Zoo City

by Lauren Beukes

  Part of me thinks I do too.

  I sign off and delete the forks message, but not before I've copied and pasted it into a Word doc. And I leave the install icon on the firewall waiting patiently in its folder, un-installed. I know how the Company works. Who knows what else their firewall will do?

  The Rand Club is a relic of Johannesburg's Wild West days, when it was frequented by Cecil John Rhodes and other colonial slumlords who would sit around divvying up diamond fields and deciding on the fate of empires. A hangout for power people rather than two-bit crooks like Vuyo, who is waiting for me at the curved stretch of bar that folds itself around the room. I assume it's Vuyo because he's the best-dressed guy in here, in a suit and pointy shoes like shiny leather sharks.

  The patrons pushing the boundaries of their liquid lunch-hour have the same aura of clingy colonial nostalgia as the venue, with its chandeliers and gilded railings, caricatures of famous members, mounted buck-heads and faded oil paintings of fox hunts. Vuyo, by comparison, has the air of the fox that's escaped the painting and doublebacked to raid the kitchen. I'd always pictured him as a skinny weasel of a guy with bad posture from hunching over his computer all day, but he's well-built, with swimmer's shoulders, broad cheekbones, a neat goatee and an easy smile. Generically handsome with a ruby stud in his ear that hints oh-so-tastefully at danger. All the better to scam the pants off you.

  I extend my hand and he clasps it in both of his, as if we are old friends instead of only online acquaintances. "Mr Bacci, I can only imagine?" I say.

  "Frances. It is so good to see you," he replies. I shouldn't be surprised that he speaks better than he types. Or that he's South African. Why should the West Africans and the Russians have all the fun of fleecing rich foreigners?

  "Mr and Mrs Barber are waiting for us upstairs. They're excited to meet you at last," he says smoothly, as if the podgy bankers round the other side of the undulating bar might be listening in. But as he escorts me up the grand staircase, he hisses under his breath, "Less attitude, girl. You are a refugee, not a prostitute."

  "Mr Bacci! Does that mean you don't like my dress?" The white shift is the plainest thing in my wardrobe, but I've touched it up with clunky beads and a shweshwe headwrap, with the perfect refugee touch, a red-, blue- and white-checked rattan carrier bulging with the weight of an exceptionally grumpy Sloth.

  "It means, be soft," warns Vuyo, aka Mr Ezekiel Bacci, financial director of the Bank of Accra.

  "Can you qualify that? Are we talking demure African princess soft, proud but humble and desperate to reclaim her throne? Or broken Janjaweed-gang-rape survivor soft?"

  "It means none of your jokes. Keep that tongue tamed."

  "You realise you employed me based on my writing skills, not my acting ability?"

  "Just do what I tell you. Don't open your mouth unless I ask you something specifically. You read the emails?"

  "Yes." Poor bastards.

  We step into the grand library with shelves and shelves of books that look like they've never been cracked open. A couple the wrong side of middle age are waiting anxiously. Mrs Barber is sitting with a magazine on her lap, but I'm guessing she hasn't read a word. It's open to a double-page spread advertising a three yearold conference on the economics of environmental reform. Mr Barber is standing facing away from us, fiddling with the standing chessboard.

  "You know, honey, I think these are ivory," he says, holding out a white bishop to Mrs Barber, his consonants a flat Mid-West drawl.

  "You never know where you might find hidden treasure in Africa," I say, in my best Queen of Sheba voice.

  "Oh," Mrs Barber says, looking at me. "Oh!" And then she gets up, envelops me in a crushing hug and bursts into tears. I stand there awkwardly, but with great grace, as befits a girl who has weathered the ravages of losing her throne, her family and, temporarily, a great fortune that Mr and Mrs Barber have had the great fortune to help her recover.

  "My friends," I murmur softly. "My friends."

