Pop-Splat

by Ian Martin

  “She is now in a trance-like state, without a doubt,” he said with confidence. “Another five minutes and then please be so kind as to insert the pessary.”

  The door was closed and Godknows Tshabalala returned to his chair on the other side of the desk.

  “Sorry about the interruption, Matt,” he said in a relaxed, conversational way. “Mrs B has an obsessive-compulsive neurosis which my white colleagues have been unable to treat. She has a phobia for old shoes, fearing that any hint of shabbiness in her footwear would be socially devastating. She feels compelled to wear only brand new, out-of-the-box shoes. Even though she knows her behaviour is irrational she has been unable to help herself. It has brought her husband close to financial embarrassment.”

  “Gee, it sounds bad,” said Matt. “So that’s why she keeps saying ‘no more shoes’, and has to stand in a bucket of pigshit?”

  “Exactly,” replied the sangoma. “In cognitive psychology we describe the treatment as “flooding”. But there is also an underlying sexual element in this kind of neurosis and it too must be addressed. But this is a digression. Let’s return to your dream: do you read the newspapers regularly?”

  “Well… er… yes.” Matt was taken aback by the abruptness and apparent irrelevance of the question. “I try to follow what’s in the news. I didn’t used to, but in the last six months or so I’ve been trying to follow what’s going on in the world. Current affairs and…”

  From next door there came a moaning scream, stretched out long and low as if it possessed a visible shape.

  Must be inserting the pessary, he thought. What the hell’s a pessary? He mustn’t forget to ask Horry – he was bound to know.

  “In that case,” said Tshabalala, ignoring the background noise, “you must have followed the media coverage of your father’s death and the subsequent analysis of other information that came to light.”

  “Well, yes,” said Matt. “But not in any great detail. I’m afraid I’m not all that interested in what goes on in the business world.”

  “I see.” Tshabalala raised his eyebrows as if he found this lack of interest somewhat remiss. “If you had followed the investigative journalism carried in the Financial Mail, Sunday Times, Mail & Guardian, Business Day and Noseweek you’d probably have a shrewd idea what it is your dead father wants to tell you.”

  Matt felt confused and embarrassed. There was a suggestion of disapproval in the doctor’s voice.

  “I know that my father was involved in all sorts of shit,” he admitted. “But isn’t that what it’s all about? My whole life I’ve been hearing about some sort of intrigue going on in the background. There was always a devious scheme being hatched; threatening phone calls, secret appointments. It was going on at home and all around me: wheeling and dealing of every kind. How many times have I seen bundles of cash, cardboard boxes of it, changing hands at a pool party, a braai, even in the car park at school? Laughing about the stupid ANC and affirmative appointments and BEE deals, and backhanders and board memberships. And tax! Jesus, I’ve heard so much about tax: amnesty, grey areas, offshore assets, undeclared income, fraudulent claims. It’s all they ever talked about: money, money, money. Money and cheating, and what money can buy. Fuck, I hated it. What do I want to read about it for?”

  The psychologist looked at his client for a few moments and then leaned forward.

  “Matt,” he said, “you can choose to bury your head in the sand if you wish. But then you mustn’t try to make sense of the world or ask why you are troubled by strange dreams. On the other hand, if you want to understand what goes on, you must read the papers and engage with society. If I didn’t do this myself I would be of no use to my patients.” He sat back and rested his elbows on the padded arms of his chair.

  “Because I have followed your father’s story in the press,” he continued, “I have been able to form an opinion, only an opinion, of what might really have happened. And of course it is just speculation.”

  “You mean…” Matt was having difficulty grappling with what Tshabalala was trying to tell him. “You mean he might not have been killed by hijackers? Then…”

  Tshabalala held up a hand, interrupting him.

  “Look,” he said, “you came to me with a psychological problem. I’m not a business consultant or a private investigator or a lawyer. You want me to treat the underlying cause of your insomnia. Well, I can offer you a choice of two types of therapy: Western, or traditional African. Because you are of a generation without cultural depth, because your psyche is stunted and your imagination malnourished, you are probably incapable of terror. Therefore I would not recommend the sangoma treatment. The ritual and mystery would be wasted on you, for you would see it merely as special effects. You’d compare it to some game on your PlayStation.”

