by Mike Nicol
‘You want a taxi?’ the man asked, hand on the telephone.
Max Roland nodded. He glanced at the television while he waited: a wildlife scene that could’ve been anywhere on the African savannah – wild dogs running down an antelope.
‘In five minutes,’ said the reception man, printing out Max Roland’s bill on a dot-matrix machine.
On screen the buck got clear of the pack, the men groaned. When the lead dog toppled the animal, the men cheered. The buck staggered up, was dragged down by five dogs.
The receptionist made a comment to his friends. Said to Max Roland, ‘I tell them it is how do you say, bloody.’
‘Bloodthirsty.’
The man smiled. ‘Bloodthirsty.’ As the dogs fed, the camera zoomed in on the buck’s dark eyes.
Max Roland held out his credit card.
‘You like Sana’a?’ said the receptionist.
‘Very old.’
‘Good for tourists.’ The man tore the credit card slip off the machine, gave it to Max Roland to sign. ‘This morning, more tourists. Two men. They come to look. But they tell me not five star.’
Max Roland signed the chit.
‘I say speak to my guest. They say who it is my guest? I tell them he is a very nice man.’
‘They want to know my name?’
‘No. I tell them.’
‘They say for them okay but not for the wives. The wives must have the bath in the room.’
The reception man plucked leaves from a qat cutting, stuffed them into his mouth. Chewed hard to mulch them down. ‘This is Europeans.’ He chewed. ‘You are going home?’
Max Roland shook his head. ‘To Shibam.’
‘It is beautiful city.’ The reception man searched among some postcards, pulled out one showing the mud towers of Shibam leaning together. ‘Shibam is tall buildings like New York. Mud buildings. Nine floors.’ Patting his hands one on the other nine times. ‘You go over the desert?’
‘Yes.’
The man whistled. ‘Very long. Very hot for eight hours.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Max Roland.
In the taxi Max Roland worried about the European men. Didn’t sound like tourists, the two men. Sounded more like men searching him out. The Albanians. He directed the taxi driver to the Taj Talha hotel. From there took a walk-through to a back street, another taxi to the airport.
Magnus Oosthuizen, Chin-chin the Chihuahua in a tartan jacket under his arm, could hear John the Malawian gardener talking to Priscilla the maid in the kitchen. John inside to eat a late lunch.
Oosthuizen sat at his dining-room table waiting to be served.
Called out, ‘Priscilla, where’s my food?’
Got the reply, ‘Coming, master.’
She came in with a bowl of pea soup, set it before him. Chin-chin growled, snapped at her hand.
‘Little bliksem,’ she said.
Oosthuizen laughed, putting the dog onto the chair beside him. ‘Good security, hey!’
Priscilla clicked her tongue.
‘Don’t be like that,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘It’s just a dog.’
His cellphone rang: Max Roland.
‘Max,’ he said, ‘twice in one day. What’s happening?’
Max Roland said, ‘I shall be in Johannesburg tomorrow morning.’
Oosthuizen blew gently at the steam rising from his soup.
‘No, Max. That’s too soon. I haven’t got the security in place. Stay where you are.’
‘I have a ticket for the flight. I am at the airport,’ said Max Roland.
‘It’s too dangerous without the security. Stay there. Right now no one knows where you are.’
‘Somebody does.’
Oosthuizen stirred at his soup to cool it. ‘Nonsense.’ He heard Max Roland laugh.
‘Where are you, Magnus?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Where are you now? In your car? At home? At a restaurant? Where?’
‘At home.’
‘At home. So nice. Where am I? I will tell you. I am in this airport that stinks of sweat. The air-conditioning is kaput. In the waiting lounge the only chairs are plastic. There are people sleeping on the floor. There are some people that have been here for fifteen hours. When the plane leaves I will have been here for five hours. I will want a shower. When the plane goes I still have a long flight.’
Chin-chin pawed at his master’s lap, whining.
‘You are safer there, Max. Don’t take the flight.’ Oosthuizen slapped at the dog, hissed, Ssshh, sssh. ‘Just another day.’ The dog bit his fingers. Oosthuizen yanked his hand away. ‘Bliksem! Jou klein donder’ – swatted the dog off the chair. Chin-chin skidded squealing across the tiles.
