by Deon Meyer
Time stood still for André Marais. She could see the outstretched hand, which Reyneke ignored, his eyes moving from one woman to the other in slow motion; she could actually see the gears working in his brain. Then he bumped his trolley forward in her direction and he shouted something at her as the trolley collided with her and she lost her balance.
Molly screamed incoherently.
André staggered against the wine rack, bottles fell and smashed on the floor. She fell on her bottom, arms windmilling for balance, then she grabbed at her handbag, got her fingers on it and searched for her service pistol while her head told her she must warn Griessel. Her other hand was on the little microphone that she held to her mouth and said, “It’s him, it’s him!”
Reyneke was beside her and jerked the pistol from her hand. She tried to rise, but her sandals slipped in the wine and she fell back with her elbow on a glass shard. She felt a sharp pain. Twisting her body sideways she saw which way he ran. “Main entrance!” she shouted, but realizing her head was turned away from the microphone, she grabbed it again. “Main entrance, stop him!” she screamed. “He has my firearm!” Then she saw the blood pouring from her arm in a thick stream. When she lifted up her arm to inspect it she saw it was cut to the bone.
Griessel and Cliffy leapt up and ran when they heard Molly Green scream over the radio. Cliffy missed the turn, bumping against a table where two men were eating sushi. “Sorry, sorry,” he said and saw Griessel ahead, Z88 in hand, saw the faces of bystanders and heard cries here and there. They raced, shoes slapping on the floor. He heard Marais’s voice on the microphone: “Main entrance, stop him!”
Griessel arrived at the wide door of Woolworths, service pistol gripped in both hands and aimed at something inside the store, but Cliffy was trying to brake and he slipped on the smooth floor. Just before he collided with Griessel, he spotted the suspect, jacket flapping, big pistol in his hand, who stopped ten paces away from them, also battling not to slip.
But Cliffy and Griessel were in a pile on the ground. A shot went off and a bullet whined away somewhere.
Cliffy heard Griessel curse, heard high, shrill screams around them. “Sorry, Benny, sorry,” he said, looking around and seeing the suspect had turned around and headed for the escalator. Cupido and Keyter, pistols in hand, were coming down the other one, but it was in fact the ascending escalator. For an instant it was extremely funny, like a scene from an old Charlie Chaplin film: the two policemen leaping furiously down the steps, but not making much progress. On their faces, the oddest expressions of frustration, seriousness, purposefulness — and the sure knowledge that they were making complete idiots of themselves.
Griessel had sprung up and set off after the suspect. Cliffy got to his feet and followed, up the escalator with big leaps to the top. Griessel had turned right and spotted the fugitive on the way to the exit on the second level. He heard Griessel shout, glanced back. Griessel could see the fear on the man’s face and then he stopped and aimed his pistol at Griessel. The shot rang out and something plucked at Cliffy, knocked him off his feet and threw him against Men’s Suits: Formal. He knew he was hit somewhere in the chest, he was entangled in trousers and jackets, looking down at the hole near his heart. He was going to die, thought Cliffy Mketsu, he was shot in the heart. He couldn’t die now. Griessel must help. He rolled over. He felt heavy. But light-headed. He moved garments with his right arm; the left was without feeling. He saw Griessel tackle the fugitive. A male mannequin in beachwear tottered and fell. A garish sunhat flew through the air in an elegant arch, a display of T-shirts collapsed. He saw Griessel’s right hand rise and fall. Griessel was beating him with his pistol. He could see the blood spray from here. Up and down went Griessel’s hand. It would make Benny feel better; he needed to release that rage. Hit him, Benny, hit him — he’s the bastard who shot me.
Thobela Mpayipheli was waiting for the traffic lights on the corner of Adderley and Riebeeck Street when he heard a voice at his elbow.
“Why djoo look so se-ed?”
A street child stood there, hands on lean, boyish hips. Ten, eleven years old?
“Do I look sad?”
“Djy lyk like the ket stole the dairy. Gimme sum money for bred.”
“What’s your name?”
“What’s djor name?”
“Thobela.”
“Gimme sum money for bred, Thobela.”
“First tell me your name.”
“Moses.”
“What are you going to do with the money?”
“What did I say it was for?”
Then there was another one, smaller, thinner, in outsize clothes, nose running. Without thinking Thobela took out his handkerchief.
“Five rand,” said the little one, holding out his hand.
“Fokkof, Randall, I saw him first.”
He wanted to wipe Randall’s nose but the boy jumped back. “Don’ touch me,” said the child.
“I want to wipe your nose.”
“What for?”
It was a good question.
“Djy gonna give us money?” asked Moses.
“When did you last eat?”
“Less see, what month is this?”
In the dusk of the late afternoon another skinny figure appeared, a girl with a bush of frizzy tangled hair. She said nothing, just stood with outstretched hand, the other holding the edges of a large, tattered man’s jacket together.
“Agh, fock,” said Moses. “I had this under control.”
“Are you related?” asked Thobela.
“How would we know?” said Moses, and the other two giggled.
“Do you want to eat?”
“Jee-zas,” said Moses. “Just my luck. A fokken’ stupid darkie.”
