Wolf, Wolf

by Eben Venter

  Mattheüs gets up and then collapses onto his bed again, collects all his memories and the dream and all, and tries to drive it out into the outer darkness, as the Bible says. He lights a cigarette, crouches into his sweat and picks up the computer from the floor, wakes it up and surfs to a site with hard mechanical NYC-style porn and drips oil on himself and beats off so hard that the veins bulge on his temple, and when he comes he flings himself backwards to catch the sperm on his stomach: it burns his skin and he lies like that till his breathing stabilises and he calms down.

  He’s seventh in line in the row of chairs against the wall with their maroon seats that you just know aren’t clean. Capital Bank is a bank for lame ducks and losers. The grey paint selected for the walls can’t be smudged by children who’ve come here with their mothers; most of them are single parents come to beg for a micro-loan.

  He found parking easily, opposite the Observatory Library, a sturdy building that he refuses ever to enter again because he’s persuaded himself that they stock only easy-reading pulp. Once when he asked for help from the librarian – one with far too much lacquer and gel on her hair, a woman who’d be more at home in a shoe store – she looked at him dumbly and started searching for Doris Lessing on the computer. ‘How did you say that name was spelt, sir?’ No idea who the writer was, even though she’d just received the Nobel Prize for literature.

  Mattheüs has chosen this branch of Capital because it’s just a few blocks from the premises he’s eyeing that still says To Let / Te Huur on its window, which is getting filthier by the day, so that all you can make out inside are shadowy forms. But he knows the serviceable stainless steel counter is still there. The walls outside, especially on the street side, are also (fortunately) scrawled with graffiti, which he himself has contributed to so as to downgrade the place even more and force down the rent.

  Next to him in the queue is a mother with three children, all snazzily dressed and speaking English, a kind of Cape Flats primary-school English that you can hear is not their mother tongue, because she with her loser handbag from Ackermans and the pungent spray-on scent speaks crappy English herself, and what’s more she’s going to speak it to Mr Isaac Smit in cubicle number one; what’s the bet he’s also Afrikaans.

  Clients occupy cubicles three, four, five, and six. This is the bank with the lowest service charges in Africa and the greatest willingness to take risks and to recruit men and women other banks wouldn’t look at twice, all under the benign gaze of the president (centre), the minister of finance (right) and the governor of the reserve bank (left) in gilt frames against the dull-grey wall behind the cubicles. The three persons in the portraits, leaders all, do absolutely nothing for him. They only contribute to the growing ridiculousness of his mission. Listen, Mattheüs, let Pa make this clear to you from the word go, this is a Mickey Mouse bank you’re sitting in today. No, my son, if you need capital for a business venture you make an appointment with the manager of one of our big banks. Then you’re on the right track from the outset. Here you won’t achieve anything, my son.

  The queue moves on. The man at the head of it in his pin-striped suit gets up and goes to cubicle number two, Mrs Leslie Sikhosana. His long fingers clutch the briefcase that he’s holding against his jacket, he is tall and thin himself.

  ‘Do you think he’s from Ethiopia?’ he asks the woman next to him, an unusual openness to strangers attributable to his nervousness or the futility of the whole damn thing; he doesn’t have a single asset to offer as surety for the enormous loan he wants to apply for.

  The woman looks at the man he’s looking at. ‘I really can’t say,’ she says and turns the page, one of the Capital Bank brochures she’s picked up, in glossy white, pink and grey. He’s disappointed; most Capetonians are always ready for a chat. Main thing is to remain positive. In spite of. Fuck, he won’t do and never has done as well as Benjamin Duiker. He just wonders whether Capital grants loans as big as the one he wants.

  ‘Spaza shop,’ she says out of the blue, apparently having once again inspected the tall man with the fingers. ‘They all start businesses and rip off the Africans who can’t buy at Checkers. I feel sorry for them.’ Then, in Afrikaans, to the child, who’s starting to irritate the baby next to her, ‘No, Jodie, leave the baby.’

