“There is no ‘may’ in this equation, Professor. The fruits of your labour will never make it to market. Never.”
“So why would they fund the research at all?”
“Because if they don’t, someone else will. And if that someone succeeds and gets the patents, they could make those demonic plants available to anyone with a grudge and a hundred dollar bill. Once that happens, anyone could walk into a store and buy the seeds like a bag of sugar. My clients are convinced that would not be productive for society, so we will lock up the technology so no one can exploit it without our permission. Of course, we would never grant such permission. More importantly, our Zimbabwean laws criminalize certain violations of patent rights. Such flowers also desecrate the dead, which is also illegal. The threat of prison for both violations is a powerful deterrent for anyone who dares to deal in these plants.”
Professor Khupe stared blankly at Mr. Gweta. The lawyer anticipated his objections before they could take shape in his head.
“Your salary has tripled. You have a brand new car waiting for you in the parkade downstairs. You also own a new home in Pfuma North. Further, there is no expectation that this will be your only research project. You can spend thirty percent of your budget and time on any other topic of your choice. I am sure the world of botany has many fascinating mysteries that would benefit from your formidable intellect. For all we care, you can study romantic attachment in nematodes.”
“I don’t think nematodes are capable of romance, Mr. Gweta. Besides, the study of nematodes belongs to a different branch of the life sciences. Botany is more concerned with —”
“My clients don’t care about the difference. Neither do they care if you insist on spending thirty percent of your time explaining the distinction. You will have the resources to fulfill your obligations to us and to your own professional fantasies. Because you will be hiring others to do much of the grunt work, you should be able to handle more than one research project at a time. You will also be working with other consultants whom we will connect you with. They are highly qualified professionals in the plant sciences. I am sure many of their names will be familiar to you, including Dr. Ling Gagowski.”
“Dr. Gagowski! He is the definitive expert on the Red Cage Fungus!”
“Yes. The fungus that stinks like rotting flesh. I didn’t know there was such a thing until we looked into recruiting him.”
“I will work with Dr. Gagowski? Goodness ...”
“No. He will work for you. Professor, you are in charge. It will be fun. Enjoy it.”
Professor Khupe was trying hard to appear conflicted. Mr. Gweta pushed him over the edge by appeasing the last holdout that was refusing to be held hostage to his self-interest: scholarly integrity.
“Professor, can you foresee a world in which such seeds are made widely available? The plant would create more problems than it would solve. What if someone planted seeds atop a grave? Surprise, surprise, there is a body underneath. This would violate some poor soul’s resting place. The only plants that belong on a grave are flowers that wither and die. Those that feed on the remains of other people’s pain will serve no holy purpose. Finding bodies has nothing to do with finding truth. It has everything to do with feeding speculation ... Heavy speculation. As Zuva Redu does. Only the scandalmongers benefit from such a plant.
“Our plan is the best way forward. It pre-empts and prevents such dangerous mischief. The patent system is not just an abstract legal tool. It is a weapon of morality. It protects society against the creations of deviant minds. It is an important sentry that looks out into the darkness, keeping watch for potential disruption by unwieldy technologies. You have an important role to play in that effort, Professor. Take care of the science. My firm will take care of the legal aspects. The authorities will take care of those who try to breach the walls of dignity that guard the dead.”
Professor Khupe rubbed his chin. Mr. Gweta’s eyes were glittering with conviction. He spoke with the fervour of a lawyer who was defending Lady Justice herself from a lynching. The man was consumed by his own manipulative message. The talent for self-delusion was necessary for a lawyer like Mr. Gweta. Tackling impossible cases required no less. If he did not believe that angustï canibalis was acceptable, how could he persuade a hostile judge to embrace his position?
In the end, the sales pitch provided a fig leaf for Professor Khupe’s pending betrayal of his academic values. Still, Ketiwe would have convinced him with far fewer words. Perhaps he could pretend to be unconvinced and ask Mr. Gweta to recruit his daughter for the persuasion effort? He mulled over the idea before quickly dismissing it.