  Mr Barber sits down heavily, still holding the bishop, looking shocked. I gently extricate myself from Mrs Barber's fervent embrace, only for her to grab me by the hand. I manage to manoeuvre the pair of us onto the couch.

  "So, you see, here she is, after all," Vuyo says. "Safe and sound, as I told you."

  "We weren't sure. We didn't know. After everything…" Mrs Barber's sentence declines into another bout of juddering sobs.

  "You look different from the photographs," Mr Barber says, an obstinate flicker of suspicion flaring up. Considering they have already given Vuyo over R87,000 for various clearance certificates, passport application fees, bribes for corrupt government officials and exchange-rate commissions, and he's demanding a further R141,000, I'd say he was justified.

  "Yes," I say with dignity, "I've been through a great deal." Mrs Barber pats my hand, and I lean my head against her shoulder and close my eyes as if the ordeal has been unspeakable. A contemptuous bark comes from my bag. I ignore it.

  "You have brought the money?" Vuyo says.

  "Well, yes, but–" Mr Barber squirms.

  "Why are there buts? Buts are for goats! Are you a goat? Jerry, in three days' time, you will have 2.5 million dollars in your account."

  "It's only that it's my pension."

  "Our savings."

  "Look at this girl, Jerry. Look at her! You have done this. You have got her away from that hell. You and Cheryl have done a good thing. A life-changing thing." Vuyo takes Jerry's face between his hands and gives him a little shake for emphasis, a cross between an evangelist and a corporate teambuilder. "And here. Your certificates from the Reserve Bank, as you requested. Everything is in order. It's almost over, Jerry."

  "It's almost over, Jerry," Cheryl repeats. She glances over at me and her chin starts to wobble all over again. I imagine staples fixing my smile in place and dip my head, as if equally overcome with emotion. The whole thing is grotesque, yet some perverse part of me is getting off on it. The same way I ticked off points on a scoreboard when my parents actually believed the bullshit I spun them about my car breaking down, about needing help paying the fees for a master's degree in Journalism that I never even registered for.

  Jerry is looking over the certificates, immaculately forged, complete with the holographic seal of the Reserve Bank. "Of course, I'll need to get these verified by my lawyer," he says, but it's obvious that he's bluffing. The smell of money is too strong now. It bellows like a vuvuzela, drowning out the whisper of doubt.

  "Of course, yes," Vuyo says, but he allows a hint of concern to smudge those generic good looks.

  "What is it, Mr Bacci?"

  "Please, we are all friends here. Call me Ezekiel."

  "What is it, Ezekiel?"

  "It is only that it might cause a delay."

  Cheryl moans.

  "What kind of delay?"

  "No longer than a couple of weeks. Two months maximum."

  "Now you just wait a minute, we have been through enough. This is everything we have in the world. Our pensions, our savings. I borrowed money from my son! Do you realise how much it costs for us to fly out here? This is the third time!"

  "You have been very understanding, Mr Barber. It's only that there is a window period. It is the end of the tax year in Ghana, and the government locks down all banking transactions for the reconciliation period."

  "That's the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard!"

  "Jerrr-ry…" Cheryl says.

  "It is Ghana," Vuyo shrugs.

  "So what can we do?"

  Vuyo considers it and then allows illumination to spread across his face. "I have it. The bank has bearer bonds. I will give you bearer bonds to the value of your cash deposit. These will take a month to clear, but they are not subject to the restrictions of the government's reconciliation period. So you will be safe. And we can go ahead with the final transaction."

  "I don't know, that sounds awfully complicated. Maybe we should wait."

  "The waiting was the wors
t," I say, absently.

  "What was that, dear?" Cheryl squeezes my hand.

  "Not knowing if they were going to kill us. They would play games with us. Sometimes taking girls at random. Other times they made us choose, made us decide who it was going to be. And then they would take someone else instead. But you had to live with it, live with the betrayal of what you'd done."