  Involuntarily Matt glanced over his shoulder to the door behind which lay the silent aftermath of orgasmic catharsis.

  “No,” said the doctor. “Instead I shall deal with you bluntly and without subtlety. Matt, I want you to go away and read the reports about your father’s death and what has happened to his business empire. Then you are to ask yourself this question: who has benefited most from Bruce Dreyer’s death?”

  Matt sat staring at the therapist, his mouth open in astonishment. The scales were already falling from his irritatingly obtuse eyeballs. And not a single bone had been thrown.

  8

  “The King of Bhutan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bhutan?”

  “Yes,” said Horry. “It’s a small country, a kingdom, somewhere in the Himalayas between India and China. Just below Tibet.”

  They were back in the coffee shop at Exclusive Books and he was telling Matt about his crazy mission.

  “What the hell do you want to go and see the King of Bhutan for?” asked Matt.

  “Gross National Happiness,” said Horry by way of reply. “Ever heard of it?”

  Matt shook his head, so he went on to explain:

  “It’s a play on GNP. Gross National Product, the measure of incomes of the residents of a country. I mean, you did this crap in Economics 1 at Wits, didn’t you? Per capita, GNP in the US is $36,000, the UK $27,000, and South Africa $2,300. In Bhutan it’s a miserable $690.”

  “So it’s a poverty stricken place,” said Matt. “Right near the bottom of the pile. Doesn’t sound a success story.”

  “Not in quantitative terms,” said Horry. “But GNP is a measure of consumption. It doesn’t necessarily tell us anything about the quality of life; the well-being of the citizens of a country.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Matt. “That’s where Gross National Happiness comes in, doesn’t it? But how do they measure well-being? Very subjective.”

  “That’s what I’m going there to find out,” said Horry. He glanced past Matt and the light of battle flared in his eyes. “Well, fuck me up my auntie’s cunt if it ain’t Mother Superior and Friar Fuckface again!”

  Matt turned to see the same middle-aged couple about to sit down at a nearby table.

  “As Dawkins points out,” Horry said in a very loud voice that carried right into the bookshop and made even the browsers prick up their ears, “the Christian shitheads – the ones who believe in Creationism – are convinced that God created the Earth some time after the dog had become domesticated. Now that’s delusion for you! Ha, ha, ha!”

  The couple abruptly turned and made their way to the furthest table; the one in the corner next to the door.

  “Now what were we saying before we were interrupted?” asked Horry. “Yes. It’s difficult to put a quantitative value to well-being. The mastermind behind GNH was actually the former King, who recently abdicated in favour of his 26-year old son because he was intelligent enough to see that senility was just around the corner. Anyway, his idea is based on four principles. For there to be a high level of well-being for all, socio-economic development must be equitable and sustainable, accepted cultural values must be preserved and promoted, the natural
environment must be conserved and, finally, a system of good governance must be established and maintained.”

  “Makes good sense,” said Matt. “So you’re going to check it out and see how it works in practice?”

  “Yup,” said Horry. “And if I’m suitably impressed I’ll invite the King of Bhutan, the young one, to join the Foundation and attend the conference in September.”

  Matt knew all about the Foundation. The Fifty Fifty Foundation. They were supposed to halve the world’s population by 2050, bring about a whole new order, and save humanity and the planet. Yah man, right on.

  “And who’s paying for this trip?” he asked.

  “The old man,” said Horry. “He’s making big bucks out of processing dead meat. Burials and cremations are booming, man, booming. Especially with AIDS. He’s even started manufacturing cheap cardboard coffins for the poor. No, he can well afford to sponsor an overseas trip for one of the living.” He laughed. “Actually, he offered me a holiday for two to a destination of my choice. I think he hoped I’d do something incredibly banal and bourgeois like taking a chick skiing in the Alps. Fuck that!”

  “How long are you going for?”