“I guess you are right,” Professor Khupe finally said with resignation.
One of three phones on the coffee table started ringing.
“Excuse me, Professor. This call is important.”
Professor Khupe nodded indulgently. He didn’t care. He had a new car, house, and much larger salary.
“Hello? ... Percival! Happy birthday! You must be excited … Well, some of us simply work around the clock, but I agree: the women in our lives tend to keep us men grounded. So how’s Ipswich? ... Cold? Well it is winter after all. And how are the children? ... Very small indeed? They tend to behave that way for a while. And your lovely wife? ... I see. I am sorry to hear about the welfare state. But it is more important to keep Daphne happy ... Yes, I got the contract. Thank you for sending it ... Three weeks is plenty. You will be paid the balance upon delivery. Of course, we will carry out a preliminary inspection to make sure everything is in order ... Yes, I have changed the arbitration clause to reflect Singapore instead of London ... No, I will not be there, Percival … I am just a lawyer. I simply make sure the transaction works and that’s all. You will be in good hands though ... Disarmed, I hope? … No, I don’t think they will be interested, but you can always ask them yourself when you get here ... Okay ... By the way, I faxed you the details for the bill of lading and the other shipping documents. I was told that ‘SPINDLE’ was acceptable to you? … Oh well. I’m sure the recruit will respect his duties more than the process of defecation. Good to hear from you, Percival. Greetings to your lovely wife ... Oh, she will get over it. Thanks. Good bye.”
Mr. Gweta placed the handset back on the table.
“I meet the most interesting people in my job, Professor. Sometimes I feel like there are two overlapping worlds on this earth. The regular one is what you see outside. Children going to school. Neighbours gossiping. People getting fired from their jobs. Then there is another world ...”
* * *
Anything ...
Professor Khupe reflected on the day’s events as he walked towards his new car. The vehicle had been chosen to stoke his psychological virility. Once that happened, life would never be liveable under lesser terms. This gift would drive him beyond the point of no return. Besides, nothing he had left behind was worth returning to if it meant giving up his newfound fortunes. Professor Khupe had a stunning new home: the type that would empower him to share his new virility with a class of women who were previously aloof to his affections.
As soon as he drove out on the street, Professor Khupe noticed a young woman walking along the sidewalk. Her entire being was stuffed into a small dress, which suffered from an immodest shortfall of fabric. Despite its efforts, the garment did little to make her presentable to the most liberal of in-laws. The loss of a single fibre would have placed her within reach of the nation’s obscenity laws.
The young woman’s jewelry and shoes looked expensive. She wore the confident air of a woman who was keen to flaunt her “high-risk / high-reward” profile. Professor Khupe liked her. He slowed down until he was driving at her pace.
The girl turned to face him. The two stared briefly at each other before she redirected her attention to his car. Her eyes flickered as her mental calculator made a rapid assessment of this stranger’s worthiness. When her gaze returned to confront his own, she smiled. Both had realized the prospect of sig
nificant rewards.
The young woman reached into her handbag and took out a pen and a piece of paper. She scribbled something on it and walked over to the vehicle. Professor Khupe stomped on his brakes. The sudden stop nearly launched his head into the steering wheel. The woman clamped the paper between the windshield and one of the wipers.
“You have a nice car. Be careful where you park it. You may get a ticket.”
As she walked off, Professor Khupe got out of his car and pulled out the paper. It was a receipt from Boboza Ladies’ Boutique. The high-end jewelry store serviced women who were accustomed to breathing opulence instead of oxygen. The clientele specialized in wearing the products, not buying them. They left the latter to men who understood that looking fabulous was a full-time job. The accompanying wage had to match the gravitas that these women brought to their occupation. At least that was how many of Harare’s high-flying men justified the price gouging.
