Death in Durban

by Jon Zackon

  “Ow! The bloody salt stings,” I said loudly to no one in particular.

  Eric, who was smooching in the water with Lizette, called back, “It would, Danny. Have you seen your back?”

  I waded through the shallows, sprinted over the burning sands to where our party was encamped, and put on my shirt.

  “Are you worth all that passion?” asked a girl whose deeply tanned skin shone from a layer of newly administered coconut oil. Her smile was disingenuous.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You’ve got some really ugly scratch marks on you back – or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Are you interested in finding out?”

  “Finding out what?”

  “Whether or not I’m worth all that passion, doll.”

  “Certainly not. Larry would kill me!”

  I never did find out her name and I don’t remember meeting anyone called Larry. But I enjoyed the backchat, which went on more or less incessantly throughout the morning. The girls saw themselves as big city chicks, all-knowing and highly practised in the art of bitchiness. Fun, if you didn’t take them too seriously.

  Eric fell on the sand next to me and buried his face in his towel.

  “I saw you and Lizette swimming near the shark nets,” I said. “Is that wise?”

  He looked at me as if I was a slow learner.

  “Do you know anything about the ragged tooth shark? Seriously, Danny. Would you like an exposition on them right here and now? If you are going to live in this burg you need to know.”

  “Go on then.” I knew I’d get the bloody lecture whether I wanted it or not. In any case, Eric generally knew what he was talking about.

  “First of all, most of the shark attacks that take place along the Natal coast, as far as I’ve heard anyway, are by the ragged tooth.”

  “OK.”

  “Try not to interrupt.”

  “Jesus, you are an arrogant twat, Eric.”

  “I’m trying to tell you things you need to know, pal. Imagine if you have to write a story about a shark attack for the paper – you won’t know its arse from its fucking snout. And let’s face it, this is Shark City. There are people here in Durban who actually love the fucking things.”

  “OK, OK, just get on with it.”

  Eric took a lit cigarette from Lizette before starting again.

  “Right, well, the waters around here are very murky because of the quality of the sand that is thrown up by the waves, which happen to be pretty incessant, as you’ve probably noticed. This doesn’t bother the ragged tooth because it has very poor eyesight anyway. But if it sees anything moving in its immediate vicinity, it bites it. Instinctively. It’s indiscriminate. Despite the attacks you read about in the papers, it probably doesn’t like eating human flesh – much prefers fish. But if an arm or a leg or a body hoves into view – snap!”

  He made a biting gesture with his hands. Very dramatic. “I don’t think it will carry on eating the rest of you, though. If anything, it seems that it tries to get away. Trouble is, its teeth are bent backwards, like sharpened hooks, so it can’t let go and rips your flesh to pieces. Nice, hey? This makes the injuries even more horrific, especially those to the torso.

  “The other thing about their attacks, or so the latest research would indicate, is that they nearly always take place in water that is seventy-four degrees or warmer. It seems to drive the buggers frantic.”

  A pause for a puff.

  “As sharks go, they aren’t very big – nothing like those enormous blue pointers you get around the Cape that can bite a man in two. I don’t know how true it is but there are stories that you can actually ward a ragged tooth off by hitting it hard on the snout with a camera or even your fist. Apparently, they have a very tough outer skin but below that they are incredibly sensitive and scare easily. Well, that’s it. I’ve exhausted my knowledge.”

  “What about the nets?”

  “Yes, of course. The nets. Very interesting. You’ll see that they are only a few feet deep, even though they lie close to the surface in ten feet of water. Frightening, right? The thing is, that’s where the ragged tooth swims – almost at the surface. You can see his dorsal fin poking out as he comes at you. But he’s also a terrible coward. When he hits the nets, his momentum carries him underneath. Then he takes fright – are you with me? – turns, and immediately heads back towards deeper water. Now, however, the nets are well and truly in his way and he gets trapped in them …”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you saying the sharks get trapped on the inside of the nets?”

  “Yep.”

  “Jesus! You mean there are sharks on the inside of those nets where people are swimming right now?”

  “Unlikely – and even if there were they wouldn’t be dangerous. The water temperature barely reaches seventy at this time of year. But yes, in the summer months sharks presumably in a dangerous mood get trapped very close to where people are swimming.”

  “Do people know this? You know, holidaymakers, visitors, not to mention innocent children, invalids, the lame, the deaf and the blind …?”

  “Doubtful. In my experience people don’t take much notice of what they don’t wish to know.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever go in again.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s perfectly safe. The nets actually do a good job. Usually.”

  “Yeah, exactly. Usually.”

  Eric took a last drag and buried the cigarette in the sand.

  “How do you know so much about them, Eric?”

  “Good question. Ten years ago my father acted for a girl whose hand had been bitten off. Not here in Durban. Down the coast somewhere. Her father went crazy. He claimed – quite rightly – that there were no warning signs or protection of any kind on the beach where the girl was attacked. He brought a suit against the local authorities. My father acted for him. So it was a constant talking point at table. I was twelve or thirteen and it made a big impression on me. When I joined the firm I got the case file out and read it.”

  “Did she win?”