  “Just over a week,” said Horry. “I’ve got to be back to register for the new academic year. But hey, Matt, why don’t you come with me? Something totally different: it’ll be great therapy.” A wicked glint came into his eye. “We could go as a gay couple. Stick our pricks up each other’s bums like we used to in the tree house as kids.”

  “For God’s sake, Horry!” Matt’s bloated features flushed red. Horry laughed with delight.

  “No, but seriously,” he went on. “Why don’t you consider it?”

  Matt was silent for a while. Maybe it would be good for him. It was a crazy idea, a bizarre destination. And Horry’s company was never dull – he’d never known anyone so wildly unpredictable. But he sighed resignedly.

  “Afraid not, Horry,” he said. “It’s Ophabia’s eighteenth next week and we’ve made all sorts of plans.”

  “Ah, young love!” said Horry. “Oh well, if you’ve made a commitment you must stick to it. I understand, although I’ve never been in love myself. I’ve only ever been infatuated; yearning, craving and lusting after the ripe flesh of a cock-teasing slut who had absolutely no sense of the ironic, and possessed the intellect of a Cro-Magnon hominid.”

  Matt chuckled. But the grin was wiped off his face when Horry changed the subject and asked him about his visit to the sangoma. Almost reluctantly, he recounted his conversation with Dr Tshabalala.

  “So you see,” he said, looking the picture of dejection, “he didn’t say it in so many words, but he made me aware of what seems obvious to him: my father’s murder wasn’t a hijack at all. It was a carefully planned execution.”

  “No, hey?” said Horry, and went on as if addressing a mental retard: “And who do you think could be behind it, Matt?”

  Matt sat looking at Horry. Fuck it, if it was so obvious why hadn’t anyone told him? And why hadn’t the police done anything about it?

  “Jesus, Horry!” he said. “Do you think my mother was part of it? Would she have agreed to having my father assassinated?”

  “Afraid so,” said Horry quietly. “That’s what it looks like. They’ve just got married, haven’t they?”

  Matt’s tremors, twitches and tics were starting up again. He felt in a leg pocket, produced a plastic pill container, and knocked back two Alzams for the anxiety. The coffee in his cup wasn’t enough and it was cold.

  “If you have these suspicions,” he said, “and Dr Tshabalala seems to share them, then everybody in the world of big business must be of the same opinion. It must be common knowledge. So why hasn’t anything been done?”

  “Because it’s only a suspicion,” said Horry. “And there are all sorts of other factors influencing the situation.”

  “Like?” asked Matt.

  “Well, like the fact that your father had a lot of enemies. Some people considered him a ruthless manipulator capable of some pretty devious tricks. And then again, your uncle has some friends in high places: like the chief of police; even some cabinet ministers.”

  “But,” said Matt, “my father and Claude were partners in the same organisation. All deals would have resulted from a joint decision.”

  “Not really,” said Horry. “You must remember that your father was the older brother and he had a very autocratic style. Since his death Claude and Ben Apollis have made some big changes. They’ve spent a lot of money placating your father’s enemies and looking for new partnerships. So you see, Matt, just about everyone thinks Bruce Dreyer got what he deserved. Who would be interested in digging about to find his true killers? Tell me that.”

  A couple of days later Matt drove Horry to the airport. Although they left in plenty of time they nearly got there too late. In the main road outside Constantia Village there was a traffic jam.

  “Looks like the road’s flooded up ahead,” said Matt.

  “But it hasn’t rained for ages,” said Horry. “The fucking sewers must be blocked again.”

  Yup, the fucking sewers were indeed blocked again. Flashing lights, Council vehicles, and workers dressed in oilskins and gumboots. The engine of a big mobile pump was thundering away and belching diesel fumes into the air. Axle-deep, they slowly made their way through a twenty-metre wide lake.

  “Jeez, it stinks, hey?” said Horry. “That’s the stench of affluent effluent.”

  “That’s our shit you can smell,” said Matt.

  And then, after speeding over the highway, jumping a red light at Paradise Motors, they got onto the N2… and phut.

