Magic

by Audrey Niffenegger

  “What is that?” She nodded at my makeshift cat box.

  “Hello to you too, Naomi.”

  “Sorry. How are you, Rachel?”

  “Fine. Bit tired.” I decided not to mention the dead Austrian Jedi, and I definitely wouldn’t be bringing up the probably dead muti guys.

  I unlocked the door and gestured for her to follow me inside.

  She started in on me straight away. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  “Been busy.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s important that we talk about your spiritual–”

  “You’re right, I don’t want to hear it. Can we please just have a conversation that doesn’t involve any witchdoctor bullshit?”

  She flinched, and I instantly regretted snapping at her. Accusing a sangoma of being a witchdoctor is pretty much the worst insult there is. But since Naomi received her calling from the ancestors and started dreaming of goats and chickens, I just didn’t know how to act around her. I didn’t get it. Two years ago she was a straight-laced accountant from the suburbs who didn’t speak a word of Xhosa, and practically had a heart attack if she missed a Pilates class. It’s not that I think she’s appropriating African culture or anything like that, it’s just that I like to think of myself as an equal opportunities agnostic. I don’t buy into any faith, be it Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, African spirituality or the New Age crap the dead guy was clearly into. And I’d always assumed Naomi felt the same way.

  I forced a smile. “How about some coffee?”

  “Fine.”

  I filled the kettle, sniffed the milk to make sure it wasn’t too far out of date. She peered at the box. “Is there an animal in there?”

  “Yeah. A cat. I need to find her a home. You interested?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Abandoned at a scene.”

  She shook her head. “You must get it out of here, Rachel. I have told you before about the bad spirits your work attracts–”

  “Jesus, Naomi. It’s a cat, okay? A cat.”

  I angrily unclipped the lid, and the cat leapt out onto the kitchen counter, padded over to me, and pushed her face into my hand. Naomi backed away from her, murmuring to herself.

  “I don’t believe this shit, Naomi.”

  “I can’t stay with that here.”

  “Then go. I didn’t invite you anyway.”

  The cat shimmied down from the kitchen counter and sashayed off to explore the rest of the flat. I suddenly remembered I’d left the bathroom window open. If the cat got out, she would be toast – my flat overlooks the busy Green Point main road. I raced after her, but I needn’t have worried; she was busy making herself at home on my futon.

  I heard a door slam. When I returned to the kitchen, my sister had gone.

  TRYING TO BLOCK out the aftertaste of Naomi’s visit, I poured myself a hefty slug of Absolut and logged onto Skype, typing in the number at the back of August Schuller’s passport.

  A gruff voice answered on the third ring. “Hallo?”

  “Um hi. Is this Mr Schuller?”

  “Ja?”

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Rachel Greenberg.”

  “Who?”

  “Rachel. I’m so sorry about...” I took a gamble. “Your brother.”

  A pause. “Thank you. You are a friend of his?”

  “Not exactly... we had more of a business relationship.”

  He sighed. “For many years my brother, he has a heart condition. His death was not unexpected.”

  “I see. Um, he had a cat.”

  Silence.

  “I was wondering what you want me to do with it.”

  “You are from the police?”

  “Er... no.” Mentioning that I was the one who cleaned up his brother’s body fluids probably wouldn’t go down well.

  “There is nothing I can do with a cat.”

  “Shall I try and find her a home here, then?”

  “Ja. Please.”

  I knew I was being nosy, but I couldn’t help myself. “Mr Schuller... I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but what did your brother do for a living?”

  A pause. “You do not know?”

  “We weren’t that close.”

  Another sigh. “I suppose now it does not matter. He is – was – a druid.”

  Jesus. “A what? What was he doing in South Africa?”

  He broke the connection. I thought about ringing him back and decided against it. I’d had enough kak for one day.

  I took a shower, poured another drink and slumped down on the couch to catch up on American Idol. The cat jumped onto my lap, kneaded my thighs with her paws, then curled into a ball, paws cupped over her face.

