And Imogen had made good on her word: she had done something good with her life. A few years after their first meeting, while shopping at Solomon’s, Dr Mambo had come across Imogen and Vida de Villiers standing in the spice aisle. Vida was reaching for a bottle of olive oil on the top shelf (olive oil is situated in the spice aisle at Solomon’s) and Imogen was looking at him, watching him closely. She looked so … fulfilled. It was as though in that moment Vida was doing much more than simply reaching for a bottle of olive oil; it was as though he was giving her what her heart truly desired and that he had parted seas, moved entire mountains, slashed through fortresses and slain dragons just to give it to her. Vida put the bottle of olive oil into the shopping basket that Imogen was carrying and he looked at her with such contentment, it was as though she held every precious thing that heaven had bestowed on him in her arms.
It was that look that had let Dr Mambo know that Imogen had done something good with her life: she had found someone to love and she had found someone to love her. Dr Mambo took a lot of comfort in Imogen and Vida’s love. Love was such a rare commodity. It took real courage to seek it, to hold on to it and to treasure it. Most people in her situation had long since given up being courageous. At a time when it would have been so much easier to allow one’s self to give in to the barrenness of existence, love was the truest defiance.
Dr Mambo so often saw Imogen and Vida together – driving in their impossibly tiny Austin Mini Cooper, walking the streets with their Scania pushcart that was always laden with scrap metal, shopping for groceries – that she started thinking of them as an inseparable unit: Imogen and Vida.
Dr Mambo even thought of the HIV as theirs, not just Imogen’s. And so it had been difficult to break the news to Vida. When he had brought Imogen to the hospital seven days ago, he had looked stricken, pale; could not speak, could only hold on to Imogen. It had taken two male nurses to pry her from his arms. And then he had stood there covered in Imogen’s blood, waiting. It had been difficult to tell him that he need no longer wait. It had been difficult to see him walk away … alone.
Imogen has been her patient for more than twenty years now, and Dr Mambo has seen evidence of her defiance repeatedly as she has struggled with pneumonia, tuberculosis and meningitis. This time, however, cervical cancer has given Imogen’s defiance a different form: her defiance has presented itself as peaceful surrender.
Dr Mambo opens the orange-and-brown curtains in the room, wondering, not for the first time, why anyone would have thought that orange and brown were appropriate colours for a hospital room. In her opinion, both colours are too morose and subdued to provide any real comfort and hope. A hospital room should make every attempt to be colourful, especially a hospital room with Imogen Zula Nyoni in it.
Rays of weak, wintry, early-morning sunlight streak through, providing the room with light, but not nearly enough. Hospital policy stipulates that no lights are to be turned on during the day except in the operating rooms. Dr Mambo defiantly turns on the fluorescent light above the bed. It is the least she can do for the person lying on the bed.
But there is no person lying on the bed.
Dr Mambo hastily picks up the patient chart and flips through it. She has provided strict orders that the patient should not be moved. She has not ordered any tests for the patient. No time of death has been entered. So there is no reason for Imogen Zula Nyoni not to be lying in her bed. Dr Mambo flips through the chart again … and again. But still she cannot find the reason why the bed is empty.
To Dr Mambo’s relief, three nurses enter the room pushing a trolley piled with bed linens, hospital gowns, sponges, antiseptic soaps, gauzes, syringes of various sizes, a blood pressure pump, a thermometer, an array of disposable needles, scissors, cotton wool, and a blender with liquefied beige food in it. The nurses are evidently not happy to find a patient-free bed. ‘Where is the patient?’ one of the nurses asks, mild accusation in her eyes.
VALENTINE
Valentine Tanaka knows who they are, of course. He knows everyone who visits The Tower. He has made it his business to know. He is after all the Chief Registrar of The Organisation and as such he handles all the important moments in a person’s life: birth, coming of age, marriage, parenthood, divorce and death.
They are the Masukus. Imogen had once searched for a word, a phrase, to describe them, and after a long pause had said: ‘They glitter.’
To which he had replied: ‘All that glitters is not gold.’
‘Exactly,’ she had said.
Decidedly. He does not like the Masukus.
Collectively, they look superficial, like something out of a magazine, a high-end one at that, one that sells impossible dreams – beauty, success, happiness, self-fulfilment, wealth, all achieved with ease and a smile.
So when the daughter says, as her eyes scan his office and sweep over him, not even trying to whisper, ‘How Dickensian’, and the father, mother and son snicker, all secure in the knowledge that the reference is beyond him, Valentine Tanaka, mere civil servant, he has decided that he does not like any of them.
The father. A doctor. A surgeon. Processed by The Organisation in 1987. Somehow manages to look both haggard and handsome – not an easy feat, that. His eyes never settle on anything for too long. He is unsettled. Hiding something. Or perhaps just used to hiding something. An old habit. Unbreakable even now when there is nothing to hide. But of course there is something to hide. There always is. He has never had the courage to tell his family his secret. So that even as they sit here looking perfect, there is something about the father that his family does not know – something that Valentine Tanaka does.
