Like most addicts, Chung was happy to get others to indulge. “It’s from Thailand. Primo.” He kissed his lips together like an Italian.
Thursday preferred fresh Swazi in his youth but he didn’t want to press his luck by asking around in Observatory, where the armed response had begun trailing him on their bicycles. He would take the guards on the most convoluted kajalangs and in this way came to know the neighborhood: where the euphorbiae were blossoming happy and violet, where the proteas had withered into saffron cones, where the trellises stunk of rotting grapes fallen from the vines. There was an orange tabby cat here and a Jack Russell terrier behind that gate, and so on. When the armed response left him he’d head straight home, check the abalone, and roll himself a joint.
He bought himself a television for his apartment and a lime-washed chest of drawers and subscribed to The Voice newspaper under the name Hampton. He moved his mattress out onto the enclosed balcony and slept watching the steam-fitting clouds on Devil’s Peak.
He decided to call Helen and they arranged to meet at Stones.
“Can I get you a Bob Marley?” he said, tapping the bar.
“No, I don’t like sweet drinks.”
“You liked them before.”
“No, Hampton. I liked you.”
She ordered two brandies and they sat together at a booth that overlooked Lower Main Road, the main thoroughfare of Obz. The streets were still quiet. The armed response officers were prowling the sidewalks but the neighborhood wouldn’t become lively for a few more hours, when the undergraduates descended from the mountain.
“I need to ask you a favor, Helen.”
She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.
“I have a friend in prison. I’d like to visit him to make sure he’s alright. You teach art classes, né? Do you think you could help me reach him?”
Helen sipped on her brandy, watching him closely.
“What’s his name?”
“Leon. Leon Vermeulen.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know him.”
“People call him Brother Leon.”
“He wasn’t in any of my classes. When did he go inside?”
She said ‘go inside’ as if she had once been locked up herself, as if moving between the inside and the outside was like passing between pockets of air.
“Three weeks ago,” he said.
“He wouldn’t qualify. You have to be on good behavior for at least three years to take my classes. You can’t be a violent offender.”
She seemed to know not to ask Thursday what Leon had done or whether he’d been violent.
“I’ve tried calling but I can’t reach him. The line always goes dead.”
She lifted her brandy as if toasting. “That’s Pollsmoor. I bring cookies for the guards each time I come, and I have an official pass and a letter from my embassy. If you want to talk to him, ask for Siphiso. He’s the friendliest guard. You should take money. Slip it in the cookies.”
“Can’t you come with me?”
“I’m afraid not, Hampton. I’m leaving tomorrow to go home.”
He tried to mask his disappointment. “You’re coming back?”
“No, I have to finish university.”
He found himself growing annoyed. “So this was all for your studies? You’re going to write about art and junkies for your professors? Are you going to write about me?”
Thursday felt bad as soon as he said it, but it bothered him that she could saunter in and out of prisons and then return back to her country and live the good life, while it would be too dangerous for him to go to Pollsmoor unaccompanied. For all he knew, Leon might point the finger at him and he’d never come out again.
Instead of arguing with him, Helen grabbed him by his cheeks and kissed him.
“I’m only going to write about us in my diary, Hampton.”
They spent the night together again, sober this time, and took their time with each other. Thursday insisted on getting her email and gave her all of his personal phone numbers and the contacts of his relatives. In the morning, she gazed at the mountain, but dreamily as if already staring out the cabin window at jet streams and Nordic seas.
Helen invited him to come and visit her, but he saw no reason to go to Norway. The fjords sounded like Cape Point and he didn’t like cold weather. Thursday believed that South Africa could give him whatever he needed, but when she flew away it still felt like she stole a small piece of him which would wander with her in wildernesses like a restless spirit. He wasn’t sure if it was love. The thought frightened him, because he could picture himself spread out thin across the planet like a thin film, too wispy to return to Hermanus.
Thursday didn’t meet anyone else like Helen, though there were plenty of girls in Obz. He met other foreigners, smiling and buying a lot of drinks, and tucked a jumbo box of condoms inside his nightstand. Even in his orgasms, when he had at first felt free and gathered a sense of his own power, Leon appeared. And Leon niggled at his mind when the electricity cut off in the sleeping blackouts. The dagga smoke gave him paranoia and he’d see Leon through the burglar bars. He was paaping. He started keeping the lights off in his apartment because then he had a clear view of the street. He asked Ip about Leon several times and he was told Leon was about to get out of jail, but he couldn’t bring himself to call Pollsmoor or Leon’s family anymore, because he felt Leon had failed him.
After one of his walks, Thursday came home to find the stairwell dark. He reached for his keys and began searching for the lock, when he suddenly felt someone’s hands on his neck. Thursday flailed out with his elbows. The person hurled him against the wall, and Thursday kicked out at his shins. He felt his nose get smashed by a round object, but he managed to leap down and put himself between his attacker and the bottom of the stairwell.
The electricity powered back on as they squared off. The man’s forehead was sweating and Thursday didn’t recognize him. He had darker skin than most blacks he’d met, with a youthful look and his eyes were lozenge-shaped. The man cocked his arm back and aimed a glass ball at Thursday’s forehead. Only then did Thursday realize how hard he’d been hit; when he brought his hand to his nose it was drenched with blood. His head felt very light, very purple, astral.
