoon. After that, it would be home with scripts to learn for the following day. Even days off were not really days off, for there was always so much to prepare for your return.

  Zinhle signed a six-month contract, but half-way through the first week she was sure they’d realised their mistake and were about to let her go. She stumbled through the blocking and rehearsal. The director, Vic, a gruff-voiced white man in short trousers who looked as if he should have been drawing his pension, failed to hide his impatience. And her fellow actors were no real help. They knew their lines, knew where to stand, had long worked out how to play the game, and had little patience for the newcomer.

  Only when Sandile was directing would the pressure ease a little. He was the young man who’d read with her at the audition. Recently he’d been promoted from trainee to fully fledged director, overseeing entire episodes on his own. Zinhle felt a camaraderie with him, perhaps because they were both new in their jobs. He seemed to have more patience with her than the other directors, going over her lines while testing the patience of the rest of the cast.

  After a particularly fraught day with the short-trousered pensioner, she was on the verge of tears in her dressing room when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’
/>   ‘Sandile. Can I come in?’

  She opened up and there he was, fresh-faced and energetic. ‘I didn’t know you were working today,’ she said.

  ‘Actually I’m not. Well, not directing anyway. Editing.’ He seemed a little hesitant. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Entering a lady’s dressing room? Is that allowed?’

  A wry smile. ‘I won’t say anything if you won’t.’

  When the door closed behind him, he perched himself on the edge of a cabinet while she sat on the only chair in the room. ‘Hard day?’ he asked.

  She could only shrug. ‘I think I’ve had worse, although I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the Volcano. His bark is a lot worse than his bite.’

  ‘The Volcano?’

  ‘That’s what we call him. To his face sometimes. Vic the Volcano.’

  ‘Oh OK, right.’ She had to laugh. ‘Good name.’

  ‘He erupts, but then he quietens down. He’s putting you through your paces because you’re new. Nothing personal.’

  ‘But a lot of the time he’s right. I can’t keep up.’

  ‘He’s a great multi-cam director. Been at it a lot of years. Taught me a whole lot. But it’s just ...’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Just what?’

  He looked hard at her for a moment before replying. ‘Can I give you some advice?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Don’t try and follow everything he tells you. It’s actually impossible to keep all that stuff in your head and act at the same time. He’ll tell you if you’re really going off the rails, but most of what you do is instinctive.’

  ‘OK, good tip. Thanks.’

  ‘That’s what most of the established actors do. We can give them all the direction in the world, but they know this is an expensive business – you can’t keep going over the same thing to get it just the way the director wants it.’ His laugh was sharp and short. ‘They think we don’t notice, but of course we do. It’s a trade-off, and somehow it seems to work.’

  Later, she’d be unsure why she had leaned forward and kissed him. Maybe it was out of gratitude, or maybe she was just letting off steam at the end of a hard day.

  Or maybe it was because it felt like the right thing to do. And it didn’t end there. Perhaps it should have, but the truth was, they liked each other, and nobody was getting hurt. Since Zola, there’d been no one in her life, and she missed the closeness, the intimacy of getting physical with another person.

  That they worked so closely together was problematic, and he had a flatmate who had a good heart but could never keep a secret. Before long the tabloids would be reporting that a Heritage actress was spending time at the home of one of the directors, and that would in no way be a good thing. So a couple of nights a week they booked into a hotel, under an assumed name. After the sexual gymnastics with Zola, being with Sandile was a whole lot more sedate, but in a welcome way. He was passionate without being particularly creative, and Zinhle guessed that his experience with women was not vast, but still he was open to her needs and made sure they always used protection. And after sex he’d help her with her lines, sometimes until she was too sleepy to concentrate.

  It was vital they kept it all secret, for although there were no rules governing such behaviour, fraternising with work mates was generally frowned upon – at least that was what Brenda Archer had told her. ‘Caesar Mabaso wants his actors to be like soldiers. Every day they are going into battle, and they don’t need petty distractions like love and sex.’

  When they called her to the office, she was in her dressing room, going through her lines for an important scene they were to shoot later in the day. It would be the first time her character, Khanya, meets Fezeka, so ably played by Selinah Gumede. She wanted to explore the subtleties of the scene, more than anything wanting to impress the already impressive Selinah.

  Having to go to the office was an annoyance. She was sure she knew what it was all about; they’d found out about her and Sandile. She hoped their reprimand would not last long, for there was work to be done.

  She was ushered into Gunther’s main office to find Caesar Mabaso lounging on the leather couch, lazily snacking on a bunch of grapes.

  She knew it was him from photos, although recent ones were increasingly rare. There were rumours that he’d come to despise Heritage, the show he’d created for the New South Africa after years in exile. More outlandish reports had him dying of AIDS, living out his final days in a Swiss sanatorium, or making deals with Russian gangsters for the seed money to make Heritage happen.

