by Wole Soyinka
Van Wyk looked weary. ‘Look, I’m sure you’re aware of Lynne being on maternity leave. Again. She’s all we’ve got on travel and tourism right now. The usual piece on accommodation hotspots can’t marinate till she gets back. It needs wrapping up.’
‘And who say I know about travel writing? I’hn know nuttin about it. I can’t even whip up a dozen synonyms for “picturesque”.’
He cracked a whisper of a smile. ‘It’s a tad more involved than that.’
‘Exactly. And I’hn know anything about what those involvements are.’ She opened the folder, didn’t know why she had, and snapped it shut again. ‘Nobody else want this?’
‘There are people who do.’ He paused. ‘No one I’d want or trust to give it to. There are those who could but can’t, because we barely have any free hands. That leaves you. And Tinkerbelle.’
The ones you neither trust nor want to hand it over to.
He coughed. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m certain you can handle this.’
‘So . . .’ Vee took indignant pause. ‘This you’re willing to let me do. But you won’t put me on the crime desk full-time. When that’s the job I was promised.’ Khaya Simelane and Andrew Barrow, long-running autocrats of their page, were still holding firm on blocking newcomers. ‘I’ve done courses and learnt so much about web media and editing, which I use all the time working with the online team. But no, I still can’t join the online team, that’s got only three people despite that it’s more popular than the print edition. Darren appreciates the extra help, but I can’t even put my two cents into the webpage without issues. Because of Saskia Schoeman.’ Who you’re sleeping with, on top of your liquor problem. Hey, maybe you got drinking problems because you messin’ round with her, wouldn’t be surprised. But we only here to talk about my shortcomings. Vee bit the insides of her lips closed.
‘It’s complicated. And I fully appreciate how empty that sounds. You were candid and emphatic in your interview about not being shunted through various departments willy-nilly as you’d been at Urban. For the most part I’ve kept my word, but—’
‘I know. This is an emergency. Always is, always will be.’
Van Wyk replied with a long, granitic look. Vee tipped a curt nod, took the folder and got to her feet.
‘Hang on.’ He folded his arms and eyed the ceiling, toying with an idea. ‘I’ve been meaning to, and I guess now’s as good a mood as any to ask. Did you take it?’
Vee furrowed her brows.
‘Year before last, the case you had . . . with the thing . . . and the crazy family . . .’ He twirled a finger in the air, indicating she jump in with the elusive words. ‘The missing Paulsen girl,’ he snapped his fingers finally. ‘The pay-off. That the client offered you for your . . . diligent services. Did you take it?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Johnson, come on.’ He puffed in dramatic exasperation. ‘Listen, you’ve got something. First of all, you don’t play games, which,’ he clasped his hands in gratitude, ‘goes a long way to making my life easier. Top reason I can’t stand working with women. Besides the dramatics and all the time off they need to pop munchkins, of which I’m bloody gatvol.’ He sat up straighter. ‘What I’m getting at is, I need to know my people. Now you know there’ve been whispers about this. And I know that you know that I’ve heard, and if I’ve heard, then I’ve wondered. So . . .’ he presented open palms. ‘You’d hardly be the first or last journalist to take an incentive if they felt it was deserved.’
Stock-still, Vee felt a nimbus of heat plume between her eyes. ‘You jokin’ me, right?’
Van Wyk shook his head.
‘You got to be jokin’ me,’ she insisted, surprised at the dangerous rasp in her voice. She turned, swayed through the door and almost slammed it behind her.
Vee fumed at her desk for a quarter of an hour, eyes lost in the sunshiny world through the window as a pulse thumped in her neck. Finally, loosing a string of expletives under her breath, she grabbed laptop, handbag and keys.
‘I beg your pardon?! Where do you think you’re going?’
Vee gruffly shouldered past Saskia and continued towards the exit without a backward glance.
‘Hey! Where’re you off to?’
She whirled on Chlöe.
Chlöe took a step back, eyes widening. ‘For heaven’s sake, what happened now?’
Without a word Vee turned down to the underground parking, leaving Chlöe staring after her with a ‘what the hell?’ look on her face.