Professor Khupe turned the receipt over to see what the young woman had written. His eyes widened. Life had changed. A lot.
An hour later, he was driving into his new neighbourhood. Professor Khupe noticed the houses getting larger as he progressed towards his new address. His excitement was only tempered by a jealous voice inside his head. Since he left Mr. Gweta’s office, it had been working hard to blow smoke over his good fortunes. “Why would anyone give you all this for nothing?” asked the voice. “Are you sure you want to develop a plant that can find and eat dead bodies? Failure and success will both bring disaster.”
Professor Khupe was in no mood to entertain his internal cynic. It was trying to rob him of the power he had exerted over the woman with minimal clothing. That was the problem with chronic deprivation. It was always suspicious when sudden fortunes threatened to displace its misery. No, he thought. With both hands and both legs, he would embrace Lady Luck and all of her sisters. That young lady would be one of many. If claiming that reward meant improving the tenacity of a carnivorous plant, so be it. Surely, there were worse things that a person could do with their time?
Professor Khupe passed by a large home with forbidding gates. As they opened, a man driving an equally expensive car pulled out of the driveway. He cast Professor Khupe a respective nod and sped off. The message was gratifying: “You belong.”
After several blocks, Professor Khupe remembered the end of his meeting with Mr. Gweta.
“Thanks for coming, Professor. I am here if you ever need me. But as you can understand, I am a very busy man. Unless it is a matter that only I can deal with, I will leave you in the capable hands of my daughter, Ketiwe. If you have any problems with the lab, personnel, or equipment purchases, she can help you out. If she can’t then I will step in.”
“That sounds good,” Professor Khupe had said casually. The two had walked out of Mr. Gweta’s office and towards the reception desk.
“Here is where I leave you, my friend. It was wonderful getting to know you. Have a great trip back to Mutare. But then again, it’s Friday. You have a new and fully furnished home in Harare. Stay for the weekend and have fun.”
Mr. Gweta reached into his pocket to take out a set of car keys. Mr. Gweta dropped the keys into Professor Khupe’s shirt pocket. With his wide smile, Mr. Gweta took a step back, saluted, and returned to his office.
Professor Khupe turned around and faced the reception desk. All four ladies were looking at him with enchanting smiles. Ketiwe was waiting at the elevator. He shook her hand. It was so soft that Professor Khupe’s memory of silk suddenly merged with his recollection of gravel. Ketiwe ushered him into the elevator.
“Have a good day, Professor,” she said with a smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”
She had said “anything.”
* * *
The Book of Nations
Mr. Gweta dialled the number from memory. It was the most counterintuitive series of digits he could think of, and yet he had remembered it the first time it was recited to him. The person attached to the number was hard to forget.
“Hello, Gweta.”
“Hello, Chief. The professor just left.”
“What do you make of him?”
“Smart. Ordinary. Open to inducements.”
“He didn’t really have a choice.”
“I made that clear.”
“Did you discuss his aunt?”
“Yes. At first he was cautious. After a while, he opened up.”
“I hope he did not feel prompted to do so?”
“I guarantee he was not. He would have clammed up if he suspected our interest. No. The Professor opened up after I shared my own misfortunes with the opposite sex.”
“What misfortunes? The tragedy of having too many women to choose from?”
“I shared a story from times when clients like you would never hire me, Chief.”
“Was this story true or false?”
“It was effective.”
“That’s all that matters. So does the Professor know where his aunt is?”
“No.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“Would his answer change under the pressure of less pleasant inducements?”
“No. Those would only produce discomfort, not answers. I am convinced he does not know where his aunt is. He has not seen her since she killed the two girls.”
“Okay. Keep him loyal. Keep him close. Use honey. Honey makes good glue.”
“I have it under control. But we have a small problem with the patent applications.”
“What?”
“Luxon Hurudza. He refused to draft the documents.”
“Why?”
