Looking like a man attempting to wear a bookcase, I hobbled to the kitchens, where I lifted and tilted it into the skip. Only a tiny edge of it poked out the top, like it was drowning and waving for help. Drown away, I thought, smiling at my triumph, the satisfaction as huge as the achievement was small. I’d definitely earned an early drink. Buoyed by my victory, I returned to the Mirage, plonked myself at the bar and said, ‘Alias, my good man, I require lubrication. My throat’s as parched as a vulture’s snatch.’
Alias bent slowly down and placed a beer before me. Taking a refreshing sip I realised there are few better places for a restless soul than a hotel bar, offering a rolling cast of characters telling their tales, confessing sins, feeding my insatiable social glands. The hotel was swollen with new arrivals and I was lucky enough to find a rather attractive drinking partner. Exhausted, her eyes sunk in ponds of purple skin, she babbled away as cocktails and jetlag took hold. She could certainly fill a pair of jeans and over her white top she wore a photographer’s vest with multiple pockets from which she extracted many phones that she tapped furiously, grumbling about the Internet.
When she asked what I did, I told her I was a teacher. Then I asked her my standard question, ‘And what brings you here?’
‘I’m the publicist for Truth.’
‘What an easy job that must be. Everyone wants to hear the truth.’
‘No, the singer. I’m his publicist, his nurse, his bloody mother.’
‘Loving your job then.’
‘Just a little tired. The thing is when you have an album that’s selling you travel a lot. When you have one that isn’t selling you travel even more. We’re international door-to-door salesmen.’
‘What a glamour nightmare.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Best job in the world really. I used to tour with the Stones.’
‘Now you’re talking my language, I love the Stones.’
‘Yeah, I loved that time. Roaring around in private jets. Flying in dealers and groupies. Truth takes his Pilates instructor and a masseuse. God help me. I never got bored back then, even after a hundred nights; I’d stand in the wings watching the Stones and I could still imagine their teenage signatures scrawled on the devil’s scroll. You know? They got a good deal, those boys. The devil held up his end of the bargain. Making music like that’s well worth the price of a soul or two.’
‘Is the devil still making deals?’ I asked. ‘If so, musicians are being ripped off, because music don’t sound like it used to.’
She sang out, ‘Hallelujah, man,’ then laughed.
‘Alias, get this woman a drink; she’s laughing at my jokes.’
She nodded a thanks as I said, ‘I’m old enough to own records. Before they shredded that gorgeous vinyl into nasty tape then crystallised it into soulless cds.’
‘Showing your age,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s not CDS now, it’s just digital dust.’
Alias gave her a fresh drink and she raised her glass, ‘To the Stones!’ She took a long drink then sighed. ‘It’s not even about the music now, most of the time I’m just a babysitter. I recently spent three days taking Truth to every strip joint in LA.’
‘Again, your job sounds really awful.’
‘Well, you might have got a kick out of it, but not me.’
‘So why the lap dancers?’
‘Well,’ she stopped, looked about, then whispered conspiratorially, ‘as a fellow Stones fan I assume I can trust you.’ I nodded and she continued. ‘Well the thing is, Truth sings a lot about sleeping with Beyoncé but the fact is he prefers sleeping with Benjamin. It’s one of those things the industry knows but we keep it quiet. So the day his album dropped there pops up a photo, the subject of which bears a striking resemblance to Truth, in a club with his hand close to the crotch of a man wearing – and here’s the inconvenient detail – a dog collar.’ As I laughed and pounded the bar, she added, ‘Cursed camera phones, bane of a publicist’s life. World sprouts a billion eyeballs a day, staring into the celebrity sun to catch a solar flare.’
‘Well he better not flash his flare round here. It’s illegal. No gays in Bwalo.’
‘He’s been warned. Don’t want to end up in a Bwalo jail. Could happen, knowing my luck. I’ve had a bad run on talent recently; they call me the cursed publicist. My last act lost his mind on meth and tried to gouge out his own eyeball in a hotel lobby.’
