Please Do Not Disturb

by Robert Glancy

  With a mobile in one hand, coffee in the other, Bel caught me sipping my morning beer at the bar and said, ‘Morning, Sean. Truth would like me to offer his sincerest apologies for yesterday’s failed interview.’

  ‘Do you ever get bored of apologising for other people? Has he recovered from the safari?’ Letting her tight smile slacken a touch, she sat down next to me and said, ‘Look, Sean, he’s nineteen. He’s one of those stars that went straight from his mum’s house to his mansion. They’re the worst. He can’t even work a dishwasher.’

  I nodded and then she said, ‘Now here are the ground rules.’

  ‘Oh, you mean like a safe word. How about Eskimo? If you’re getting carried away with the handcuffs and whatnot, I’ll just shout Eskimo. You should know I bruise easily.’ Her eyes rolled, and I said, ‘I thought all interviews ran a fairly predictable line. I ask questions he fails to answer. I go away and, with the god-like power of a hack, breathe life into the vacuous poptart.’

  ‘Seriously, Sean. First rule is: no hint of what I told you about his,’ her voice dipped, ‘sexuality.’

  ‘My lips are sealed tight as a nun’s . . .’ She interjected, ‘And don’t ask about his mother.’

  ‘What about his mother?’

  ‘That’s what you’re not allowed to ask.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to ask about things I don’t know about. Doesn’t it defeat the purpose if I can only ask about things I already know?’

  ‘Please ask at least three questions about the album.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘It sold millions and you don’t know what it’s called.’

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it. Don’t worry, I’ll just ask the kid.’

  ‘No you won’t. It’s called Mirrors. And don’t run over twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’d be shocked if I stretch to twenty minutes.’

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘Of course. Are you stupid?’

  ‘I’m just doing my job, Sean.’

  ‘Can you believe this is actually your job?’

  ‘Much as I can believe this is actually your job.’

  ‘Touché.’

  Then she brought our friendly banter to an abrupt stop as she snapped, ‘At least I’m not squandering a considerable talent.’ I returned a baffled look and she explained, ‘I bought your book from the hotel shop. And can I just say: I love it.’

  ‘You can say it to me every day. Please tell me again how clever I am.’

  ‘Don’t sleaze up to me; you’ll ruin the whole thing.’

  ‘So there is a thing,’ I shouted triumphantly but she instantly countered with, ‘Yes. A thing called your fiancée.’

  ‘You got me there,’ I said.

  ‘So you writing another?’

  ‘I’m attempting to break the record for longest gap between books. Presently held by Joyce who took seventeen years to complete a book. It was Ulysses, mind you, so I suppose it was worth the wait.’

  ‘Are you working on the Great African Novel?’

  ‘Achebe, Conrad and a thousand others beat me to it.’

  ‘Great Irish novel?’

  ‘I refer you to the aforementioned Ulysses.’

  ‘Great expat novel?’

  ‘I’m blocked. Can barely write a cheque.’

  ‘It should be the Great Sean Kelly novel then,’ she said, pulling my book out of her handbag. It always shocked me when I saw it again, this child I once loved with all my heart then abandoned. There it was, on the bar, gently abused by a recent reading.

  ‘Would you?’ And she gave me a pen.

  I wasn’t sure what to write. So blocked I couldn’t even muster up an inscription. I stalled. ‘You bought one of the only two copies sold. Mum bought the other but said it was nothing but rude words and filthy thoughts.’

  ‘Well, I like rude words and filthy thoughts.’

  ‘Got it,’ I said, and wrote, Where the fuck have you been all my life? and put my phone number at the bottom.

  She smiled, placed it back in her bag and said, ‘Right. Ready to interview Truth?’

  ‘I’d really rather not.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sean, just come on and get it over with.’

  In the centre of the Tafumo Suite, Truth sat like an atom surrounded by swirling assistants. Though I’d given my new digital Dictaphone to Charlie, I’d held on to my original, a huge old tape machine. I pressed record and it purred on the table like a cat. Truth sneered at it and, relaxing him with a little small talk, I said, ‘Isn’t she a beauty. Old as me. I like tape, I like analogue. It’s got more integrity.’