  It was the same thing again. Just after the cooling towers the traffic backed up and ground to a halt.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” Horry was waving his hands about, working himself into a rage. “Here we are, at the ‘Gateway to Cape Town’, 10AM in the middle of the week, and the traffic’s standing still. It isn’t moving, for Christ’s sake! Can you imagine the monumental fuck-up when 2010 comes round?”

  The traffic crept forward and they made their way through another lake of human waste.

  “Jeez, what a stink, hey?” said Matt this time. “That’s the stench of slum effluent. Spot the difference?”

  “No difference,” said Horry. “Rich or poor, we all shit the same revolting shit. You know what a disgrace this is?” He pointed to the sea of shacks lapping the side of the freeway. “Forty percent of the world lives like this. That’s nearly 3 billion people living in slums. Cape Town’s a glaring example of unstructured, unregulated urbanisation. Not only is the sewerage system antiquated and unable to cope, the water supply is hopelessly inadequate and power blackouts are a daily way of life. The road system can’t handle the volume of traffic, and the trains and stations provide the muggers and rapists with unlimited opportunities. And the people just keep coming. Seventy thousand new arrivals a year, and the housing backlog grows and grows. What must conditions be like in the rural areas if this way of life is preferable? Look at the piles of rubbish along that fence. All the landfill sites are full. You know, there’s not even any space left to bury the dead. I should know – my father’s a fucking undertaker. Hey, check that guy crapping in full view of the passing motorists. Shit, that looks like serious diarrhoea! Hey, who the fuck’s hooting at us?”

  Matt had pulled out to overtake a 16-wheeler and a big Beemer 7-series had come up on them at high speed. The chauffeur was flashing his lights and hooting at them to get out of the way.

  “Bastards!” said Horry. “Hey, watch it, Matt! They’re taking you on the inside.”

  He put his head out of the window as the luxury saloon leapt into the gap. Two middle-aged business types in suits sitting in the back. The one nearest them glanced sideways at Horry’s middle finger.

  “Jou ouma se poes!” Young Horowitz screamed the insult at close range and then the big car had pulled ahead and continued its way towards the airport.

  �
��You see that, Matt,” said Horry, rolling up his window. “That obscene display of arrogance is what really gets me. How can they sit in the back of a vehicle that costs over a million bucks and pass through all this poverty and not feel a twinge of conscience? No, fuck them, we need a revolution, a new world order. That’s why I’m going to Bhutan.”

  Ophabia’s birthday was on the Friday. The party was held at the Apollis residence and it was a big bash with lashings of everything, and dancing and carrying on till late. All very nice.

  On the Saturday she told her mother Matt was taking her out to dinner. Somewhere classy for her birthday; somewhere romantic. Afterwards they might go to a club or a party. It might be late. Maybe she’d only be back in the morning.

  She didn’t tell her father, because he was a bit old fashioned and might start asking for more detail. Ben Apollis was too intelligent to be overly religious, but he’d been brought up by authoritarian parents who were members of a Pentecostal sect – Oh dear sweet Christ Jesus, save me from the sins of the flesh! Amen! May the spirit of the risen Lord stand guard in the vaginal vestibules of our wives and our daughters! Hallelujah! Some of it must have rubbed off on him and at times he could be irritatingly ‘moral’.

  Matt called for her after seven. She looked ravishing. Fabulous. A red evening gown? OK, like Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red. The sight of her took his breath away and he was consumed with pride. Perfectly normal to feel proud to be seen with such a beaut on your arm, but dangerous. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, along with Wrath, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, Avarice and Sloth. So maybe he shouldn’t have felt pride, but what can you expect – typical bloody stupid male ego at work here.

  He didn’t look half bad himself. Almost dashing, if an out-of-condition ex-rugby player can ever look dashing. What he wore was not exactly a tux, but black jacket, charcoal trousers, shiny shoes and a fancy white shirt. Very smart.

  They took the road over Constantia Neck and down into the Hout Bay Valley. Then the long climb to Suikerbossie. No, they weren’t going to eat at the Suikerbossie Restaurant. They passed Suikerbossie and came out above Llandudno and the sea was spread out before them in the starlight.