Unpresidented

by Paige Nick

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Chop those onions and you’ll see,’ Bonang says, leaving the kitchen with her sandwich and two cups of tea.

  ‘So how exactly is it that you’re a Jewish?’ Muza asks, still holding the knife and the onions when Elijah comes back into the kitchen five minutes later.

  ‘I was married to a Jewish woman for a while, and it rubbed off on me. So you could say that I’m Jew-ish. Make sure you chop those onions nice and fine, bubbe.’

  ‘Her parents couldn’t have been so crazy about you,’ Muza says.

  ‘They came around after a while. Her father is a tax accountant, a real mensch. Her mother, could that woman cook! Her latkes were to die for.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘Her mother was devastated when we broke up. Rebecca was a terrible cook.

  And I don’t mean she wasn’t that great; I mean she couldn’t even make a latke. She used her oven to store shoes. So when Myrna, that was my mother-in-law, discovered I liked to cook, she taught me all her recipes. Most of them passed down for generations. Sometimes when she gave me one of her famous recipes, she left out one ingredient. All the best Jewish cooks do that. But I’ve figured out what was missing in most of them. I make a mean pickled tongue, and my kneidel, you can slice through them just by looking at them funny,’ Elijah says. As he turns a pepper grinder over a pot bubbling on the stove, Muza sneezes.

  ‘Gesundheit,’ Elijah says.

  ‘There’s no need to swear, comrade. I’ll get to your onions.’

  THE WIVES

  ‘What are they up to? Disappearing together every day, and then hiding in the kitchen office and doing all that whispering. I’m worried,’ Refilwe says.

  ‘It’s this big idea, whatever it is,’ Bonang says, placing a cup of tea on Refilwe’s desk.

  ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Who, the Jew?’ Bonang asks.

  ‘Either of them.’

  ‘Me neither, although he makes a fine chicken soup.’

  ‘Well, at least whatever they’re doing is keeping Muzzy busy. How’s your work coming, by the way?’ Refilwe asks.

  ‘Hallelujah, the orders keep coming in, I’m truly blessed. And the writer has been a big help; he’s not bad with the interlocker. Although he’d get a lot more done if he’d stop trying to ask me twenty questions about Muza all the time.’

  ‘Hallelujah for all the work,’ Refilwe says, raising her arms.

  ‘I’m telling you, if that Cottonworths order comes through, I’m going to have to hire some people to assist me. My business will double, maybe even triple in size. What about you, how’s your work?’

  ‘Business at Refilwe’s Law Services is slow right now, unfortunately. I’m finding it hard to find new clients.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, you’re a great lawyer,’ Bonang says as she fishes a packet of lemon creams out of a drawer, and offers it to her sister-wife.

  ‘I think it’s all the press hanging around outside. Nobody wants to drag their dirty carcass past a bunch of vultures.’

  ‘But not all your business is dirty, surely?’ Bonang asks.

  ‘It’s the law, it’s always dirty. Imagine you are a high-profile individual or a wealthy businesswoman, and you want come and talk to your lawyer about getting a divorce, and you have to go past YOU magazine journalists taking your picture. Next thing you know the news of your divorce is breaking all over the newspapers and tabloids before you’ve even left the lawyer’s office, let alone had a chance to hand the papers to your spouse. Then he’s got plenty of time to hide his money from you because he knows what’s coming.’

  ‘I see what you mean. Sewing is less complicated than the law.’

  ‘Or say, for example, you want to innocently draw up some business papers with investors, and so you come out here to see me, but then you have the press digging around in your business trying to come up with this or that outrageous idea of why you are either visiting a lawyer’s office, a sewing company, or the ex-President of the country.

  ‘Did you see they are looking for a new Public Protector?’ Bonang says once they’ve helped themselves to another biscuit each.

  ‘I saw that. The last one didn’t last very long, did she?’

  ‘No, there is a lot of mess to clean up.’

  ‘They don’t make a lappie big enough,’ Refilwe says.

