by Peter Church
Alistair was nonplussed. “But why do you need such expensive gear? My Sony cost four grand.”
“Yes, but there are all sorts of Sonys. It’s about quality.”
“But you said it was fixed.”
“Once you shoot it, it’s fixed. But you still have to shoot it.”
Alistair shook his head.
“OK,” said Richard, used to dealing with Philistines. “If you shake your hand while filming, you agree the result will be shaky?”
“Sure.”
“Well, if you use a tripod then it won’t shake. The more expensive the equipment, the more features and functions available. Better zoom, better focus, white balance, better audio.”
“And CCD,” interrupted Devon.
“CC what?”
“Charge-coupled device. That’s what translates the light from the world into digital ones and zeros. The more the merrier.”
“You can shoot the same scene with two DV cameras. That stands for Digital Video cameras. One creates a file of say ten megabytes and the other one hundred megabytes. Same scene. But the big one contains much more detail.”
Alistair followed. Sort of.
“But how do you send the hundred megs across the net? It’ll block everything up, surely?”
Devon and Richard exchanged glances.
“You want to send little videos around the net then buy cheap,” said Devon. “Not much fuss, not much quality, but small files that are internet friendly. That’s not our business. We’re into movie quality videos. Carlos’s clients have their own indoor cinemas; these guys are hard-core enthusiasts. Grainy schoolboy efforts won’t impress. We shoot in very high res, compress to a low-quality format and submit to Carlos. He reviews. If he likes it, then we transfer the real McCoy online. It just takes a while.”
“Sounds simple,” said Alistair, perusing the array of equipment spread across the lounge floor.
“This is the heavy artillery,” said Richard proudly, lifting a Canon XL2 camcorder. A huge two by twenty lens added weight to the firepower.
“How much?”
“Five grand.”
“Rand?”
“Dollars.”
Alistair whistled.
“Devon has two of them. Twenty four frames per second. Film compatible. You can shoot a freaking movie with this baby.” Richard was enjoying himself.
Alistair peered at the computer screen over Devon’s shoulder. Devon was logging onto a site.
“Video sharing is booming,” he said. “This is a new site. Called Ultra. Check it out. Everyone and his dog is a movie director. Cellphones, video cams…”
The screen showed thumbnails of twenty videos under the heading “Recent Submissions.” Alistair scanned the narratives underneath. Devon clicked on a video entitled “Sharking in Japan.”
“Look at the counter. This was submitted five minutes ago. The counter is 4,218. That’s the number of people who’ve viewed it.” He refreshed the page. The counter said 4,620.
“This must be a hot one,” he said, clicking on it.
On the flickering screen, a man in a balaclava approached a young woman carrying groceries. He rushed up to her and pulled down her pants. Richard guffawed.
“Is this legal in Japan?” asked Alistair.
Richard giggled and Devon shook his head.
“But won’t this put an end to Dark Video? I mean, if they show anything online. For public consumption.”
Devon shook his head again.
“This recent submission page will soon be blocked. The owners of these sites cannot afford to allow just anyone to insert an unedited video. They have legal obligations to filter out unacceptable material. Otherwise they’d be sued.”
The man in the balaclava struck again.
“We should totally do this,” said Richard.
“These sites get away with this for a while, before the complaints come in, then are forced to accept submissions offline, review them and then only publish the legal ones. You could never put a clip like this on YouTube. And Watchit is legal too. They’ve had some big problems. You’d only find this in the age restricted section there.”
Another Japanese woman was frantically pulling up her pants, parcels scattered on the pavement. Alistair blew a whistle through his teeth.
“5,115! This is big business.”
“The future,” said Devon.
Alistair was getting tired of the tech talk; he changed the topic. “I’m going to grab a beer.”
He marched to the kitchen and picked his way through the fridge. Well stocked. Cheeses, vegetables, mayonnaise; Johnny must go mad for a burger. He pushed aside the Black Labels and located a six-pack at the back of the shelf: Amstel. Much better. He returned to the lounge with the beer.