‘Yuck,’ I said. Then, unable to hold it in any longer, I confessed. ‘Look, as I said, I’m a teacher by trade but I also write a little on the side. I’m actually, funny thing this, doing a piece for the Telegraph about this singer called Integrity, no, was it Honesty? No, wait, now what was it, oh yes, that’s it: Truth.’
She turned white as milk and I said, ‘Cursed indeed.’ But I quickly put her out of her misery, saying, ‘Look, relax, I’m only joking with you.’
‘Thank God,’ she said, her body deflating with relief. ‘So you’re not Sean Kelly.’
‘No, I’m him but I’m not one for ruining a man’s career for a scoop, not my style. I’ve enough skeletons clattering about in my own closet. Not gay ones, mind,’ and I raised my eyebrows to punctuate my point. ‘I’m all about the ladies, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
‘I’m aware of your wedding ring,’ she replied and I quickly clarified, ‘Actually, it’s just an engagement ring.’
I stared shamelessly into her amber eyes, as she said seriously, ‘So, listen here, Sean, you definitely won’t write about this, right? What I told you. The truth about Truth, I mean.’
‘Great headline that.’
She squealed, ‘Sean!’
‘No, no, I’m kidding. No, fear not, your secret is safe with Sean.’
She drained her glass and relaxed just enough that I risked a little more ribbing. ‘In fact you’re actually in luck there because I’ve this very rare condition called sexnesia.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘It’s rare but it’s real, believe me. If I have sex with a woman I instantly forget everything she ever told me.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’m equally afflicted by an allergy to engaged men.’
Jesus-man! Not just pretty but full of sass: she was a woman after my own heart, this one.
I shrugged and said, ‘Well that’s a terrible shame now.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘’Tis.’
I laid off the flirty stuff and changed tack. ‘What’s wrong with Truth being gay anyway, thought we’d rolled past that stuff?’
‘Teenage girls need to think there’s some hope of one day becoming Mrs Truth. The entire music industry rests on the unrequited dreams of teenage girls.’
‘And why the hell is Truth playing for a dictator like Tafumo?’
‘No money left in music. If it wasn’t for dictators there’d be no industry.’
‘Can I quote you on that?’
‘No. Because I never said it. And because I’m just the help; I don’t actually exist.’
‘You’re a gorgeous ghost,’ I said but it came off a little leery and it was clear that she was a pretty woman who’d fended off more charming chaps than me. So accepting defeat, I sipped my beer, saying, ‘Dictators and pop stars are all in the same business. The business of distraction. Show business. That’s a good angle, don’t you think?’
But she was face deep in one of her phones and didn’t reply. Across the other side of the pool there was an almighty racket going on. A young man was squinting at a camera, a stack of lights and silver umbrellas looming over him, as he said, ‘They call it the sweet soul of Africa. A success story, under the benevolent leadership of Tafumo, Bwalo has gone from strength to strength, this peaceful paradise with its . . .’
When I asked, ‘Who’s the clown?’ she explained, ‘He was on Big Brother. You know? The TV show? They imprison people in a paradise with a pool, film everything, then interrogate them about their innermost thoughts.’
‘You’ve just described life in Bwalo
,’ I said. To which she replied, ‘Well this young man is telling the world that Bwalo is one of Africa’s great success stories.’
‘What a crock,’ I shouted. ‘You of all people should know better than to believe that crap. It’s all pr and propaganda. That phony speech he’s giving is what Clooney said about South Sudan the week before it burst into civil war. All the bullshit people spout about Africa. Pure propaganda, sounds like the kid’s reading a script written by Tafumo himself. Who believes these moronic celebrities any more?’
‘You’d be surprised what you can convince people of.’
‘I’m stealing that line for my next book.’
Stu was standing by watching the filming. I waved him over. He trotted around to the bar and, when he got to us, immediately started his hotel-manager bit. ‘Morning morning, beautiful day. Hope your jetlag’s wearing off a little, Bel. So you two have both met, that’s great. Bel: Sean. Sean: Bel. Sean here’s the guy I mentioned writing the article.’ Bel grimaced. Stu looked confused and added, ‘He’s a talented author too, you know.’
