Please Do Not Disturb

by Robert Glancy

  That changed things considerably. Normally a bus full of tourists was waved along; Tafumo knew the importance of projecting a postcard image to the outside world. Tourists were never searched or touched; backstage blood was always carefully hidden. The soldiers began barking at us to get off.

  Once outside, they conducted us into a line with flicks of their rifles and, just to add a pinch of freaky to the situation, a troupe of kids emerged from the bush to stare at the spectacle. Why was there always a group of skinny kids everywhere you stopped?

  One of the soldiers had a clipboard; it had Mickey Mouse grinning on the back. Very deliberately he moved his chewed Bic down the list and I imagined my name and mugshot with the word ‘Execution’ scribbled next to it.

  The dancers were squealing with fear, soldiers were taking the pistols off Truth’s bodyguards and even Wayne, the cocky Aussie, was cowering. The one time the prick should’ve had his camera out, should’ve pointed it like a gun at their guns, threatening to show the footage to the world, and the bloody guy was standing there pissing his pants.

  Of course, this was not my first roadblock. They’re a day-to-day nuisance in Bwalo but something about this one was strange, something about the hostility in the eyes of the soldiers, the twitchy way they handled their guns. Then I realised what the real problem was: these guys were not actually soldiers; their uniforms were ever so slightly different. These were not Boma’s boys. These guys were far worse: they were Young Pioneers. A bunch of psychopaths led by a sinister freak called Jeko. A man who shadowed Tafumo. And though he looked faintly ridiculous in his Homburg hat, something about the guy still sent the fear of God up me.

  Jeko’s young hooligans existed in that grey area, somewhere between the police and the army. They were Tafumo’s dirty little force; the men who made people vanish, who made accidents happen. People called them the Magicians because they made all of Tafumo’s problems disappear. Soldiers were bad enough, but when you were stopped by these boys it usually didn’t end well. Naturally, my rational core presumed this could never happen; that a bus full of tourists couldn’t just be shot dead on a bright sunny day. But another, more seasoned part of me knew that this was a country where anything can happen to anyone at any time. The Young Pioneers shouted at us and shoved us hard against the bus. Our own panic seemed to redouble in them; a few of the younger ones aimed their rifles at our faces. They seemed as scared as us and I sensed that the dancers’ squeals were soon to be silenced.

  Jack was clearly in the grip of a panic attack, his pupils flitting like trapped flies, searching out a gap through which he could bolt. I wondered just how much weed he was smuggling in. I wanted to assure him everything was going to be fine but all I could manage was, ‘Stay calm, Jack.’ And that was when I heard one of the men arm his rifle, that oily sound of sliding metal – click! – and I turned to watch Willem start to completely freak out. A soldier trained his rifle on Willem, who was gesticulating wildly, shouting unintelligibly. I assumed Willem must have a touch of sunstroke, or that he thought he was about to be busted with so much weed that even the dope-smoking soldiers wouldn’t be able to turn a blind eye. In all the noise and chaos, I realised that Willem was the hero one minute, saving Charlie’s life, and next minute here he was acting the fool and about to get us all shot. I was shoved by a soldier screaming, ‘Back! Back!’ waving his gun in my face. Jesus, this was it, shot to death on a sunny day. What a way to go. He yelled, ‘Back, you, with the beard, over there!’ Stumbling to the side of the road, I felt suddenly calm; I realised I should try and die with some dignity. I’d survived most of my life without the stuff so I hoped I’d have plenty in reserve, might as well try and muster a little at the end. I took a breath, turned to look my killer in the eye and saw the soldiers grabbing Truth, shoving the dancers, screaming at Bel, ‘Take the shot, take it, this is good! Say cheese!’ They were posing for a photograph. Bel, with shaking hands, was trying to take the shot on one of the soldier’s phones. I realised that Willem had been shouting to the soldiers that we had Truth on board the bus, that we had an international superstar with us. And the soldiers had switched from killer squad to grinning fanboys in the blink of an eye. Jesus! Willem was the saviour of all of us today. First Charlie, now he goes and saves my sorry Irish arse, and Jack’s too.