  "Oh, sweetheart. Oh, sweetheart," Cheryl chokes, her palm clamped over her mouth. "Oh baby, if that was our Mandy. Can you imagine? Oh."

  "I just want to say thank you," I say, looking down at my hands clasped together in my lap.

  "Oh," says Cheryl. "Oh, baby."

  "Okay," Jerry says, defeated. "Bearer bonds, huh?"

  "Only for 72 hours. And then the 2.5 will be cleared," Vuyo says.

  While the menfolk sort out the matter of exchanging a tog-bag full of cash for phony bearer bonds from a nonexistent bank, I order tea for both of us.

  "May I ask what you are going to do with the money?" I say to Cheryl.

  "Buy a house. For us and the kids. Amanda and Simon and their families. I mean, two-and-a-half million bucks, you could buy a place in Malibu. But we're going to stay in Aurora, get Mandy to move back from Chicago, so we can spend more time with the grandkids. Wait a minute, here's a photo." Cheryl pulls out her phone to show me a snapshot of an unfortunate-looking baby covered in slobber and a smiley girl with pigtails and a strawberry birthmark over her cheek. "That's Archie, and this is Becky – Mandy's little ones. And Simon, well, Simon and his partner are planning to adopt."

  "So cute." I hand the phone back.

  "What about you, dear?"

  "I will try to make a new life as best I can. It is better here in this country."

  "And the orphanage?"

  "Oh yes, the orphanage. Um. We have been looking at buildings. There is an old retirement home that we could convert. It's lovely. Big garden with a mulberry tree, swimming pool. Near the botanical gardens. It will be lovely." I am thinking of a version of the house I grew up in.

  "It's nice to feel like suddenly you have possibilities, isn"t it?"

  "Yes."

  We lapse into silence.

  "Did you have much trouble getting out of the camp?"

  "Please, Cheryl, it is too painful to talk about." I bury my face in my hands for emphasis. Through the gaps between my fingers, I can see my bag start to squirm again. I prod Sloth with my shoe to make him cut it out.

  "Oh. Of course." She puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls me into an awkward embrace, stroking my back. "There, there," she says, "There, there."

  "All taken care of." Jerry is grinning broadly, like a man who has had an incredible burden lifted from his back. Doubt weighs a lot. "Can I give you a hand with this, Frances?" He hefts the rattan bag before I can stop him. "Whoof, what do you got in here, all your earthly goods?"

  "Jerry!" Cheryl says, scandalised.

  "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean …" and then Sloth pokes his head out and bleats grumpily.

  Jerry drops the bag. Luckily, it's only five inches to the floor, but Sloth yelps like he's gone over the Victoria Falls.

  "Mary, Mother of God! What is that thing?"

  "Jerry Barber! You know perfectly well what that is! Oh Frances, honey, you should have told us." Over her shoulder, Vuyo is giving me a stare that says "you better fix this".

  "I was – ashamed," I mutter.

  "Now, baby, there's nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn't mean you're a bad person. It just means you've done bad things once upon a time." She shoots Jerry a fierce look. "You're a good girl, honey, a good girl." Her eyes brim with tears all over again.

  We watch Cheryl and Jerry pull out of the parking lot packed with X5s and A4s in their white VW Polo rental, and wave cheerily until they pull around the corner.

  "You are a good girl," Vuyo says, imitating Cheryl.

  "Shut up, Vuyo."

  "We should do this again."

  "I want twenty per cent."

  "Next time, maybe."

  "This was a one-time-only event. I'm not doing a re

  peat performance."

  "I have R94,235.82 that says different."

  "I'll write more formats."

  "I'll double your interest rate."

  "I don't care."

  "What was your brother's name again?" he says slyly. "The dead one?"

  "Fuck you."

  "And your lover? That handsome mkwerekwere? Benoît, is it? Be careful, Zinzi. You know what happened last time you fucked with gangsters."