“He has fallen in love with the idea of a plant that likes to eat people. Luxon believes it would be perverse to use the law to prevent people from planting the vine.”
“You have to convince him to change his mind, Gweta. You must.”
“Chief, you know I would do anything in my power to help you. But Luxon is a different creature. You know how he is. His mind works like a leech. Once it latches onto an idea, it won’t let go. If he had his way he would plant acres of those flame lilies across the city so he could watch them grow from his window.”
“Maybe we should pay him a visit?”
“You could. But you also know that pain will not compel Luxon to cooperate. The wire that connects his nerves and his sense of self-preservation is missing. Any pain you impose will not reach the part of his brain that evaluates the benefits of compromise. The most imaginative data mining techniques would be pointless. Luxon would not cooperate even if you split open his spine and set all his nerves on fire. As with the Professor, your visit would create a mess, not progress. I suggest we consider other methods that are more likely to succeed.”
“You are talking about that stupid Book of Nations?”
“Well, yes. Luxon was obsessed with religious mythology years before he decided to become a lawyer. The Book of Nations was the only reason he asked us to install an internet-enabled computer in his office. Whenever he is not working on legal matters, he is devouring all the information he can find about that book.”
“We have been working on it for a while, Gweta. We have consulted everyone who knows anything about the black market in ancient artifacts. The last public sighting was in 1902. It was stolen from the Vancouver home of a wealthy Canadian merchant who collected rare books. I am told he woke up one morning to find the volume missing from its display case. In its place was the union suit that he swore he had worn to bed the night before. After that, the book can only be tracked through rumours we cannot verify.”
“I advise that you keep looking, Chief. If you can find that book, Luxon will work for you until his dying breath. He will never ask for a penny. You will never be subjected to his mood swings again. You could even rent out his services to anyone of your choosing. But without that book, you will always face the risk of his unpredictable fascinations.”
The voice remained silent for a while.<
br />
“We will keep looking. To be frank, we never really stopped. I just want to be realistic about our chances of finding it. For now, I want you to start laying the groundwork to patent our work in as many African countries as possible. If necessary, you may have to draft the documents yourself. I hope it won’t come to that. You are a fantastic lawyer, Gweta, so don’t take this personally. You are not Luxon Hurudza.”
“I would only take it personally if you compared me to any other lawyer, Chief. But you are right. I am not Luxon Hurudza. For that, I am thankful. If I was him, I would live in constant fear of my own mind. There would be no way around that problem. The brain is not like a fingernail. You can’t just cut it off.”
“No, you can’t. That would require a decapitation. Scientific studies have linked that procedure to the termination of all thought. Such an outcome would not further our cause.”
“Well put, Chief.”
“Let’s keep charging on all fronts. We don’t have the luxury of time. That plant could suffocate us quicker than the new hangman can empty death row.”
“Have you found an able executioner?”
“There’s one candidate who is causing quite a stir. He inspires intense emotions in everyone, including people who aren’t involved in the hiring.”
“Maybe that makes him the right person for the job?”
“We don’t know. That’s why he is so controversial. He is a peculiar creature. An unpredictable choice. That man could be our salvation or the very catastrophe we are fighting to avoid. The problem is we don’t know which of the two he is. Nevertheless, the different camps have been shaken by the momentum of those who want to abolish the death penalty. This abolitionist wave has unified us behind our recruitment mission. We will decide soon. After that, events will unfold as they will. I just hope that I am not the one who gets folded into a coffin.”
“I hope not, Chief.”
“Thank you, Gweta. Continue playing your part in averting that outcome. This whole business with Luxon worries me. I don’t like this sudden display of independence. We cannot afford it. He is the only person who can keep the Judge on track. If we don’t have Luxon’s unrelenting brilliance at every stage, our magistrate will grasp at any chance to shut the pipeline to the gallows. That can’t happen. Impress this truth upon Luxon.”
The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1) Page 15