The Firebird.
There are some artsy types – students most probably – examining the latest exhibition. Thankfully they pay no attention to him.
He listens to the jingle-jangle of his keys and takes comfort in it.
He walks around The Firebird. It never ceases to amaze. From every angle, The Firebird is something beautiful to behold.
Someone clears her throat behind him.
Valentine looks to find a dear white old lady looking at him, a sympathetic smile on her lips and a hint of disapproval in her eyes. It is only then that he realises that his hand has left the jingle-jangle of his keys and is reaching out to touch The Firebird.
‘She’s a thing of beauty, isn’t she?’ the dear white old lady says, moving closer to him, wanting to converse, making him feel trapped.
‘Yes,’ he mumbles before hastily retreating and rushing out of the gallery, bounding down the stairs and almost forgetting to nod goodbye to the receptionist and security guard.
He rushes out of the gallery and into the blinding sunlight. He recently misplaced his sunglasses. No matter how many times he retraces his steps in his mind, he cannot remember where he left them. He really needs to buy a new pair. That is how he should use the extra thirteen minutes he now finds himself with – buying a pair of sunglasses. He should wear them when he goes back to talk to the Masukus. Make his eyes something not for beauty to see. That should put the fear of God in them.
He mentally locates the nearest store that sells sunglasses and starts to make his way there. His progress is stopped by the sight of the son, Marcus Masuku, entering the gallery, hands in pockets, a man at his leisure. The Masukus gave up waiting for him after ten minutes? He expected them to last at least fifteen minutes … maybe even twenty. He cannot believe he actually overestimated them.
He follows the son into the gallery. At a distance of course.
The son shakes hands with the security guard. ‘We thought you had forgotten us,’ the security guard says.
‘Never. This is home,’ the son says as he heads over to the receptionist, who giggles at something he whispers to her.
He is a charmer, this one. A man of the people. No, not a man of the people – rather someone who needs to be liked by everyone. ‘Oh, come on,’ he had said to him – overly familiar, trying to charm.
He waits for the son to go up the stairs before following him.
He finds the son talking to the dear old white lady.
‘She’s a thing of beauty, isn’t she?’
‘She most definitely is.’
‘So what do you think she is? A bird?’
‘Yes. A fine, rare bird.’
‘That’s what I think as well. But Mike, that’s my husband, he thinks she’s a woman suspended in the air. What sense does that make? I say to him, “It’s called ‘The Firebird’, for heaven’s sake.”’
The son reaches out to touch one of the dancing colours.
‘Tsk-tsk,’ says the dear old white lady. ‘I don’t think you should do that.’
‘Oh, it’s all right,’ the son says, putting a hand on the dear old white lady’s shoulder as though they are old friends. ‘I own this particular piece. I am Marcus Masuku.’ He points at the plaque and reads: ‘The Firebird, by Vida de Villiers. Purchased by Marcus Masuku on November 7, 2007.’
The dear old white lady believes him instantly, of course. A man like Marcus Masuku, with beauty, ease and charm, would never lie.
But that is all beside the point. How could he, Valentine Tanaka, have missed such a detail? His job is all about detail. And he is good at his job.
‘I would take her with me,’ the son is saying, ‘but she is so popular that the gallery has asked me to keep her here.’
‘I think this is Vida de Villiers’ best work,’ the dear old white lady says. ‘Do you know that he is back on the street?’
‘Is he?’
‘Such a pity. So much talent. He is my favourite artist. His Street Dwellers series made me weep. I was so proud … but it also filled one with sadness, you know. This series was much happier. More optimistic. “The Theory of Flight: In Three Movements” – something romantic about it …’ The dear old white lady puts her arm around Marcus and they continue to talk like old friends. She reaches out and touches the flash of light. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ she says with a naughty giggle. She touches the dance of colour. ‘Oh. You should have been here a few minutes ago. There was a man. He wanted to touch her and I stopped him. Such a pity. He was a cripple. A sorry looking fellow. Just wanted to touch something beautiful, I suppose. I shouldn’t have stopped him.’
