by Ian Patrick
Ryder eased back into the now much cooler leather and drove away.
20.30.
Mavis Tshabalala was nervous about the choice she had made. She knew she was stepping way outside the bounds of responsible behaviour. Captain Nyawula would be dismayed if he found out. Navi, also, if she were to find out about her real intentions for the night. Sergeant Cronje, too, would be very disappointed. He always displayed such care for her wellbeing, and supported her in everything. Now here she was breaking every rule in the book and placing herself in danger.
She had taken it upon herself to do her own investigations and find the man about whom she had become so obsessed in the past few months. Surely, she thought, Wakashe would sooner or later again visit his old haunts? She knew Thursday nights were especially popular, so she asked her friend Nonhlanhla if she could stay overnight with her in KwaMashu Section K. She explained that she wanted to do some more of the work she had done some weeks ago with the support of Nonhlanhla’s brother, at the Mabaleng Tavern.
‘Hau, Mavis! You’re still looking for that man? Be careful, wena!’ said Nonhlanhla on the telephone.
She tried to dissuade Mavis. For one thing, she said, neither she nor her brother Ndileko was available to accompany her because they were both busy. They each had separate arrangements for the evening. Mavis was welcome to stay the night, but for her to go alone to the Tavern was not wise, she warned. They argued back and forth, Mavis on the one hand saying she would be careful and she had to do this work, and her friend on the other hand trying to prevail upon her. Eventually Nonhlanhla asked her to hold the line for a minute while she spoke to her brother. Mavis could hear Nonhlanhla and Ndileko talking in the background. The discussion, in isiNdebele, sounded animated. Eventually Nonhlanhla came back on the line. In a rich mix of Zulu and Xhosa and English suffused with giggles and innuendo, she reported back to Mavis.
‘My brother is full of surprises. He was telling me this afternoon no, he couldn’t go with me to our uncle’s family for dinner, because he was busy with his friends. Now I ask him if he can go with Mavis Tshabalala to the Tavern and he says straight away, no problem, it will be his pleasure. Maybe he is more interested in you than you think, Mavis? Maybe after last time when you were dressing up so sexy you got him thinking about you? He’s changing his plans with his friends and he’ll go with you instead to Mabaleng Tavern. He says he’s looking forward to hip-hopping with you.’
The two friends had chuckled together and made the arrangements, and Mavis undertook to arrive in time for them to chat before going out their separate ways for the evening. She and Nonhlanhla now sat in the latter’s living room, waiting for Ndileko who was still getting dressed.
‘My brother. That one, Mavis. What have you done to him? I think this is the third pair of trousers he’s put on. He spent the last half an hour brushing his teeth. He’s changed his shirt maybe four times. You’ve cast a spell on him, girl! I’ve never seen him so nervous.’
She could tell from Mavis’s reaction that the electricity between her friend and her brother went both ways. Nonhlanhla whispered to her friend as if the entire house had been bugged.
‘I didn’t tell you. After the last time the two of you went to Mabaleng’s he asked me many times, trying to look casual, whether I had heard about you, what were you doing, were you still with the police, did you have a boyfriend. All the time trying to make it look as if he wasn’t interested, but was just asking, you know? It was so funny. Shame. I felt sorry for him. My little brother.’
‘Not so little, Nonnie. How old is he?’
‘Only twenty-one, Mavis. You look after him tonight, nè? I only have one brother.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll be careful.’
‘I don’t like that place. You know that, Mavis. Bad people go there.’
‘We’ll only be looking. We won’t do anything stupid.’
Ndileko entered the room and both women could see immediately that he was extremely nervous. They tried to suppress the enjoyment each of them felt at the sight of the poor young man trying but failing dismally to appear calm and cool and collected. They did their best to appear matter-of-fact about this simple arrangement among friends in which he had gallantly offered to act as an escort for the night to the good friend of his sister. The nonchalance, however, had the opposite effect as he thought that maybe he was of no interest at all to Mavis, and he started manufacturing reasons for himself as to why he was so insignificant in her eyes. Was it his clothes? His demeanour? The fact that he had splashed too much cologne on his face?