The mother. Once a housewife, then the owner of a flower shop. Lives overseas. In Belgium. Smells expensive. Head held high. A picture of beauty, elegance and respectability. This sheen, however, is merely veneer. There is an entire chapter of her life that fills her with shame. A chapter that Valentine knows of. Her misfortunes have been rather public, and, because of this, appearances matter to her.
The son. Part-owner of a dot-com company that did not go bust. Wealthy. Truly raking it in. Some guys have all the luck. Lives overseas. Married. Wife – lawyer. Three children. His legs crossed like a lady. Manicured. Probably pedicured as well. Hair barbered to perfection. A pretty boy. Not a man at all. A man … a real man does not take this much care of himself. A real man does not sit with his legs crossed. A real man does not allow himself to look so … shiny. His eyes, at least, are determined. Determination is a manly thing.
The daughter. Student. Born overseas. Raised here. Now lives overseas. Citizen there. Very little known about her. No records to speak of. Since she was born outside the country, The Organisation did not record her birth. Since she left when she was seventeen, a year before she would have had to register for a national ID card, she does not have that either. She is the hardest to read. There is something broken there. She is held together by sheer force of will. Not as tall as the others. Eclipsed. But defiant. The black sheep. The rebel – perhaps even with a cause. She is the only one so far who has looked him in the eye.
‘Yes. I suppose it is rather Dickensian,’ Valentine says finally, letting his eyes travel over his office at their leisure, enjoying taking centre stage. The mountains of files balancing at impossible angles, the ancient filing cabinets, the bookshelves all spilling over with paper, and everything covered in layers of dust. Even the enormously old-fashioned but fully functional computer has a sprinkling of dust for good measure. ‘Too much paper and dust. The hallmarks of an ineffective and inefficient bureaucracy,’ he says, bringing his gaze back to them.
They stare at him blankly, suddenly feigning ignorance, pretending not to see – all of them. A family trait. Probably how they have always dealt with embarrassing and difficult situations.
He is determined to make them feel some humility, even if it is only a sliver.
‘Or perhaps you meant that I’m the one who is Dickensian?’ he says, thoroughly enjoyin
g the moment when they all look at the floor simultaneously. Mission accomplished. Good job.
Lawrence Tafara – a colleague, not a friend, he does not have many friends – once said to him: ‘Ay, but Valentine, you’re certifiably ugly.’ Lawrence Tafara had been drunk at the time. They both were. Heavy drinking was part of the job. He had given Lawrence Tafara a sound beating for that, even though he agreed with him. Certifiably ugly. That is what he is indeed. A crippled hunchback without the redeeming bell in the tower or the heart of gold to make him a tragic hero.
That was the thing that shocked people most about him – his lack of a heart of gold. When they came into his office to be processed, they could never reconcile the way he looked with what he did, or, rather, with the impossibly exacting way in which he did his job – asking for documents, evidence, proof. Failure to produce the required documents was never met with sympathy when a person encountered Valentine Tanaka, Chief Registrar:
Father’s birth certificate?
But my father was born in 1908. Blacks were not issued—
Father’s national ID card?
Well, the thing is, my father went to work in the mines in South Africa in 1938—
Evidence that he belonged to a particular kraal?
His family lived in Silobela, but his entire village was resettled in the 1950s.
At which point Valentine would draw a neat and straight diagonal line with his garish red pen through the application form.
How can I be expected to write a death certificate without any evidence of the man’s existence? Come back with proof. A document, any document that proves that the man lying in the Mpilo Hospital mortuary really is your father. Come back with proof and I will be more than happy to issue you a death certificate.
We have here his cause of death form from the hospital. Signed by his doctor.
Evidence of death is not evidence of life. Come back with evidence of your father’s life. Fill out another application. And you shall have your death certificate.
We cannot bury him without the death certificate.
Then don’t waste your time talking to me. Go find the necessary proof of life.
Will we be required to pay the application fee again?
Yes. Of course. The fee pays for my time, which, today, you have wasted.
Yes. His lack of a heart of gold shocked people because they liked to think that if they pitied people like him and treated them nicely, they would be treated nicely in turn. The truth of the matter was that most disabled people were treated cruelly and harshly. He certainly had been. Even so, people really believed that they were nice to people like him and were therefore shocked to find him doing a job that required no pity at all, that required him to be cruel and harsh. Those who thought deeply about things probably concluded that he had chosen his profession because of the way he looked – that living with his certifiably ugly exterior had created a certifiably ugly heart and a need to exact revenge on his fellow man for his misfortune. But that was not the case at all. He did the job he did because it was a job that needed doing. He did the job he did because he was particularly good at it.
As a student he had always strived to have the words ‘Good job!’ scribbled in the teacher’s red ink in the margins of his exercise book. Those two words had meant more to him than the perfect score or the gold star. ‘Good job’ – a powerful phrase that let you understand the character of a person.
His job had absolutely nothing to do with the heart. Imogen had understood that.
It is the quizzical look on the son’s face that alerts him to the fact that something is wrong. He has been silent for too long.
He has taken centre stage only to make a fool of himself; the smirk on the daughter’s face confirms it.
‘How may I help you?’ he asks, aware that his voice is too loud and brash – always the mark of someone who is, at heart, unsure of himself, not at ease.