Valentine Tanaka cannot stay to hear any more; he rushes out.
Will the son figure out that he is the ‘cripple’ that the dear old white lady is talking about? No, of course not. The son does not associate him, Valentine Tanaka, with galleries and fine art. The son thinks that he is at The Organisation doing something harsh and cruel – perhaps even grisly – to someone, somewhere in The Tower. People always imagine the worst of him. But he is not the man the Masukus imagine him to be.
It was Valentine Tanaka’s first case as a member of The Organisation. A girl – about fifteen years old, wearing a school uniform – suspected of shoplifting at Meikles Department Store, accessories section.
It had become an epidemic – girls from private schools stealing knick-knacks in different sections of Haddon & Sly or Meikles stores. A compact disc pilfered here, a piece of candy pocketed there, a golden necklace secreted over there. The girls were masters of sleight of hand; they worked in groups, and, worse still, were suspected of having formed cartels. They needed to be stopped. They had been shielded by their uniforms for too long, as no one had ever suspected that these privileged children would have any reason to steal. But the stores had finally wised up and asked The Organisation to help them deal with something that was obviously more complicated than petty theft. The Organisation did not want to punish the privileged girls or destroy their brilliant futures, which is what would have happened if the stores had got the police involved; they wanted to understand why they were doing what they were doing.
Partly because the Meikles Department Store was right around the corner from The Tower, and partly because it was a simple case of shoplifting, Valentine Tanaka felt disappointed that this was to be his first case. It was going to be too easy. He had wanted his first case to really showcase his abilities; to impress his superiors; to show that in spite of appearances he had it in him to get any job done … and not just done, but done well, done right. In short, to show that he could do a good job.
The girl was easy enough to spot. She had been standing in the accessories section for over an hour. She kept looking at the people around her. Valentine Tanaka and his partner did not actually see her take anything, but it was obvious what she was up to. She had the audacity to start a conversation with the security guard before exiting the store. As soon as she left the store, they grabbed her and walked her over to The Tower. Had he been more experienced, the fact that the girl did not struggle would have been a sign.
He sat behind a two-way mirror and, speaking through the intercom, told the girl on the other side of it to strip naked. The girl complied. The female officer accompanying the girl collected the girl’s clothes and left the room. It was only then, when she was naked and, he believed, vulnerable, that he asked for her name.
‘Imogen Zula Nyoni,’ she replied, her voice strong, no hint of a quiver. She did not shiver even though he knew the room was cold. She did not cross her arms or try to cover her breasts or privates as he thought she would. She simply let her arms hang down by her sides. Nor was she disconcerted by the disembodied voice that seemed to come from nowhere.
The female officer entered the room and shook her head.
‘Where did you put them, Imogen?’
‘Where did I put what?’
‘The accessories.’
‘What accessories?’
‘You expect us to believe that you spent an hour just looking at those …’
‘Alice bands and scrunchies,’ the female officer whispered in his ear.
‘You spent all that time looking at Alice bands and scrunchies without taking any?’
‘Oh that? I didn’t find any that I liked.’
The nonchalance of ‘Oh that’ struck him.
‘It took you an hour to realise that you did not like any?’
‘The colours were not what I was looking for. I was looking for an interesting blue. They didn’t have it.’
‘An interesting blue?’ he repeated, intrigued in spite of himself.
He looked at the girl, Imogen Zula Nyoni, really looked at her for the first time. He was not comfortable looking at a naked person, especially a girl. But now that he was looking at her – really looking at her – she did not seem naked at all.
His superior officer cleared his throat, reminding him that he too was being observed. Valentine Tanaka then nodded to the female officer.
‘I don’t think it is necessary. She didn’t take anything,’ the female officer said.
He gave her a commanding look. She put on the rubber gloves in resignation and left the observation room.