  ‘Well maybe, but I was thinking, you should apply for the position; you would do a great job. This country needs more smart, honourable women like you in positions of power.’

  Refilwe laughs. ‘Ja right, so honourable, look who I married.’

  ‘No, I’m being serious, sis’. You have all the qualifications, you’re a good person and a great lawyer, you understand politics from the inside out. You didn’t know what you were getting into at the beginning. It’s not your fault who you fell in love with.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say, but what if I got the job, and Muzzy somehow magically succeeded in becoming the President again one day? It would cause another huge public scandal, and I would have to resign. I’m not sure I can survive another scandal.’

  ‘He will never be voted in again, not in a million years,’ Bonang says.

  ‘Really? Sisi, that’s what you said last time, remember?’

  15 DAYS TILL DEADLINE

  THE WRITER

  I do some maths in my Moleskine. A good memoir is about sixty thousand words but I can probably get away with fifty, especially if we include photographs. And I have fifteen days until my deadline. I carry a two, and check my sums. If I’m going to finish this thing in time, I need to get down about four thousand words a day, minimum. I rub my temples. It’s not completely impossible, but it’s a lot. Some writers are lucky if they get down a hundred good words in a day. And these have to be good words.

  I stare at the screen, think for a moment and then type slowly, two fingers stabbing at the keyboard, wincing at the pain that shoots through my pinkie.

  ‘Muza is a narcissistic maniac,’ I write. That’s five words. I move the cursor and add in the word ‘complete’ before narcissistic to round it up to six. Only three thousand nine hundred and ninety-four words to go today.

  Although that’s not a very good opening line for a memoir. It reads more like the start of a factory-churned Dan Brown novel. I delete the words until I’m back to zero.

  This is impossible. I’ve got no authentic material; how am I supposed to write a great book that will redeem my reputation when I only have lies to work with?

  I pace the room, then hover at the door of my rondavel. The dog circles outside, baring his teeth when I look at him. I toss him a slice of ham. He sniffs at it, then turns and trots away, leaving it lying in the dust. The little fucker, that was my last piece. Who ever heard of a vegetarian dog?

  The two small balloons Elijah gave me catch my eye. I pick one up and wipe it off on my jeans. Who knows where it’s been? I hold it up to the light and then squeeze it, trying to get a feel for how much is inside, out of curiosity. I don’t plan on having any, of course. I can feel a couple of medium-sized rocks between my fingers. The rest is probably baby’s teething powder, if I’m lucky – which I’m not, so it’s probably rat poison.

  I twirl the bag between my fingers. The old me would have had this open and hoovered up hours ago, but this is the new me, a reformed man. I’m not going to do this shit anymore. And if I do, it’ll be one line, only to be sociable when I’m out and about. I wonder if I’d ever be able to do just one? Of course I would, I’ve changed. I haven’t had any in almost three weeks now, that’s proof that I can stop whenever I want. I’m not an addict, I’m a social schnarfer. I could easily have one line and put the rest away for a rainy day. Look, I’ll prove it.

  I tear the bubble open with my teeth, careful not to let any spill. I wipe off the edge of my desk, then tip out one of the rocks onto the surface. I reach for my wallet and chop at the rock with my Edgars card, a reminder that I owe
them five grand and change. In retrospect, two suits and a stupid fedora seem like reckless purchases. Especially since I only ever wear jeans.

  The first line is always the best, especially after a break. That’s why I only need the one, I rationalise. It shoots directly up my nose and into my brain, all my neurons start firing, and I feel better instantly. This was exactly what I needed to clear the pain and crazy thoughts, so that I can focus on the words. I wrap the gram back up and tie it off, then put it away with the other one in one of the inside pockets of my suitcase. Out of sight, out of mind. My hand brushes over the cool glass of my emergency half-jack of Ballantine’s. I’d forgotten about that. I’ll just have one drink to wash down the one line of coke – it’ll help take the edge off.