  The forty-something-year-old man who sat on the couch appeared to be in robust health, belying the gossip. Wearing a black Mandela shirt with slacks and shoes to match, he looked the very model of success. ‘Ms Sedibe, so pleased to meet you finally,’ he said. He made no effort to stand and greet her; apparently such pleasantries were beyond him. ‘Welcome to the Heritage family. I hear you are doing sterling work.’

  He motioned her to sit. The outside door was gently closed, and they were alone in the office. ‘Ms Sedibe – may I call you Zinhle?’

  ‘You may,’ she said, a trifle too formally. The occasion seemed to demand it.

  ‘You see, Zinhle, Heritage is my creation. I grabbed it from the air, out of nothing. And I can tell you, no one was asking for it. I had to bully those bastard TV execs to put it on, give it a chance. And in prime time – that was a real gamble. First once a week,’ he said, holding up a finger to indicate, ‘then two.’ There were the two fingers. ‘Now, it is on four days a week and a big success, truly a moneymaking machine.’

  A part of her was fascinated to hear the pronouncements of Caesar Mabaso, but on another level she was bored. Why was he telling her all of this? She opened her mouth to put her thought into words, but he raised a hand to stop her. The great Caesar Mabaso was not yet done, and things were about to get a whole lot more interesting.

  ‘It has been written in the press that I have fallen out of love with my own creation, that I think Heritage is shit.’ Zinhle smiled at that, wanting to humour him. ‘In many ways they are absolutely right. It is shit, a load of garbage. But you know what? It’s my garbage, and it is number one.’

  This made him glow with a creepy kind of pride. He kept on munching the grapes. ‘Heritage works because it shows the viewers their own lives, or maybe what they want their lives to be. All served up with a juicy dollop of melodrama and a hint of sex.’

  As a dissection of the Heritage phenomenon, it was interesting and somewhat provocative, but what did it all have to do with her? Caesar Mabaso was about to address that very question.

  ‘Khanya has brought an interesting slant to the story,’ he said, in a more serious mode now, although she couldn’t be sure. ‘Fezeka, she has been ruling the roost for a long time. She’s seen off all pretenders to her throne. And now here comes this helpless little girl, Khanya. She is a straight arrow, an accountant who’s never even cheated on her taxes. I wonder, what is she up to?’ His eyes held a mischievous glint. ‘My dear, come and sit down next to me. I promise, I do not bite, despite the rumours.’

  Taking a moment to think about it, Zinhle stood up and sat herself down at the far end of the couch. Caesar’s arm was stretched across the back, the ends of his fingers almost touching her shoulder. ‘Do you like grapes, my dear?’

  ‘I do, yes, but not right now.’ What was he planning to do? Did he want to feed them to her like a Roman emperor attending to the needs of one of his concubines?

  ‘I want to see how your character deals with the ravenous Fezeka. I have already instructed the writers to expand your part. You are a wolf in sheep’s clothing, the one Fezeka would never suspect of being any kind of threat to her empire; but maybe the principled Khanya is the one to do it.’

  When he moved in for a kiss, it was not unexpected, but the way he did it was awkward, shuffling close and moving his whole body towards her. She held two fingers against his lips to stop him. ‘If my p
art is to be expanded, does that also go for my pay-cheque?’

  ‘I suspect so, yes.’ He moved in again, but still the fingers remained.

  ‘By how much?’

  A tantalising smile from Caesar. ‘How much do you want?’ When she mentioned a figure the smile widened. ‘I think we can manage that. I’ll talk to management, and they’ll talk to your agent. Good enough?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Again he moved in, and again she gave him the fingers. ‘I’m in a relationship right now, but if things change you’ll be the first to know.’

  She began to stand but his hand came out to lightly touch her arm. ‘How will I be the first to know if you cannot contact me?’ From his pocket he produced a black business card with his name in gold lettering.

  She took the card and, with a parting smile, stood and walked out of the room.

  Selinah Gumede swanned around the studios as if she owned them, which in a way she did. The mainstay of Heritage since its inception, she’d proved herself not only a formidable actress but a shrewd and perceptive businesswoman. It was written into her contract that she could take time off to do movie parts, but whenever she was off TV for a prolonged period, the ratings would take a dip. To compensate, more episodes would be shot in less time, with suitable financial rewards for Selinah.

  Everyone knew that Heritage needed Selinah Gumede; she was the reason for its survival. ‘A Match Made in TV Heaven’, one journalist had put it some years before, and by all accounts nothing much had changed.

  The few times Zinhle had passed Selinah in the corridors they had been pleasant, if not overly friendly, and now they had a big scene together where Fezeka the matriarch meets Khanya, the lowly accountant, a friend of her daughter’s. Everything appeared to go well, with not many takes (Selinah drew the line at five) and the minimum of interruptions. When they were ushered off set briefly while some lighting problems were sorted out, Zinhle found herself sitting in one corner with Selinah, who took the opportunity to nibble from a packet of biltong. The perfect opportunity to get to know one another a little – but Selinah Gumede had other plans.