The Pink Oysters
Shafinaaz Hassim
The athaan pierces the cool morning air. Birds scatter over the rooftops of Mayfair’s dishevelled houses, remnants of a colonial past. From my window, I can see a police van – officials trying to disperse the crowd gathering around an old Mercedes Benz, its boot gaping open. I’ve seen this car in the neighbourhood, often stopping to visit at the house across the road. A dodgy, oily-haired fellow emerges now and then, turns to look around before he goes into the house and hurries back to his car when he leaves. There’s no sign of him today, just this abandoned car, and many curious people. I amble across the street to find out what has happened. The police have managed to part the crowd; I slither through the path created in time to see the police photographer flash his camera over a bloodied corpse squeezed into the open boot. The body of the odd, oily-haired man is unmistakeable. His eyes are open, looking fitfully ahead, even in death.
Another athaan echoes, this time from the mosque two blocks away competing for believers’ attention, nagging me to get back to my reason for waking early. I return to my modest rented room. The dead man’s face follows me through my day. By late evening, a knock on the door makes me reach for a torch and the front door keys. Power outages have become common in the winter. There are too many homes suckling off the city’s power grids like ever-hungry babies. I open the door to reveal Mahmood Hassan, a local Somali trader, and my bearer of news and business opportunities. I usher him in, allowing moonlight to poke holes in the dark.
‘I brought some tea,’ Mahmood holds up a flask.
‘Thanks, man,’ I say, reaching for two mugs from the dish rack. Mahmood is fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket. He seems nervous.
‘So, you see what happened in this street this morning?’ he says. I merely nod. I still don’t know what to make of it.
‘It’s a problem for us,’ he says, intent on turning this into a discussion. I don’t take the bait. I don’t really want to know. ‘Irfan, do you realise what happened?’ he probes.
‘I saw it. I saw that guy’s body in the boot, it was horrible. Maybe he was screwing some guy’s wife while the man was away at work and he got caught,’ I spill words and shrug. ‘Hectic story, but who cares?’
‘Ai, Irfan,’ Mahmood snickers. I’ve annoyed him. ‘It’s bigger than you think. Come, let’s go see old Fidel, he’s waiting for me. And I’ll tell you the story when we get there.’
‘I haven’t seen Fidel in months,’ I say. I’m not complaining. He’s not my favourite person.
‘I didn’t come see you to make nice chit chat,’ Mahmood’s tone changes. ‘Fidel has a big job for us.’
A groan escapes my lips. Mahmood shakes his head at me and walks out the door, starting up the engine on his motorbike while I grab a jacket and lock up. The smell of death lingers. The face of the dead pervert accompanies us through the streets to Main Road. The bike comes to a stop outside a barber shop, and I jump off. Mahmood cuts the engine and climbs the pavement and then he walks the bike through a narrow side alley. He rests it against a decaying wall stuck with bits of a poster from some Bollywood flick. The voluptuous Kareena’s bare midriff and heaving bosom try to replace the dead man’s face in my mind. A loud guffaw breaks the effort; Fidel’s voice echoes from the canteen a few steps away. Something tells me I’m not going to like this. I drag my feet and follow Mahmood towards the scattered tables. Fidel is seated at one of them with a suited guest, his men sitting at the tabl
es playing card games, turning around now and then to inspect new arrivals. Fidel sees Mahmood and motions to his guest to step aside.
‘Mahmood . . . kay fahaal ya Mahmood,’ he greets. ‘Take a seat, take a seat.’ His mockery is evident.
‘Who is this boy?’ an irritated Fidel asks Mahmood, nodding his head in my direction.
‘My man, Irfan,’ Mahmood offers. ‘He’ll do our job.’
The ruckus at the table beside us ceases.
‘Ah, this is good news,’ Fidel passes a toothy smile over me.
I still don’t have a clue what this is about.
‘That guy fucked it up. And now he’s a bag of kak in the boot of his car. My car. He didn’t even pay for it,’ he says. ‘You sure he can do this?’
‘Tomorrow night. Consider it done,’ Mahmood says. His eyes haven’t left my face. He gets up and pushes me towards the door. I don’t see Fidel’s face again. ‘We need this job. You don’t ask questions. I done many things for you. And only you can do this, you look like your Indian brothers. Paki what-what,’ he mutters.