  She starts paging again and he starts what he’s never stopped doing. The cheque is a goner. Pa is too frail right now. He just can’t be so callous. He must have been blind not to have seen, the day they first arranged his father in his sickbed in the study, how Samantha folded the sheet one last time, straight as a ruler, under his father’s withered, pyjama-covered arms, just as she was taught by her mother, neatly, and how she hung around there as if she guessed that he wanted her out of the way, which was of course the truth.

  ‘Let’s leave him to rest a bit now. It was a lot of stress for him. You may not think so, but it was,’ Samantha pronounced. Just one more time he wanted to try to make his request, his eye on the bedside cabinet they’d carried in, on the drawer where the cheque book lay. And Samantha stops him with her glare: don’t you dare bother the old man with your dirty business.

  The queue in Capital Bank moves on again, so that now he’s sitting at number two, and he wipes the clamminess of his hands all along the seams of his pants, an appropriate pair for the occasion. A hip-hopper, younger than him, with ‘cool’ written all over the torn bum of his jeans, gets up and saunters extra-cool to cubicle number one; DJ equipment or a record company is what he probably wants. He’ll get nowhere in that outfit of his. The mistake he makes is to keep on his sunglasses. That’s disrespect towards the bank clerk. He’s had it before he’s even started.

  Cubicle number five is manned by an auntie, Mrs Tanja Botha. If only he could get her, he prays under his breath, and when he opens his eyes, he finds little Jodie from next door watching him. He laughs. ‘Who do you want to talk to?’ he asks the woman next to him, who is showing not a trace of nerves.

  ‘Ag, I get what I get. It’s my life policy. They’re not stuck-up, you know. They give you what you ask as long as you pay back the instalment on time, you have to be on time and so on.’ She looks at him. ‘You’re not worried, mister, are you?’ And takes a packet of Sparkles from her handbag. The children all get one, and he does too.

  ‘I wish I could get Mrs Tanja Botha in cubicle number five, if you know what I mean.’ He has a yellow Sparkle, which he swopped with little Jodie, who wanted his red one; children always want the red one.

  ‘OK, I make a deal. If I get Mrs Botha now, you can go first before me. You whites help each other. I respect that, you know.’

  And that’s the way it turned out. Cubicle number five is vacated and Mrs Tanja Botha pushes her pale-mauve reading glasses back up the bridge of her nose and peers at the next client, Sandilee, that’s her name. And Sandilee nods at him, friendly, and he gets up with the sweat literally running all down his sides under his respectable Ben Sherman checked shirt. There is hope. He takes the Sparkle from his mouth, and without getting his fingers sticky he drops it into one of those tubular trash cans, and sits down on the maroon chair in front of Mrs Tanja Botha. He pulls the chair in so that he can lean his arms on the edge of the desktop, ready.

  She introduces herself and he introduces himself to her, all in Afrikaans to make sure she knows he’s one of her lot, a bit sidelined nowadays what with affirmative action and all, a young white man, she has to lend a helping hand, never mind Capital’s regulations. He tries to regulate his breathing, and by the time she asks, ‘And how can I assist you today, Mister Duiker?’ he’s calmer, with his father’s mantra like a distant buoy in stormy seas: The one thing you must never ever do is throw in the towel.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s a large amount, Mister Duiker.’

  ‘You can call me Mattheüs, Mrs Botha.’

  ‘We’ll have to look very carefully at your business plan. You know the recession
is still biting. People tend to eat in, you know. Takeaway. Well, we all know the big names, the Wimpys, the KFCs, they’re not suffering any damage. We’re talking market share and sustained publicity. Their customers know they can eat cheaply there. But if we’re talking restaurants and that kind of more specialised place, they’re the first to feel the pinch.’