He watched Imogen closely as the female officer entered the room. She showed no signs of apprehension or fear. Even as the female officer snapped the rubber gloves for effect. No apprehension. No fear.
‘Please bend over and place your hands on the ground.’
Imogen did as she was told.
‘Feet apart.’
Again she did as she was told.
The female officer hesitated.
‘Okay. That will be all. You may stand,’ he said, stopping the female officer from inserting her rubber-gloved fingers into every available orifice.
The female officer hurriedly, and, he believed, gratefully, left the room.
Imogen straightened up and actually – this he had a hard time believing – brought her left hand to rest on her left hip. Who stands akimbo like that during an interrogation, Valentine Tanaka wondered. Apparently Imogen Zula Nyoni did.
The female officer returned Imogen’s clothes and satchel. Imogen put on her clothes carefully. This time he noticed that her panties and bra were brightly coloured and mismatched, purple and shocking pink respectively, not the run-of-the-mill black, white or beige. ‘I was looking for an interesting blue,’ she had said. Now he believed her.
Done dressing, satchel in hand, she now stood waiting.
‘You may leave,’ he said.
That was not what she had been waiting for. Probably waiting for an apology. But The Organisation did not do apologies.
Imogen looked directly into the two-way mirror for the first time and walked up to it. He expected her to spit on it – a brave few had been known to do that.
Instead she said: ‘You cannot break me. You see, I know for certain that my parents were capable of flight.’ And with that she left the room. Intact.
Her parents. Capable of flight. He entered her name into the computer. Her information came up. Mother: Elizabeth Nyoni. Father: Golide Gumede. Golide Gumede? Of course. Suddenly Imogen Zula Nyoni made perfect sense to Valentine Tanaka.
Now, the father, the mother and the daughter are sitting exactly where he left them – not talking to each other. They are all looking at their portable electronic devices. Without him in the room, they do not need to present a united front. There is a tension between them. Tension is good. He can use it to his advantage. He is still determined not to like them, picture-perfect though they are.
His cellphone rings. A smartphone. Not the latest model. Not top dollar. But one that he is rather proud of.
‘Hello?’ he says. It is his wife wanting to know what he would like for dinner – beef or chicken. It does not matter which he chooses because he knows she has already defrosted the Kariba bream. So it will be fish for supper. She seems to take pleasure in disappointing him in little ways … or perhaps it is her way of surprising him every day. His wife is the one person that he cannot easily read. Which is the reason that he married her.
The daughter actually snickers when she sees his phone.
He sees how he must look to them. They think he is showing off. They think that he has answered the phone on purpose to show them that he owns such a phone. That he has been out all this time orchestrating a situation in which his cellphone will ring in front of them.
It would never occur to them that he bought the phone because he liked it. Liked the way it looked. Liked the way it felt in his hands. Liked the many things it could do. He had treated himself, bought himself something nice and beautiful for a change. But somehow these people think that his purchase of a phone has nothing to do with him, how he feels and what he needs – and everything to do with them. They see it as his way of desperately trying to acquire something that they naturally have – status.
A certifiably ugly man with a beautiful smartphone is a pathetic sight in their eyes.
‘It looks like one of you is missing.’ He smirks at his own joke as he sits down at his desk.
‘My son went out. Needed to stretch his legs,’ the mother offers, obviously not amused.
‘Oh. I see,’ he says, before pressing the start button on the old computer, which whirrs to life. ‘I have spoken to my supervisor. Your case is difficult, but not impossible. To start the process I need your daughter’s particulars. What is her name?’
‘Imogen Zula Nyoni.’
‘I-M-O,’ the daughter starts to spell for him.
‘I know how to spell, thank you.’
I-M-O-G-E-N N-Y-O-N-I, he types with two fingers on the keyboard … slowly … laboriously.
‘It is such a unique name. Most people misspell it,’ the daughter explains.
