Cry of the Firebird

by T. M. Clark

  He disagreed. No one deserved to die because of his skills with chemicals.

  He felt a twinge of guilt that now anyone could get caught up in his designer drugs, but the plan was working too well to stop it, and Mishti was demanding more and more variations of contaminants from him.

  Anaya was going on again about a new house, and he could never say no to her. She had also wanted another car—a new Mercedes Benz, not just a Toyota Prada. He needed to make sure the money kept coming in, and he needed to keep going with the drugs to achieve that. As long as he gave Mishti her results, she wouldn’t expose his addiction to his father, and he still longed mostly for his approval above all others. He always had.

  He pushed the guilt aside.

  Mishti never questioned him on his drugs knowledge—how he knew which to contaminate. As long as he delivered maximum damage and maximum profit without a chance of being detected. The HIV drugs had been her idea, but what he put into them had been his design.

  According to the latest ‘confidential’ statistics, the HIV national average was only ten-and-a-half per cent. The statistics were a farce; the government had tried to silence the real data that showed the numbers were almost double what they claimed.

  HIV in the black population was much higher than any of the other population groups. According to widely published reports, it was higher than twenty-five per cent in the black communities alone.

  The population of South Africa was over eighty per cent blacks, and only nine per cent whites. The Indian population, and the Asians came in at only two-and-a-half per cent. But that didn’t make him hate the black communities because they outnumbered the likes of him. It made him feel sorry for them. Despite their numbers, they were still misguided by greedy politicians all the time, and people who they believed were on their side and would give them a better life, and ultimately were not.

  Their family drug-manufacturing company under Mishti’s control was just another in the long line to exploit that.

  He frowned, remembering the first drug experiment he’d done for her: HIV retrovirus drugs were taken by the majority of HIV-infected people to help control and inhibit the disease. With a compromised immune system, the designer HIV drugs would deliver the meningitis fungus and the little bit of food supplied for it to survive. And since meningitis was one of the sicknesses those infected would often encounter during their illness, no one would ever suspect anything.

  He shuddered at the thought that he was the faceless man behind those who had died. He shook his head.

  ‘They were HIV positive already. It’s not like you are giving them the disease, they are already going to die, it’s just a matter of when,’ Mishti had said.

  His own foresight went a little deeper. When he saw the writing on the wall with Mishti pushing his drug ideas further five years ago, he had invested a small nest egg in a friend’s business—a funeral home. That was booming, mostly with AIDS-related deaths. There was definitely a synergy between the two companies he cared for.

  He looked at the picture of his three children on his desk, his beautiful wife sitting with them, dressed in the best designer clothes. He didn’t want to hurt people, but if Mishti told him to, he would do it—for his family.

  If he didn’t have the money to support his family, they would hate him. Anaya would leave him. She was an unexpected catch that he never wanted to let go. He wondered how she would react if she found out how he earned their daily bread.

  At the moment his children were too young to understand, but later when they were adults, would they still look at him with the love and devotion that they did now if they found out?

  He couldn’t look them in the eye, even in the picture. He reached out his hand and laid it facedown.

  He had a job to do: to make money. Lots of money. Never mind about his hatred of Mishti and what she made him do. He’d always known that there were consequences for his habit, and all he could hope, now that he was a father, was his kids would never feel the fallout, or have an addiction like he suffered.

  The phone rang.

  Reyansh looked at the screen on his desk that identified Mishti, and he so wished he didn’t have to answer it, but a call was a lesser evil than a visit in person. He lifted the receiver.

  ‘Just checking you’re in your office,’ she said.

  ‘I’m here,’ Reyansh said.

  ‘Then get into my office. Now.’ The phone went dead.

  Reyansh slowly replaced the receiver—then lifted it again. He bashed it on the cradle until broken pieces started to fly all over his office. He picked up the cradle and attempted to throw it at the wall, but the cord kept it from hitting anything and it fell on the carpet, increasing his frustration.

  The action grated on his already frayed nerves. He grabbed the mug on his desk and chucked that at the wall instead. The sound of the cup smashing was satisfying to his ears.

  He opened his drawer and popped two pills into his mouth, before checking his reflection in the mirror. Making sure he looked like he had it all together. Not a hair out of place. He took off his lab coat and hung it beside the door so that she would only see his suit. Unsoiled. A veneer over his troubled mind.

  Entering Mishti’s office with false confidence, Reyansh was already speaking as he opened the door. The quicker he did this, the quicker he could go home. ‘The new consignment will be distributed across Kimberley within a few days, and the next shipment for Cape Town leaves tonight.’

  ‘Sit.’

  He walked over to the visitor’s chair and sat.

  ‘What antibiotics have you put in this container to combat the new contaminants?’ Mishti asked.

  ‘Broad spectrum. Amoxicillin/clavulanate potassium packages and paediatric penicillins.’

  ‘Any new oncology drugs?’ she asked.

  ‘A few opioids, including fentanyl, gemcitabine and carboplatin, and some of the cholinesterase inhibitors, Donepezil and Memantine, have something extra special in them as well.’

  ‘Meaning? What could you possibly put into an Alzheimer’s medication to make their symptoms worse?’ Mishti snorted.

