101 Detectives

by Ivan Vladislavic

  The hotel façade is solid Papa, a gigantic head-and-shoulders, from breakfast terrace to roof garden. A projection with no evident source and very impressive on this scale. One of his best-loved expressions, benevolent and stately, but not overly friendly. Crowned by his unmistakable homburg.

  Let me start on the ground floor. The drop zone had a pair of Papas – no handiwork of ours – on either side of the door. Twin commissionaires with the awning resting on their heads, at a scale of 3:1, in ferroconcrete with a marble finish. The airlock lined with smaller versions of the same in alcoves, these from our factory. Gratifying to see our merchandise in situ for the first time. Fixtures, I think, not just hauled out for my arrival. The whole space bathed in red light and that unquestionably for my benefit. It’s amazing what they think in these backwaters. I know you find it sweet, but you don’t have to experience it at first hand. The lobby rosy too, but not as garish, thank God. Ambient, almost certainly chameleonic – sensed it cooling perceptibly as I checked myself in.

  A voice message in my earpiece: words of welcome from Mr Booty Khuzwayo, Convenor of the Trade Fair, and an invitation to join him for breakfast in the Parrot Parrot Room tomorrow morning (if I so wish).

  Saw my first flesh-and-blood Papa in the elevator on the way up to my room. Not a professional here for the Convention, as you might imagine, but a waiter! He was lugging a tray of cocktails and I held the door. In truth, he resembled Papa only slightly: if there was a likeness at all it was an effect of the homburg and doublet and a certain solicitous, fatherly bearing.

  (I remembered your wise counsel, Fei. The eye is the most fallible organ. I’m sure the people here are as various as people anywhere on this green earth and if they all look somewhat alike to me it is the fault of my untutored eye.)

  When the waiter got out of the lift on the seventeenth floor, he inclined his head in a regal bow, and I took the costume and the mannerisms – it really did not go much further than that – as an allusive tribute to Papa, who did so much to foster economic and cultural exchange between his people and ours, or a small gesture of gratitude to the delegates at the Fair, of whom I am self-evidently one, for the welcome injection of credit and know-who into the local economy. Unless of course there was something ironic or even facetious in his attitude – a possibility signposted in your helpful briefing papers – and he was registering his displeasure at my presence. I must remember that they do not like foreigners.

  Couldn’t resist opening the window of my room (know you advised against) to see where I am in the full-face façade. Can you guess? In the bag under an eye! Might have wished to be ‘the pupil’…

  22:45

  Just back from dinner. Fascinating outing. Decided to bypass the taximan and summoned a rickshaw with the bedside beeper. ‘Rickshaw’ is just a manner of speaking. The rickshaw man was nothing like the quaintly costumed porter I expected (we must update our files on the transport sector). He was plainly but elegantly dressed in a leisure suit, silk shirt and loafers; but for some light body armour, discreetly toned to match the suit, he might have been another delegate to the Fair. The only sign of his occupation was a traditional headdress with beaded horns which he discarded as soon as he entered the cab of the buggy.

  He took me to an eatery in the neighbouring mixed-use development. Neighbouring being not quite the right word as we had to traverse a dull intermediate zone to get there. I expected rusty shacks, dark alleys and muddy ditches, but instead it was drably uniform, block after block of small, unexceptional houses nestled in extravagant foliage like knick-knacks in packaging material. Almost hyperbolically mundane. Tree ferns and rubber plants with leaves the size of sails. Everything outsize and superabundant. Must be something in the water. I put my eye close to the glass to make sure I wasn’t being hoodwinked by some picture window (don’t say I haven’t learnt my lesson) but it was definitely real world. People here and there, passing quickly through cones of lamplight, but overall an air of abandonment. I wonder who lives in these catchment areas, as they call them? Then we came to a sector where the pavements were busier although still not crowded, and we passed through an archway into a small square with a tavern where people sat eating and drinking at round tables with lanterns on them, while an orchestra played on a thatched bandstand. The place looked run-down and its patrons poorly dressed, but it seemed welcoming, it had a meagre sort of cheer I found appealing. It made me homesick – so early in the trip! – and I wished the driver would stop, but we bowled straight across the square and out through another archway. I would have opened the window to hear a snatch of the music, but your advice not to breathe too much unprocessed air made me pause, and in any event the driver took no notice of my questions and remarks. I gathered that he spoke the third of the languages and that not very well.

