The Inside Out Man

by Fred Strydom

  Slowly, I lifted the lid. I glanced up at the attorney, but he just shrugged. There was no note, label, or tag to explain the fact that, inside the box, there was nothing but a long, rusty key.

  8.

  I can’t claim to understand this city.

  I’ve lived in it my entire life, and yet the older I get the less sense it makes. It’s a city of good intentions, I can say that, but then a good intention isn’t worth a thing. You only need a Friday night on the town to see everyone’s good intentions go up in a blaze, like a Viking funeral on a boat, disappearing into nothing.

  Sitting in the back of a taxi on the way home from a gig, I looked out the window. The usual lot of people were scurrying and scrambling in search of some sort of good time: teenage girls with too much make-up shivering in queues, cupping their elbows, their knees knocking under finger-me skirts. Brawny XL jocks squeezed into medium t-shirts cotching in alleys as their friends uploaded YouTube clips. Discarded blue train loaves clogging drains outside coffee bars where fifty-buck butterscotch lattes are served in recycled jam jars. A dealer lurching from behind a column: Hey you, you want it, jus’ come with me, up here, around the corner, we almost there, jus’ a little further, you got money on you?

  Across the road, a prostitute wearing a gold dress was chatting up a dark-suited businessman looking for a cheap lay—and no doubt wondering if all the talk about the plague was just propaganda: Surely this one, the one right here, in front of you, surely she’s fine? She’s carrying a healthy amount of weight in her cheeks.

  The taxi eased past St. George’s Cathedral, its stained-glass Christ triumphing over darkness and evil as he sits on the broken backs and crushed skulls of the slaves that laid the stones. Behind, the Company’s Garden, with the rose beds, aviary, and that very old pear tree, where people choose to feed bushy-tailed rodents rather than the men slumped on benches. Around the corner, the Castle with its five bastions, home of the ghost of Lady Anne Barnard, who runs through the halls with her hands covering her face, and Governor van Noodt, doomed for all eternity to shout and swear at the ceilings. Underneath lies Donker Gat dungeon, the torture chamber where rain water often rose high enough to drown prisoners. Such stories abound in that place. Outside its walls, the crevices between pawn shops and electronics stores are haunted by addicts, gangsters, and thieves. Not quite dead, not quite alive.

  We turned into Main Road, and I asked the driver to stop so I could buy some smokes. Back in the car, I asked if I could light up. He said it was fine, so I wound down the window and took a drag.

  Soon afterwards, I was home.

  9.

  I couldn’t sleep for days. I just lay beneath my blankets and stared at the ceiling. The problem was that the darkness wasn’t merely the absence of light, it was a heavy substance, filled with something I couldn’t recognise, couldn’t name. It was the light that was empty. Switching on the bedside lamp didn’t help. I could still see the night, swirling out there, pressing against the windows. Occasionally, I drifted in and out of some watery version of sleep, only to discover that scarcely five minutes had gone by when I awoke.

  On the third night of sleeplessness, I opened my eyes and saw someone sitting in the armchair in the corner of my room.

  I blinked.

  The figure kept disappearing and reappearing, until I made out the shape of a man. His faceless head leant back, and long arms were draped over the armrests.

  I called out to him, feeling stupid as I did so. The shape didn’t move. It seemed to be watching me, or waiting for me. It’s not a bag or a coat, but it isn’t a man either, I thought. You’re dreaming. You haven’t slept in days, and this is some ridiculous half-and-half, the product of a delirious, fatigued brain. That, or the curtain’s hanging skew, blocking the light in a funny way.

  Finally, I flicked on the bedside lamp. There was no coat and no bag. The curtain wasn’t hanging funny. But there was also no man. Apart from the familiar tatty armchair, I saw nothing at all.

  10.

  You look like shit, Coby said as I walked up to the bar. Hey, sorry, she laughed—embarrassed or maybe surprised she’d reached this level of blunt familiarity. It’s just … God, you look like shit. Are you sick or something?

  I smiled, told her I was cool, just not getting much sleep.

  A lot on your mind?