The two women, seeing this, then did all they could to help him recover. He then found himself in a position where he had never received so many compliments on what he was wearing, and how cool he looked. Eventually all three of them could sense that all of this was going over the top, and he and Mavis left in a hurry, leaving Nonhlanhla alone and full of mirth.
22.25.
The Ryders were hosting eight for dinner. Elizabeth, a lecturer in Film and Television at the University of Bristol, was the partner of Joyce, the research colleague in criminology mentioned to Ryder by Professor Hutchinson in Oxford. Mongezi was a senior partner in Fiona’s firm of architects, and his wife Ntombi was a chartered accountant. Busisiwe was a junior in Fiona’s firm, and a talented young architect in her mid-twenties. Her husband Hans was a lecturer in mathematics at the University of KwaZulu-Natal. Theresa was a management consultant and an old school-friend of Fiona. She had emigrated from South Africa in her early twenties. She had then renewed contact with Fiona when the Ryders had spent a few years in the United Kingdom. Theresa’s husband Marcus was a writer for radio in England. They lived in Bristol and during the Ryders’ sojourn in England some years previously they had on occasion enjoyed a few social evenings together.
Mongezi and Ntombi, along with Busisiwe and Hans, had spent a bit of time over the main course talking about a previous dinner party at the Ryders, during which they had all been confronted by burglars but had come through the experience unscathed. They laughed as they recalled the experience. One of the things you just have to do when you visit Durban, said Hans, is attend a dinner party at the Ryders so that you can see both crime and policing in action. Nevertheless, the description of the incident unnerved Marcus and Theresa. This was their third visit to South Africa in recent years, they said, and it felt to them as if crime was becoming increasingly scary. This of course led to the normal discussion about crime and about law and order, and from that subject they moved almost seamlessly during dessert to the topics of corruption and cronyism and politics, in the course of which Ryder escaped to the kitchen to prepare the coffee and tea.
The eight guests now sat comfortably with their host and hostess in the living room, nursing their drinks and swapping anecdotes. With all of them sensing that the conversation toward the end of dinner had started slipping into uncomfortable territory, they now kicked off the living-room conversation with some safe and uncontroversial discussion about the weather.
There was then a brief moment of respite after the phatic language designed to re-establish convivial discourse. For the moment all was peaceful, but inevitably, Ryder thought, as night must follow day, his guests would drift toward more emphatic language. This would surely revolve around the inevitable discussion of Marcus’s latest opinion on a movie he had just seen or a book he had just read or a comment made by some prominent public figure.
Ryder could already envisage Marcus’s opening comment in such a scenario. Have you read so-and-so? Absolutely brilliant! Forget about X. This is the guy you need to read. Absolutely outstanding! And in this instance ‘guy’ would always mean ‘man’, Ryder mused.
Or, if someone else were to initiate the discussion, and ask those present whether they had read A or B or seen C or D, then Marcus might respond differently. It’s absolutely appalling! Absolute drivel! The initiator, perhaps taken aback and feeling somehow wedded to the impulse that had prompted their question, might then
ask why he felt that way. Marcus would likely respond with no specific further elaboration than It’s absolutely dreadful! Absolutely terrible! He would frequently do this with such passion that some of the guests might then be tempted to mitigate their loyalty to the film or book about which they had intended to enthuse. In the interests of maintaining polite discourse they might say, against their better judgement, Well, yes, I can see why you might feel that way, although I do think, actually, that to some extent…
Ryder felt a little mischievous this evening. Marcus had pontificated just a little too much over dinner, and Ryder felt that as host he had been sufficiently polite until now in refraining from comment. Despite warning glares from his wife, he believed he had earned the right to some mischief.
The inevitable moment arrived.
‘Have you read anything by Z?’ asked Marcus.