  I stroked the ridge of her spine. “Why would your owner want to kill you? You’re so cute.” She needed a name. I decided to call her Muti; that would piss Naomi off.

  I WOKE WITH a jolt, flooded with panic. Something was pressing down on my chest – I couldn’t breathe. I opened my eyes, looked straight into bright yellow orbs. It was just the cat. I brushed her away and sat up, gulping air. My head throbbed, and for a second I was sure I was going to throw up.

  Drinking on an empty stomach again. My own bloody fault.

  “Sorry, cat.” She didn’t seem to be at all affected by my rude treatment of her. She sat at the edge of the futon, contorting her body in order to wash her tummy. I scrubbed a hand over my face. I felt like death; my mouth tasted as if I’d been licking a crime scene.

  My cell phone trilled and I blearily checked the caller ID. Lindiwe. “What’s up?”

  “Hey,” she said. “You sound terrible.”

  “I feel terrible. Think I might be coming down with the flu.”

  “Eish. You want me to do this one on my own?”

  “What we got?”

  “Suicide.”

  “Hotel room?”

  “You got it. The Radisson on Buitenkant Street again.”

  “Male or female?” I asked.

  “Female.”

  Women tend to kill themselves in a tidier fashion than men. The job shouldn’t be too arduous. “I’ll be cool. Meet you there in an hour.”

  I dry-swallowed three extra-strength Disprin, and topped up Muti’s food bowl. She rubbed her face against my hand and chirruped at me. I reminded myself to call a humane cat shelter after work. I couldn’t get too attached to her. Keeping her imprisoned here would be cruel.

  THE SCENE WASN’T as tidy as I’d hoped. The woman had cut her wrists in the bath; a pool of jellifying blood stained the floor tiles and bathmat. The remains of a smashed bottle of Stoli lay at the base of the sink. Every scene tells a story – hers said she’d needed a bottle’s worth of Dutch courage to go through with it.

  We suited up in the bedroom, and Lindi carried the hazmat box and the goop scoop into the bathroom while I set up the steamer.

  I’d barely begun spraying the bedroom when I heard a thump, followed by, “Shit!”

  I darted into the bathroom. Lindi was lying on her back next to the bath, holding her left wrist above her head. A jagged piece of glass from the smashed vodka bottle protruded from her arm.

  “I slipped in the blood,” she said.

  “How the hell did you do that?” She was usually ultra careful. We both were.

  “God knows. My legs just went out from under me.”

  Trying not to wince as she pulled the shard out of her arm, I helped her step out of her gore-soaked coveralls and led her into the relatively bacteria-free bedroom.

  I dug out the iodine we kept on hand for incidents like this, and mopped her up as best as I could. The wound wasn’t deep, but anything could be lurking in the victim’s blood. “We can’t deal with that here, it’s not sterile. I’d better take you to see the doc.”

  “I can take a taxi. You cool to finish up here?”

  “Yeah. I’ll cope.”

  AS
I HAULED the equipment out of the lift and lugged it towards the van, a shadowy figure loomed out from behind one of the underground parking lot’s pillars, making me jump.

  “Ms Greenberg?”

  “Yeah?”

  A balding white guy with a serious beard stepped into the light. I relaxed. He was dressed in colourful shorts and sandals over socks – not the most intimidating of outfits. Besides, as I made my way over to where I’d parked the van, he seemed to be quite keen to keep his distance from me.

  “I believe you have something that belongs to my colleague, August Schuller.” His accent was thick, Germanic. “I have been out of town. I have just now heard of his demise.”

  “Sorry for your loss. How did you find me?”

  “Your associate said you would be here.”

  What the fuck was Lindiwe thinking? “Right. Did you work with Mr Schuller?” Another druid, perhaps? Apart from the dire fashion sense, with that beard he looked the part.

  “I believe you have his cat.”

  “Yeah.”