‘Stay there, Max. One more night. Tomorrow the security’s in place to fetch you. I swear.’
‘You’re not listening, my friend.’
‘Christ, Max, they’ll pick you up at customs. Even before that probably. The moment you get off the plane.’
‘This has to be risked.’
‘It doesn’t.’ Oosthuizen felt the dog pawing at his leg, then a warmth in his shoe. ‘Shit,’ he said, ‘Chin-chin!’ – kicking out. Chin-chin tjanked away. ‘The dog’s pissed on me.’
He heard Max Roland saying, ‘I’m going. Get the security to meet me at the Johannesburg airport.’
‘Wait, wait, Max.’ Too late. ‘Jesus, Chin-chin.’ He thumbed through to Sheemina February.
‘What is it, Magnus?’ she said.
‘A lot,’ said Magnus Oosthuizen. ‘I’ve got a scientist running scared. The dog has pissed in my shoe. My soup is getting cold.’
He heard Sheemina February’s sexy laugh. The kind of laugh he imagined she’d make after orgasm. The laugh she made before she kicked a lover out of her bed. Heard her, ‘Poor you.’ The sound of waves and wind.
‘He’s going to be here tomorrow. Customs’ll pick him up. They do that it’s over. I may as well give the government my system for free.’
‘Hey!’ said Sheemina February, ‘cool it. We’re a democracy, Magnus. There’re rules and human rights. Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. If your colleague gets stopped, let me know.’
‘He thinks they’ve found him,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘The people chasing him.’
‘I’m sure he does.’
Magnus Oosthuizen caught more sea noise. ‘Where’re you?’
‘In a wild place, Magnus. Wild and isolated. Where someone can scream and no one will hear them.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘It is actually, yes.’ The wind howl stopped, he heard a door close. ‘All you’ve got to do, Magnus, is get hold of Mace Bishop. Tell him he must be in Johannesburg tomorrow morning to meet Max Roland. I’ve told you before, I’m telling you again, offer him something. Bishop’ll move for money. But before that you’d better get the piss out of your shoe. Or you’ll get chilblains.’ Again he heard her black widow’s laugh.
Magnus Oosthuizen sloshed his way to the bathroom. Dropped his shoe and sock in the bath for Priscilla to sort out. Washed his foot with the shower hose, padding back to the dining room in sheepskin slippers. Chin-chin was on the table lapping at his soup. Cocked those big eyes at him. Aren’t I cute.
‘Ag, ja, doggie,’ he said. Shouted, ‘Priscilla, bring me more soup.’
26
‘What?’ said Tami to Mace. ‘I must what?’
‘Take him around, for a couple of hours.’
Mace and Tami up in Mace’s office. Mace anxious to be on the go. Silas Dinsmor downstairs in the boardroom with a cup of coffee and the few Bahlsens Magnus Oosthuizen had left.
‘He’s an arsehole.’
‘Client. Shhhh. Keep it down.’
Tami puffing up her cheeks like a blowfish.
Mace saying, ‘Take the gun. Eyes wide open but I don’t think there’s an issue. No one’s after him.’
‘I’ve got to tell you about him.’
Mace held up his hand. ‘What?’
‘Weird stuf
f.’
‘Two minutes, Tami. One minute. I’ve got kids waiting, Christa and Pumla. Perverts will snatch them away if I don’t get there first. Pylon’s had a baby, I’ve got to go.’
She glared at him. ‘I went through his laptop.’
‘You what?’
‘Checked out his laptop.’
‘Jesus, Tami.’ Mace closed his eyes. ‘Tell me I’m not hearing this?’ Looked at her.
‘Three months ago he took out major death policies. One on his life, one on her life. Separately for two million dollars each.’
‘So? People do this. I’ve got one.’ Remembered, hell, there was one on Oumou’s life he hadn’t even got round to dealing with. Had to be a couple of hundred thou, would sort the overdraft, the bond repayments. But it felt like bounty. Blood money. He thought about it, he heard Mick Jagger: I see a red door …
‘He’s also got a girlfriend.’