‘No, can’t say that I have,’ said Elizabeth.
‘You haven’t?’ Marcus responded. ‘Oh my God. You haven’t? Surely you’ve heard of him?’
‘No, actually. Can’t say that I have. What’s he written?’
‘Good grief. You can’t be serious. Haven’t you read him? He’s absolutely brilliant. Absolutely amazing. Totally wonderful! Absolutely outstanding.’
He went on to say that this author and that author and the next author – all of them top of their respective best-seller lists in the domain of crime fiction – were absolutely nowhere compared to the towering talents of Z. He went further to suggest that Z was a totally original talent and that none of the others could touch him.
Marcus on his favourite hobby-horse, thought Ryder. He liked the man, but he often wished the guy could be less emphatic about his views. Perhaps he spent too much time at his desk. He had once told Ryder that he was so busy writing radio drama that he didn’t have time for socialising, or for reading, he had added.
Ryder was jolted back to the present by Fiona’s suggestion that a little glass of Laphroaig for the guests might provide a good way to end the evening. She had sensed that there was some rising irritation in both Elizabeth and Joyce aimed at Marcus, and she thought that a diversion was needed.
As Ryder prepared the glasses on a tray, the conversation continued.
Elizabeth was clinging to the subject and not letting go as easily as Marcus had thought she might.
‘Look, Marcus, I feel at a bit of a disadvantage here. I haven’t read anything by Z, I admit, but when you say that all those other writers we were discussing are not worth consideration, I have to disagree, along with a few million other readers...’
‘Me too,’ said Busisiwe. ‘I’ve also just read the thriller you were talking about, Elizabeth, and...’
‘It’s absolutely terrible. He writes to the same formula all the time. It’s absolutely appalling…’
Ryder thought the moment was right.
‘Marcus,’ he interjected, ‘have you read it? I thought you told me recently that you were so busy that you didn’t have much time for reading.’
There was a moment of silence before Marcus recovered.
‘Well, I dipped into it, and I saw enough, thanks very much.’
‘Really? Dipped into it?’ said Busisiwe.
‘Yes. I have the right to decide that a book is crap if I want to, don’t I?’
‘The right?’ said Busisiwe.
‘Yes, the right. That’s what I said. I have the right…’
‘Do you mean in a legal sense?’ said Busisiwe.
‘What?’
‘Do you mean you have the right in a legal sense to pronounce that a book is absolutely appalling, as you call it, without having read it?’
‘Yes, I do, actually. Certainly. Yes. I think I have the legal right to say that a book is crap…’
‘Oh, sure. Yes, indeed. No question. I’m quite sure you have the legal right. Sorry, Marcus, I thought for a moment you were talking about a moral right.’
‘What?’
‘I thought, from what you said, that you meant you had a moral right to rubbish a writer without having read what he or she has written. Especially with you being a writer yourself, I mean. Or an ethical right to do so. Sorry, Marcus, I misunderstood you. Of course you have the legal right to say what you like about someone’s writing. You are, after all, a professional writer. You write radio drama for a living, you said. I’m sure you wouldn’t say to anyone else that they have no legal right to tell people what they think of your own writing. Even if they hadn’t read your writing or heard your radio dramas.’
There was another awkward moment of silence. Theresa was not going to come to the rescue of her husband this time. Indeed, she looked quite pleased at his moment of discomfort. Marcus tried to break the silence.
‘I do, actually, think that the book Elizabeth mentioned is absolutely appalling. If you had read some of the latest Filipino writers… Now, for example, compared to someone like…’
‘Well I think…’ began Ryder.
‘What I quite liked about what Elizabeth was saying just now,’ interrupted Fiona Ryder, because she could see that her husband was also about to interrupt, and she felt that her intervention would probably be a little less inflammatory than his, ‘is that she was using some interesting critical vocabulary to describe why she liked the book. She wasn’t just saying that it was good. She was saying how it was good.’
‘What? What do you… what are you saying…’ said Marcus.