‘Well, no offence, but I’ve never heard of you,’ said Bel, a little sharply.
‘My writing’s been consistently received with universal disinterest.’
She smiled at this, softening a little. ‘Look, Sean, we’re off on safari this afternoon. Why not come do the interview on the way there?’
I checked with Stu, who shrugged and said, ‘Plenty of room on the bus.’
Charlie
Click!
‘Mum, did you know desert spiders hold ants on the sand to burn them to death?’
‘That’s charming, dear, but I’m busy so . . .’
‘Why do you call Britain The Real World?’
‘Do I?’
‘Yah, if you’re arguing with Dad you say, It’s time to return to the real world, darling.’
‘Don’t say yah. You’re not a yarpie.’
‘Are you going to answer my question?’
‘No. Why don’t you ask me something else?’
‘Why are you and Dad arguing?’
‘Ask me something else.’
‘What’s Stella’s job?’
‘Something else.’
‘You said to ask when I’m older and that was a day ago so I’m a day older . . .’
‘Next question.’
‘Will you actually answer any of my questions?’
‘Next question.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Next question.’
‘What did you want to be when you were a kid?’
‘Oh. Um. Fairly sure accountant wasn’t high on my list.’
‘The Big Day is, like, the most exciting day of the year, eh?’
‘Don’t say like and don’t say eh. But, yes, it’s the most important day for the Mirage, for business, especially this one what with all the bloody celebs.’
‘Why do you always say bloody celebs?’
‘Well, I think it’s just a sad world where talentless people are so over-valued. We have a little boy who sings, makes millions, and everyone knows his name. Then we have Sean who earns nothing, slogging his guts out teaching a generation desperate for education. Yet no one knows who Sean is.’
‘I know who Sean is.’
‘Next question.’
‘Why are you scared of a chicken house?’
‘Huh?’
‘You told Dad you were nervous about a coop.’
‘Go ask your father.’
‘He told me to ask you.’
‘Next question.’
‘Mum!’
Click!
Josef
I was missing so many meetings that my secretary had taken to telling people I wasn’t in. But I was. I was hiding, utterly spent, the pain in my mouth throbbing like a living thing. Moses, my Deputy Minister for Tourism, had caught me in the car park when I had tried to sneak out for lunch. He was babbling about rocks on Victoria Avenue. I watched him as if in a dream, his aubergine lips pleading, ‘Minister, I am so sorry to detain you, but I really just must have some time with you. I’m worried about the rocks on Vic Ave, the King will be displeased, they’re looking very ugly.’ I focused enough to say, ‘Well move them,’ causing him to cringe, ‘But all the cranes are being used on the stadium and . . .’ Before I could stop myself, I was shouting, ‘Just fucking paint the rocks or something,’ flecks of spit hitting Moses’s face as I screamed, ‘I don’t care, I don’t care!’
I walked away fast, up to my university office, snapping at Beatrice as I passed, ‘Hold my calls, don’t let anyone in.’ Then I got down on my knees and gently curled under my desk, avoiding the pain of bright daylight, which had started to sting my eyes. It wasn’t long before I heard David outside, demanding that Beatrice let him in. She fought him off well and I was relieved to hear him stomping away, a heavy step followed by a light one, twisted feet beating an uneven rhythm.
I was dozing beneath my desk, when I heard Boma’s voice. Beatrice tried her best but Boma wasn’t a man to be denied and as quickly as my body would allow I uncurled, crawling out from underneath, blinking as I sat on my seat. Boma marched in, Beatrice’s shrill protest cut short as he slammed the door on her. Swivelling in my chair, I said calmly, ‘Oh, Boma, hello, it’s been too long.’
Like everyone who hadn’t seen me for some time, Boma failed to hide his shock. His eyes crawled over my sunken cheeks, scrawny neck, the white cliff of teeth protruding from lips too thin to cover them. Walking directly to the drinks cabinet, he poured two whiskies, placing one in front of me, ‘Looks like you could use one of these.’