  The sound of the plastic seal cracking open is almost poetic. I could marry that sound. Everything is going to be okay, I think, as I pour some into a mug, the only cup in the room. It still has an inch of cold tea in the bottom, but tea is the same colour as whisky, so no worries.

  I drain the mug, then sit at my laptop. And then I’m off. I write like a madman, the words pouring out of me. For a moment I wish I was working on one of those old-fashioned manual typewriters so I could have the satisfaction of sending the bar back with a flourish at the end of every line. I slip a cigarette from the pack, light it, and then discover there’s one already lit and half-smoked in the chipped saucer. See, I’m doing it, I think. I can have just one, I don’t have a problem. All is well.

  I drink more whisky, and half an hour later I’m scrabbling through my suitcase to get to the secret pocket. I chop another quick line and pace the room. The bottle is in my hand now, so I swig straight from it, because the mug is all the way on the other side of the room, and everything still hurts a bit when I walk. Then I go back to my laptop and bash at the keyboard, possessed. I write about the state in which I found Muza and his Homestead, his entourage, his lies, his plans, all the alternative facts and wild sweeping statements, the delusions about leading the country again.

  Time means nothing when I’m in the zone like this. I hardly even know where the words are coming from. Hours spin by in seconds. I stand and stretch between chapters, play air guitar to imaginary music, toss a piece of cheese at the dog, who ignores it. Then I snort another line and examine my black eye in the mirror of the mouldering pit that passes for a bathroom here.

  I click my fingers as something new strikes me and return to the laptop to bash out another chapter. This, this is what it feels like to be a writer: manic, euphoric, the words falling out of my brain like a waterfall, my only job being there to catch them and feed them into the computer.

  At some point, hours later, I’m not typing anymore, I’m on the phone, leaving a message for Dumi.

  ‘Brother, it’s me, Matthew, your favourite author. How’s it going? It’s great here, really really great. You’ll be pleased to hear that I’m a fountain of creativity. That’s right, a fountain! The words are pouring out of me. Okay, call me when you get this.’

  I drink and type for a few more hours, bashing the keyboard, and then I’m back on the phone. I almost call my mother back, but I’m not high enough for that.

  ‘Hey Dumi, it’s me again. I know it’s late and you’re probably already asleep, but I wanted to tell you that I’m super excited about this book. I reckon I should have it finished in a matter of weeks. You tell that publisher they won’t be sorry they hired me, I’m cooking on gas here! It’s going to be an all-nighter, but the words are flying, like it’s totally meant to be. (Sniff!) Seriously, this is the easiest job of my life. This is the big one. This one is going to make me great again. Fuck them all, this will be my resurrection! I’m unstoppable!’

  ‘Hey Dumi, me again. I wish you were here, man, Dumi. Where are you? I really really wish you were here. Like, because I love you, man. And I’m not just saying that. I mean it. I feel like you really get me. You’re like a brother to me. And plus, you’re the only one who’s been here for me the whole time, everyone else has abandoned me, but not you, you’re a true friend. I mean that. I really love you, man. Like a brother, yeah, brother from another mother. Like the brother that I never had. Where are you, man? I miss you…’

  The room starts to spin, but in a good way, so I spin too, with my arms stretched out, round room, round room, round room, I think. Rondavels are aweome. Why aren’t all rooms round? Dust would never get in the corners. It’s genius. Like this book. It’s going to be amazing. Everything is really really really going to be fine, fantastic in fact.

  Although I need to slow down on the coke, because I’ve only got two grams to see me through the whole night. And a whole night can be a very, very long time. Or a very, very short time, depending how much coke you have. I laugh hysterically.

  At some point the half-jack is finished and I find myself at the cracked, stained sink, slugging from a bottle of Listerine. I’m one hundred per cent sure it’s got alcohol in it. The logic behind my actions feels solid.

