by Paige Nick
Call me.
I turn my phone to silent. A flash catches my eye through the door, from beyond the perimeter fence of the Homestead, where the media have been camped out since I arrived. At first, it was mostly journalists hoping to grab a front-page shot of the ex-Number One doing something crazy. I reckon they were also watching to see who was coming and going, keeping an eye open for the Guppies, or trying to catch any brewing scandals. That would be worth a month’s rent at least to some savvy journo. But Muza’s release is old news now, and they’ve dwindled, gone off to chase other stories, like new Idols winners or Madam Speaker’s bid for the presidency. Only one lone journalist remains. He has an old Toyota Corolla and a one-person tent set up on the side of the road.
I feel a pang of homesickness for my old life. Journalists are my people. I wonder whether he would have any interest in my story? I don’t see why not. And an exclusive could bring in some cash and free me from this hellhole. I might even know the poor fucker; the industry isn’t that big.
I pick up a bag of peanuts and a half-brick I find lying in a pile of rubble outside my door, then head out past the rancid fire pool. None of Muza’s goons seem to be guarding the gate anymore, and the cops who were out there at first have long since gone. The dog slinks towards me, growling. I tear open the bag of peanuts and fling some at him. He sniffs at them. Uninterested, he carries on snarling as he follows me to the front gate. The goats ramble over to scarf them up. I was hoping the nuts would hold the mutt’s interest for half a second, but now I have to hold the half-brick above my head. Fortunately, he clocks it and is smart enough to hang back, although it doesn’t stop him growling.
When I get out there, the journo is leaning against the back of his car, fiddling with his camera. I can hear 5FM wafting from inside the Toyota. He looks up as I approach, but doesn’t greet.
‘Got a smoke I can bum?’ I say. He looks the other way, ignoring me. ‘YOU magazine, eh?’ I go on, nodding at the sticker on the camera bag balanced on the boot of his car. He still doesn’t make eye contact. A black BMW with tinted windows approaches, and in seconds he’s attached a mammoth zoom lens to his camera and has it up to his eye. The BMW stops outside the gate and the dust settles. A full minute passes. Eventually the passenger door opens and Muza steps out of the car in his tracksuit bottoms and grubby vest, clutching an extra-large McDonald’s drinks cup. The photographer swings into action, the flutter of his camera shutter going at a hundred miles an hour. At the same time he shouts questions at Muza, who scowls and ignores him as he limp-stomps to the gate. Muza has to put his drink on the ground to fumble with the latch. When he finally gets it open, he holds the gate for Elijah to drive through.
Then he does the whole drink-on-the-ground manouvre again so he can close the gate from the inside. Then, as Muza lopes up alongside the passenger seat of the BMW, Elijah accelerates forward a metre. Muza takes three steps towards the door, and Elijah accelerates again. The journalist shrieks with laughter, going crazy with his camera. Finally Elijah stops long enough for Muza to fold himself into the car for the fifty-metre drive the rest of the way to the front door.
Once Elijah and Muza have gone inside, the journalist returns to fiddling with his camera.
‘That guy, hey?’ I say.
‘And you? Don’t think I don’t know who you are, boet,’ he says. ‘And now you think you can put a plaster on your shit by coming out here and writing propaganda for that lunatic. You’re no better than him.’
The guy makes a show of lighting a cigarette, then returns the pack to his shirt pocket without offering me one. ‘You’re not a writer, you’re a fraud, just like him. You deserve each other,’ he finishes, before spitting on the ground.
‘Easy, mate. Did I fuck your sister or something?’
‘I’m not your mate and you didn’t fuck my sister, but you did fuck my profession. So fuck you very much for that. It’s tough enough getting the public to respect our work on the best of days without people like you tarring our integrity. You’re a disgrace to journalism.’
‘So I guess a smoke’s out of the question?’ I joke.
He turns away and I have to do the walk of shame back to the Homestead. I retrieve my half-brick as I open the gate, and the dog follows me back to my rondavel, still threatening to attack. I can hear the whirring shutter of the camera focused on the knife lodged between my shoulder blades every step of the way.