  He shrugged, ‘I’m all about digital,’ then he spelt it like he was singing a song, ‘D.I.G.I.T.A.L.’

  ‘Right you are then,’ I replied. ‘Well, how about we get S.T.A.R.T.E.D.’

  He didn’t crack a smile. Knowing how ill-prepared I was, and hoping to buy time, I asked, ‘Do you think I’d be able to get a beer? I’m awful parched.’

  ‘Truth is teetotal,’ said Bel, who was now standing behind him with all the other assistants trying so terribly hard to look like they actually did something for a living.

  ‘Shit,’ I said.

  ‘And no swearing,’ Bel explained. ‘Truth is religious.’

  ‘Tough room,’ I muttered. ‘You’re teetotal and religious yet you went on safari?’

  ‘Just ’cos I believe in Jesus don’t make me no vegetarian.’

  Usable quote, I thought. ‘Killing animals just seems a little unchristian.’

  ‘I’m an entertainer not a priest. I’m full of contradictions.’

  Full of something. But at least I had a second quote. Twenty words to work with, only a thousand to go. But after this brief burst, the poptart seemed spent; he slumped and stared at his phone.

  I waited for him to look up until it became clear that I was to conduct the interview while he completely ignored me. I tossed out some puff questions: ‘Why do you think Tafumo asked you to play the Big Day?’

  ‘I sing about truth and Tafumo is all about truth.’

  God give me strength. ‘Is it because Kanye turned the gig down?’

  This caused a brief flurry among the assistants but Truth wasn’t taking the bait. ‘Nah, I love Kanye and I love Tafumo.’

  ‘Whole lotta love. So is it because you’ve got a song on your new album called “Beautiful Africa”?’

  ‘Could be,’ admitted Truth. If this was all I was getting I might as well make up the article from scratch. ‘Will you sing that song?’

  ‘Never reveal my playlist.’

  ‘Oh? Well, now that’s interesting,’ I said, seeing something there. ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Just ’cos.’

  Christ. The world is run by entitled creeps.

  My foot started tapping erratically and I heard myself asking the question, ‘Do you like Billie Holiday?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  I caught Bel suppressing a smile.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ I said and he snapped, ‘Yeah, why’s that?’

  ‘Because she was the greatest singer we had. She gave so much of herself in each song that in the end her generosity, along with a huge smack habit, killed her.’

  ‘You going to ask me about me?’

  ‘Well now, of course I am. Isn’t that why we are all here after all?’

  Truth nodded: a king granting a pauper the gift of his time. Having asked some puff, I hit him with a real question: ‘How can you take money from a dictator?’

  ‘Don’t know nothing ’bout that.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should?’

  Like a media-trained Muppet, he repeated the line, ‘Don’t know nothing ’bout it.’

  I attempted to hold my irritation in check. The importance of the interview pressed on me. I needed it more than anyone in this room. Needed to play the game, get the money to buy a ticket out of the country. I was a man without savings and that little voice, uncannily like my mother’s, warned me,
Come on now, do your little interview, take the money, give yourself a rest from breaking the balls of everyone you meet.

  I nodded quietly, acquiescing with the voice in my head, then swallowed and said, ‘One day, kid, when all your friends and assistants have vanished. When you’re the last man standing in some spit-and-sawdust dive staring into a glass of petroleum you paid for by sucking off the bartender, you’ll hear something so sad it’ll make you want to die . . .’ As the assistants went into a panic, protectively flapping their clipboards, I raised my voice to be heard over the flutter of outrage. ‘So sad your gut will tighten like a trap to protect itself from the impact of it.’ A bouncer was closing in. ‘And that sound will be a song about your life and the lives of everyone on this fantastic planet you’ve worked so hard to learn so little about.’ Bel was escorting Truth to the next room but he was twisting back, listening. ‘The song will kill a part of you while bringing another part of you to life. And you’ll ask the barman, who’s this singing? And he will say, Billie Holiday, son.’ The bouncer shoved me out into the corridor but I shouted through the closing door, ‘Right then, kid, right there, you’ll think, who was that drunk that interviewed me all those years ago, that man who tried to tell me how all of this would end?’ The door slammed. Then immediately reopened. My recorder sailed out and cracked on the floor, its tape spewing out of it like shiny black guts.