  I owed that fella a serious drink, I thought, as I watched the scene. Soldiers monkeying about, touching the dancers’ bottoms, Truth standing frozen in the centre, a rictus smile cut into his face, as village children squealed, ‘Mazungu! Mazungu!’ Only in Bwalo would you be boiling in your own piss and panic, awaiting death. Then next minute, you’re surrounded by dancing children, while a teenage millionaire grins at soldiers singing into their beer bottles, ‘Beautiful Aaaafricaaaa!’

  Looking at that scene, I realised I’d never convince people of this place. Writing was the wrong medium. I’d been a fool. I shouldn’t be struggling with a book. I should be composing a musical with a catchy title like Bizarre Bwalo. I could see it now, West End posters on the backs of buses: Bizarre Bwalo: It’ll have you ululating in the aisles!

  Ed came and stood by me, watching with blank disinterest. He smoked a Life and I grabbed a beer from the coolbox and drank it down in a few gulps. Something sharp kept catching my eye and I saw in the distance these blazing circles, odd fruit hanging from the trees. Ed and I walked closer to investigate and saw the silvery suns were CDS.

  After many more photographs, Stu herded us back to our seats and bribed the soldiers with the remaining beers. But before Truth got on the bus, he noticed the CDS and shouted, ‘Hey man! They ruined my albums!’ Ed smiled as he explained, ‘But this is good, Mr Truth. For they are using them as scaring-crows, to protect their crops. Keeps the stupid birds away.’ What I’d have given for a photograph of Truth’s face.

  For the remainder of the drive, we fell into a silent trance; shock and farce will do that to you. Ed dropped me at my door. I shook Jack’s hand and he smiled; calm again, now his dope was through the roadblocks. I winked at Willem too but he pretended not to see.

  When I waved the bus off I noticed a bull’s legs sticking out the trailer, something comical and grotesque in the way the hoof was pointing to the sunset. I looked up and staring at the sky, pink sediment decanting on to the horizon like glowing ash, I thought: Another crappy day ending in another heart-aching sunset.

  After I’d checked every room of the house, I breathed easy. Stella was out. And I knew what I needed to do. The safari, singing soldiers, the fluky reunion with Jack: all sweet inspiration to break my block. At the very least I was determined to rattle off a puff piece on Truth. It wasn’t until I entered the study that I remembered I’d abused poor Royal, her keys bent like a palsied face. I contemplated resurrecting my laptop. I’d once dabbled in the twenty-first century, purchasing a laptop thinner than a thought yet stuffed with more technology than a spaceship. But it resulted in no inspiration: only intimidation. When I finally found the ‘on’ switch, it asked me a slew of increasingly personal questions: age, sex, thoughts on genetic modification. The silvery brilliance of this machine built by machines made me feel fleshy and foolish, so I’d slid it like a puck into the spidery kingdom below my bed.

  However, looking around me for inspiration, I realised I’d been unconsciously holding – and fiddling – with the answer all along. I didn’t need retro typewriters, nor space-machines. I’d everything I needed right here in my hand: the humble Bic. Tenderly I rubbed the callus on my finger that had risen like a celebration when I used to write longhand. It had remained ever since, standing to attention, a memory formed in flesh, reminding me this was the secret all along: the simple pen. And as soon as the tip hit the paper, sentences – as if compressed within the black tube – poured out in wondrous, powerful order. And I was grinning like a kid when, half a page in, a brutal pain stabbed my hand, my fingers cramped into a claw and I tossed the pen across the room. Jesus, the pain! I winced and my little callus glowed bright red. In my
frustration, I wanted to slice it off with a scalpel. But I was more squeamish than I was dramatic. So I glared at it: to think moments ago I’d been rubbing it like the clitoris of my muse. It was just a build-up of useless flesh. I tried to avoid the thought that I was the same. My autobiography: Sean Kelly, A Build-Up of Useless Flesh. Instead I took to staring out of the window, hoping some resolution would arrive. But in place of a resolution another problem stormed towards me. A gecko flashed across the ceiling in green panic as Stella stomped through the house, swung the study door open, and sneered, ‘What are you doing, old man, still trying to write this greatest novel of the world ever?’ then spat out a cruel little: ‘Ha!’

  ‘Look, Stella, calm down, I’ve some bad news, come sit with me a moment.’