  Just as I began to think the fellow was lost, we came into a broad, well-lit avenue that marked the start of the next development. The Cockatoo Cockatoo Grillhouse was in the lobby of a hotel like my own, so much like my own that for a moment I wondered whether we hadn’t returned by a circuitous route to the Ambassador. Even the Papas flanking the doorway were the same. I might as well have eaten at my own lodgings – or so I thought until the meal came. It was exceptional. Medallions of protein with the texture of pork, a peppery lime-green rind and a berry sauce, scattered with enormous trumpet-shaped flowers and blood-red petals, the latter edible. Heavenly. (No one will say where the protein comes from. Apparently there are clandestine eateries in the catchment areas where it is served raw, a practice much frowned upon by the authorities.)

  Three sightings of Papa during the course of the evening:

  – Waiter who brought the protein – homburg and doublet, of course, and the characteristic Papa intonation

  – Market vendor – fruit? – glimpsed from the window of the buggy

  – Bandleader of the orchestra in the square

  Is this average? I expected more.

  My guess is that the music was martial and unmelodious. Nothing to go on but the attitudes of the musicians. Much beating of timpani and blowing of horns.

  Drank the local digestif after dinner, a viscous liquid flecked with clots of fruit. Felt drowsy immediately. Actually dozed in the buggy on my way back to the hotel. Not myself – you know I like to keep my wits about me.

  Hotel where I had dinner (for future reference): The Diplomat!

  Another thing: my suspicions about the lobby lighting confirmed. When I arrived back from my outing, I saw that Dutch chap Van den Ende who makes the jumpsuits checking in and would you believe the whole place was bright orange.

  Please check for me: scoffeasy; nozzlefruit

  To bed now. Mr Booty Khuzwayo is an early riser. I mean to rise even earlier to go through the catalogues, even if the meeting is an informal one. You are quite right to remind me that I am not a tourist but a manufacturers’ representative.

  Sweet dreams, my dear.

  DAY 2

  09:00

  How much clearer things look after a night’s sleep.

  When I went down to the lobby this morning there were Papas aplenty! Lounging at the refreshment station, drinking tea on the terrace, going in and out of the Parrot Parrot Room. Three Papas checking in at once.

  The impersonators have arrived for the Convention in numbers. Some of them resemble Papa quite strikingly even without the regalia. I thought there must be a few stand-ins among the entertainers, but when I put this to Mr Khuzwayo, he was adamant that there are no professional doubles left. The idea seemed to upset him. He hardly needed to remind me, he said, that Papa left us twenty years ago. It stands to reason that any double who outlived him would be impossibly old by now. All the Papas I saw were no more than stage artists. The Department (of Trade or Forfeit?) was entitled to leverage the heritage product.

  Mr Khuzwayo was waiting for me in a booth with two platters of breakfast protein steaming on the table. I took the liberty of ordering for you, he said. We’re famous for our pr
otein and I believe you enjoyed your meal last night very much. (!)

  And then he squeezed my hand and said: You must call me Booty. Mr is very cold and we are warm people, very warm people. Like our climate. (His hand was in fact hot to the touch – almost as if he were running a fever.)

  More surprisingly, he declared his intention to call me Booty as well. Henceforth I am to be ‘Booty Wu’. There was something in your notes about familiarity and foreigners, but I cannot remember the details. Is there a protocol there on honorifics? Please take a look when you have a moment.

  Naturally, I concealed my bewilderment from Booty Khuzwayo and said I was honoured by his gesture.

  An even greater honour awaits you, he said, squeezing my hand again. I am here to invite you to an audience with the King.

  The King? I was greatly surprised, as you can imagine, having had no inkling until then that the destination was a monarchy, but of course I said yes immediately. And concealed my further astonishment by lavishing praise on the breakfast protein, which was a little sweet for my taste (swimming in syrup) but undoubtedly tasty.