17 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘That was another fine meal. Thank you, my friend. I can’t believe I left my wallet at home AGAIN. What are the chances of that happening twice in a row, hey? I must be distracted because my mind is so wrapped up in our business.’
‘Please, don’t mention it, it’s my pleasure. Nobody should have to work on an empty stomach.’ Elijah’s phone rings, and he gets to his feet. ‘Excuse me, it’s my business associate.’
‘Be sure to ask how soon we’ll get the money. I don’t mean to put pressure on you, but if we want to get this business off the ground…’
‘Literally,’ Elijah says with a wry smile before stepping outside.
‘I don’t understand why I can’t sit with you guys,’ the writer says, hustling over from five tables down and shifting into Muza’s booth.
‘I’m sorry, but we are discussing sensitive business matters, we need privacy. You are lucky we let you come with us at all,’ Muza says.
‘But as your memoirist, if I’m going to write your story accurately, these are the kinds of meetings I should be privy to,’ Stone argues.
‘Of course if it was up to me, I would have you here every second, you know that. But Elijah is nervous about the ears of a journalist, and he’s my new business partner, so I have to respect his feelings.’
‘What are you two up to? If you had nothing to hide, neither of you would mind me sitting in on your conversations.’
‘I have nothing to hide, comrade. Why so suspicious? This is an absolutely perfectly legitimate business deal. And to prove it, I will tell you everything there is to know about it.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes, of course. Elijah and I are about to start the greatest imported showerhead business this country has ever seen. With yours truly as the very important global CEO and celebrity spokesman. Why aren’t you writing this down?’
‘Ja right, a showerhead business, that’s hilarious. Come on, what’s really going on?’ Stone says.
‘I am being as serious as the Constitutional Court, comrade writer. Our showerheads will be of the highest quality, imported directly from Italy. Some of them even gold-plated, for that golden shower experience. So now you must put there in my book that you came with me today, and we met at a big office building with my investor and his colleagues. You can write that they made us coffee with machines and everything. The secretary was very beautiful, like in a James Bond movie, and she asked for my autograph, of course. And then we sat at an enormous mahogany boardroom table and discussed the details of our showerhead company. You can put there that we discussed things like when to list on the stock exchange, and profit margins and other important facets of any business. You still aren’t writing any of this down, Mr Stone! I don’t understand why not.’
‘Oh come on, nothing even close to that happened. We’re in a Nando’s, for God’s sake. And you made me sit at another table so that I couldn’t hear what you were talking about while you were eating chicken livers and discussing whatever crazy scam you’re dreaming up next.’
‘Listen, writer, don’t push me, okay? There is a way of making this work for both of us. I’ve seen that you are in deep trouble with Elijah, and as you know, I have his ear right now. If you just write what I need you to write and do as I tell you, maybe I can talk to him, smooth things over for you. Then you get an easier life with him, we both get our book, it’s a win-win-win situation. Are we agreed?’
‘I don’t know,’ I shrug.
‘Well, I suggest you consider my o
ffer very seriously,’ Muza says as Elijah weaves his way back to their table, slipping his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘How did that go, comrade?’ Muza asks.
‘Very, very well, partner,’ Elijah says, lodging a toothpick between his teeth.
Muza’s eyes light up. ‘That sounds promising. You are making the best decision of your life, you will see. Let me go six-nine, and then we can head back to the Homestead to discuss these matters in more detail,’ Muza says, pocketing a handful of toothpicks, and a salt-and-pepper cellar on his way to the bathroom.
THE WRITER
‘I’d kill to know what scam you two are cooking up,’ I say, reaching for a toothpick of my own from the now almost empty container.
‘Not sure what you’re talking about,’ Elijah answers, stroking his beard.
‘Come on Elijah, what are you really doing here?’
‘Don’t be such a yenta, Stone. I’m going into business with your boss. It’s all totally kosher.’