  She remained in the doorway, arms braced and legs apart, as if the bad news might blow her over. ‘I’m afraid that for reasons which are utterly unjust, I’ve been fired. And . . .’ I was getting sloppy; should have frisked her at the door: first her purse sailed past and landed with a thump on the floor. ‘Now, Stella,’ wobbling to my feet, her right shoe spun past me, followed by her left, which struck my belly. I shoved my desk towards her, causing her to move enough so I could squeeze past the door, her claws catching my neck as I jogged down the corridor, out the door and on to my motorbike, to ride to my oasis, the Mirage.

  After a few fast drinks and in the mood for a fight, I think Horst and I went at it. Something happened, the details remain fuzzy, but a moat formed around me, people moving away creating a space into which rushed Stu, gently persuading me out of the bar. I asked if I could crash on the sofa but Fiona had put the kibosh on that.

  So Stu, saint that he is, gave me the key to my regular room, one I hid in when things were too hot at home. Overcome with emotion, I hugged him, ‘You’re a good man, Stu,’ as he manoeuvred me into the lift, where I was relieved to have so many walls to lean on. Attempting to assure him – and myself – that everything was somehow going to work out, I said something like, ‘It’ll all blow over, Stu. This sleeping elephant is vast enough to absorb the bickering of men. You and I both know that most of what is meant to happen here turns out to be little more than rumours; the plans of mice and men rarely ever happen. And even the few things that do actually happen are rarely finished. So let the world get on with its noise and let us sleep in peace a moment longer.’ Stu shouted through the closing doors, ‘Shut up and get some sleep.’

  Charlie

  After the safari, Aaron and I went to the back of the kitchen to watch the buffalo being strung up to bleed out. Its head was dunked in a nearby river, where fish would nibble and clean the skull so Mr Horst could put it on his wall and bore guests about how he shot it. But the body was strung up on a tree, hind and front hanging like a pantomime horse, black blood striking the soil like pepper. The staff had taken all the organs they wanted but Ed was annoyed Fantastic had taken its balls, as they were the best part apparently. Ed said that they made a man a man, whatever the heck that means. Tomorrow the bull would be sliced into strips, soaked in salt and spices, then Aaron and I would get to hang them on the washing line like bloody socks, so the sun could bake them into biltong.

  When we got bored of watching blood drip, Aaron and I went to the bar where the adults were arguing. Why do adults drink and repeat everything all the time? Mum called it the Great African Dilemma. She said a dilemma is a question without an answer. But why Mum calls it Great I’ve no idea, as I’m pretty sure it was the most boring conversation in the whole world. Sean always looked like a kettle about to boil as Mr Horst told a dull story about corn or something. We snuck past the adults and, since Mum hadn’t noticed I was still awake, went to play in the office.

  We kept rucksacks full of water and biscuits in the office cupboard. Dad said they’re in case we have to leave the country fast one day, but most of the time Aaron and I just raided them for biscuits. I was doing my impersonation of Mrs Horst when she’s drunk, which is most of the time.

  Marlene is South African, so when she’s sober everything’s a bastard – this bastard heat, the bastard car, that bastard maid of mine – but when she’s half-cut everyone’s her bokkie, which means sweetheart in Afrikaans.

  So I was saying, ‘Hiyaaa bokkie, whisky please bokkie, kiss me bokkie,’ when Mum and Dad rushed in. Dad looked at Mum, Mum looked at Dad, then Mum said, ‘How many times have I told you not to eat the emergency biscuits!’

  Before I could come up with a good excuse, Mum gave me a peck on the cheek and snapped, ‘Bed! Both of you.’

  Aaron ran, then I ran too but I left the Dictaphone running.

  Click!

  Mum: I thought he’d gone to bed hours ago. Close the office door, close it, lock it! Listen, I just heard: they think they found Patrick Goya.

  Dad: And?

  Mum: Well they found his body. Dr Todd said he saw the body. Said some heavies came to the hospital and forced him to sign the pathology report saying it was ‘accidental’. Todd said he was terrified; he could be struck off for signing a false declaration, but he was too scared to refuse.

  Dad: And?

  Mum: Well, Todd said there was no way his wounds were from a car accident. Not unless the car had bashed one part of his skull again and again and tied his hands with rope and cut off his ears and lips.

  Dad: Jesus Christ. Was it definitely Goya?

