by Mike Nicol
With the water at the boil, dropped in the fettuccini. Switched off the flame beneath a pan of courgettes. Dialled Joey Curtains from his second cell. Even a spook wouldn’t get a street address from this number.
The call went through. Sounded like Joey Curtains was partying. Major background noise: loud music, loud voices. Shebeen. Had to be.
Joey Curtains shouting, ‘Who’s this?’
Fish said, ‘I got to speak to you.’
‘What? What, man, speak up.’
Joey Curtains sounding to Fish like maybe he’d sunk a few. Fair enough. Was Friday night. He’d also sunk a few. But a good few less than Joey Curtains, he reckoned.
‘I want to speak to you.’
‘No, man, I can’t hear a thing. Phone back later. Like tomorrow.’
‘Got to do it now,’ said Fish. ‘Can you go outside? Somewhere quiet.’
‘Who you, man? What’s this you want?’
‘To talk.’
‘Ja, to talk about what?’
Fish not prepared to tell him right off. The next thing, Joey Curtains would hang up.
‘Where’re you?’ said Fish. ‘I can meet you there.’
‘You sound like a whitey,’ said Joey Curtains. ‘Aren’t any whiteys I can see here.’
‘Where’re you?’
‘Vusi’s. You know Vusi’s?’
‘I know Vusi’s. Vusi on NY43. I can meet you there.’
He heard Joey Curtains laugh. Joey Curtains saying to someone, ‘This whitey wanna come here.’ The other person saying, ‘Let him come.’ A cackling laughter. ‘Whiteys got to learn to live. No fun being a whitey.’
Joey Curtains saying, ‘No, my whitey. You don’t want to come here.’
‘Give me an hour,’ said Fish. ‘I can come there.’
Joey Curtains telling him in fast Afrikaans to fuck off out of his face. Who the hell was he? What’d he want? ‘Fokof, jay.’ The run of the words making Fish smile.
Fish deciding the dude was so stoked, may as well go for broke. Said, ‘Joey—’ Got no further.
‘Who’s your Joey? Hey, my bru, whose your Joey? Naai weg, ek sê. You speak to me you call me Mr Curtains.’
Fish catching most of this above the racket. Joey Curtains shouting into his phone.
‘What’s your name?’
Fish told him. ‘Go somewhere we can talk, Joey. You’ll want to hear this.’
‘Hear what? What you got to tell me?’
‘About something you did, Joey, last Sunday.’ Fish knowing he dropped the name Kolingba now there’d be no more Joey Curtains. Rather dangle something.
A silence from Joey Curtains. Vusi’s pumping in Fish’s ear. Music he didn’t recognise.
‘What you talking about?’
‘I think you know. We need to meet, Joey.’
The noise diminishing, Fish heard a door bang closed, the music dulled.
‘My friend,’ said Joey Curtains, ‘what you saying to me?’
‘I’m saying I know what you did last Sunday,’ said Fish.
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t play games, Joey. Just meet me.’ Fish fishing up a strip of fettuccini, tasting it. Al dente. Positioned the phone between his shoulder and ear, took the pot to the sink.
‘Alright.’
Fish surprised, almost dropping the pot into the sink. ‘In an hour.’
‘No, my friend. Not here. Tomorrow.’
Fish thought about this, what options? Rather let Joey Curtains call the tune. ‘Where?’
‘I’ve got your number. I’ll phone you. Tell you where.’
Fish drained off the water. ‘Not good enough.’ Realised he was talking to dead air. Anyhow. He had the man’s number. He could try him again.
Heaped fettuccine into a bowl, smothered it with the courgettes and onions. Sprinkled Parmesan. Forked up a mouthful. Not bad. Washed it down with a mouthful of ale. Raised the bottle to meeting Joey Curtains.
39
Kaiser Vula hated parties. Enforced good times. Everyone laughing, smiling, kissing, hugging, loud with make-believe. Getting their jollies. More champagne, more whisky, more beer. Chasing lines. Falling about. Making out.
Kaiser Vula drank sparkling mineral water at parties. Stayed sober. You learnt things that way. Could watch everyone getting drunk, getting stupid. Saying things they shouldn’t. Doing things they shouldn’t. Men pawing other men’s women. Women dancing like prostitutes. People vomiting in the flowerbeds.