  ‘Nothing. They’re placebos. Look the same, weigh the same, but made up of cheap fillers, they do nothing. They cost us nothing; they sell for a lot.’

  ‘Placebos? So, what miracle follow-on drugs are used after nothing?’

  ‘None. They’re not designed that way. Other than costing us next to nothing to manufacture, so huge profits. Like I said already, it’s the perfect drug. But if they do notice that the patient doesn’t respond, then the doctors will prescribe other non-generic drugs—which we also manufacture. We get two sets of drugs prescribed instead of just one for the same patient. This lot are the test. If this goes undetected, then I can do a few other drugs without any introduced contaminations, leaving out the expensive active key ingredients.’

  ‘What about the antihypertensive medicines and diuretics? Those worked well last time. Are there more in the Kimberley container?’ she asked.

  ‘A variation of both streptococcus and pneumococcus bacteria that causes pneumonia are in those.’

  ‘Old people get sick all the time with pneumonia. Foolproof,’ Mishti said. ‘Now, we make money quickly off the drugs used to treat it. Who said that South African drug companies couldn’t compete with the international cheap drugs coming in? I’m making this company millions, brother. Millions. Now get out of my office and go create more of your magical pills.’

  ‘You’ll need to override the quality department again tonight. The testers need to rubberstamp the batch, so we don’t fail any ISO auditing.’

  ‘I’ll be on the floor at nine o’clock. Is that enough time?’

  ‘Yes. But—’ He regretted the but the moment it came out of his mouth.

  ‘But what?’ Mishti asked as she raised an eyebrow.

  ‘That quality manager’s getting too big for his safety boots. Will you bring him down a peg or two? He’s driving me crazy.’

  �
��You’re an idiot. Of course he’s driving you crazy; he thinks you are a threat to the pompous over-the-top quality system he implemented. Don’t lose sleep over things like that. Just do your work and stop thinking about it. Go, get out of my office, do your job and make more of those lovely placebos that bring us more profits.’

  CHAPTER

  15

  Anaya walked through the mall in Sandton city. She loved shopping for clothes and shoes, but hated that she was having to grocery shop after firing another maid. In India, she’d known where everything was, and how to buy the best food so that she could cook for her husband and make him happy. Why couldn’t maids in South Africa do things like she wanted them to? It wasn’t hard.

  She’d had no family support since she married Reyansh. Moving to a new country the day after their traditional marriage, to a man her family had chosen for her, had seemed like an exciting opportunity at first, but reality had quickly set in. Even now, years later, she was still struggling.

  She looked at her three children sitting together at the Wimpy having a drink. She was responsible for them, and she was going to make sure they never had to experience what she had growing up. They would never have to marry for money because her family couldn’t afford to send her to university. She was their meal ticket.

  Her husband had money—lots of it. His family was rich. They’d paid a nice price for her, once they had seen the doctor’s report verifying that she was a virgin. And then Reyansh had stuck his penis into her, and her fate had been sealed.

  She would make sure that her children never had to worry about money during their lives. And she would show every last one of those bitches back in India that she could have the best house, and the most perfect life in South Africa. She would make them jealous of her if it was the last thing she did.

  Her husband’s money would prove to them that she had made the right decision, that she hadn’t sold herself short. She had remained pure all those years for a reason, and he might have been a bit older than she would have preferred, but as long as she had access to his money, she would support her mother in the custom her father had never been able to. Her mother would never have to have another ‘lover’ who wasn’t of her choosing again.

  Not for her sake. Not anymore.

  Her mother used to shop with her in the markets in Mumbai. She would always be there with her. To go bargain hunting with. To accompany to the temple. But not here. Here she was alone, even after twelve years.

  This year she would turn the big three-zero. When did she get so old? So many years, and still she was not getting everything she wanted. She had been patient, very patient. She did everything a dutiful Indian wife would do. Sure, she knew which shops to buy the best meat cuts to make curry with, and the best shop to buy her spices, but she still missed her mother. She missed her friends. Reyansh worked late at night. He went to work early in the morning. Three children under six were not good company all the time, and she had long given up being friends with the maids. They stole too much from her.

  Besides, Mishti didn’t like it if she made any friends.

  Reyansh had told her to stop seeing them, that all she needed was his family. Mishti ruled over that like a monarch. And so far, Reyansh didn’t even seem to realise it. It was worse than having apron strings to a mother; he was attached to his sister by an umbilical cord.

  She noticed a kind-looking old black lady sitting on a bench in the shopping centre in front of her, which was painted blue, while all the others she could see were white. It piqued her interest. The woman wore a headscarf that covered her grey hair; her face shone under the lights of the centre. She had a walking stick carved in the form of entwined snakes. Anaya liked snakes—she’d made the journey to the main temple of the Jory Goddess in Belur, Karnataka, during the Hindu festival of Naga Panchami when she was still a schoolgirl. There she’d offered incense and milk to obtain knowledge, wealth and fame.

