The Down Days

by Ilze Hugo

  “Oh, yes. That. Not nearly as interesting a topic, don’t you think? But I suppose it does make the world go ’round. Come along, then.”

  * * *

  It was hot in the tented room. The yellow plastic suit squelched as Sans walked towards the bed where the dying guy lay.

  “Did you bring the fried chicken and the brandy?” the sin-eater asked the woman in the red mask who was standing at the foot of the bed, choking back tears.

  “I did.” She picked up a flask with the brandy and a brown paper bag bursting with chicken drumsticks that was on the floor next to her handbag and handed them over. Sans saw that her fingers were trembling. “Will this work?” the woman asked softly. “Will his sins be absolved?”

  “My family has been doing this for generations, ma’am.”

  The sin-eater unpacked the bag, carefully placing a plastic sheet, then the drumsticks, on the sick man’s chest, and muttered a quick chant: “I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man. Come not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul. Amen.”

  After this, he removed his mask, took a swig from the silver flask, then began eating. When every bone was picked clean, he stood silently, rocking his bulk on the balls of his feet. Then he rubbed each gloved finger with a paper serviette. “All done.”

  “What do we do now?” said the woman in the red mask.

  “Now you pay, and then you pray, of course,” said the sin-eater, wiping a scrap of chicken from his moustache.

  - 35 - FAITH

  The bar had been there forever. Well, at least for as long as there were such things as bars around here. The gray-haired barman was pouring last calls to a rowdy crowd of leftovers, who didn’t seem quite ready for the walk back to their empty apartments yet. Faith threaded her way into the eye of the storm. Her right hand clasped the card Lawyer had given her. Brown, the size and shape of a credit card. On the back was a stamp with a date. Next to it, a handwritten signature (the librarian’s, she presumed).

  “What can I get for you?” the aged barman asked. He was slapping the draughts down, the spilt lager pooling into the grooves of the rough-hewn wooden counter. A string of rings hugged his right eyebrow. Another dangled from his left nostril. Faith put her palm on the counter and slipped him the card. “I’d like to borrow a book, please.”

  The barman raised a ringed eyebrow. “Put that away,” he said, grabbing a glass from the stack behind him and swiveling back to pour.

  He thumped the draught down on the counter. The white froth danced on the head of the beer like seafoam after a storm. “That will be fifty.”

  “I—”

  “I said fifty, please.”

  She extracted the money from her purse, counted it, gave it to him.

  “Have a seat,” said the barman, and like a magician revealing a trick, he fanned his fingers in the direction of an empty table at the back of the bar. “Go on. It’s last call, though, so no more after that one, you hear?”

  Faith did as she was told. While the space around the counter itself was still a hive alive, this side of the dive bar was emptying out. In the corner next to the jukebox, a woman was dancing on her own with her eyes closed, while a fat tabby cat sitting on a nearby table watched her with his one good yellow eye while licking his fluffy balls. In the other corner a group of guys were playing a drinking game—flicking cents into an empty glass. Above their heads, petals of red paint wilted off the wall.

  She nursed her beer, thinking about nothing in particular, until a waiter in a neat bow tie came by and stooped over the table to wipe it with a cloth.

  “Busy night?” she said, just making conversation.

  “It’s always like this now,” said the waiter. The hand holding the rag paused for a second. The waiter looked up at Faith. “You know, the way I see it, things were different when I was a kid.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, choices were like Smarties—wot-a-lot-I-got. But nowadays the average fool on the street like me and you, we’ve only got two.”

  “Ja? So what are they?” she said, playing along.

  “Well, we can either choose to pray or choose to drink. Although the way some of these guys come in here to hug the bottle, you’d think they thought it was the same thing.”

  “In a way, I guess it is.”

  The waiter nodded, then turned his chin left and right, as if to check whether anyone in the bar was watching them. But the drinking-game guys’ eyes were glued to their coins and the dancing woman’s were still squeezed tight. The tabby was the only one paying them any attention, having glanced up from the business of grooming his balls.