Party fall-out. Some parties you wanted the fall-out. The fall-out could be useful. Other parties there was no gain.
The reason Kaiser Vula hated Nandi’s parties. No gain. No revelations. No confidences. No secrets. Nothing. The people too obvious. Too shallow. Models, advertising execs, radio jocks, tv hosts, actors, artists, trust babies. Only reason he stepped into Nandi’s parties was because of Nandi.
Kaiser Vula knew women, you couldn’t trust them. Nandi likewise. Nothing she’d ever done. Nothing she’d ever said. But Nandi had those muti powders, you didn’t know what was in them. Why Kaiser Vula wouldn’t miss one of Nandi’s happy-happies.
Other hand, a party at the president’s palace, that could be useful. Kaiser Vula could put on his ooze and smooze, be Mr Charming. Except here now he was anxious, irritated, on edge. The scene overflowing with cabinet ministers, the new oligarchs, bishops, kings, princes, princesses, generals, mining magnates, Russian moneymen, slick Romanians, Indians in Gandhi tunics, Italian bagmen, ambassadors, robed Arabs, all the fawning minions. And he was uneasy. His stomach tight with worry.
Worry that there was no word from Prosper Mtethu.
Worry that there was another cock-up.
The apprehension all-consuming. Not even Nandi getting onto the worry meter.
He could see her. With the president, attentive to his every word. Letting him take her into a nightclub two-step shuffle. His shiny head. His thin smile. Kaiser Vula clucked his tongue. Of all the pretty girls, the president chooses her. Sending a message: Everything is mine. Everyone is mine. What could you do? There were only his rules.
Kaiser Vula took his flute of mineral water through the happy groups. Through the jiving bodies. Out onto the terrace. A band played here. Dressed like a band from another time, the men in bow ties, penguin suits, the singer showing remarkable cleavage. Had a raspy voice. Smoker’s voice. Sexy voice. A Miriam Makeba voice. Voice he could’ve listened to in another mood.
But Kaiser Vula was agitated. Couldn’t relax. Couldn’t stand still. He wanted to be out of the light. Away from the careless noise.
From the swimming pool came insistent chatter, young bodies floated there, appealing. Kaiser Vula saw breasts, bums, wet flesh, once he would’ve been there. Not now. Not anymore. Too risky. Too many ever-ready cellphone cameras.
Skirting the wet slasto, headed for darker patches of garden, beyond the lights. Passed the earnest groups in chairs on the lawns, the serious dealers, murmuring together. Where he should have been, listening to secrets, releasing select titbits of intel.
At the flowerbeds edging the grass he stopped, turned to look back: the palace ablaze with light. People crowded in the reception rooms, dancing on the patios, the music swinging, the singer’s voice ripe with seduction. Good times at Bambatha.
Major Kaiser Vula set his glass on a bench, fished out his cellphone. Tried Prosper Mtethu. Voicemail again. ‘What’s happening, Agent?’ he said. ‘You must call me. First thing.’ Tried Joey Curtains. Also voicemail. But Kaiser Vula left no message.
Sat on the bench thinking, what to tell the president? The important thing was, what did the president know about Kolingba? Had to know about the hit. The botched hit. Yet hadn’t said anything. Had made as if he didn’t know. As if a week later the gatekeepers still had the president outside the loop. Hadn’t briefed him on the whole fiasco. Maybe. It was possible. No telling for sure. No telling who knew what.
Moments like this, Kaiser Vula wished he smoked. Wished he hadn’t given
up, after all his wife’s nagging. Thought maybe he’d break his rule, have a drink. Was about to head for the bar, a voice said, ‘Major.’
40
Zama hated parties. Or rather, palace parties. He worked the rooms, did what was expected, loathed the people. Usually he was away after an hour. Intended to be soon. Had gone into the garden to make a call. Have a private chat. Unheard by listening ears.
Afterwards stood waiting for the return call in the deep shadows, watching the revellers. All here for his father’s pleasure. The old man’s sense of power. Few the president didn’t have the drop on. Few who didn’t want to praise him.
The fawning hordes.
Zama despised them all. Yet knew he was among their number. He needed his father. Needed the name that opened doors. Didn’t make it any better. Made it all much worse.