  She wondered what she’d ever done to offend the goddess as none of it had been granted. Even the wealth part hadn’t come true. It all belonged to her husband, not her. And she had married him ‘out of community of property’, so what was his was his, complete with a prenuptial agreement. It was a cruel joke really. Except he didn’t know she was squirrelling away a cut of her housekeeping money in an account with her name on it. Just as a backup.

  Nobody sat next to the old woman.

  Anaya looked at her children, who were shouting at each other again, squabbling about something. ‘Just stop,’ she whispered. ‘I have had enough today. Enough.’

  They ignored her as if she wasn’t even there.

  The old woman on the bench was surrounded by people, but no one sat with her. She was alone. Just like Anaya.

  She left the Wimpy and sat down next to the old lady, slumped onto the bench and closed her eyes, hoping that the children would watch each other. She was so tired.

  ‘Welcome to my bench,’ said the old lady. ‘My name is Ulwazi Dubazane.’

  ‘Anaya Prabhu,’ she said as she introduced herself, opening her eyes that she didn’t believe had even closed yet. She glanced at the kids as she shook the other woman’s hand.

  ‘You look like you’re having a bad day,’ Ulwazi said.

  ‘A bad day, a bad month, a bad year. Bad life. It all has my name on it,’ Anaya said. Then as she realised that she’d spoken aloud, she quickly added, ‘It’s not too bad, just tiring. How’s your day going?’

  ‘Better than yours, apparently,’ Ulwazi said and she chuckled. ‘You look harassed and not comfortable at all. Perhaps you need to sit with your children and get a cold drink?’

  ‘If I sit there one more second, I might bang their heads together. They’re arguing with each other so much, it’s driving me beyond crazy.’

  ‘It can be that way with children,’ Ulwazi said.

  ‘Do you have kids?’

  ‘I have one son left, Kagiso, which means “peace”. I do not think he’s ever given me a day of peace in his whole life. And my two grandsons from my firstborn, Zenzele and Sibusiso, who are still very much part of my life, and I’ve one great-grandson, Anderson, who lives with me, too, and another baby on the way when its mother finally gives birth. My grandson Sibusiso says that the baby should be called Siyanda, which means “we’re increasing”, because now he has two baby mouths to feed.’

  ‘You sound like you have it mostly sorted out.’

  Ulwazi laughed. ‘I don’t think anyone really has it all sorted, or I would not be sitting on this bench talking to other women all the time.’

  ‘I’d like to. I’d like to have people say, “There goes Anaya, she has her act together!”’

  They both laughed, and Anaya felt a connection with the stranger.

  ‘Welcome to my friendship bench, where you are free to talk with me without any judgement. I cannot solve all your problems, but I can offer a supporting shoulder to lean on and someone to tell your woes. Sometimes it can be a huge load off your shoulders just to talk about your problems.’

  ‘I beg your pardon—I never realised this was your bench. I’ll leave you alone to do your work,’ Anaya said, starting to rise.

  ‘You misunderstand,’ said Ulwazi. ‘It was made for just what we’re doing—sharing as women. Some fancy organisation started these benches as outreaches to women all over South Africa after they apparently worked well in Zimbabwe. To help women talk across the generations and across the colour barriers.’

  ‘What a wonderful idea. I wonder why I never noticed it before?’

  ‘You were busy with your life, and you did not need it then. Seems to me you do now. This is a place of safety. The bench is where you can lighten your load by talking to me and sharing your problems. As women of the world, especially in the new South Africa, we need to stick together. To help each other. We need to listen to one another because most people have forgotten how. If you want to talk to me, I’m here for you. If you just want to sit and close your eyes and be still—well that
’s good with me, too. I’ll sit with you and keep an eye on those children who are now looking at you out of the glass.’

  Anaya glanced at her kids. They seemed fine. She turned back to the old woman. ‘I’m not ungrateful. And I’m not a bad mother. I just needed a little break. I had to fire my last maid when I caught her stealing, so once more I find myself without any help looking after my children.’

  ‘Being with your children can be very stressful. I’m sorry about your maid.’

  ‘I’m sick of the maids stealing from me.’

  ‘I can understand that. It is our responsibility as mothers and grandmothers—the women of South Africa—to support each other. I have had some training in counselling, and on how to help women in our society. It is important to know that we are never alone when the troubles are piling up.’

  ‘And how much does the service cost?’ Anaya asked.

  ‘There is no cost. This is what I do. I volunteer. This is what we ask of many grandmothers—to sit on the bench and listen. It is our way of giving back to our society. We guide and counsel other women, but many of us have lost our families to the thinnings disease, to the wars. It helps the grandmothers to feel useful.’

  Anaya watched her children as they began pulling faces at her through the window, before turning back to talk among themselves. Ignoring her once more.

  ‘I can see that you need to talk. You look like the whole world is sitting on your shoulders, and you watch your three children all the time like somebody who is scared they will be stolen from you. As you should, they are your responsibility.’

  Anaya shook her head. ‘I need help with my children. There is something I would never admit to my husband. Never. He thinks I dress them in good clothes, and we do all the things we want to do, but I’m dying inside. I’m losing me. I want to move to a new house, to a bigger home than my townhouse in the complex in Bryanston. Where we live was fine for a bachelor, but now with the family …’