  “Nope. The court ruled the local authorities couldn’t be held responsible.”

  “Sad.”

  “But that wasn’t the end of it. The Fifties were marked by a series of shark attacks and quite a few bathers were killed. Public opinion forced the people in charge of the beaches to introduce nets. And I’m sure the girl’s case was part of that campaign. But never mind about that. Right now we have more important matters to attend to. You know about Jake, don’t you, Danny?”

  “Jake who?”

  “Well, there’s this Indian chef we call Jake. He’s got that kiosk down the beach. If you stand up you can just about see it from here. Serves great lamb curry, I promise you. And right now it’s lunchtime and I’m starving. So come on, let’s go.”

  I was supposed to be flat hunting but I was having too good a time. I suspected I’d pay for my tardiness. But these were my last days of freedom. I always found starting a new job stressful in the extreme and I didn’t want to think about serious things.

  ***

  That night a gang of us went to a jazz club called Frankie’s up two flights in a building near the docks. The house quintet was passable and at least their trombone-playing leader had a cool, modern tone.

  Steven Fall joined us. “I come here a lot,” he said.

  “Who’s the girl?”

  “That’s Ruth. She’s my cousin.”

  “Another cousin? How many have you got?”

  “She’s Lola’s sister.”

  The group wound up the session with a rather raggedy rendition of Night in Tunisia. The drummer never quite got to grips with the composition’s rhythmic complexities but then, who could blame him? Art Blakey he wasn’t.

  Ruth sat at a table staring into space, abstracted, although she did join in the desultory applause.

  “Beautiful looking girl,” I said. “Why wasn’t
she at the party?”

  “She’s not very happy at the moment,” said Steven. “Lots of problems.”

  “But goes to a jazz club?”

  “Well, why not? She likes jazz. You want her to stay home knitting?”

  When I didn’t laugh he added, “Do you want to meet her?”

  I did. But the club was crowded and we couldn’t get near.

  Steven cupped his hands round his mouth. “Ruthie … this is Danny,” he shouted across a couple of tables.

  She looked up and I could see that she had dark brown eyes to go with her honey coloured hair. Fetching combination. She mouthed, “Hi,” and gave me a half-friendly smile.

  The trombone player downed a pint and called his men back to the bandstand. I was trapped between a table and the wall. Halfway through Moonglow I decided to get a drink. I shoved my way through the crowd to the bar, wondering if this place was legal – if it had a licence to sell alcohol, that is – and what the chances were of it being raided.

  There was no sign of Steven when I got back to my spot. I looked around and caught a glimpse of him and Ruth leaving. So soon? Strange people, I thought. But I had to admit I was intrigued.

  Chapter 4

  THE FEVER came in waves. The shivering was bad enough. But the humidity must have been around ninety-eight per cent, so the hot spells were worse, leaving me drenched in sweat. The bedclothes stuck to my skin. I vomited a few times, and lay spread eagled on my back, with my head hanging over the edge of the bed, bluffing myself that this crazy position felt just a tiny bit cooler. Nobody told me Durban was going to be like this. If someone had, it would surely have put me off.

  After a hellish night I was just about able to dress and stumble out to a call box on the corner. I found the name of a GP in the phone book and called him.

  It took him a couple of hours to get to me. He was an affable old bloke who told me I was one of many flu cases in the city. Great consolation. He wanted to give me a penicillin jab but I told him it brought me out in a terrible rash. He said it probably wouldn’t help anyway and gave me some APCs – aspirin, phenacetin and caffeine – and told me to stay in bed for an unspecified period.

  Forty-eight hours later he remained the only visitor I’d had. I was beginning to think I was going to die. The authorities would find my body only because of the smell seeping out from under the door.

  A bedside radio kept me company and when I felt up to it I tried to concentrate on the Penguin edition of Tender is The Night. What the hell did Abe North see Nicole doing in the toilet anyway? I spent hours speculating, trying to forget that my skull was in danger of cracking open or that the APCs were destroying my stomach lining.

  I saw bizarre images on the walls. I closed my eyes and the shapes formed themselves into distorted, half-familiar people. Some huge, some miniscule. I hadn’t experienced fever hallucinations of this kind since a bout of measles when I was five.

  But the worst thing was that I’d fallen ill at The Messenger, on my very first day. What must they think? They sit me down at a desk, I tap away at the typewriter, file my first story – a telephone interview with a city councillor of very little interest to anyone – and then I start shaking and ask to leave. Poor show. The boy’s a failure. A drop out, wouldn’t you know? He’ll never make it.

  At the end of yet another febrile night I began to sleep easier and woke feeling famished. But I was so weak I could barely stand. I didn’t just feel sick. I felt an idiot. Moving into this room, in the seedy building where I’d noticed a vacancy sign, had been a terrible mistake. I promised myself that I would get out at the first opportunity.

  The room had a washbasin and a single-ring cooker, which I shared with several cockroaches that had mutated to an abnormal size. No fridge and the bathroom and toilet were communal, across the landing.

  Eventually I raked up enough energy to go for a piss, my first in at least twelve hours, although I was so dehydrated I didn’t think there’d be much in the way of actual micturition.