  He beamed. “I will be happy to take it off your hands.”

  There was something off about the way he was staring at me – the expression on his face reeked of desperation, his bulbous eyes unwavering as he waited for my response. “I don’t have the cat here. Text your contact details to my office and I’ll get back to you.”

  I turned away, expecting him to get the message and walk away. He didn’t. He cleared his throat. “May I ask... how much contact you have had with it?”

  I blinked. “Why, is the cat sick or something?” Shit. Maybe it wasn’t a hangover after all. I hoped I hadn’t caught something from her – rabies or cat AIDS or whatever. If I die, kill my cat.

  “No. It is not diseased.” He smiled again. Definitely fake this time.

  I chucked the gear into the back of the van; I suspected I might need to make a quick getaway. “Why did August Schuller want the cat to die?”

  He frowned. “How do you know...”

  “I found a note.”

  “Ha,” he said, waving his hands in the air. “August could be eccentric at times.”

  “I figured. His brother said he was some sort of druid.”

  “Did he?”

  “If you take the cat, how do I know you’ll look after her?”

  He cleared his throat. “I do not understand.”

  “How do I know you won’t follow through on Schuller’s last wishes?” I took a step towards him and he skittered back as if he was afraid I was going to touch him.

  “Please, I have to have the cat. You must trust me. If you do not, the consequences will be bad.”

  “Is that a threat?” He was starting to get panicky; I was starting to get pissed off.

  “No... please, Ms Greenberg, you have to –”

  “I don’t have to do anything. Look, what is this all about?”

  “If you won’t give me the cat, then please, destroy it yourself.”

  “You need help, you know that?” I climbed into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and reversed without checking to see if anyone was behind me.

  “Please!” I heard him calling after me.

  I WAITED UNTIL I was back at my flat and safely slumped on the couch before I called Lindiwe. Muti mewed from her nest on my futon, leapt over to me and snuggled into my lap. She didn’t look sick, but I gently pushed her away just in case.

  “How’s the arm?” I asked when Lindiwe answered.

  “Fine, thanks. Didn’t need stitches after all.”

  “You tell some dude where I was?”

  “Yeah. He was asking about the cat. I thought you were trying to find it a home?”

  “He was a weirdo of note.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Listen. That Austrian guy. Who are we invoicing for that?”

  “The rental company. First Rate Rentals, I think.”

  “Can you find out from them who was paying Schuller’s rent? You’re good at that sort of thing. Make up a story or something.”

  “Why? This about the cat?”

  “Long story. Please, Linds.”

  “Hang on.”

  She called back almost immediately. “Debit order from SARA.”

  “What’s SARA?”

  “The South African Roads Agency.”

  This was getting weirder and weirder. What the hell did the roads agency want with a druid?

  On a whim, I fired up the laptop, typed druids + roads + Austria into Google. I was gobsmacked when a slew of hits popped up. I clicked on a Daily Mercury piece, headlined: ‘Austrian Government Uses Druid Magic to Combat Traffic Black Spots.’

  Holy crap.

  I scanned the article, which was written in a mocking, ‘those crazy Austrians’ tone. According to the reporter, Austrian motorway officials had secretly hired a team of druids to unearth and dispel the negative energies they believed were the cause of otherwise unexplained traffic fatalities in certain areas prone to accidents. The pilot project had been so successful that the Austrian government was considering extending it to the rest of the country.

  I scrolled down to a photograph of a bearded guy in a Jedi robe, posing next to a traffic cone. I recognised him immediately – it was the sandalled fellow who’d cornered me in the hotel parking lot. The caption said his name was Reiner Meyer.

  I now thought I knew what August Schuller was doing in Cape Town, but that didn’t explain the cat situation.

  I Googled Cape Town’s SARA offices, dialled the number, and listened to a “we’re too busy to take your call” message.

  I checked the time. Three-thirty. If I wanted answers, and if I put my foot down, there was another option.