Devon accepted a dumpy. “Did you learn anything?” he asked.
“That I can’t shoot Jaws with my little Sony?”
“You gotcha.” Devon laughed and took a swig.
Alistair tossed a beer to Richard who caught it awkwardly.
“Just one for you, kid,” he said. Richard stuck out his tongue.
“When’s the beast getting here?” asked Alistair. Their departure depended on Johnny’s return from rugby practice.
“Who knows?” replied Richard. “That Neanderthal probably can’t even tell the….”
“Hey!” Devon cut him off. “Johnny’ll be back soon. I want a nice, quiet, relaxing weekend. No stirring. No shit. From you or Johnny.”
“No shit.”
Johnny’s blue Cressida pulled into the drive, engine revving.
Richard, in the back seat with Johnny, sat reading the newspaper. Alistair in the passenger seat, Devon driving.
“Hey, check this. There’s been another porn murder. Same lines as the Camps Bay guy.”
“Read it,” said Alistair.
“‘Police are investigating the death of Ray Naidoo, 55, found dead in his Bishopscourt home yesterday morning. He had been shot at close range in the back of the head. Police spokesman Gerrit…“Blah blah.” Richard scanned ahead. “Check this: ‘Naidoo is currently under investigation by the Special Branch. He is alleged to have been involved in a pedophilia ring passing child pornography over the internet.’”
“I wonder if this is linked to the Camps Bay murder?” asked Alistair.
“Who knows?” replied Richard. “Cape Town’s the murder capital of the world.”
“Both wealthy, both executed in their homes, shot in the back of the head—that doesn’t happen every day,” said Alistair. “Plus the internet porn connections.”
“Who cares anyway?”
“Who cares? Dodgy internet trading—that’s similar territory to what we do. I reckon it’s worth caring.”
“Maybe they’re Dark Video clients,” said Johnny, drumming with his fingers. He was desperate for a cigarette.
The car rollicked on along the dusty Karoo road; dust spewed from the back wheels, blowing a film of red smoke over the green fig trees. Alistair wondered when last it had rained.
“You ever consider nicotine patches?” asked Richard.
Johnny pulled up his right sleeve and showed off the attachments. He opened the back window, the heat outside permeating into the car, dangled a plastic Coke bottle from the window, the rushing wind creating a tuneless harmonic within the aperture of his instrument.
Devon checked the interior temperature on the front dial. “You’re messing up the temperature,” he said.
Johnny’s eyes were closed, lost in his world of winds and sounds. It was a long journey. Three hours along the N1, past places with names like De Doorns, Touws River, Laingsberg, until a turn off the national road onto a dirt road that wound and extended forever.
Devon braked heavily, momentum pushing his passengers forward, Johnny’s face thrust into the gap between his headrest and the window arch. Devon fired his elbow, up and to his right, landing a solid blow on Johnny’s jaw. Alistair had predicted the outburst, but the sudden viciousnes
s took him by surprise.
“What the fuck!” Johnny sat back in a daze.
“Shut the window!”
Johnny wiped his hand across his mouth and reached for the window button. “Jeez. Keep it cool.”
“It’s nearly 40 degrees outside. I’ve been driving for three hours. I’m not cool.”
Richard sniggered in the back seat alongside as Johnny gingerly shifted his jaw from side to side.
Alistair turned up the volume on his iPod. This was team building…
They arrived in darkness to an old farmhouse: thick whitewashed walls, tin roof, wooden floors. Beds allocated, they turned in, happy to sleep off the long journey.
Alistair woke early and strolled down to the orchard, small and unkempt. How do the trees survive here? he wondered. He didn’t really get this place. Pretty, in a harsh kind of way: red dust and shimmering heat before breakfast already, stark vegetation able to survive on the sniff of a raindrop. He stepped carefully along a narrow footpath that hugged the inside of an old stone wall. The grass grew long against the edges; Devon had warned of snakes.