  I struggled into the corridor, where I was met by the most wonderful smell that had ever wafted my way. Rich. Sumptuous. Lamb stew! My salivary glands began to ache and my stomach churned. Suddenly, without realising how, I was at the door of an apartment some way down the corridor. Someone was knocking on the door. It must have been me – there was no one else around.

  The door opened and the smell of food was so strong I thought I was going to pass out.

  “Ja?” I was confronted by a middle-aged woman with fair hair and gaunt features, the skin pulled tight over her high cheekbones. She was wearing a cheap jumper and her general appearance told of someone ill used by life.

  “Er, I live down there…” I said pointing back to my room.

  “Ja, ek weet. Ek het ’u gesien” – yes I know. I’ve seen you.

  Reverting to schoolboy Afrikaans, I said, “Er, I’ve been sick. Very sick. But now I’m starving. If I may I’d like to … er, would you allow me to buy a plate of that wonderful food I can smell, missus?”

  She stared at me for a long moment. I must have looked like a particularly large and ugly cockroach to her.

  She spoke rapidly, saying, “No, I won’t take money from you, young man. Just wait there.”

  So I waited, swaying slightly, my hand on the doorpost. She returned with a tray containing a bowl covered by a plate, two slices of bread, a soupspoon and a small jug of milk.

  “Do you have tea?” she asked in English.

  “Yes, I do. Thank you, thank you. This is fantastic of you. I cannot thank you enough.”

  She waited until I’d retreated a couple of steps before slowly closing the door. Back in my room I took a bite of bread and waited for the bowl of stew to cool. I was saved. This poor Afrikaner woman, a total stranger, had saved me. Tears came to my eyes.

  A couple of hours later, feeling a lot better, I was debating whether to get dressed and go shopping when there was a knock on the door. It was Steven Fall.

  “I phoned The Messenger and they told me you were ill,” he said.

  “At least they didn’t say I’d been sacked.”

  Steven didn’t know if I was joking or not. “No, the person who answered didn’t say anything like that,” he said gravely.

  He’d brought a large bottle of Coke, so I forgave him his total lack of a sense of humour.

  As I sipped Coke the conversation got round to the jazz club.

  “What happened?” I asked. “You were going to introduce me to your beautiful cousin.”

  “Do you really think she’s beautiful?”

  “That’s a question not an answer.”

  “Well, you know … she just gets unhappy. It can happen quite suddenly.”

  “Could be construed as being a bit antisocial. What exactly is wrong with her?”

  Steven, sitting in the room’s only comfortable chair, shifted uneasily.

  “The family don’t like me talking about it. They’re trying to keep it secret.”

  “Yes, Steven, but say I want to take her out. Don’t you think I deserve to know?”

  After a while he said, “Ruthie was a first-year student when …”

  “A student of what?”

  “Oh, I thought you knew. She’s still a student – a medical student, that is – but now she’s doing her practical stuff at Addington Hospital. Anyway, while she was at varsity she fell head over heels for this other medical student …”

  His voice trailed away.

  “OK, another medical student. What’s wrong with that?”

  No reply.

  “Oh, I get it. He wasn’t Jewish?”

  Still no reply. More shifting about.

  “Oh, shit. Not non-white?”

  “He was Indian. A Mohammedan.”

  We were silent for a while.

  “What a screwed up bloody world,” I said. “Colour … religion. In the great scheme of things they shouldn’t matter a fuck. That’
s what I truly believe.”

  “And this fucked-up country exaggerates every issue, doesn’t it?” he said with some feeling.

  All this was inarguable. South Africa’s miscegenation laws were a national scandal. This was the only country in the world where heterosexual love could be a jailable offence. As if this did not screw the country up enough, if you broke South African society up into its constituent parts you would find bits that were so strait-laced they made the Victorians appear like a bunch of beatniks. The Dutch Reformed congregation was by far the most severe, but the Catholics, the Orthodox Jewish and various Indian communities were hardly libertarian.

  Lovers in South African society could find themselves up against barriers erected by race, religion, language, class, caste, tribe, wealth or social status. In such a place, in such a time, it could be seen that Ruth and her friend had risked lifelong opprobrium for the sake of love.

  “Whew! They’d have had to live abroad,” I said.

  “Exactly. They were on the point of doing just that. But his family found out where they were and marched in. His mother hit him – in the face – and began to swear at him and threatened to kill herself. Apparently, the parents had arranged a marriage for the boy and the mother said their lives wouldn’t be worth living if they broke their word. Then the mother turned on Ruth. Ruth couldn’t stand it and began screaming. She and the mother were literally standing toe to toe and screaming at each other. They were in a friend’s house near the airport and eventually Ruth just rushed out, ran to a main road and caught a bus home. She waited for the boy to call but he never did. She never saw him again.”

  “Jesus. That’s the worst story I’ve ever heard. Bar none.”

  Steven fell silent, spent by his efforts. I think I must have gone quiet as well.

  “Poor girl,” I said at last. “She can’t have deserved that. She must have been absolutely heartbroken.”

  “You like her, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do. Can’t help it. Romantic streak, I guess.”

  “Damsel in distress.”

  “A very attractive damsel.”