  My response was a pair of raised eyebrows.

  She shook her head and said she’d fix me a drink. But I’d have to trust her and turn my eyes away—the elixir was an age-old secret translated from a sacred scroll, entrusted to her by a bearded wanderer in Yemen, a potion wrested long ago from the hands of ancient, warring nations …

  I smiled, looked away, and let her get on with it. There seemed to be a good crowd. Coby’s boss had finally got round to calling (I like to think Coby had something to do with it), and a gig had been put in place. As usual, he’d done a good job of marketing it; the house was packed to the rafters with seemingly sober people, and sober was always a good start.

  Coby gave me the drink, which turned out to be a blend of coffee, Kahlúa, vodka and pumpkin juice, dressed with whipped cream and cinnamon. She asked me what I thought, and I told her it was delicious. She spoke about some drunk who’d bothered her earlier that evening, and a bookshop that had opened next door, run by a man who looked like long-haired Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I asked if she’d seen any good books in there and she laughed and said, Naaah; there were mostly old textbooks, business manuals, and tattered self-help guides—books that taught the etiquette of gentlemen’s clubs, how to smooch your boss’s arse, and make sure the little lady at home didn’t get any wild ideas about having a life of her own.

  The manager was already up on the stage, tapping the mike as he drew the attention of the room. He welcomed everybody, reminded them of a two-for-one drink special, as well as an upcoming motorcycle charity ride, and then he introduced me. I made my way along a narrow opening towards the stage. Heads turned in my direction, and there was faint applause. The manager stepped out of the pool of light, clapping like a circus seal as he walked away.

  A piano sat just beyond the spotlight. I cleared my throat, and took my seat. I ran the tips of my fingers over the cold keys, across their smooth ivory surfaces.

  I closed my eyes, took a breath, and began.

  Now, most improvised jazz is simply the ability to mutate and deploy familiar patterns, the jazz licks. There’s nothing truly improvised apart from the combinations, the timings and the patterns you’re willing to pull from your repertoire. Don’t get me wrong: there are choices to be made, a significant amount of creativity, but jazz sounds like jazz for a reason. Do it enough, steal enough, and you can convince even yourself that you’re making it all up as you go along. You won’t even have to think about what to use and when to use it, just as a literary specialist effortlessly quotes from a myriad of poems to illuminate any given argument, or a preacher summons passages from the Bible to complement his convictions. In my experience, the less I consciously thought about what I was doing, the better I was playing.

  But not that night.

  That night, I didn’t just lose myself to my music. I blacked out. When I finally came round, I realised that more than fifty minutes had passed, though I had no recollection of having played anything.

  I rose from my seat to animated applause. Silhouettes whistled and whooped and clapped. In a daze, I made my way back down to the bar. People tapped my arm, commending me on my set as they grinned from their seats. I nodded and mumbled my thanks. My hands were trembling and my heart racing as I pulled out a stool at the bar.

  What had happened up on stage?

  I’d lost all sense of time and, were it not for the crowd, would have thought I’d fainted or had a stroke. But people don’t applaud you for having a stroke. No, I’d played something up there, something that had lasted for almost an hour. Anyway, Coby could explain what had taken place from the crowd’s perspective.

 
; I gave a lazy wave of my hand, and she walked towards me, smiled quickly, and passed without a word to serve a customer at the other end of the bar. I waited my turn, thinking she’d compliment me, tell me how much she’d enjoyed it, or at the very least share some new anecdote or crack a joke to level me out. But she didn’t. She moved from the customer to the kitchen door, preferring to have a laugh with one of the waiters. She guffawed at something he said, staring into his eyes with a girlish sort of admiration. Was she ignoring me? She was ignoring me. Something was wrong. I thought back to her fleeting smile. It had been odd and unsettling, devoid of the warmth, sincerity, the playfulness I’d come to expect of her. Between the piano and the bar, something had changed. But what had I played—and what had she heard?

  I watched her over the rim of my glass, waiting for a look, a glance, but it didn’t come. By now I was almost certain: there was some aspect of my playing she hadn’t liked. She’d seen something in me, something she could no longer trust.