‘I-M-O-G-E-N, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And you are Mr and Mrs who Nyoni?’
‘We are Dr and Mrs Masuku. Dingani and Thandi.’
‘Is Nyoni her married name?’
‘No.’
‘Eh. I’m sure you realise that there is a problem here. Masuku. Nyoni. Parents and daughter having different last names. How can I be sure—’
‘She was adopted,’ the daughter says, cutting him off.
‘What year was the adoption?’
‘Honestly, is all this necessary?’ the mother says, exasperated.
‘Madam. I’m sure you appreciate the need for the most exact details in a case such as this. Year of adoption? Wait. Our records show that Imogen Zula Nyoni was born on the third of September in 1978 and died on the twenty-second of December in 1987. Aged nine.’
‘This is utterly ridiculous. We adopted Genie in 1988,’ the mother says, getting up in a flash and making her way to the computer.
He stops her progress with a raised hand. ‘I’m sorry, madam. I cannot let you look at the computer screen. That is The Organisation’s policy. But I can print out a copy.’ He pushes a button and an old dot matrix printer wheezes to life.
‘You have got to be kidding me,’ the daughter says, almost laughing.
It takes an eternity for the printing to stop. He carefully tears off the printout, which reads: ‘Imogen Zula Nyoni. Slain December 22, 1987. Death reported by Minenhle Tikiti – Relation: Aunt.’
He hands them the printout. They all take turns to read it.
‘Eh. I’m sure you can appreciate that it is not possible for me, or for anyone else in The Organisation for that matter, to issue you form DS 8044 Z.’
‘We have the adoption papers. We could bring them,’ the father says.
‘The person you say is missing, this Imogen Zula Nyoni, is apparently already dead and has been for over thirty years. I’m afraid this is now a bigger issue. An investigation is necessary. The state might have to intervene … become involved.’
The Masukus have been shocked into silence.
‘If this person, this Minenhle Tikiti, who reported Imogen Zula Nyoni dead, can br
ing us the death certificate, we might be able to get to the heart of the matter.’
Just then the door opens. The son enters.
‘Marcus. Marcus. This man says that Genie has been dead for decades. Dead, Marcus!’ the mother screams, rather too theatrically for Valentine’s liking, taking all of them by surprise.
Gone is their composure.
Gone is their certainty.
Gone is their self-assuredness.
Good job.
The son sinks into his chair. Defeated. ‘I should never have let go of her hand …’
‘It also says here that you reported that Imogen Zula Nyoni had been kidnapped by a Jestina Nxumalo in 1988. This too will have to be investigated.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ the mother scoffs.
‘I’m afraid there is no other way to take a kidnapping but very seriously.’
‘Jestina did not kidnap Genie. It was the eighties,’ the mother says matter-of-factly.
‘I’m sorry, what does the fact that it was the eighties have to do with anything?’
‘You know what was happening in the eighties. People … disappeared,’ the mother says, brave but hesitant.
‘People cannot and do not disappear,’ Valentine says.
‘Well, they did in the eighties.’
‘People have bodies and bodies do not disappear.’
‘Well, Genie lived in a place where several people disappeared. We believed that Genie had also disappeared. But she had managed to escape with Jestina.’
‘First you said Imogen disappeared because it was the eighties, now she disappeared because she lived in a particular place.’
‘It was both the time and the place that made disappearances possible.’
‘This is … this is …’ the daughter says.
‘I believe the word you are looking for is Dickensian,’ Valentine offers.
‘Why and how would you investigate the kidnapping of a person in 1988 whom you say died in 1987?’ the daughter asks.
‘And if she died in 1987, how were we able to adopt her in 1988?’ the mother added.
‘That is yet another complication. I will need to see your original DS 1D3 showing that you did indeed adopt the person you thought was Imogen Zula Nyoni. I will also need a certified copy of your DS 1D3 for our records.’
The Theory of Flight Page 21