“You swear a lot.”
“I’m a street kid, for fuck’s sake.”
He looked at the trio. Grimy, barefoot. Bright, living eyes. “I’m going to the Spur. Do you want to come?”
Dumbstruck.
“Well?”
“Are you a pervert?” asked Moses with narrowed eyes.
“No, I’m hungry.”
The girl jabbed an elbow in Moses’s ribs and made big eyes at him.
“The Spur will throw us out,” said Randall.
“I’ll say you are my children.”
For a moment all three were quiet and then Moses laughed, a chuckling sound rising through the scales. “Our daddy.”
Thobela began to walk. “Are you coming?”
It was ten or twelve paces further on that the girl’s small hand clasped a finger of his right hand and stayed there, all the way to the Spur Steak Ranch in Strand Street.
22.
She sat staring at the window without seeing.
“I thought I was cutting myself because of my father, at first,” she said softly, and sighed, deeply, remembering. “Or because of Viljoen. I thought I was handling the work and that I was okay with it.”
She turned and looked at him, back in the present. “I never clicked it was the work that made me like that. Not then. I had to get out of it first.”
He nodded, slowly, but did not respond.
“And then things changed, with Carlos,” she said.
Carlos phoned early, just after nine, to say he wanted to book her for the whole night. “Carlos does not want money fight. Three thousand, hokay? But you must look sexy, conchita. Very sexy, we are having a formal party. Black dress, but show your tits. Carlos wants to brag. My guys will pick you up. Seven o’clock.” He put the phone down.
She waited for her anger to rise and fade. She sat on the edge of the bed, with the cell phone still to her ear. She felt the futility, knew that her anger was useless.
Sonia came up to her, doll in hand. “Are we going to ride bicycle, Mamma?”
“No, my love, we are going shopping.” The child skipped off towards her room as if shopping was her favorite activity.
“Hey, you.”
Sonia halted in the doorway and peeped over
her shoulder mischievously.
“Me?” She knew her part in this ritual.
“Yes, you. Come here.”
She ran across the carpet, still in her green pajamas, into her mother’s arms.
“You’re my love,” Christine began their rhyme and kissed her neck.
“You’re my life,” giggled Sonia.
“And your beauty makes me shiver.”
“You’re my heaven, you’re my house.” Her head was on Christine’s bosom.
“You’re my only paradise,” she said and hugged the child tight. “Go and get dressed. It’s time to shop till we drop.”
“Shoptill hedrop?”
“Shoptill hedrop. That’s right.”
Three years and four months. Just another two years, then school. Just another two years and her mother would be done with whoring.
She phoned Carlton Hair and Mac for late-afternoon appointments and took Sonia along to Hip Hop across Cavendish Square. The sales people paid more attention to the pretty child with blonde ringlets than they did to her.
She stood in front of the mirror in a black dress. The neckline was low, the hem high, bare back.
“That is very sexy,” said the colored shop assistant.
“Isn’t,” said Sonia. “Mamma looks pretty.”
They laughed. “I’ll take it.”
They were too early for her hair and make-up. She took her daughter to Naartjie in the Cavendish Center. “Now you can choose a dress for yourself.”
“I also want a black one.”
“They don’t have black ones.”
“I also want a black one.”
“Black ones are just for grown-ups, girl.”
“I also want to be grown-up.”
“No you don’t. Trust me.”
The carer looked in disapproval at her outfit when she dropped Sonia off.
“I don’t know how late the function will finish. It’s best if she sleeps over.”
“In that dress it will finish very late.”
She ignored the comment, hugged her daughter tight. “Be good. Mamma will see you in the morning.”
“Tatta, Mamma.”
Just before the door closed behind her, she heard Sonia say: “My mamma looks very pretty.”
“Do you think so?” said the carer in a sour voice.
It was a weird evening. In the entertainment area of the house in Camps Bay, inside and outside beside the pool, were about sixty people, mostly men in evening suits. Here and there was a blonde with breasts on display or long legs showing through split dresses and ending in high heels. Like décor, she thought, pretty furniture. They hung on a man’s arm, smiled, said nothing.
Quickly she grasped that that was what Carlos expected of her. He was ecstatic over her appearance. “Ah, conchita, you look perfect,” he said when she arrived.
It was the United Nations: Spanish-speaking, Chinese, or Oriental at least, small men who followed her with hungry eyes, Arabs in togas — or whatever you called them — who ignored her, each with his mustache. Two Germans. English. One American.
Carlos, the Host. Jovial, smiling, joking, but she felt sure he was tense, nervous even. She followed his example, held a glass, but did not drink.
“You know who these people are?” he asked her later, whispering in her ear.
“No.”
“Carlos will tell you later.”
Food and drink came and went. She could see the men were no longer sober, but only because the conversation and laughter were a bit louder. Ten o’clock, eleven, twelve.
She stood alone at a pillar. Carlos was somewhere in a kitchen organizing more food to be sent. She felt a hand slide under her dress between her legs, fingers groping. She froze. The hand was gone. She looked over her shoulder. A Chinese man stood there, small and dapper, sniffing deeply at his fingers. He smiled at her and walked away. All she could think of was that Carlos must not see that.