Turned his head, spat the thought into the red KwaZulu earth. The earth of his ancestors.
Yeah, that was another story.
Then saw the guy, the major, come onto the terrace. Vula. Interesting first name, Kaiser, its German allusions. What was Major Kaiser Vula? Who was Major Kaiser Vula? Military? Police? The Security Cluster? Some faction of the secret service?
What had his father said they must talk about? Some refugee colonel from the car. The one who’d taken the hit.
Zama watched Kaiser Vula pause, uncertain, glancing about, then amble past the swimming pool, cross the lawns towards him. As if he knew he was there. Zama kept still, waited.
Saw the major put down his glass on the bench. Make the two phone calls. Heard an urgency in the message he left. His soft cursing.
As the major turned back towards the party, Zama said, ‘Major.’ Stepped out of the tree shadows onto the grass.
Heard Kaiser Vula’s, ‘Wena, you! What’s this?’
‘We meet again.’ Zama took two paces towards the man, holding up his hands, showing his cellphone. ‘Like you, I needed to make a phone call.’
‘You heard what I said?’
‘Only that you had to leave a message.’ He shrugged. ‘On a Friday night everyone is somewhere else. We must expect this.’
Zama waiting for a response from the major. Getting none. The man uneasy, gesturing towards the party.
‘I must get back.’
Zama switched to Zulu. ‘I have not seen you here before, Major. This is your first time?’
Major Kaiser Vula nodded.
‘A place for all the chiefs to meet.’
‘I don’t know.’
Zama swept his arm across the breadth of the party. ‘You can believe me. There is business being done tonight. Deals. Arrangements. Handshakes. Contracts, even. Understandings. You know what I mean?’ He laughed. ‘Some of it you will read about in the newspapers. They will call it corruption. But we know the other side, hey, Major. It is how the world works.’
His phone vibrated, the ringtone muted.
‘Ah, my people are on the ball.’ He held up his phone, the screen flashing. ‘Next time we must talk about Colonel Kolingba. I need to know about this man. About what happened.’
‘There was an assassination attempt.’
‘That much I know, Major. What I don’t know is did they do it? Or did we?’ Zama held out his hand. Again Major Vula took it, they shook. Zama putting strength into his grasp, feeling it returned. Smiled. The major would not be an easy one. ‘Until next time. Please.’ He stood aside. ‘I must answer this.’
Major Kaiser Vula nodded. Walked off towards the partygoers. Zama waited until he was ten paces away, pressed connect. Said, ‘Yes, Mr Davidson, what can you tell me?’
41
The president enjoyed parties. Enjoyed the obeisance, the deference, the fear that could be glimpsed in his guests. Enjoyed too the lovely girls. The shine on their skins, their smell, the way they walked, their giggling.
Nandi was one of these. From the feet up. Silver shoes, long legs, some shape to the calves, firm thighs. When she moved, a muscle tightened there, tempting. Asking to be caressed. For a hand to glide up beneath the short skirt. The president stopped himself.
Lifted his eyes to her camisole, spaghetti straps. An interesting term, spaghetti straps. You hooked your finger underneath one you couldn’t even feel its softness. Same with the cami, the silky way it swirled over the swell of breasts.
The president focused on the woman dancing in front of him. This woman telling him things. Speaking with her body. Moving up to him, moving away. Smiling. Enjoying herself. Making out with the president.
The band powered on the tempo. Nandi taking the president by the hand. Swirling round him. The president feeling he must indulge this woman. But not with dancing. Dancing was for young people.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let me show you the palace.’ Feeling no resistance as he drew her away from the dancers. People parting with smiles as they saw him coming through. People reaching out to touch him, casting down their eyes.
His people, his adoring people.
Led her through a doorway, closed off the noise. Said, ‘Come, come.’ Nodding at her. ‘We can have a moment of quiet.’ Leading her upstairs, following her now, his eyes on the bulge of her backside, the movement of her buttocks beneath her skirt. What underwear would she have on?
‘Where are we going?’
Her voice soft, her head tilted upwards. The long curve of her neck. Could imagine his hand against her neck. The flutter of her pulse on his palm.