  Josef

  When we got back to the house I instructed Ezekiel not to let anyone through the gates. Solomon’s face, drained of expression, stared in shock as I shouted, ‘Go to your room, lock the door.’ I went to my wardrobe, down on my knees I pushed my shoes aside, pulled up the floorboard and stared into the empty space. My folder was gone. For a dumb moment I simply gazed into the hole as if my folder might magically reappear. First Patrick, then the tourist, now my folder: the world was evaporating before my eyes. And as I continued to stare into the space, I became aware of a sharp ringing. My vision vibrated to the sound, the world shivering out of focus, as all that had been solid now turned to dust. My hands left ghostly traces, thin as smoke, scrambling like frantic animals, grabbing the edge of the next floorboard, which I prised up, convinced the folder had slipped. But when it gave, all it revealed was more dust. The ringing reached a deafening pitch as I swept aside my ties, then tore the dry-cleaning plastic off my suits, smothering the floor in pale skins. I could barely hear Ruby, who was suddenly standing in front of me. ‘Master. What’s wrong?’ I grabbed her so tightly her flesh squeezed out between my fingers. ‘Ruby! The folder! My folder! Where’s my folder?’ Her petrified eyes floated before me as I suddenly became conscious of the source of the ringing. Placing my hand over her mouth, ‘Sshhhhh,’ I felt the moisture of her lips, my hand moulding her face into an ugly mass, as I pointed to the wall. ‘Sshhhhhh!’ I put my ear against the wall but the sound didn’t get louder. Then I placed my hands over my ears and, with dreadful comprehension, realised that the ringing didn’t change. It wasn’t a sound coming from outside; it was a scream building from within.

  I yanked Ruby out of the house, into the garden, where I turned on the sprinklers, knelt on the lawn, dragging her down with me, whispering as we got wet, ‘Sprinklers will block out any bugs. They can’t hear us. We can talk. We’re safe but we must act fast. Tell me the truth. Where is it?’ My jacket grew heavy and sodden and Ruby stared with such horror and confusion that I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t panic, Ruby. I’ll protect you from anyone that threatened you.’ Dark flowers bloomed on her uniform as her skin showed through soaked cotton. ‘Now where’s my folder? Did someone force you to give it to them? Was it David? If you return it now, Ruby, you won’t be punished.’

  Feeling as if a spotlight had been switched on behind me – a great heat beating against my back – I turned, and when I looked up sunlight was pouring down from the sky like honey and I laughed at how strange everything was, hearing my voice say vaguely: ‘Why is everything so bright?’

  Ruby’s hands caught my head just before it hit the lawn and everything went black. When I came to I had the taste of vomit in my mouth and Solomon was standing slightly away from me, looking repulsed. Ezekiel was there too. Ruby jumped when I opened my eyes. ‘Are you ok, master? You are acting strangely; we must call the doctor, I am thinking.’ When I got to my feet the lawn slid under me. Solomon wrapped himself around my legs. The tick-ticking of the sprinklers lulled me into a hypnotic state, and as I tried to think straight each new theory disintegrated under the force of the next. Had David stolen my file? Had he taken it to a higher power? The sanctimonious man would have done just that; he’d have given it straight to someone above me, to Jeko, who was probably on his way to me right now. My phone vibrated and – as if he was plugged into my very thoughts – I looked at the screen and saw that it was David’s number.

  I waited for him to talk first. ‘Minister, it’s David. I have something you need to see.’ I waited, waited for him to tell me more.

  ‘Have you told anyone yet?’

  There was a pause before his voice broke the silence. ‘No, minister. Not so far.’

  ‘Where are you? The Ministry?’

  ‘We cannot meet there, not about this.’ That was good news; maybe he was willing to negotiate.

  ‘Are you still at the airport?’

  ‘No, that is not safe.’

  ‘Then where are you?’

  ‘The Flamingo.’

  ‘What? That whorehouse near the airport?’

  ‘It is safe here.’

  ‘Fine, I’m coming now. Stay where you are.’

  I pocketed my phone and grabbed Solomon. ‘Listen. Don’t leave the house. Don’t let anyone in.’ Turning to Ezekiel, I instructed him, ‘Make sure your gun is loaded, get your panga, close the gates when I go and don’t open them until I return.’ He came to attention. ‘Yes sah.’