‘Please, you wouldn’t know legitimate if it hit you in the face,’ I say, reflexively reaching up to touch my bruised eye with my fingertips.
‘That’s quite a shiner you’ve got there, bubbe. You should really be more careful,’ Elijah says, his voice joking with an edge of a threat.
‘Thanks, that’s great advice. I’ll be sure to take it. Where is your friend, anyway?’
‘Who, Reebok? Luckily for you, he had to go back to town to take care of business while I work with your boss for the next few weeks.’
‘Work?’ I snort.
Elijah leans in and lowers his voice: ‘Listen bubbuleh, it looks like you and I are going to be spending some time in each other’s company. Now I have a good thing going here, I don’t need you messing it all up. I think you’ll find I’m a good neighbour: no loud music, no pets, mostly keep myself to myself. That is if you pay me what you owe me and mind your own business. If you don’t, Donald Trump couldn’t build a wall high enough to keep me out, you understand?’
‘Listen, about the money, I’m really not trying to do you over, but where do you honestly expect me to get fifteen grand overnight? Am I supposed to rob a bank?’
‘Since when did the source of the money you owe me become my problem? You’ve got a lot of chutzpah.’
‘I’m not disrespecting you, Elijah, I mean it. How am I supposed to find that much money? Plus I’m sure your goon broke my ribs, and one of the shards of bone may have punctured a lung, making it difficult for me to breathe, let alone write.’
‘Listen, Reebok didn’t get anywhere near your ribs. He barely touched you, and you dropped like a sack of ruggelach. If he had punctured a lung, you wouldn’t be sitting at Nando’s eating a burger and fries, I can promise you that.’
‘Maybe, but look what he did to my finger! How am I supposed to write Muza’s memoirs in this condition?’
‘Now hang on a minute, you fell on your own finger. He barely even touched you.’
‘Well, he didn’t have to be so rough.’
‘Oh, forgive me, I’m so sorry he didn’t go easier on you. Did you forget what business I’m in? This isn’t crafting camp or a crèche, bubbe. And if you keep on like this, I’m going to have to get Reebok to come and really break a finger a day until you find the money you owe me. Then you’ll actually have something real to whine about.’
‘That’s quite short-sighted, don’t you think? If you break my fingers I won’t be able to type, and if I can’t type, I can’t make the money I owe you. And what will you do after ten days? Actually make that nine days, since you’ve already made a start,’ I say, holding up my bandaged finger.
‘I suppose Reebok could always start on your toes.’
I shut my mouth. Now I’m just giving him ideas.
‘Listen, Mr Stone, you’re in luck, I’m a mensch. In the spirit of us being new neighbours and staying out of each other’s business, I’m going to give you time to write your vershtunkende book. You can pay me back what you owe me in seventeen days. And as a gesture of goodwill, I’ll even throw in a little something to help inspire you.’ Elijah digs in his pocket and drops two small plastic bubbles of cocaine in the middle of the table.
I smash my palm down on top of them, then look around to make sure nobody in the restaurant has seen them.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I whisper.
‘Consider it a gift, at my friends, family and new neighbours’ rate, in the spirit of our collaboration,’ Elijah says.
‘I don’t want them, I’m clean,’ I hiss, sliding them back across the table.
‘Of course you are,’ he says, an amused look on his face as he pushes them back towards me.
‘I mean it, I’m clean,’ I say, sending them back again.
‘Sure,’ he says, ‘I believe you. I tell you what, you just hold onto them for me, and whatever you don’t use, you can give back to me, no charge.’ Elijah says, handing them back to me and then standing up. I pocket them quickly as Muza rejoins us.
‘Writer, your phone is pinging,’ Muza says.
I glance at my phone. More texts from my mother. As I follow them out the restaurant, Muza slips a fork into his back pocket.
‘I notice you’re still limping, brother. Is your toe bothering you?’ Elijah asks, pressing his car remote to unlock the BMW.