  I ordered three tequilas and threw them back, one after the other. I lit up, finished the cigarette and twisted the butt in the ashtray. Coby moved from customer to customer, stopping and smiling at each in just the way they wished. The barman came up to me and I ordered a whiskey straight. He said something, but I didn’t hear a word. I downed my drink: This one’s for you, Coby, cos why? Cos screw you, that’s why.

  My next drink was for the Crack Radisson, for my paedophile neighbour and the quarrelling lovers. The tequila that followed was for my mother, who was probably having one (or two, or three) for me too. Some place dark and small, where there’s no way left to pass the time apart from getting wasted, finding new ways to hate yourself with each tick towards eternity. I drank to the city, to the ghosts, and to dearest Dad. And then, raising my glass to the cloud of smoke, I drank to myself, because, to hell with it: I deserved it most of all.

  The barman pushed a cup and saucer in front of me. A single sugar cube sat on a teaspoon. I stared down at it, taking a moment to register what I was seeing. Tea. Bloody tea. I looked up. The barman shrugged and said it was from a secret admirer. I sniffed at the cup. A strong herbal brew.

  Drink it up, the barman said.

  I lifted the cup and saw a small scrap of paper sitting on the saucer. I grabbed the paper and read: turn around.

  I immediately did as the note instructed. My eyes swept the room. Many had already left, and a cleaner was busy in a corner. That’s when I caught sight of a man sitting by himself at a table near the door. His face was hidden by shadow, but he was wearing a neat, well-fitting suit. He lifted a tea cup, held it up to me, and took a slow, deliberate sip. Steam from the cup twirled upwards.

  I got up from my chair and walked across to him. The features of his face became apparent. A handsome man in his late thirties or early forties. A hard jaw. A perfect haircut. He was wearing a black jacket with a white shirt, collar unbuttoned, reminding me of a line from a Patsy Palatine song: this is how the upper side gets down, doncha’ know.

  Thanks for the tea, I said. But I’m not much of a tea drinker.

  He smiled and said, Well, I’m sure the alcohol will be waiting for you once you’re done, chief. It doesn’t hurt to give the liver a break, does it?

  What do you care?

  I don’t, he said. But if we’re going to chat, Bent, I’d like to make sure I get the most out of our time—and the booze, well, that’s not going to help.

  Are we going to chat?

  I hope so. If you’re willing to make time for a fan, that is. He pointed to a chair. I pulled it out and sat down. He was clearly a man used to getting his way, and this was how he did it: making you think the choice was yours. Truth be told, I was intrigued by him.

  He held out a hand. Hesitantly, I shook it. And then, leaning into the light, he introduced himself as Mr. Leonard Fry.

  11.

  Leonard poured a second cup of tea from a small ceramic pot. I’ve seen you play a few times. Once at Ten To Twelve, a couple of times at The Dubliner. You’re very good, but you know that already, don’t you? Yes, I think you know precisely how good you are. A good thing, he said, taking a sip. Knowing your worth.

  Funny, I said. I’ve never noticed you before.

  Oh, I usually arrive late and leave early, Leonard said. I pop in and out of places. I do that. I’m afraid I suffer from a condition that prevents me from being able to stay in one place for very long. Acute restlessitus, perhaps.

  But you stayed tonight.

  I did, he said, and so did you. Fate still smiles, apparently.

  No, I thought. Fate doesn’t smile; it smirks. He’d seen me lingering at the bar all night and had stayed with the specific intention of meeting me. There was no fate or coincidence involved at all, and he must have thought me an idiot to infer otherwise.

  But let me get right to the point, he continued. I like the way you play. I’m not going to get into why that is, but suffice to say I’m having a bit of a farewell at my house this weekend, out in the country-side, a get-together with a few close friends, and I’d very much like you to come up and play for us.

  This weekend?

  Friday night till Sunday night.

  I can’t, I’m afraid, I said. I’m booked up.

  Cancel. I can make it worth your while.