  I PUSHED MY way into SARA’s air-conditioned building with five minutes to spare. I’d been held up at an intersection – a bakkie in the lane next to mine had been rear-ended by a taxi, and I’d been forced to hang around while the bakkie’s elderly driver painstakingly tapped my details into his ancient Nokia.

  The stone-faced security guard looked me up and down. “We are closing.”

  “I need to speak to someone in charge,” I said.

  “You have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Then I cannot help you, sisi.”

  “Tell your boss it’s about August Schuller.”

  “August what?”

  “He or she will know what I mean.”

  I waited while the guard ducked his head and mumbled something into his radio. “Third floor,” he snapped at me.

  A fortyish man wearing the tailored suit and bland grin of a politician was waiting for me when I exited the lifts. “Do you mind giving me your name?” he asked, without offering his own.

  I handed him one of my business cards.

  His smile didn’t slip as he scanned it. “What is it that you want, Ms Greenberg?”

  “I need to get hold of Reiner Meyer – August Schuller’s sidekick. It’s important.”

  “I cannot help you.”

  “Fine. My boyfriend works for the Cape Times,” I lied. “Maybe I’ll give him a call. It’ll make a good story, the roads agency using taxpayers’ cash to fund druids and magic and hokey shit like that.”

  “Please.” He ushered me into a large office, the walls adorned with framed maps and ‘Arrive Alive’ posters, and waved me towards a chair in front of his desk.

  I sat down, crossed my arms. “Do you seriously believe this druid stuff works?”

  I was treated to another bland smile and a slick non-answer: “Have you any idea what a drain traffic accidents are on our resources, Ms Greenberg?”

  “But why use Austrian druids? Why not use sangomas to dispel the bad energy or whatever? Proudly South African, local is lekker and all that shit.” I thought of my sister – she’d probably love nothing more than hanging around by the side of the road dressed in her beaded finery.

  He shifted in his seat. If I wanted answers, now was the time to shut up. But as usual, I couldn’t stop my mo
uth doing its thing. “Whoever’s in charge got a kickback, didn’t they? A bribe.” The smile snapped off. “Am I close? It’s the South African way, after all. We’re outsourcing everything these days. Clothing manufacture to China; armaments to Germany. And now, magic to Austria.”

  His phone started ringing. We sat in silence until it stopped.

  I tried one more time. “Look. I don’t care what you’re doing. I seriously don’t. Tell me where to find Reiner Meyer and I’ll be out of your hair. Won’t say a word.”

  He held my gaze for what felt like hours. I still couldn’t read his expression. Then he dug wordlessly in his desk drawer and handed me a map.

  IT WAS GETTING dark as I pulled onto the N2. I stuck to the slow lane, gung-ho mini-bus taxis and luxury sedans with blacked-out windows zipping around me en route to Gugulethu and the airport. Table Mountain shrank in my rear-view mirror as I crawled past the endless shacks that flanked the highway. The irony of SARA bankrolling bizarre druid rituals in the heart of so much poverty didn’t escape me.

  According to the map, Reiner should be doing his stuff a couple of kays past the airport turn-off. Blinded by the lights on the opposite side of the highway, I had to slam on my brakes when I finally spotted a silhouetted figure behind the buckled safety barrier. I flicked on my hazard lights and pulled over.

  Reiner barely acknowledged me as I approached him. Dressed in the same robe he was wearing in the newspaper photo, he was waving a U-shaped metal contraption at each car that roared past us.

  “I know what you’re doing here,” I said.

  He shrugged and pointed towards a cell phone transmitter in the distance. “The bad signals, they must be dispersed.”

  “What’s this got to do with the cat?”

  “The bad energy we collect has to go somewhere. It is poison.”

  “Hang on. Are you saying you transferred this bad energy into a cat?”

  “I prefer to use chickens, but August did, ja. He kept it alive for far too long. After so many sessions, he should have destroyed it, burned its body. But as you know he died unexpectedly before he could do this.”