  The waiter’s hand moved to his breast pocket, out of which he produced a crumpled brown packet. Van Hunks, her favorite brand. “Ladies’ bathroom. Last cubicle. Now, don’t you smoke them all at once.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  “You have a nice night, okay?” said the waiter, and shuffled off.

  Faith flipped open the pack. At the bottom, a small metal object glinted in the dark. She turned the pack upside down, tapped the open end against her palm, and the key dropped down. Then she lifted her head and scanned the room. The tabby looked up, narrowing its yellow eyes in recognition. She nodded to him, blinked (someone once told her that this was a sign of camaraderie in cat language), and stood up.

  The bathroom was empty and she walked through the fluorescent glare to the last stall, which had an “Out of order” sign on the door. Underneath it someone had used a marker to scribble “If no one comes back from the future to stop you from doing it, how bad a decision can it be?” in generous, flowy letters. Pondering this wisdom, Faith slid her finger along the top-left edge of the laminated sign to undo the fat wad of Prestik attaching it to the wall. Her fingers did the same with the other three corners. The sign flopped off the door and onto the floor.

  In the center of the empty brown space the laminated folio had concealed was the strangest little keyhole. The cover was brass and shaped like an eye, with long lashes curving upwards. And along the edges was a whirl of intricately carved details: sea monsters, minuscule mermaids, and other twirling tiny things.

  Faith slipped the key into the hole and turned. The door swung open. Behind it was a cubicle, the same shape and size as the others, only this one didn’t have a toilet in it. Just a bare slither of empty space and another door. Next to this door was a doorbell. And above that, a brass plaque that looked like a much more recent addition than the keyhole. Faith read the words engraved on it: WHO CONTROLS THE PAST CONTROLS THE FUTURE. —GEORGE ORWELL. She pressed the bell with her finger. Ping. Nothing happened. So she pressed it again,ping, ping.

  A click. A panel in the wooden door slid open a crack to reveal a face. The face was long and narrow, with fleshy lower eyelids that drooped in folds like bunting. And a star map of liver spots from top to chin.

  “Yes, yes! Hold your horses,” said the face, glaring at her over a pair of egg-shaped glasses.

  Faith showed him the card.

  “You,” said the face.

  “Me,” said Faith.

  “We’re almost closing.”

  “I’ll be quick.”

  “You’d better be,” said the face, while the thicket of grooves above its eyebrows rippled.

  The door slid back all the way. Behind it were steps leading down a staircase so deeply sloped it almost wasn’t a staircase at all. More of a slide.

  Faith held onto the polished brass banister, adorned with the same Where’s Wally? curlicue intricacies as the keyhole cover, and dived downwards.

  At the bottom was a boxy room, fringed by red velvet curtains, and right in the middle of the room was a chair. It was a pretty ordinary-looking chair. A disappointment of a thing, really, with black steel legs and a padded seat in run-of-the-mill office blue. Like you would find in a dentist’s waiting room or those snaking seat queues at Home Affairs.

  “Sit, please,” said the face, which was now a body as wel
l. Lean and sinewy like a secretary bird and wearing a red velvet jacket that looked as if it had been made from the same material as the curtains.

  Faith did as she was told.

  “Do you want to browse the database or make an entry?” asked the secretary bird.

  “Browse, please.”

  “Wait here.”

  She waited, studying the red curtains, and after a while, the librarian came back holding some gloves and a pair of what looked to Faith like shower caps. The secretary bird glared at her; one hand dangled the gloves in front of her face like a muleta. “I am not much of a fan for second chances, little lady, and there’s nothing I hate more in this world than someone disrespecting this library, but Lawyer is a good friend and a fine man, so I made a concession for his sake this once. But you so much as touch a pen or a piece of paper on my watch, and this is the last time you will ever set foot on the Society’s premises again. We have these rules for a reason, you hear? There is a code. And it isn’t just there for shits and giggles. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” he said, passing her the gloves. “Now put these on over yours. And these,” he added, passing along the two caps, “are for your feet. Quick-sticks, please, we don’t have all night.”