‘Well,’ Fiona replied, ‘I happened to identify with what Elizabeth said about the language and the imagery and the characterisation and the texture of the writing and the structure and the foreshadowing and the … well, and things like that. I thought your whole critique, Elizabeth, was really very interesting and very helpful – to me, anyway – in understanding where you were coming from.’
‘I agree,’ said Busisiwe. ‘I couldn’t help thinking that Marcus is the only one among us who is a professional writer but that his own critical lexicon seems to me to contain very few words between the two extreme superlatives brilliant and appalling.’
‘To each of which, of course, he always attaches a third superlative,’ said Jeremy Ryder, ‘in case he thinks those two words can’t stand up for themselves.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ said Marcus. ‘What do you mean a third superlative?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Ryder.
‘What?’
‘I mean, Marcus, that like Elizabeth and like Fiona and Busisiwe I only ever hear you say that a book or a film is absolutely brilliant or absolutely appalling; or absolutely outstanding or absolutely terrible. I think you could make room for a little light and shade in your critical appraisals.’
‘I agree too,’ said Joyce. ‘When I was listening to Marcus just now I thought he would do well to employ a few more words such as Elizabeth used during their argument, like deficient, defective, intriguing, allusive, or… I’m no literary expert, but what I mean is that I prefer words that don’t lead to an emphatic closure of discussion but rather open up a discussion. Well, anyway, far be it from me to tell a professional writer which words he should add to his critical armoury. I know nothing about crime fiction. I only deal with the fairly boring world of crime and rehabilitation and restorative justice.’
‘I think that’s right, Joyce,’ said Jeremy Ryder. ‘I would just like to believe that there does indeed exist some such armoury in Marcus, and that it comprises some critical vocabulary beyond the word absolutely coupled to some vague and largely meaningless superlative.’
There was a terrible silence. An absolutely terrible silence, thought Fiona Ryder. So she decided that she would come to the rescue.
‘Well, I’m sure that Marcus will be the first to admit that he only does that for effect, in order to get the argument going. Don’t you Marcus? It’s simply because you like to provoke a discussion.’
Marcus grasped the lifeline. Yes, indeed, he was a provocative kind of chap, he said. He always thought that it was good to liven up a conver
sation by being contrary, even if only in jest, and the best dinner parties were those where there was some cut and thrust…
The Laphroaig helped, and the evening mellowed, and the room became cosier, and the conversation bubbled along a little more convivially than it had. Mongezi and Ntombi and Hans joined in more volubly than they had done before the whisky started flowing.
The ensuing discussion of local hijacking incidents and housebreaking and murder and armed robbery and grievous bodily harm and rape and disembowelment seemed to Ryder to provoke far more polite and gentle and rational conversation among his guests than had the subject matter of crime fiction.
The inevitable polite words of amelioration occurred at the door as farewells were uttered, amidst comments about the unbearable heat and the projections for the weather and holiday plans and distant relatives and rugby. Ryder didn’t play his part in this. This was primarily because as he was leaving Marcus couldn’t resist quoting from some BBC journalist about the refugee crisis in Europe and its likely impact on the welfare budgets of European Union members, and Elizabeth took the opportunity to say that she hadn’t read the journalist in question, but asked Marcus what he felt about the issue. Marcus offered a response that included a reference to financial data purporting to support his argument. Ntombi pounced on this and pointed out that as a chartered accountant she felt it necessary to point out the basic flaws in the arithmetic that Marcus was proffering.
In the pause that followed Busisiwe decided that she had had enough Laphroaig to throw caution to the winds, so she added another comment.
‘You’re always quoting some BBC journalist or other, Marcus, or some Bank of England guru. I refuse to discuss these matters with you next time we meet, unless you stop trying to intimidate me by quoting some authoritative source that you’ve read and I haven’t read, or some BBC television programme that you’ve seen and I haven’t. We’re not in some backwoods dump out here in South Africa, you know?’