“Get up.”
It felt like someone was rubbing a towel on Thursday’s nose, and he brushed it away.
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Thursday painfully shook his head, knowing that wherever he was it was better than the emergency ward at the state hospital across the street. He opened his eyes and found the young black man hunched over him, holding a checkered tea towel spotted with blood. Carefully, he brought his hand to his nose, squeezed at the nostrils. Wider than normal. Larger than normal. Stuffed.
“Take this,” the man said. He handed Thursday a sack of frozen peas, which Thursday arranged delicately on his bridge. “I got them from the neighbors.”
“What are you doing here?” Thursday said.
“I was sent here.”
“By who? Ip?”
The young man shook his head. “No, by Okeke.”
“Who is that? Is that Leomph?”
“He’s the landlord.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“It’s Nigerian.”
Thursday shuddered, grabbing at his stomach. So they’d found him! After all this time the dealers had found him. “Don’t take them!”
“Take what?”
“I’ll give you whatever you want, bru. Money. Anything. Just don’t take them.”
“What are you talking about, drugs?”
“My insides,” Thursday said. “Don’t cut ’em out of me.”
The young man looked at him sternly. “You think I want your organs,” he said evenly. “To sell.”
Thursday nodded.
“Because that’s what Nigerians do?”
“Ja. I’ll give you whatever you want. How much, five thousand? Six? I can get it.”
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“Easy, man. I don’t want your organs. And I don’t want your drugs.”
Thursday dabbed at his nose. “Then why were you breaking in?”
“I wasn’t breaking in.” He held up a keyring. “I have a key.”
“Bullshit.”
Thursday tried to get up, but felt weak.
“Take it easy, man. I can show you. It’s true.”
“Kak. You’re a bloody poes. I’m calling the cops!”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were here looking for you.”
“No ways, my broer. You’re a liar.”
“Your name’s Hampton, right? They said they were looking for you. And they were asking questions.”
Thursday paused. He could think of no reason why a burglar would want to learn his name.
“I didn’t turn you in,” the man said. “But Okeke wanted me to check it out. He’s out of town and I’m supposed to collect the rent for him. Let me in and I’ll explain.”
“Let yourself in. You said you’ve got the key.”
As soon as the young man looked away, Thursday inched towards the stairs, readying himself to flee. His bank card was in the apartment, but he could get a new one. He had his ID. It would be easy to skip town and leave the whole nasty business behind.
The young man’s key slid in and the door opened. “There. It’s the landlord’s key. I haven’t taken anything. I haven’t been inside. You can have a look for yourself.”
The young man backed far away when Thursday approached. Thursday entered and shut the door behind him and checked things out. Everything was as he left it. The T.V., his bank card, his cash, his dagga, the abalone. He flicked the water pump on and creaked the door open. The young man hadn’t gone anywhere, so he passed a wad of bills through the door.
“Here’s fifteen hundred rand. And extra for you to keep it quiet.”
“I just need the rent. Let me in. There’s more I’ve got to tell you.”
“No ways.”
“I don’t have anything. You can search me.”
Resting the peas on his head like a market seller, Thursday patted the young man down as he’d seen Chung do. The way he moved made Thursday believe that he wasn’t South African; he didn’t act guilty at all. He was uncommonly proud. The man didn’t look around but went straight to Thursday’s new folding chair, opened it, and sat down. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, rolling the glass ball back and forth in his hands.
“Speak, man! I haven’t got all day.”
“My name’s Dayo.”
“Hampton.”
“I don’t want to know your real name. But I know it’s not Hampton.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“You told Okeke a different name. He doesn’t remember it, and I don’t either. I can call you Hampton. You might want to start calling yourself something else, though. The police came looking for Hampton. They wouldn’t say what it was for, so Okeke didn’t tell them anything. He hates the police.”
Thursday began trying to roll a joint with one hand while watching Dayo at the same time. The police! Why would the police know anything about the name Hampton? Leon couldn’t have ratted on him—he’d only been using the name for a few weeks. “How much do you want?”
“You’re not the only one here who’s afraid of the police. None of us is a criminal but we don’t like them. Are you a dealer? What do you deal, coke? Tik? Okeke doesn’t want drugs. There are families in here.”
“No bru, I’m no dealer!”
“What’s that, then?”
Thursday saw the joint in his hand that he was in the process of burning. “No, I bought this fair and square. I don’t deal.”
“Okeke will find out anyway. He’ll kick you out.”
Thursday told him he was a professional au pair. Dayo locked eyes with him, surprisingly confident. “I don’t believe you. No parent would hire you. I tried to get a job as an au pair. It’s for women. So how do you make money? Is it a scam? Internet? A 419?”
Thursday blew some streams of smoke through his mouth. It quelled the pain in his nose. “No, it’s no scam.”
“But you carry that kind of cash.”