‘I’m not Indian or Pakistani,’ I say, annoyed. ‘So at least tell me what this is all about?’
We’re walking the bike to Fordsburg. I’m struggling to keep up with him. The smell of tandoori chicken, paan masala and ganja filters in spirals through the crisp air.
‘Don’t give me excuses, you know what I’m saying,’ he reprimands. ‘He just wants us to finish the job that stupid Faisal was supposed to do, before he got killed . . . Deliver a parcel. Return with the money. Simple. And you’ll fit into the crowd with your clean Paki face. No one will suspect a thing.’ We stop at the corner of Mint Road and Central.
‘What parcel? How much money?’ I dare to ask. I’m wasting my time. He doesn’t usually give me details. Cars are whizzing by but I manage to catch his words, somehow.
‘Diamonds. Fifty million rand.’
Mahmood briefs me on what I need to do when we get back to my place. Our cut will be huge, enough to keep us happy for a few months.
The next morning, he has a brand new suit delivered to me. Salman brings it over.
‘Mahmood says you’re going for a job interview,’ he says, his idiot grin plastered on his face.
‘Eh, yeah,’ I say, retrieving the suit and slamming the door in his face.
By evening I’m sliding across town in the back of a private cab to attend the wedding of some Indian industrialist’s daughter at the Sandton Convention Centre. I’d had a shave and slicked my hair back the way they do in those mafia movies. I’ve always wanted to do that. But then I change my mind at the last minute. I don’t want to attract too much attention. My clean ‘office boy’ look will have to do.
It doesn’t help that as I make my way up the elevators to the main hall, women who look like shimmering mermaids glance in my direction. The weight in my left jacket pocket echoes my heartbeats. I slip into the reception area trying to figure out how to find my guy. Signals. Something. A short bald man in a white suit approaches me. He has far too many rings on his hands, clutching a glass of something sparkling.
‘Areh, Kamal, your mother would be so proud, look how you’ve grown, son,’ he slobbers over me, hugging me and patting me on the back.
‘Eh, Uncle, I’m sorry. You must be mistaken . . .’ I mumble.
‘No, no! I’m quite sure Sarita would have been so proud. Super proud, my boy!’ he raises his voice, and then lowers it. ‘It breaks my heart, you know. She was so young, so lovely, so very, very young,’ he laments, shaking his head, looking tormented.
No. I don’t know. I glance around nervously.
He continues to pat and prod, shuffling me towards a table laden with cakes.
A muffled screech of ecstasy from a pink-shrouded shrimp of a woman and my gushing friend is off, leaving me standing beside tables of cake and mithais, biscuits, baklava and fondant. A waiter appears with a tray of samoosa and pakora.
‘Do you have oyster, instead?’ I test.
‘Eh, no sir,’ he stutters. ‘Only pakora.’ But he doesn’t offer his plate as he says this, eyes shifty, he disappears out of sight towards what must be the kitchens or serving area.
Almost immediately, another waiter appears.
‘If it’s oysters that you prefer, they are served on the balcony, sir.’ He motions for me to follow him. Password accepted. This is my cue.
Once I’ve stepped out on to the terrace, he vanishes behind me.
Strong hands grab my upper arms, lifting me slightly off the ground and into the shadows.
I’m patted for weapons and shoved back on my feet.
Something doesn’t feel right. I pat my pockets to confirm. They’re gone! The bag of diamonds is gone.
‘Looking for this, young man?’ the man in the white suit steps into view, holding my bag of goods.
I’m confused. And potentially fucked.
‘Thanks for the delivery,’ he says. He throws a set of keys at me. My early days of playing cricket in the streets of Kabul come in handy; I’m holding the keys to a Toyota.
‘Car is in the back. Payment in the boot. Enjoy your dinner before you go. Just don’t leave it out there too long, as you know, Johannesburg isn’t too safe as a safe.’ He chuckles now. ‘Get it? Safe for a safe!’
The two guys behind me also burst into laughter.
I’m not getting the lame joke. I make a retreat to where the car is parked.