  She did as she was told and the librarian pushed the curtains aside to reveal a hugger-mugger of interconnected rooms, stitched with heavy tomes and wooden filing cabinets. In one corner, an old and almost obsolete computer stood gathering dust. Above it hung a painting in an elaborate gold frame. From out of this gilded cage a serious young woman surveyed the room, hands folded neatly on her lap.

  “Welcome to the secret Library of the Society of the Down,” the librarian said theatrically, twirling the fingers on his right hand like a vintage promo girl. Faith could kind of picture him in a sequined leotard. With a feathered headdress, a banner, and red, glittery heels.

  “Okay,” said the librarian. “So you know the drill. To this side are the shelves—the books on conspiracy theories, alternate histories, as well as official histories that go back all the way to the Middle Ages. Everything under and above the sun.”

  The man had a strange tic of tapping his palm against his thigh as he talked and Faith found it hard not to stare.

  “Over here we have a collection of transcribed oral histories, and over here you will find our filing cabinets,” he continued, tap, tap, tap. “From what I can recall, you are familiar with these, but let me give you the rundown again so there is absolutely no confusion. These are the main focus of our collection and the main reason for the existence of our little library. Each cabinet contains handwritten histories, some dating as far back as the early 1800s, written by Society members. If something is in a language you don’t understand, I can probably translate. We have recently started computerizing some of it, but most of it exists only here in these rooms. And in here . . .” he added, pointing a sinewy finger to his head. “The perks, as they say, of having an almost, just about, but not quite flawless photographic memory. But I digress. Think of these cabinets as one giant collaborative alternative or ‘unofficial’ history encyclopedia. All written entries are reviewed by myself or one of my colleagues at the Society before they are allowed to enter the system and end up inside one of these”—he gestured towards the filing cabinets—“so don’t even think of adding anything without sending it my way first.” Tap, tap, tap. “Now is there anything in particular you are looking for?”

  “Entries about missing kids.”

  “Ah, kids. Classic search choice. Lots of material. Any particular kids you are interested in, or just your average run-of-the-mill snotter?”

  “Um. I’m not sure. Street kids, maybe? No. Maybe I’ll just start with run-of-the-mill first and narrow it down as I go.”

  “Well,” said the librarian, “we’ve had quite a few entries on the topic recently, matter of fact. Start with those?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “As you wish.”

  She followed the librarian through the maze until he came to a stop. “Here we are. C, for Children. Enjoy.” Tap, tap, tap. Then he turned around and left Faith to it.

  She watched him walk away and turned her attention back to the cabinet. On the wall next to it was a plaque. WELCOME TO THE SOCIETY OF THE DOWN. PROUDLY A-HISTORY, A-BELIEF, A-REALITY SINCE 1800. FIGHTING OPPRESSION. GIVING A VOICE TO THE VOICELESS. WE BELIEVE EVERYTHING. WE BELIEVE NOTHING. REALITY IS FICTION. FICTION IS TRUTH. WE RECORD EVERYTHING. WE DON’T CHOOSE THE TRUTH.

  It made her think back to the day she got kicked out. Lawyer had been livid, pacing up and down the shelves. “How could you, Faith? What you did goes against everything the Society stands for.”

  “But the kid that died,” she’d protested. “We both know it’s that virus patroller’s fault that he’s dead. You were there. We both saw what happened. It wasn’t an accident like they said.”

  “I know. But that’s not the point. The point is that you broke in here and censored recorded information to suit your own views. The whole point of the Society and its library is to record everything. We never, ever tamper with recorded content just because it doesn’t fit our own memories or beliefs. That’s our code. It’s the only way we know to fight confirmation bias and conservatism bias. You can’t charge in here and change facts you don’t believe in. You can add to the record, add your point of view, but you can’t censor anyone else’s. Both sides of the story should be told. It isn’t your place to decide what’s true, what’s right, and then censor the rest. Even if you saw something with your own eyes. That’s not what the Society is about.”