Thursday started feeling too stoned and in too much pain to keep up the charade. He couldn’t keep juggling all the variables of the lie that he had constructed, and didn’t see the point. The fact that the cops were looking for him was enough reason to move on. Now that the Nigerians had found him, they could enter the apartment at any time, steal the abalone, and sell his organs. He wasn’t sure if this Nigerian would do it but maybe one his mates would.
Dayo watched him smoke the joint, and nodded. He handed back the rent, peeling off two hundred rand notes. He told Thursday he’d have to move out but he would keep the two hundred for cleaning.
In a way, Thursday felt relieved. He wanted to get out anyway. The guy was just making the decision for him. He wouldn’t even wait around for the deposit. He’d give the abalone back to Ip, tell him about the cops, and just clear out. He began planning his next step as the power went out again, turning the room black.
Neither of them moved. “I’ll light a candle,” Thursday said nervously. He made his way to the back of the room and rummaged through his chest of drawers for some tea lights.
“I’ve got a light,” Dayo said.
There was the slosh of water. The sound of metal pieces snapping together, and suddenly a blue glow spread out next to the door. Thursday could make out Dayo holding a lamp up to his face.
“What is that?”
In the light, Dayo’s teeth shone blue. “It’s moonlight.”
“Can I see it?”
Thursday wanted more than to see it. He wanted to hold it. To be it.
Dayo held the lamp low, stepping over a pair of jeans and some sneakers, until he was right up close. Thursday moved his hands in front of the light. “Is it a blacklight?”
“No, it’s the real thing.”
He stepped closer, soaking it in. The real thing of the crescent, Thursday thought, a star below it, the real thing rocking across the sky, the tidal thing, the new thing, the full thing, the werewolf thing: “The moon.”
Dayo gave it to Thursday to hold for a minute, and he cradled it like a baby.
“If you think this is cool, Hampton, you should see it in water.”
Dayo walked over to the tub in the middle of the room and ran the tap before Thursday could say anything.
“No, stop!” he screamed. He ran to shut the tap off.
“What?”
“It’ll kill them!”
“Kill what?” Dayo held the lamp low over the tub and saw a few hundred black forms below. “Yissus, man. What the hell are those things?”
“I told you I’m leaving. Forget about them.”
But Dayo was fascinated. He lowered the lamp until it was practically in the water. He found himself frowning from disgust, finding the hundreds of tentacles unappealing underneath the shells. “Are those oysters? What is all that shit around them? They look furry. You’re the first guy I’ve ever met who grew oysters. And here we thought you were a tik dealer. Why didn’t you tell me? Hobbies are hobbies—”
“—they’re not oysters. They’re perlemoen.”
Dayo stood up straight. “Perlemoen?”
Thursday nodded. “That’s what I babysit.”
“Perlemoen? Aren’t they illegal?”
“Some of them. These are.”
“But they’re clams.”
Together they sat there and watched them. If they had been clams then maybe Thursday wouldn’t have felt so despondent at having to depart from them. A tear rolled down his cheek and he stared right through the tub into a remorseful place inside himself.
“Anyway, they seem to like the lamp,” Dayo added. “If only they could pay for them, then maybe I could get my business started.”
Thursday watched the abalone sliding eagerly across the tank. Dayo w
as right: it was like they had been injected with adrenalin. He went to the refrigerator and got some kelp from a freezer bag and dropped it in. They began tearing at the kelp as quickly as he’d ever seen them move, responding to the light.
“How much is it?”
“The deposit is two hundred. But you’ve got to go, Hampton. I don’t have a problem with this but Okeke would flip. It’s weird and he hates weird things. I’m going to get going.” He walked towards the door. “Take care of yourself.”
“No, I mean for the lamp. I’ll give you a thousand.”
Dayo stopped. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Okay, if that’s not enough, two thousand. I’ve never seen anything like it, my broer. That light made them happy.”
“Forget it,” Dayo decided. “It’s not enough. I can’t survive off that. Keep your money. Go see a doctor for that nose.”
“Well, how much do you need?”
“I wanted to put these up around the neighborhood, but I didn’t have enough money to get the tools. I’ve wasted two years of my life over this thing. You’re the first one who gave a shit about it. Even my friends think it’s a blacklight. Besides, it’s not the original. I’ve got more.” He handed the globe to Thursday. “Consider it a going away present.”
Perhaps Thursday was also grateful for the sack of peas on his nose, for he made a generous offer. “I need a week. Take a thousand. Give me a week and we’ll talk.”
“Forget about it. Okeke would never stand for it, Hampton.”
“Give me a week. If you give me a week I can get you the money that you need.”
Dayo paused. He started to leave and then stopped. Thursday went and put the thousand rand in his hand.
“I need ten thousand to grow the business.”
Thursday told him, with confidence, that ten thousand was chump change for his colleagues and that he could keep the cops off, too. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, he said. Dayo stared at the bills in his hands as if they were burning new lines into his palm. Finally, he turned to leave. “Keep the lamp in the light during the day. That will be enough to charge it.”
That was when they heard the door shut. They hadn’t heard it open. And Thursday could smell the man before he saw him, the stink of dried beer stout on his jeans. They both turned, Thursday holding the lamp in one hand, and Dayo holding the bills in the other, the air reeking of dagga smoke.
Nigerians in Space Page 19