‘My toe’s much better now, thank you, comrade. But to be honest, I have this pain on my buttock that I can’t get rid of.’
‘A pain on your tuches?’ Elijah asks.
‘No, on my buttock. And it’s getting worse every day.’
‘Oy vey! You know what you need?’
‘Maybe a doctor’s appointment?’ Muza says.
‘No, I have something much better than that. As my ex-wife’s mother used to say, there’s no kvetch that can’t be fixed with a big bowl of homemade chicken soup, and maybe a perogen or two.’
‘A what?’
‘We’ll go past the deli on our way back to the Homestead. Tomorrow I’m going to make you my ex-mother-in-law’s famous chicken soup. It was the recipe her bobba’s bobba’s bobba passed down to her through many generations. There’s nothing it can’t fix.’
16 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘Bonang, didn’t you see the sign on the door? You can’t just barge in here whenever you like.’
‘I’m sorry, sthandwa sam’, but you spelt “do not disturb” wrong.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not mentioning any names, but since CERTAIN PEOPLE took over my office, this room is now officially my office. And as you can see with your own eyes, my business partner and I are having a very important meeting in this office right now.’
‘Actually baba, it’s not your office, it’s the kitchen. But as much as you are a generous husband, I am a generous wife, so I don’t mind if you carry on with your little meeting while I make a sandwich. I won’t disturb you. I can make one for you too, if you want? Cheese and jam, your favourite.’
‘No no, ngi-right kabi Bonang. And anyway, my business partner and I are trying to discuss some very private and confidential matters.’
‘It doesn’t look like that. It looks like you’re eating peanut butter out of the jar with your finger, and he’s taking a phone call and chopping carrots.’
‘Yes, Elijah is busy making chicken soup for my buttocks, but don’t let that fool you. We are also talking about very important matters that are top secret, for our eyes only, and confidential, and so we cannot carry on talking while you are here. You are not my business partner, and that was your choice, so now you must suffer the consequences of that bad decision.’
Bonang snorts.
‘And as I’ve said before,’ Muza continues, his rant gathering momentum, ‘if someone hadn’t taken over my proper office, then I wouldn’t have to have the kitchen in my office.’
‘Well, I guess if someone hadn’t committed fraud and been sent to jail, then someone else, i.e. me, wouldn’t have had t
o take over your study and start my own fashion design business,’ Bonang says. ‘Anyway, you two have been running around whispering like children for days, what are you up to?’
‘I told you weeks ago, I have a huge plan, remember?’
‘What, to become the President again one day? Of what country, Disneyland? If that’s the case, then maybe I will run for president too.’
‘Mock me all you want, Bongs, but when I am back on top and rolling in cash, you will be sorry that you made jokes and didn’t take my plan seriously. And you will be even more sorry that you didn’t get in on the ground floor when I first offered you this opportunity.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been sorry since I met you,’ Bonang says.
Elijah finishes his call and wipes his hands on a dishcloth. He smiles at Bonang and reaches for a clove of garlic as Hava Nagila trills out of his phone again. He eyes the screen. ‘I’m sorry, this is another call from my people about an important business matter – I won’t be a minute,’ he says, winking at Muza. ‘Here, chop these onions for my tzimmes.’ He hands Muza a chopping board and two fat bulbs before slipping out of the kitchen.
‘Important man,’ Bonang says, raising her eyebrows.
‘I told you,’ Muza says, looking at the onions as if they have just arrived from an alien planet.
‘What’s a tzimmes?’
‘I think it’s like a tzorres, but with more chillies,’ Muza says.
‘Is it a Malawian thing?’
‘No, it’s Yiddish.’
‘Yiddish?’
‘Old-fashioned Jewish.’
‘Why on earth does he speak that?’ Bonang asks.
‘Because he’s a very good businessman. Now what do I do with these?’ Muza asks, holding up the onions.
‘You chop them, baba, with that knife, on that board. But be careful, I think this new business partner of yours is going to make you cry a lot sooner than you think.’