‘My special place,’ he said, guiding her into a long lounge: earth-colour walls, pale curtains, coir wall-to-wall, leather couches. Standing lamps with skin shades, subdued. ‘My African room.’ Yet no trophies, no spears, no shields, no knobkerries. No zebra skins. No porcupine quills. No cluster of calabashes.
Only one painting centred on the end wall behind a white screen.
She walked towards it, delicate as a klipspringer on her high heels. The snick of them across the carpet, her calves moulding, relaxing. Her thighs tight, a long muscle stretching there.
The president took from a cabinet a bottle of cognac. Poured into two snifters, tasted from the one.
‘A drink,’ he said, coming up to her, holding out the glass. Seeing hesitation in her eyes, sipped at his again. ‘Vintage cognac.’ She took the glass. ‘You will not taste better outside of France. This is very fine.’
She sipped.
‘You agree.’
She smiled. ‘I don’t know cognac. It is the first time I have tasted it.’
‘My dear, for a city girl, you have not drunk cognac? What is your drink? Champagne? There is champagne: Lanson, Moët, Veuve Clicquot, if you would rather. You like the bubbles.’ He drew a Lanson from the fridge, uncorked it and brought her a flute. ‘For you.’
She took the glass, sipped.
‘You think that is better than my cognac?’
Again her quick bright smile. Her lips moist. She didn’t answer his question, instead pointed at the screen. ‘Can I see the picture?’
‘Of course.’ With a remote dimmed the lamps, brightened a spotlight, the screen rolling up.
There revealed a presidential portrait: himself in dinner jacket, dark glasses, head turned slightly to the right in triumph. Gazing towards distant people looking up at him.
Nandi stepped back, said, ‘Oh, wow.’
‘You like it,’ he said. ‘I do. It is not finished yet.’ Took her hand, led her towards a couch. ‘But tell me, my dear, about you and Major Vula.’
42
‘Chief,’ said the Voice. ‘What’s happening? Tell me things. Things I want to hear. How’s the colonel’s wife?’
Mart Velaze stood at a Weber, cooking ostrich steaks, his aspect the city by night. A dazzle of lights below him. The hot face of the mountain above. In the house a woman preparing salads.
Said to his boss: ‘I had to meet with the investigator.’
A silence.
Mart Velaze glanced at the woman, one sexy piece. So young. So stunning. Could outgun him on a shootin
g range. Had a mouth on her too.
‘That’s not something I want to hear. Was it wise?’
‘I took precautions.’
‘I’m sure you did. But yours is not a face we want exposed, Chief. We want you in the shadows. Understand?’
Mart Velaze said he did. Opened the Weber lid, used tongs to turn the steaks. The trick with ostrich steaks, sear the outside, have them bleed when you cut into the medallion. For this you needed a hot braai. A white-hot bed of coals. Earlier he’d thrown on woodchips soaked in beer for that smoky flavour, closed the lid.
‘Got some bits and pieces you’ll find interesting, Chief. Seems our friend Henry’s well connected. Can buzz the president. Also on speaks with the son, Zama. Seems he let both of them know he’s tracked down a woman called Linda Nchaba. Know anything about her, Chief?’
Mart Velaze said he didn’t.
‘A name to keep in mind. And now, hear me, our Henry’s been busy with his commie chommies. No transcriptions available, but some out and abouts, would you believe? Meetings in parks, libraries, at the restaurant on Table Mountain. Lovely view, I’m told. Trouble with the commies, you can never tell if they’re serious. Never know when one of them’s going to swing at you with an ice-pick.’
Mart Velaze watched the woman come out of the house carrying a bowl of salad, a French loaf balanced across it, the neck of a wine bottle caught between her fingers. On her face a quizzical expression: like who the hell’re you talking to now? Always the attitude. She came up to him, blew gently in his ear. Whispered, ‘Oh, baby.’ Got Mart Velaze ducking away, almost going into the swimming pool.
The Voice saying, ‘Where are you, Chief? You cavorting, might I ask?’
‘Braaiing,’ said Mart Velaze.
‘A barbie! Doesn’t have you down as a barbie man in your file, Chief. There’s a thing. You learn one every day. Okay, I’m going to let you go back to your burnt offerings with this little morsel: the brother who got the Kolingba hit together’s now being pulled in by the president. Old comrade from the military secret service called Major Vula. Major Kaiser Vula. A name Mrs Kolingba might like to know.’