  ‘Mrs Botha, you must please just understand that I’m not aiming for a restaurant. I’m not even thinking of it. My premises are just down the road. To Let / Te Huur.’ And from his back pocket he produces the folded A4 – limp, sat-upon – and opens it out, the writing politely angled towards Mrs Tanja Botha. Upbringing. If she can’t see it.

  There’s a hand-drawn map with the premises circled in red: Duiker’s Takeaway. Good Food for Good People. He starts explaining everything to her from A–Z, even a recipe or two, including his suppliers of good cheap meat and dried beans. Atlas Trading Company for his spices, does she know the shop? A second-hand cold-storage room he’d come across in Goodwood at so much and so much, there’s an industrial gas stove he has his eye on, takeaway containers in recyclable materials, a bit more expensive, but he’s going to try it anyway.

  ‘How about your microwave? There’s no way you can get by without one of those in a modern kitchen. I baked the most delicious apple cake in my microwave the other day. Twelve minutes, can you believe it?’

  ‘Did you sprinkle cinnamon on it?’ he asks, certain that naming the spice signals a breakthrough. Now he wants to know (enthusiastically) whether she realises that most takeaway food is of a low, extremely low, quality; and to make things worse, it’s usually unhealthy. Cholesterol, heart disease, all those complications. He wanted to add fattening, but bit his lip as he’d taken up position across from Mrs Botha and had a view of her spare tyres, four on each side, which is to say eight in all, compressed into summery lilac, though it’s cotton at least, thank heavens for that. Mrs Botha has to realise that it’s a service he wants to render to people of middle or low income. A thoroughly ethical undertaking. He can show her the premises when she has the time. He looks at his hands on his side of Mrs Botha’s desk. Let his father lie there in his deteriorating, at times befuddled, ever-judgemental, troubled, whatthefuck-to-call-it condition. His loan will be approved and sealed this very day.

  ‘Mr Duiker. Mattheüs. I can see you’ve got your head screwed on right. My next question to you is about surety. Your assets. If your restaurant flops, and believe me this can happen to the best enterprises, just like that. Capital must at all times be assured that it will be able to recover the loan. That’s how it works with us. What do you have to offer as security, young man?’

  ‘There’s the Mercedes E-class. Pa paid just over half a million for the car.’ Is he totally out of his mind? He removes his hands from his side of the desk where they’ve left two damp marks. The car is going to be his, but this hasn’t happened yet by a long shot. That’s the point. It’s not his car. Pa could linger for months or even a year, it doesn’t matter what the oncologist says. As long as they make sure his father eats. He must eat. If you don’t eat, you die.

  Mrs Botha is looking at him attentively. Her left hand is resting just above the open V of her lilac dress.

  ‘That car is worth a fortune, Mrs Botha.’ Stark raving mad.

  ‘I don’t quite understand, Mattheüs. You say your father paid half a million for the car. For your use? Whose car is it?’

  ‘Mrs Botha, that car can cover my debt any day. Triple. Over and over. There really is no problem here.’

  ‘The bank would first have to appraise the asset. Cars depreciate very quickly. We need to know the condition of the car. Every six months you would have to bring the car in for an assessment. And if it’s found that it can’t be sold at, well whatever, then that’s it. How much do you want to borrow?’

  It’s not as if he hasn’t said. He says it again.

  ‘Mm. That’s a tricky one. Cars, to be honest, are not our ideal security.’

  ‘Mrs Botha, you’re welcome to come and do an inspection. Perfect. There’s not a scratch on the car.’

  ‘Well, I’m not the one who’ll inspect the car. Tell me, what year’s model are we talking about? I’d also need the purchase contract. We have to verify the ownership of the asset. Without that we can’t accept the asset as security. It’s problematic. How about property?’

  ‘The house doesn’t belong to me, Mrs Botha. Not yet.’ He’s pushed his hands in under his thighs and taken them out again. He’s got a raging headache. ‘Mrs Botha, I’m going to have to excuse myself for the time being. I’m not feeling too well. I need to rethink things again. Back to the drawing board, as they say.’ He puts out his hand as a last brave gesture.