  As I left, Solomon tugged at my leg and Ruby had to pull him away from me as I barked at both of them to get into the house and lock the doors. Ezekiel returned with the shining crescent of his panga hanging from his hand. And as he heaved the gates open, I shouted, ‘Don’t let anyone in, no one, not police, not soldiers, no one. Do you understand?’

  I drove fast, shivering as cool air blew on my wet shirt. There was a terrible smell, sour and sharp, coming from somewhere. I checked my breath but it wasn’t that. Smelt my armpit, and although they were bad they weren’t the source. I drove a circuitous route to ensure I wasn’t followed, and by the time I was closing in on the Flamingo the smell was overpowering. I stopped the car at the side of the road. Then clambering over, following my nose like a dog, I knelt on the back seat and sniffed right in the crease. Sliding my hand into the gap, the buttocks of leather squashing my fingers, I felt wetness. When I pulled my hand out it was covered in blood and in my palm was a small animal turned inside out, blue and red veins scribbled over pale whiteness. Then I saw that it wasn’t an animal, this vile lump of flesh. And it wasn’t turned inside out, it was an organ: the stomach of an animal, stitched with wire in Frankenstein lines, twisted and tied. The sound of my ragged breathing filled the car as I untwisted the wire, a stitch at a time, until the slit gaped like a mouth. I dipped into the red-blackness and my fingers found a sharp nugget. I pulled it out and there it was: my rotten molar, bloody and grey, in the centre of my shaking palm. I stepped out of the car and flung it as far out into the fields as I could.

  Sean

  If self-destruction were an academic subject then I’d be a PhD. I was not only boiling with disappointment in myself but also, inexplicably, I was horny as a bull. Disappointment and erections are close cousins in my body. I even – this is how deep my madness ran – considered surrendering to Stella, hoping a little make-up sex might be thrown my way. But a sharp moment of clarity quickly dispelled that moronic notion. For any man who goes out with a whore hoping to get sex on-tap is a pure fool. And that’ll be me. Also any man who finds himself in a hotel room, bent over double, chatting to his aching ba
lls, knows it’s time to do something about it. So I donned my Buddy Holly glasses, struggled into some corduroy trousers and a clean white shirt that Stu had lent me. I checked myself in the mirror – a fat Elvis Costello looked back – and I wished my beard would grow wisteria-like, covering my ruddy cheeks and smashed red nose.

  I rode my motorbike, parked it a little way down the road and then walked to the bar. And right there, in one of the most brazen examples of false advertising, the sign declared: The Flamingo Bar: For Gentlemen and Gentlerwomen. For it was a stone-cold fact that neither a gentleman nor a gentlerwoman had ever graced this bar. Below, it read: Shake Shake Chibuku: To Go With The Good Times. And I could surely do with some of those.

  I’d not been here since I met Stella a year ago, at last year’s Big Day celebrations. Having become too drunk for the Mirage, I’d moved on to this more humble establishment, a place that prided itself on its moral elasticity. I remember it was packed when I got in, people cheering as I fell about, the novelty white man, the mazungu!

  I spotted her on the dance floor, wearing this magically tight dress, printed with red chillies that shimmered as she moved. Too hot to handle; all the signs were right there for me to completely ignore. Before I knew it, I was dancing with this exotic panther, her liquid hips moving in a motion I could stare at for all eternity. And as if the night couldn’t get any better, I charmed her into bed and we were together, inseparable and happy forever amen. Or not.

  Of course people told me, warned me, that she was a paid hostess. One of my university colleagues, a nice Bwalo chap, got drunk one night and said to me straight out that she was a whore. Just like that. ‘I’m so sorry, Sean. But Stella, well, she is a whore.’ But I convinced myself that they were all just bitter; they didn’t like the idea of an Irishman taking one of their finest women. And who could blame them? Yet deep down – and maybe not so deep – I think I always knew Stella was a Flamingo girl, that a few men had had their wicked way with her and maybe gifts, even money, had changed hands. But thank God my Catholic heart was big enough to forgive Stella her past transgressions. And her Bwalo heart was big enough to forgive me my drinking and permit me to play with her intoxicating body.