Two Arabs sat at a glass table arranging cocaine in lines with credit cards and sharing it with a companion whose nipple showed above the neckline of her black dress. One of the men inhaled deeply over the table, leaned back in his chair and slowly opened his eyes. Languidly, he stretched out a hand towards her and took the nipple between his fingers. He squeezed. The woman grimaced. He’s hurting her, thought Christine. She was transfixed.
Late that night her bladder was full. She went upstairs looking for the privacy of Carlos’s en-suite bathroom. The bedroom door was shut and she opened it. A blonde in a blood-red dress was gripping one of the posts of the bed and her dress was rucked up to bare her bottom. Behind her stood one of the Spanish men with his trousers around his ankles.
“You want to watch?”
“No.”
“You want to fuck?”
“I’m with Carlos.”
“Carlos is nothing. You kiss my girl, yes?”
Quietly she closed the door and heard the man laugh inside the room.
Even later. Only a small group of guests remained in the swimming pool — two women, six or seven men. Extremely drunk. She had never seen group sex before and it fascinated her. Four men were with one of the women.
Carlos came and stood behind her. “What do you think?”
“It’s weird,” she lied.
“Carlos not for groups. Carlos is a one conchita man.” He put his arms around her, but they continued to watch. Small, rhythmic waves lapped at the edge of the pool.
“It looks sexy,” he said.
She put her hand on his crotch and felt it was hard. Time to earn her pay.
“First Carlos drinks,” he said, and went to fetch a bottle.
She didn’t know whether to blame the drink, but Carlos was different in bed — desperate, urgent, as if he wanted to prove himself.
“I want you to hurt me,” she said.
Maybe he did not hear. Maybe he did not want to. He just went on.
When he had finished and lay wet with his own perspiration beside her, head between her breasts, he asked: “Carlos was good for you?”
“You were great.”
“Yes. Carlos is a great lover,” he said in all seriousness. Then he was quiet, for so long that she wondered if he was asleep.
Suddenly he rose to his feet, crossed to where he had dropped his trousers on the floor and took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit two and passed one to her before sitting down beside her, with his feet folded under him. His eyes were bloodshot.
“These people . . .” he said with venom and a deep furrow of distaste on his forehead. She knew him well enough to know he was not sober.
She drew on the cigarette.
“They did not even thank Carlos for the party. They come, they drink and snort and eat and fuck and then they leave, no goodbye, no ‘thank you, Carlos, for your hospitality.’”
“It was a good party, Carlos.”
“Sí, conchita. Cost a lot of money, famous chef, best licores, best putas. But they have no respect for Carlos.”
“Carlos is nothing,” the man in his bedroom had said.
“You know who they are, conchita? You know? They are banditos. They are shit. They make money with drugs. Mexicans!” He spat out the word. “They are nothing. They are burros, mulas for the Yankees. Cubans. What are they? And the Afghans. Peasants, I tell you.”
“Afghans?”
“Sí. Those arses holes in the dresses. Conchas!”
So the Arabs were Afghans. “Oh.”
“And the China and the Thai, and the Vietnam, what are they? They are mierda, Carlos tell you, they have nothing but chickens and bananas and heroin. They fuck their mothers. But they come to Carlos, to this beautiful house and they have no manners. You know who they are, conchita? They are drugs. The Afghans and the Vietnam and the Thai, they bring heroin. They bring here, because here is safe, no police here. They take cocaine back. Then Sangrenegra brothers take heroin to America and to Europe. And the South Americans, they help supply, but little, because Sangrenegra brother
s control supply. That is Carlos and Javier. My big brother is Javier. He is biggest man in drugs. Everybody know him. We take heroin, we give cocaine, we give money, we . . . we distribuya. We take to whole world. Carlos will tell Javier about the disrespect. They think Carlos is little brother, Javier is not here, so they can shit on me. They cannot shit on me, conchita. I will shit on them.” He squashed the cigarette disdainfully in the ashtray.
“Come, conchita, Carlos show you something.” He took her arm and drew her along. He picked up his trousers, took out a bunch of keys, took her hand and led her down the passage, down the stairs, through the kitchen, down more stairs to a pantry. The house was completely deserted by now. He opened a half-concealed door at the back of the pantry. There were three locks, each with its own key.
“Carlos show you. Sangrenegra is not small time.” He pressed a light switch. Another door. A small electronic number pad on the wall. He typed in a number. “Oh, eight, two, four, four, nine, you know that number, conchita?”
“Yes.” They were the first six numbers of her cell phone number.
“That is how much Carlos love you.”
It was a steel door that opened automatically. A fluorescent light flickered on inside. He pulled her inside. A space as large as a double garage. Shelves up to the ceiling. Plastic bags on the racks, from one end to the other, all filled with white powder.
Then she saw the money.
“You see, conchita? You see?”
“I see,” she said, but her voice was gone and it came out as a whisper.
They were in the pool, just Carlos and her. She sat on the step with her lower body in the water. He was standing in the water with his arms around her and his face against her belly.
“Conchita, will you tell Carlos why you become . . . you know.”
“A whore.”