  Vuyo gets into one of the X5s. I memorise the licence plate. It's undoubtedly fake, but I'm a packrat for information. I rap on the window. He slides it down. "What is it?"

  "Give me a ride."

  "Get a car," he says and pulls away, wheels spinning.

  6.

  Makhaza's Place is already vibey at three in the afternoon. This is a reflection of the lack of recreational facilities in the area. Although Mak's popularity in a neighbourhood packed with bars and churches can be ascribed to two things: the Lagos-style chicken, and the view. The bar is situated on the second floor of what used to be a shopping arcade back when this part of town was cosmopolitan central, with its glitzy hotels and restaurants and outdoor cafés and malls packed to the skylights with premium luxury goods. Even Zoo City had a Former Life.

  There was big talk about comebacks and gentrification a few years ago, which led to months of eviction raids by the Red Ants, with their red helmets and sledgehammers and bullhorns, and bright-eyed landlords buoyed up on the property boom bricking up the lower storeys of buildings. But the squatters always found a way back in. We're an enterprising bunch. And it helps to have a certain reputation.

  Mak's is situated in what used to be an oversized display window looking out over the street. It was modelled on Macy's, rotating exhibits of aspirational fashion and lifestyle products, roomy enough that they once put a convertible Chevrolet in here as part of their Christmas display, Santa in shades and a Hawaiian shirt at the wheel.

  Mak kept some of the mannequins for the ambience; a double-amputee guy in sharp-pressed corduroy pants, a lime sweater vest and a fedora, and a woman with a pockmarked melamine face to match her moth-eaten white mini-dress and go-go boots, both arrested in some forlorn pose of retro cool. The patrons don't dress half as nice.

  I shrug Sloth off at the holding pen by the door. He sways himself onto the branch of a dead tree hung with fairylights and already well populated. A doughy Squirrel quickly stuffs the remains of a chocolate bar into her mouth and chitters reproachfully at Sloth, then bounds higher, past a preening Indian Mynah and a Boomslang looped casually from a fork in the branch, as motionless as the mannequins.

  "Don't get too close, buddy,' I warn Sloth. Unofficially, there's a code of conduct, but animals are still animals. And animals can be assholes, too. The Mongoose is curled up in the corner in the sawdust. He slits his eyes open, then pretends to go back to sleep.

  Benoît and two of his boys, his roommate Emmanuel and that sgebenga D'Nice, are in the usual spot by the foosball table. I pick up a tonic water at the bar (the closest I get these days to the full equation of gin &), and drop down next to them in the corner booth. The aircon is on the fritz as per usual and their beers are sweating. D'Nice's Vervet Monkey is sitting on the table surrounded by at least two rounds of 750 ml empties, toying with a coaster nicked from the Carlton Hotel circa 1987.

  The TV is blasting some godawful crunk rap thing, jiggling sweaty bodies intercut with gritty images of a city burning. Giant fireballs light up the Las Vegas skyline. The singer, wearing a leopard-print vest and chains, skulks between the girls with a Hyena padding beside him. The animal snarls in close-up, baring yellowed teeth. It's an act so dramatic, it causes the girls to burst into flames too. Luckily, it doesn't seem to bother them too much. Flames lick over their taut gyrating bellies, fiery arcs tracing the curve of buttocks peeking out from sprayed-on hot pants.

  "That for real?" I say, i
ndicating the TV by way of greeting.

  "You're kidding." Emmanuel is deeply shocked. He's a sweet Rwandan kid, only twenty, working piecemeal jobs. Doesn't have an animal, but there's no rule saying it's obligatory. We're all about tolerance in Zoo City. Or mutually assured desperation.

  "Give me a break, Emmanuel. I'm thirty-two. I don't know this shit anymore."

  "Cha! Zinzi! How do you not know Slinger?"

  "What kind of a name is Slinger? That's so metal."

  "You hurt me. Your words. They physically hurt me."

  "You haven't seen me try to hurt you, Emmanuel."