  I waited until the platters had been cleared away, mine still laden despite my best efforts, his wiped clean, and we were sipping a selection of exotic fruit punches from the buffet, before asking: What is the purpose of my meeting with the King?

  All in good time, Booty Wu, he said, all in good time.

  Business obviously. The meeting is tomorrow evening at the Palace. The existence of which surprised me greatly. I had thought, from your thorough briefing documents, that the only palace in the destination was the Palace of Justice, but apparently we were mistaken. Our information-gathering capacities may have been outpaced by developments. Any further guidance you can offer, diligent Fei, would be welcome. Upload to my memory. I understood that Papa was the Father of the Nation i.e. Democracy. Have I missed something? Time is short, which is why I have paused in my room to file this interim report.

  To the Fair!

  18:10

  Busy day. I trust the orders are reaching you? I can safely say that our merchandise is universally admired. It scarcely needs to be sold. Among the new lines particular interest in salad servers, kitchen thermometers, salt and pepper shakers, kebab skewers, bathroom scales, scatter cushions. Focus on kitchenware as you see. Should be reflected in the orders.

  Van den Ende has a new line of Papa leisurewear on a guerrilla-warfare theme. Shoddily made as ever. Not our core business but tempting to make it so, if only to show up the ‘competition’. All-weather poncho looks interesting. Have packed sample.

  Hardly a spare moment at the stand. Pressure relieved mid-morning by a formal procession of Papas through the exhibition hall on their way to a plenary session of the Convention. A comical profusion, I must say, every shape and size. We exhibitors gathered to applaud.

  Gratified to find our merchandise in situ at the Convention Centre: hand driers and soap dispensers in the restrooms. Have noted proposal for small design adjustment to homburg handle. Also doorstop in the exhibitors’ canteen. Plaster Papa with arms akimbo. Thus far and no further! Delightful and functional.

  Got an intern to watch the stand in the mid-p.m. lull, with strict instructions about pilferers, and slipped up to the second floor to attend a session of the Convention. Interest piqued by ‘When Impersonators Intermarry: Type and Taboo’ but missed start so caught instead ‘The Ethics of Impersonation: A New Approach’. Wordy elaboration on basic dos and don’ts. Very lifelike Papa at the lectern. ‘It takes more than a hat and doublet.’ He had neither.

  Sensed animosity between ‘professionals’ and ‘amateurs’ in the questions from the floor, especially on the subject of surgery. Some jibing about stand-up versus stand-in which I could not follow. Wish you were here to puzzle it through with me. You know the second of the languages so much better than I do. Sure you might have enjoyed: ‘Where are the Mamas? Challenging Patriarchy.’

  Meanwhile thanks for the clarification on ‘Bhuti’. How silly of me! Now that I know it means ‘brother’ I shall wear it more comfortably.

  23:00

  Did I mention that I was going to the theatre? Old-fashioned place but newly constructed, accessed by skywalk. The development has retail, sport, hotel, office and residential components and there’s no need to go wandering off into the jungle to take up the leisure offerings.

  The story of Papa’s life. Few surprises: goatherd, guerrilla, prisoner of state, Father of the Nation. Convincing leading man – but no more convincing in make-up and costume than many an audience member. Papas in every row from the royal gallery to the stalls. His famous victory speech sounded in a hundred voices. They knew it by heart!

  Suddenly exhausted. Heard talk over lunch of a sedative in the complimentary nightcap.

  Please confirm orders.

  DAY 3

  23:45

  Thank you for your exemplary briefing on the monarchy received this morning. An elected king. Interesting idea. I hoped to quiz Bhuti Khuzwayo about it before my audience at the Palace, but our Convenor was nowhere to be seen. This despite the crush in the exhibition hall. Everybody and his brother allowed in today. A pickpocket’s paradise. Hardly came up for air, as you will have gathered from the orders, which please confirm.

  Forgive me if I skip the day’s business and go straight to the Palace. It’s a long story, but you must hear it in full.