  Mum: All I know for sure is that we need to get out of here. Things are closing in fast, darling, and we don’t have much time left.

  Dad: Sure sure. OK, OK, OK. OK look, look, let’s just get through this Big Day and we can talk and sort out a plan and . . .

  Mum: You say that every year.

  Dad: Trust me.

  Mum: My mother warned me never to trust a man who said trust me.

  Dad: Your mother was a fucking nightmare. Look, listen, everything will be fine.

  Mum: Will it?

  Dad: Trust me.

  Click!

  THE COCKROACH

  Bwalo Radio

  DJ Cheeseandtoast speaking to you, beautiful Bwalo people, on the eve of the Big Day. Now we have much music to play and many things to look forward to today, but before we begin, remember this: beware of who you help, keep your ears peeled, for the cockroach can only rule the hen if he persuades the fox to be his bodyguard. Yes yes! And you get two sayings for the price of one today, for I am feeling so very generous. My mother always warned me never to trust a naked man who offered me his shirt. Can anyone tell me what this means? I still have no clue. Call in and tell me what it means and I’ll give a carton of Life cigarettes to the winner. OK, now let’s get on with our show. Ha! So for all of you out there suffering a bout of Saturday Night Fever, fear not! For I have the muti, I have the medicine. Doctor Cheeseandtoast is in the house to cure all ills and the tonic is a dose of Big Day muti. For on the Big Day the sun will shine, the wind will sing, and all your aches and pains will be washed away! Now to get us in the mood, here’s ‘Freedom’ by Bwalo superstar, Zomba. Ha! Tomorrow we sing, dance, laugh and praise our glorious Ngwazi.

  Jack

  I should have hitched my way out of the country. I should have walked across the border. I knew the moment he looked at my passport that something was wrong. He smiled. Maybe I should have paid a taxi or a bus to get me to the border. But I also knew that as soon as Willem got that case into his hotel room, and saw that I had buggered it up – that I knew what was inside it – he’d come after me, or send someone to come get me. Whatever his plan was, I could tell from the size of that gun that it was not the sort of plan that allowed for untidy loose ends like me. So I’d decided that an aeroplane was the only way, the fastest way, to get out. If I’d tried to get out via the bush or the border he would have had time to come for me. But I saw now, as the man slowly placed my passport into his own top pocket, that the airport had been a bad idea, that there was probably no route out of this country that would have been fast enough, or safe enough, to ever save me. That everything had
been impossible, that all my options were exhausted the very first moment I’d said yes to this terrible job. I knew it all now; now it was all too late it was all too clear. Two big fellas materialised either side of me. And, without touching, gently moved me out of the queue into a room with peppermint-green plaster walls, a desk, and a chair where I sat under the crab-eyed gaze of a camera.

  Hope

  I put on my wedding ring. It only just fitted my finger, which had thickened with age. When I went to pick up my breakfast, Essop was there, and as we spoke of dull things much travelled between us, I felt a strange excitement, an old feeling of being wanted by someone, someone I’d seen so often that I’d forgotten to notice them. Chef winked at me when he handed over my food. Essop spotted my ring and said, ‘Who is the lucky man who has breakfast with Hope every day?’

  ‘Too old for all that,’ I said, but I felt my face go hot like a silly girl.

  Essop shook his head so hard his glasses slid down his nose. ‘Never too old, Hope.’ And his eyes were held by the shine of my diamond ring.

  ‘I just like to look nice for my sun,’ I said.

  ‘Well it’s a lucky sun,’ Essop replied and I smiled and left.

  I walked out the palace gates but when I got to my tree, two boys were lounging under it, cooling in its shade. The nearest village was far away and few people came this close to the palace, scared of guards and soldiers. But these boys seemed not to have a worry in the world. I felt like a dog whose territory was threatened. I wondered if they had looked inside the tree. Where had they come from and why had they sat here? Under my tree, the one piece of land in this world I considered mine alone. I calmed a touch when the boys both politely said, ‘Morning, mother.’ The endearment caught me out; if ever you forget you’re an old woman you can count on the young to remind you. It was a polite term and I sensed they weren’t mean. They were just boys, with all their awkwardness and bravado. I sat near, to show them, and me, that I wasn’t threatened.