He imagined Terri on the farm, blue eyes casting color on the drab environment, like flowers of a jacaranda. Mentally, he selected her wardrobe: blue and white checkered shirt, one size too big, unbuttoned, tied at the waist; faded blue jeans, not tight, the type that hung low, like a gunslinger; short brown boots; hair loose, lace, an Alice band.
A tickle of a breeze released the scent of the orchard: naartjies, figs and lemons. He followed the concrete sluice, water trickling slowly from the reservoir, dripping through a hose against the base of the trees.
He texted Terri:
In karoo. No fun without u. Help
She replied:
sleeping. Call yr nanny
A truck of farm workers shattered the serenity, descending quickly into the valley, dry brakes screeching.
Wait, thought Alistair, wasn’t this dream his nightmare? White picket fences and snaking dirt roads leading to a place where he could take a wife and plant his roots. He chuckled to himself. What had he taken last night?
“Just take it,” Devon had said. He’d popped the little white tablets in his mouth and slept like a baby.
Whatever it was, his imagination ran wild, a giant wide open Karoo canvas splashed with images of Terri in hipster jeans. He placed her in the kitchen, hands on hips; in the bedroom in a thin negligee, dark nipples visible.
Voices of the farm workers disrupted his thoughts. He tried to recapture the images, but the nurse was there….She reposed naked in the orchard, belly ring glinting, a bed of fallen leaves and decaying fruit, defined leg muscles, her olive skin wet with perspiration, a contrast to Terri’s soft pale complexion.
“Breakfast!” Richard yelled from the porch.
Alistair dug his hands in his pockets and turned back toward the farmhouse, the tin roof, silver tinted with orange dust, reflecting the climbing Karoo sun.
Johnny drove like an animal, foot on the pedal, elbow out the window, cigarette in hand.
They’d spent most of the day discussing Project Grey Suit, as Devon had called it, running through different scenarios, reading articles on shark attacks downloaded from the net. Richard had displayed the research on the laptop: pixellated images of a goofy surfer getting nailed in the middle of a cutback at Nahoon Reef; shaky footage of an oceanic research student losing a leg in the South Pacific. Shark attacks had been filmed, but it was low-grade opportunism only. Devon made them sit through a couple of National Geographic documentaries: one showing shark experts free diving with great whites in Gansbaai; the other shot off Seal Island, footage they’d all seen somewhere along the line, of seals swimming on the surface and being hit from below, sharks breaching, cartwheeling through the air.
Afterwards, Devon and Richard had slipped off for a walk to the river. Alistair, feigning stomach cramps, had headed to his bed—but Johnny had come calling.
“We’re going to Prince Albert for a drink.”
“We are?”
“You and me,” crooned Johnny.
Alistair closed his eyes.
“Come on. Don’t be a pussy, Morgan. A few drinks will do you good. Besides, I’m not sure how much of this place I can handle without a beer or five.”
“Er…”
“Pussy, pussy, pussy,” Johnny goaded in a girly voice.
“Fine. I’ll drink anything you put in front of me, big shot.”
Johnny lifted him roughly off the bed, face against his face. “Fighting talk. I love it.”
Three beers each were emptied in less than twenty minutes at Kromby’s Bush Bar—quarts, at Johnny’s insistence.
Johnny swaggered for the toilet, to break the seal, a big slap on Alistair’s back, shaking the legs of his stool. Alistair reeled already, a fighter on the ropes. He stared out the window: a forlorn assortment of old buildings, an empty parking lot, a spread of abandoned, rusty farming equipment. Paraffin lamps blazed on the walls, the smell of kerosene ingrained into the room.
“What’s your name?” asked Alistair.
“Who me?” replied the barman.
“No, behind you.”
They were the only people in the bar.
Alistair slipped him a fifty rand note. “Here’s the deal. If I order tequila, you pour me water. I’ll pay for it and you can have the money. But mine are water, his are tequila. If I order a quadruple, you give him four tots and me one topped with water. Got it?”