  A limousine came to fetch me at sunset. My hopes of seeing more of the destination dashed by shaded windows. I cannot say where we went, but it was not close by. Drove for more than an hour. Piped music the whole way, military marches and lugubrious hymns, and cocktails on tap, although I did not indulge. Had one only and could barely hold my head up afterwards.

  At last, the driver stopped and let me out. I was bearing the nutcracker that you gift-wrapped for just such an occasion, but the driver took it from me. We were in an underground parking garage. He ushered me to an elevator and pressed a button that sent me upwards.

  The room I emerged into had the atmosphere of a health spa. Remember that place in Guangdong? Towers of folded towels, potted plants with enormous leaves, pebbles, steam. A young woman in a nursemaid’s pinafore and a beaded cap showed me to a cubicle with a shower. When I had freshened up, she said, I should put on the national dress laid out in the cabinet.

  I did as I was told.

  From what I’d seen of local habits, I expected cotton pants and dashiki, sandals, perhaps a skullcap – or a homburg! – but this is what I found: a linen leisure suit, very finely made, a silk shirt with side pleats, and leather loafers (tan, fringed) that might have been cobbled to fit me – you know the trouble I have with my mismatched feet! There was no mirror to judge the full effect but it felt splendid. My own clothes, which seemed shabby by comparison, I placed in the basket as requested. The nursemaid assured me that they would be returned to the Ambassador – which indeed they were, freshly laundered, along with the nutcracker in its wrapping.

  At the nursemaid’s invitation, I passed into an antechamber where the servitor who was to accompany me to the audience stood waiting. He took my elbow and steered me towards a wheelchair in the middle of the room. I assured him that I was quite fit for a man of my age, but he insisted that I sit in the chair. Kneeling before me, he lifted my unequal feet onto the footplates and bound my ankles with leather straps. It was done so deftly, I scarcely had time to object, not that I was inclined to do so. When in Rome…

  Giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, my servitor pushed me along a passage to a larger reception area. A dozen men, each clothed like me in a pale linen suit and seated in a wheelchair attended by a servitor, were waiting there. Apparently I was the last guest to arrive, for as soon as we entered a bell rang, a door opened and we proceeded in convoy into the banqueting hall.

  The banqueting hall was a circular enclosure with low stone walls and a conical grass roof that reached almost to the ground (there are similar things in the files). In the middle of the h
all was an immense radiation pit with iron racks on which slabs of protein were broiling. The servitors positioned the wheelchairs at intervals around the pit and stood ready behind us. I was curious, of course, to make the acquaintance of my dinner companions, but their distant mien no less than the gaps between our chairs did not encourage conversation.

  The royal chamberlain, or perhaps he was simply the maître d’, welcomed us one and all in the fourth or fifth of the languages. I could not follow much of it, but I gathered from the sprinkling of ‘Excellencies’ and ‘Worships’ that I was among ambassadors and judges and other important people. At the end, he bowed deeply towards a shadowy sector of the circle, which I had thought unoccupied, and thus made me aware that the King was already present, reclining on a divan. Just then a golden light sifted down, illuminating the dome of his head and the folds of his silk pyjamas. He looked like a gilded idol in a temple.

  It was silent in the hall. Though I craned my neck for a closer view, my companions averted their eyes. The pit smoked and the protein sizzled.

  Two stewards came bearing a spatula as long as a dragon-boat oar and a deep-bowled spoon to match. Leaning out over the pit, and propping the spoon on the spatula, they scooped the fatty heart out of the largest slab of protein and held it up before the King. After a moment he stirred and then he slumped forward with his face in the bowl. By the squirming of his shoulders I could tell he was feeding.

  There was a murmur around the room. Turning to the man on my left, I greeted him in the first of the languages and then the second, but my servitor took my head firmly in his soft hands and twisted it to face the front.

  We sat in silence again with the fragrance of the protein in our nostrils.

  At last, the King raised his hand and the spoon was withdrawn. Figures slipped from the shadows, propped his glazed head against some pillows, and wheeled him swiftly away.