  I don’t play for the money, Mr. Fry.

  Oh, I see, he said. And would that be because of something you have against money?

  I’ve seen what money can do.

  And what’s that?

  Corrupt.

  Leonard Fry laughed. Is that so? he said. Well, I say anyone who loses himself to money never really had much of a self to begin with. You say money corrupts? I disagree. I say it scrapes away the hypocrisy. Money digs the real you right up. And the reason people are wary of money, my friend, is that they’re simply afraid of who they are. Only cowards are afraid of money. Cowards and posers. And I’ve heard you play; you’re neither, so let’s spare each other the trite little truisms. We’re more interesting men than that.

  He took a notepad from his top pocket, and began to write something.

  It’s not just that, I said. I don’t have a car. I’ve got no way of getting to the countryside—

  Buy a car.

  I chortled. Buy a car? Just like that?

  With the first half of your pay.

  He whipped the pen away, tore a sheet from the pad, and slid it across the table towards me. I curled over the corner and read it as if it were a poker hand: a one followed by six zeroes.

  What’s this? I asked.

  That’s what you get for saying yes. The other half I’ll pay you at the end of the weekend.

  Two million rand?

  Well, half for now.

  For one weekend?

  Tell me you’ll do it, and it’ll be in your account by the morning.

  This is ridiculous, I said, shaking my head. You could get anyone you wanted with this kind of money.

  That’s the plan.

  I sat back in the chair, staring at the paper as if I was looking at it wrong somehow, misinterpreting the digits. It was far more money than I’d made in four years of doing the rounds, slinking in and out of local holes, often wrestling with broke owners to get paid. But I was far from being won over; the sheet of paper may as well have had wrong written all over it.

  I’ll think about it, I said, folding the paper and slipping it into my pocket.

  Think about it? Leonard said, clearly baffled. Think about what?

  You, I said. Showing up like this. No disrespect, but I don’t know you from a wrong note. I’m not sure I trust you.

  Trust? A question of trust. Hmm. I see. All right, then, well, tell me who you trust.

  What?

  It’s a simple question. Who do you trust?

  I’m not sure what you mean.

  How about that bargirl over there?

  Coby?

  Yes, Coby. Do you trust Coby?

  Coby was still behind the counte
r, emptying the tills and printing out the invoices for the night. She didn’t notice us staring at her, or maybe she pretended not to notice. A couple of hours earlier I’d have been surer about that.

  I gave a shrug and looked away.

  If you’re not sure, then you don’t, Leonard said. One minute she’s joking, flirting, batting her fake eyelashes, and the next she’s ignoring you. Acting like you’re a ghost.

  I turned to Leonard as he cleared his throat and leant forward on his elbows. Let me tell you something else you already know, he continued. Life, regular old life, will do just fine screwing you around on a daily basis without bothering to pay you for your time.

  I didn’t actually believe any of it. I didn’t expect the money to be in my account by the morning. But so what, life would go on as usual. I’d be okay with that. I was old enough to know these sorts of things don’t happen in the real world, anyway. Nobody just calls you over and offers to change your life. There are no real surprises. The idea that something extraordinary will one day happen purely by chance is just wishful thinking. Most of us die with nothing more than the luck of having existed at all—our sole claim to fortune. Still, the art of getting by, of having some fun, is playing stupid and playing along.

  I paused, sighed, and said, One weekend?

  Leonard threw his hands up in the air: the old faux-surrender. Friday night to Sunday night.

  I play piano. That’s it?

  He clapped his palms together and held them up to me. No weapon. No ace up the sleeve. No novelty buzzer to shock me. Do we have ourselves a deal?

  I guess we’ll know by the morning, I said, tapping the pocket that held the scrap of paper. Leonard’s lips slowly stretched into a wide smile. I watched as it crept across his cheeks, that smile. It was like a living thing, a creature that sat on his lips making deals for him.

  There is one thing, though, he said. He pulled out a box of cigarettes, shook one out, and put it between his lips. Then he held the box out, but I waved it away. In that instant I somehow knew I was done with smokes for good.