Where I looked sick, Boma was in the bloom of health. He was the youngest member of uMunthu, still a student when the rest of us were lecturers. Now in his fifties, he was a man who had reached his optimal age. The unkempt Afro of his youth had been shaved to reveal his blue-black skull below, which soaked rather than reflected light. He sat opposite looking resplendent in his military jacket, a constellation of medals twinkling across his chest. The effect was only slightly undone by a large ketchup stain on his belly. If I didn’t know him, didn’t know he was a drunk and a womaniser, that he had never served in any real army, I would have believed what I saw. ‘And to what do I owe this pleasure, General?’ Brushing off my obsequious tone, Boma said, ‘Tafumo asked me to check everything was in order with the ministers. This Big Day has to go without a hitch, the world’s watching, we have reporters and celebrities, the show must be perfect.’
There was a code in his reply, the real answer to my question: three key words hidden among the jumble of extraneous ones. Tafumo asked me. He’d come to rub my nose in the fact he still had access to Tafumo. Where the rest of us had sought ministerial roles, Boma, our young blood, had been appointed to head the army. Though army was a grand name for what it was. Tafumo kept it small and weak. He knew big armies had a tendency to overthrow leaders. So Boma headed a bunch of badly dressed, ill-disciplined men. But Boma loved Tafumo with a ferocity that bordered on insanity and over time he’d wedged himself into the gap that had yawned between Tafumo and me.
In a sort of reflex to our old friendship, I nearly asked about Patrick. But Boma’s views were already on the record, quoted in the newspaper, saying Patrick was a coward who’d run away, an incompetent minister incapable of balancing our books. Boma’s was a simple world. The day after my wedding, when I’d confided to Boma that Levi’s death wasn’t accidental, he had shrugged, ‘Such a thing could only happen if it was necessary.’ A man’s life dispatched with a shrug and cliché. I was shocked by his callousness. He may not have been a real soldier but he was a natural born politician whose heart burned with the cold flame of ambition.
‘Josef, look,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard disturbing things; talk of internal conflict, plotting, vested interests. Even of your own men whispering about you. Please believe me that I say this not as a colleague but as a friend.’ He lied so well. We were no longer friends. Boma had snubbed me, grown
away from me as he climbed every day further up Tafumo’s arse. Answering fast and confidently, I said, ‘That’s the nature of the world. There are always younger men pushing up against their elders, ambition is not illegal.’ I gave the insinuation time to sink in. ‘But there’s nothing to concern yourself with . . .’
Boma waved his glass at me. ‘Has Jeko come yet? Is he asking to see any reports? Requesting any extended surveillance?’ When I shook my head, Boma said, ‘Well, old friend, I would ask that you call me, not Jeko, if you hear anything untoward.’
Reduced to choosing between devils – Boma or Jeko – I said, ‘I assure you that we have all our best men in the field and . . .’ Boma’s nostrils twitched in disgust; my breath must have reached him. ‘Phones are tapped and all offices are wired so . . .’ Suddenly a gush of putrid fluid discharged into my mouth and I stopped talking, scared it would drip from my lips like tar but also too nervous to swallow the rancid stuff.
Boma looked at me strangely and when I remained silent he finally said, ‘Very well, Josef, I’ll leave you to it. But call me if anything arises.’
I nodded – the fluid sloshed – and Boma drained his glass, crushed my hand, then marched out of the office. I leaned forward, opening my mouth, and pale-red fluid, the consistency of egg white, pooled on my desktop. I stumbled out of my office, slurring at Beatrice, ‘Call that dentist, I need the appointment now. Now!’
My tooth was weeping and I was spitting blood into a tissue when I parked up and jogged to the building, stepping off the littered street into the orderly surgery. The radio was playing a tinny guitar song, people sat reading magazines, most of which had pages cut out and the remaining pages were crisscrossed in black censorship marks. I growled at the receptionist, ‘You know who I am. I need to see the dentist.’ Flustered, she jumped up and disappeared behind the door. I felt many eyes press against my back but when I turned around, all heads clicked down to their shredded magazines. After a brief moment of restrained whispering, a woman rushed out of the surgery, her mouth stuffed with bloody cotton buds. Then the receptionist appeared, ‘This way, minister.’
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