  I stagger back to my laptop. I shout out something and punch the air. Then I think about how good this story is going to be in my memoirs one day, when I recount how I wrote the world’s greatest memoir in a matter of days, in a cocaine, Ballantine’s, Listerine and nicotine-fuelled state. Hey, surely the Listerine will cancel out all evidence of the cigarettes? Nobody will ever know I smoked them. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.

  I don’t remember what happens next.

  14 DAYS TILL DEADLINE

  THE EX-PRESIDENT

  ‘Hello recording device. The real problem is that the world I have come back into now is a very different place from the world I left three years, eight months and some days ago. I left here as the most powerful man in the country. And I’ve come back with a sore buttock, no power, no money, no cronies, no comrades and no gravy train.

  ‘Now that I have had some time to reflect on everything, I look back and wonder if I brought all of this on myself? Did I squander my immense power by trusting the wrong people? Perhaps. It is possible. Or did I simply align with the wrong people by accident? People who used me as a puppet and took advantage of my position. People who made me do things I didn’t realise were wrong at the time. This is also a possibility. Of course there was a great amount of money involved, but between you and me, I don’t believe I was always aware of the consequences of what we were doing. And as these became clearer to me, as time went by, there was less and less that I could do about it, at least not without implicating myself. And by then it was a case of being in too far. So I had to see it all through, and strategise to protect myself as much as possible.

  ‘But there is no time to look back, no time for regrets: there are plans to make and Elijah to work on, and money to be paid, and memories to be written, and power to be gained, and more money to make, and so I need to look forward. I must also check in with the writer to monitor his progress, and advise and instruct him on what this book must say, because if I leave it up to him, who knows what lies he might write.

 

  THE WRITER

  Who vomited on me? Is the first thing I think. Oh, it was me. Is the second thing I think. I’m lying on my back on a floor and it takes me a minute to figure out where I am. There’s thatch above me, so it must be the rondavel. I struggle to sit up. Yes, it is my rondavel, although somebody has redecorated it with vomit. My stomach churns and I drag myself to the tiny bathroom where I heave up nothing more than blue-tinged stomach acid. What did I eat that was blue? Smarties? On the desk beside my laptop is an empty bottle of Listerine. Oh, that’s right. It’s all coming back to me now. Shit.

  My throat is raw from cigarettes and vomiting. I stagger around the room, examining the evidence, trying to piece the night together. Two grams of cocaine: gone. So much for just one line. Plus, to add insult to injury, I’m pretty sure they’re an addition to Elijah’s bill. I reach for the pack of smokes closest to me, but it’s empty. Fuck, did I really smoke the whole pack in one n
ight? I look around and count two other packs scattered around the crime scene, also empty. I smoked three packs of cigarettes? No wonder I feel so awful. I wish I had some cough syrup to soothe my razor throat. Although it’s probably a good thing I don’t have any, I would have drunk that last night too, and I’d be in an even worse situation this morning. Although sans the sore throat.

  Shit, I’m lucky I didn’t write myself off, or that nobody came in here and found me passed out on the floor. They would have taken me to get my stomach pumped. Been there, done that, paid the hospital bills. And they would have come to the conclusion that I was trying to kill myself. Even more embarrassing. Imagine if the Twitterati got wind of that. Although maybe it would at least have gotten me some kind of sympathy vote.

  One thing I do remember is writing all night – well, until the lights in my head went out, whatever time that was. I must have added at least fifty pages to the manuscript, I was on fire. And they felt like good words.

  The empty Listerine bottle is on its side next to my laptop, and there’s a dried crust of blue across my keyboard. I hit the Enter key, but the monitor doesn’t light up. I try restart, but nothing happens – there isn’t even that whirring sound. The battery must be dead. I plug the laptop in and wait for it to juice up enough to restart.

  Nothing.

  Then I try everything. I try charging it. I try turning it on. I try turning it off. I try rebooting it. I try crying. I try swearing. I try bargaining. I try hating myself. I try hating the world. I try sweating. I try shaking the damn thing. I try stroking it. I try praying. I try punching the wall. I try atheism. I bargain with the devil. I try turning it on again.