  Mrs Botha lifts herself a fraction from her chair and places her fleshy hand in his. ‘There’s a water cooler right next to reception. Feel free to help yourself. And come and see me again. You can make an appointment now, while you’re here, with our secretary, Millicent du Preez. And Mattheüs,’ she gestures with the hand that’s just rested in his, ‘things run their natural course. I quite like your concept. Though I’d recommend more beef in your recipes. And remember, of course, your chicken must be halal, otherwise you lose the Muslim community. Now go home and think about what other assets you have. There must be something you can offer. You’re the type who’ll go far one day, I can tell by just looking at you. Here,’ and she flaps open her mobile phone. ‘Isn’t she lovely? Just turned eighteen.’ She leans across and gently nudges his arm with the phone, showing a girl with a small pinched face and a bushy mop of blonde hair.

  He feels like vomiting. Rushes to the water fountain, empties three of the plastic tumblers. He doesn’t even consider making another appointment. The woman of a while ago is putting her case in cubicle number one and, judging by her relaxed pose and her giggling, is succeeding. He puts on his sunglasses, he’d selected the Diesels today, and goes and stands just outside the entrance to Capital Bank.

  He’s beaten. His father would have a word for this: you allowed yourself to be humiliated today, my son. He can’t believe how dumb, how fucking idiotic he was to think that he’d get such a big loan with nothing to show. And then he pulled the Mercedes out of the hat. He’ll end up on the street one day. How’s he ever going to maintain that huge big house of theirs after his father’s death without a good, a very good, income? Of course, he could sell. He can’t believe that he went and mentioned the Mercedes.

  He has a second interview this afternoon at 4:20, with Lucinda.Symes@capetown.gov.za, on the second floor of Media City. Found everything out at the Civic Centre, in that gigantic foyer where these days you can buy samosas from a rag-and-tin kiosk on the staircase. Not that he minds. It’s a matter of finalising a permit to trade as a restaurant or a takeaway. Lucinda Symes is the person. Got the telephone number, everything. He remembers now that a poster was stuck up in front of the civic centre. There was a strike threat. In order to ensure the safety of staff and the security of the Civic Centre and all government buildings, admission is currently restricted. Visitors will be admitted provided they can furnish proof of an appointment and produce their green ID document for inspection.

  Back at the car, he switches on the ignition and turns the air conditioning full on so that he hears the engine hiccup as it revs, and punches in Miss Lucinda Symes’s number, a landline; he’ll keep it short. While it’s ringing, his hand lies on the queasy pit of his stomach.

  ‘Is that Miss Symes? Miss Symes, this is Mattheüs Duiker. I can’t make it, I haven’t got my ID with me,’ he says out of the blue.

  ‘The gentleman with the takeaways and the stews and stuff. Mister Duiker, that’s just the mess left over from the strike. Never mind. That’s over and done with, that stuff. You can just give my name and come up in the lift, second floor. They were supposed to remove that poster a long time ago.’

  ‘Miss Syme
s, I really can’t make it today. I’ve been to the doctor and so on, I’ll have to come some other day.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then, Mister Duiker. So we’ll see each other some other day. Have a good afternoon.’

  He sits in the car for a long time – it’s hard on the engine to idle with the air conditioning full on – then again finds Miss Lucinda Symes under contacts and presses call and lets it ring twice. Then his courage finally fails him. Another day, maybe. He presses stop. He knows she won’t phone him back. He pulls away and drives off. He has a last vision of himself dishing up his delicious lamb-and-butterbean stew from a twelve-litre stainless steel casserole and sees how chuffed the customer across the counter on Main, Observatory, is with the massive helping, but what strikes him now is that the vanishing takeaway concept matters less and less to him. A pipe dream, nothing more.