‘We are here to obtain form DS 8044 Z.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we need it.’
‘You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need it. Why do you need it? For what purpose?’
‘We need to declare our daughter missing.’
‘Are you sure your daughter is missing?’
‘Yes, we are sure.’
‘How sure are you?’
‘We are very sure.’
‘Well, you can only be very sure if your daughter has been missing for more than seventy-two hours. Has your daughter been missing for more than seventy-two hours?’
‘Well … no.’
‘Then how do you know that she is missing?’
‘We know because she is no longer in the hospital bed she was lying in.’
‘Well, perhaps, she got better and went home.’
‘She was in a coma.’
‘Are you sure the hospital did not simply misplace her? Happens more often than they are willing to admit.’
‘Yes, we are sure. We know exactly who took her.’
‘You do? Who took her?’
‘The man she … cohabits with.’
‘The man she cohabits with? If she lives with him, and is with him, then technically—’
‘She is not with him. He has taken her to another facility, probably a hospice, so that we will not be able to find her.’
‘Do you have any proof that this man took her?’
‘He was the last person to visit her in hospital.’
‘That is not proof.’
‘We don’t need proof. We know him. This is just the sort of thing he would do.’
‘Since you have no proof that this man took your daughter, your request is not going to be without problems.’
The Masukus exchange a knowing look.
‘How much?’ the mother asks nonchalantly.
‘How much what?’ Valentine asks.
‘Oh, come on. You know what we mean,’ the son says.
Valentine does not like the overfamiliarity of the ‘Oh, come on’. Familiarity breeds friendship.
And friendship is a dangerous thing. Friendship compromises you always.
Bureaucracy and bribery go hand in hand nowadays, he knows this. It was not always the case. There was a time when bureaucracy went hand in hand with doing a job well simply because it was your job to do well. All Valentine wants is to do a good job.
‘Form DS 8044 Z is free. Money is not an issue here.’
‘I’m willing to pay anything … anything,’ the son says, uncrossing his legs, leaning forward in his chair, looking Valentine Tanaka in the eye.
‘I’m sure you are. But I do not want your money.’
They scoff. All of them.
‘Of course you don’t,’ the daughter says. She has the audacity to roll her eyes.
‘You people amaze me. You really do.’ He is proud of the calm in his voice. ‘What is it? A feeling of self-importance? A sense of entitlement? Is that what makes you think everything – everyone – has a price tag? Everything is yours for the taking? Everyone can be bought? Whatever it is, you are in error if you think The Organisation will bend to your will – do your bidding.’
‘Oh, come on. We just want form DS 8044 Z,’ the son says, sounding conciliatory now, charming.
Valentine bangs an open palm on top of his desk, enjoying the fact that this makes them all start.
‘No. I will not “come on”. Do not tell me to “come on”. You and I are not friends. You cannot tell me to “come on”. This is very, very serious business here. You are attempting to bribe a member of The Organisation. Have you any idea, any idea whatsoever, what could happen to you?’
The Masukus all look at the floor. Good job.
Valentine goes to stand by the only window in the office. It is grimy, but he looks out anyway. Jesus is not on what has become his usual corner since his return. Probably out roaming the streets. Valentine likes having Jesus where he can see him.
Hands in pockets, he plays with his jangling keys and repeats the qu
estion. ‘Have you any idea, any idea whatsoever, what could happen to you? Bribing a member of The Organisation is punishable by imprisonment with hard labour. Did you know this?’ He is not waiting for an answer. He counts to himself – one … two … three. The phone on his desk rings shrilly, startling the family. He walks over and answers it with no sense of urgency. ‘Speaking? Already? That was quick. What did you do? Really?’ He chuckles. ‘Works every time. I’ll be right there.’ He leaves the office without excusing himself.
He will be gone for exactly twenty-seven minutes. Just enough time for them to start suspecting that he will not be coming back. Sometimes he returns to his office to find it empty – sometimes not. You learn a lot about people by gauging how patient they are.
‘I’m going out,’ he says to the clerk at the front desk.
‘Making them sweat?’ The clerk smiles knowingly.
‘Trust me, they deserve it.’
‘Don’t they all?’
‘These ones more than most.’
The front door creaks open and then bangs shut. The sunlight is blinding. Even though he knows that he will not find them there, he searches for his sunglasses in his breast pocket. ‘Hello old friend,’ he says as he squints the city into focus. The city is chaotic with too much life. The wide and once serene colonial streets are now choked with postcolonial hustle and bustle. He tries to hear the jingle of his keys through the noise of the city. With much concentration, he finally does. He steps onto the pavement and allows himself to be carried along by the throng until he finds himself at the National Art Gallery, where he expertly disengages himself.
He reluctantly nods his good afternoon to the security guard and receptionist. He tries to pass both of them quickly, but the receptionist is already saying her now all-too-familiar, ‘She hasn’t gone anywhere sir. She’s still up there waiting for you.’ To which he nods again and attempts a smile before bounding up the stairs, two at a time, aware that he must be cutting a very comical figure.
And there she is. As always. A flash of light. A dance of colour. Suspended in the air.
The Theory of Flight Page 20