I don’t know where else to go, so I drive to Rafi’s place in town. I use my old key to draw open the roller shutters and pull the car in. Rafi is asleep upstairs. I return to the car and click open the boot. A sea of tightly packed wads of R200 notes greets me.
I’ve never seen so much money in my life.
I guess this must be what fifty million rand in pink notes looks like. The Pink Oysters, as Mahmood said.
When I awake for early morning prayers from my makeshift bed of cardboard and sheets on the floor, Rafi is standing over me nodding his head. ‘Where have you been? Did you get a job?’ he asks, every bit a reminder to me of my mother, his youngest sister. I’d come to South Africa on his request. Things would be better here, he’d said. He didn’t say that a University of Kabul degree in Philosophy would mean nothing, except as a tool to console myself.
‘Yes, Baba. I have a job. You know. I told you. I work with Mahmood, the Somali guy.’
‘And this car?’ he asks.
‘Just a delivery for a client,’ I say.
He creases eyebrows but says nothing. He turns and walks away.
I dial Mahmood’s number from my mobile.
‘Ha, who’s this?’ The line is bad but I can tell that it isn’t Mahmood.
‘Salman?’ I enquire.
‘Yes, Irfan bhai,’ he confirms. And then he goes silent.
‘Where’s Mahmood? Why do you answer his phone, useless idiot, give him the phone!’
There’s silence. Why does he have Mahmood’s phone?
‘Mahmood is dead,’ he finally says.
‘Huh? What shit are you talking?’ I manage to blurt, my head buzzing.
‘I found him dead in his room last night. I don’t know what happened, bhai,’ he says slowly.
The line goes dead.
My heart races. Mahmood, dead? Who killed him? Fidel? Or the same guys who killed the oily-haired guy? I could be next. I have Fidel’s money. And I don’t know what to do with it.
Rafi’s linen and towels are stored in a cupboard in the garage. I retrieve a large quilt and pull it over the car. I’ve locked it. The set of keys feel like a rock in my pants pockets.
I take a walk into the city to clear my mind.
When I return at noon, Rafi is surrounded by customers. Afghan Fruit Shop. His pride and joy for the past fifteen years in this land of opportunity. I used to work here when I first arrived. He gave me R200 a week. The shop earned him about R14,000 a month after expenses. An honest living, he said.
I slip into the garage where I’d attempte
d to hide the car and slide to the floor next to it.
I’m not sure when it is that I fall asleep but I awake to the sound of Rafi talking to someone at the top of his voice.
The Pink Oysters are attracting flies.
‘I don’t know where the boy is,’ he says. ‘If he did the job, he must be at home now.’
‘If he hasn’t done the job, he better be dead!’ the man screams back. I recognise Fidel’s voice. But how did he know where to find me?
I peek through the gap in the wooden door between the garage and the front of Rafi’s kiosk.
‘That Mahmood tried to double-cross me. Just like Faisal, I had him finished off. You better tell that boy of yours, Salman will come after him too,’ Fidel warns, kicking the fruit table at his side. Tomatoes, green beans and potatoes scatter on to the pavement. Anger flashes across his face; he returns to his car and drives off.
Rafi remains still. I watch him as he slowly turns around to look for a towel, pulls up a plastic chair and sits down to wipe and cover his face. His mobile rings, he ignores it. It rings again.
‘Yes. Yes, I had a visitor. This is getting out of hand,’ he says to the caller.
Rafi is disappointed.
What have I done?
I have a car with fifty million in the boot. And I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to guarantee that they won’t just come back and kill me and Rafi once they have their money.
I wait on the floor of the garage until the city quietens down. Then I go back to my rented room in Mayfair. The walk is treacherous, I realise. Any of Fidel’s men could be lurking about. But I can’t use a car full of hard cash.
When I get to my place, the lock on the door is broken; the street light throws beams through the opening. My dilapidated couch is slashed, spilling fluff where the fabric has been split. Dishes have been broken, my possessions strewn all over the place. I always carry my passport and papers with me. But the money I keep in a small plastic bag under the kitchen sink is gone. Even if Fidel’s men have been here, I know that it’s been a free-for-all ever since, now that the door has been broken open.