  “But the way they were making it out, they were putting the blame on the kid’s dad. Acting like it was his fault. We both know that that isn’t true.”

  “That’s why I wrote down both versions. You still don’t get it, do you? Face it, Faith. Right and wrong—or what you believe is right or wrong—is all-important to you, and that’s good. But it’s not right for the Society. Your world is white and black. Ours is made up of every shade of gray under the sun.”

  “But isn’t that dangerous? To give people the chance to choose their own truth like it’s a flavor of soda? What if they choose wrong? What if they think they have all the facts, but it’s actually the wrong ones? Dangerous ones? Like people who believe vaccines cause autism? Aren’t you worried about spreading ideas like that, ideas that could be dangerous in the wrong hands? Ideas that could kill?”

  “I hear you. But I still believe that history shouldn’t just be written by the victor, that information control and censoring is wrong, period, and that all information and opinion should be free to everyone.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’m sorry, Faith; I’ve been told to tell you your card has been revoked.”

  Coming back to the present moment, Faith pressed her head down, pushed open the creaky cabinet drawer, and started sifting through the catalogue cards inside. C for Children yielded a wild selection of topics: child trafficking, illegal organ harvesting, muthi murders (the younger the kid, the better the muthi apparently), albino muthi murders, amakhosi gangs, child soldiers, illegal adoption, scientific experiments, child labor (there was a whole section about the use of kids in the wig trade—little hands worked marvels when it came to making false eyelashes), cult recruitment, illegal vaccine testing.

  Faith was mulling this all over when something caught the corner of her eye, a light blinking through the fabric of her bag. Her phone, sending through a message from her detective ex at the SAPS. She read it twice. “Hey Faith. Missing person angle doesn’t check out. Elliot Pretorius (1 yrs) succumbed (Laughter) 2 mths ago. Identity theft possibility? False name? Good luck. Beers soon? You’re buying.”

  Faith stuffed the phone back into her bag and swore to herself. Why would Tomorrow lie to her? It didn’t make sense. She prided herself on her ability to read people, could usually smell a lie from here to Maputo. There was something off about the girl’s story, sur
e, but her pain seemed real. So much for the research, then.

  She pushed at the drawer to close it. It didn’t budge. The hexed thing was stuck. She wrenched it out an inch, then rammed it with her shoulder. The drawer gave a drawn-out squeak like a rat in heat, then thumped its big mouth shut.

  The librarian was sitting atop the desk that cradled the computer, head down.

  Faith studied the painting of Anna de Koningh that hung above his head. The brushstroke black eyes hypnotized her. Lawyer had told her all about Anna and her lost prophetic diary on her first visit. Always a sucker for a good treasure hunt, Faith had been looking for it on and off since.

  She focused her attention back to the librarian. The old man was now drawing something in a red notebook. His knuckles looked swollen and bent. There was a tattoo on the third one to the right. A black circle, with a maze inside it, and a kind of cog or pinwheel shape right in the middle. She’d seen it before. Lawyer had the same tattoo on his upper arm. One of many—which was why she’d never asked him about it.

  “What does it mean?” she asked the librarian.

  “Why, forty-two, of course.”

  “No. I mean your tattoo. What does it mean?”

  “Ah. It’s the strophalos.”

  “The what?”

  “Hecate’s maze.” The librarian looked up. He seemed surprised. “You do know, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “I see,” said the librarian, his lips curling into a little smirk. Faith couldn’t figure out if he looked amused, bemused, or just disappointed. She continued to watch him draw for a while, one hand scribbling, the other tapping. He was so focused on the page now, it seemed like he’d forgotten all about her. She cleared her throat: “Shall I let myself out, then?”

  The librarian’s nose wrinkled a notch, but he didn’t look up again. He was drawing something else now. A dog. A hulking canine creature with gaping jaws and large jagged teeth.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “Don’t mind me. The door’s in the same place it was when you came in.”