The barman looked mortified. Alistair peeled off another fifty.
“I’m counting on you.”
Johnny reappeared, tucking his shirt down the front of his pants and buttoning himself up.
“How’s this fucking shirt?” Johnny wore a loud floral Hawaiian shirt, all but one button undone.
“Two tequilas each,” said Alistair as Johnny whacked him on the back again. He was on the offensive.
“You’re in good spirits,” said Alistair.
Johnny raised his glass. “It’s a Saturday night and I just got paid,” he shouted tunelessly. Alistair vaguely recognized the song, it had “belly full of beers,” and “switch blades” in the lyrics.
“We should’ve done that chick, Morgan, that little princess. The money would’ve been tripled!”
Johnny spun around and checked around the bar.
“Watch what you say, Johnny. People might…”
“Chin chin.” Johnny raised his shot glass. Down it went. Alistair sighed and followed suit. Then the next one. He looked at Johnny. Not a blink of the eye.
Double the stakes; he ordered another two each and a quadruple Bell’s.
“I like this man,” said Johnny, throwing an arm roughly over Alistair’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re not such a prick after all, huh?”
Forty-five minutes later, Alistair had turned the tide. Various quantities of tequilas, whiskey, and beers had gone down; Johnny weaved and slurred.
“Why’d you guys destroy my video? You can’t believe the quality—pure show business.”
“Devon’s a prude.” Alistair didn’t want to say he’d seen it.
“A rude?” he started to laugh. “I’ve seen some rude things, I tell no lie.”
“Tell me more.”
Johnny put a finger to his lip.
“Another quadruple,” called Alistair, alcohol to lubricate the flow of truth.
“But fuck him. Fuck him!” Johnny’s decibels were on the rise. He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth, pulled Alistair forward off his chair with the other.
“I fucked him. I made another copy.”
He performed a victory shimmy, his eyes never leaving Alistair’s, whipped out his wallet, pulled out a wad of notes. “Where do you think this comes from?”
Alistair looked away. Johnny grabbed him around the neck again. “You’re not going to run and tell Devon, are you?” He was slurring, spittle spraying into Alistair’s face. “Because if you do…if you do…”
Alistair raised his hands
in submission, brushed off his shirt.
Johnny was distracted by the entry of two men and a woman, the volume of patronage drastically increased. He looked them up and down as they sidled up to the bar. Not locals, but relaxed, part of the place. Green shirt, yellow T-shirt—the men. Purple shirt—the girl. Big tits.
Johnny beckoned them over. “Drinks all round for my friends.” A round of beers for the men and a Southern Comfort for the lady. Alistair made small talk while Johnny disappeared to the bathroom. They were from Worcester, working for a building contractor in town.
Johnny returned, shirt hanging out.
“I’ve got a dare for you fellows. Sorry, and dame.” They leaned forward to listen. “Barman, give me two tot glasses, one with water and one with whiskey.”
Alistair scrutinized the girl. She looked cheap. Would he give her one?
“Now,” slurred Johnny. “I bet you five hundred rand I can make the whiskey and water swap glasses. Whiskey from here to there, water from there to here.”
“What, without first pouring them into other glasses?” checked Yellow T-Shirt.
Johnny nodded.
“And your mouth?”
“No interim container, sonny. No mouth, no glass, nothing. It’s magic.”
“Without spilling?”
“No spilling.”
“We don’t have five hundred rand,” laughed Green Shirt.
“Otherwise you’d be on,” said his friend. They clanged their beers together and laughed.
Johnny rubbed his forehead. He hadn’t given up on the deal. “Wait. We renegotiate.”
Alistair prodded Johnny in the ribs. “Let’s get out of here.”
Johnny slapped the hand away.
“Your girlfriend does a strip for us.”
The two men laughed again. They glanced at their companion. She sipped on her Southern Comfort and ignored them.
“Five hundred for a strip tease, babe,” one said. “That’s more than you charge for a blow job.”
The two men laughed. She cast them a glare.