‘Big deal. Lots of married men’ve got girlfriends.’
‘Mace. Catch a wakeup: two million dollars, a girlfriend, his wife’s kidnapped.’
‘Three things I’ve got to say,’ said Mace. ‘The first thing: they were both kidnapped. The second thing: this’s about a business deal. And some men have girlfriends, doesn’t mean they want out of their marriage.’ Mace flashing on Isabella, feeling heat in his palms. How she’d nibbled his fingertips. Brought her lips down on his. Even after years, even despite Oumou, despite the guilt, raised his lust.
‘What if it isn’t? What if that’s why he’s so okay?’
Mace smiled. ‘I’ve got to go, Tami. Take him sightseeing. Probably the sea’s too choppy for Robben Island. But the Slave Lodge. The District Six Museum, those’ll stir his soul. Show him our valiant struggle.’
‘He doesn’t want her back. He wants her dead.’
‘Too many movies, Tami. Forget the conspiracy theories. Life’s not like that. Much more mundane.’ He winked. ‘Have fun.’
Mace headed down the stairs, two at a time. He looked in on Silas Dinsmor.
‘Tami’ll be with you for the rest of the afternoon. A ransom call comes through, I’m the first to know, okay? Even before the cops, the embassy, everyone.’
‘Mace,’ said Silas Dinsmor, biting into a biscuit, ‘why haven’t they called?’
‘They will,’ said Mace. ‘They’re sweating you. Probably till sometime tonight, I reckon.’
Christa and Pumla were waiting outside the school gate. Came rushing to the car as he pulled up.
‘Can we go to the hospital, Papa?’ Christa even leaning over to kiss his cheek. ‘We’ve got to see him. Pylon says we can.’
Pumla from the back: ‘Please, Mace. Please.’
‘Sure,’ said Mace, ‘why not?’
The girls chatting as he headed onto De Waal, sun shafts breaking on Devil’s Peak through a sky still grey and threatening.
In the traffic slow-down at Newlands Forest, Christa said to Mace, her body not angled towards him, her head turned slightly in his direction, ‘Can I sleep over, Papa?’
‘Uh-uh,’ said Mace. ‘Not tonight. Tomorrow, probably, I’m going to be away overnight. Or the next night, I’m not sure. I want you home with me tonight.’
Noticed Christa pull a droopy lip then think better of it. Considered offering an enticement: maybe a swimming session and a meal out.
‘We could do a swim. Hit, I don’t know, a Prima afterwards?’
‘Ah, not a swim.’
He put out a hand, touched her arm. ‘You haven’t been for a week, C. You’re going to lose fitness. It goes quickly, hey. Then what chances’ve we got for the island swim?’
‘I don’t want to do the swim.’
‘No!’ Mace said nothing past Paradise Motors up to the Bishops Court traffic lights, feeling the blood rush of temper and keeping it tight. Christa could work him up quicker than a street kid hissing for fifty cents.
‘You’d be letting her down. Your mother.’
‘Maman’s dead.’
He could hear the tears in her voice, knew how she felt but couldn’t leave it there. ‘We’re doing it for her memory, C. Because we loved her.’ The past tense.
Christa said nothing, stared straight forward, her profile sulky, her eyes liquid.
Brought up an ache in Mace’s chest, and anger. He wanted to hug her, he wanted to squeeze the life out of her. The vulnerability of her, the sheer bitter mordancy of her attitude. Always biting at him. He let it go, clenched his fists on the steering wheel.
At the hospital Mace and Pylon went for coffee in the hospital cafe while the girls swooned round Treasure and the baby. Pylon with his arm in a sling, a silly smile on his lips. Couldn’t keep the grin down.
Mace said to him, ‘Your face’s going to hurt tomorrow.’
Pylon smiling. ‘Why’s that?’
‘That grin. Ear to ear, man, it’s alarming.’
‘Can’t help it,’ he said. ‘Every time I think of the little guy.’
‘I know,’ said Mace. Remembering newborn Christa lying on Oumou’s stomach, sleeping. Couple of hours after the birth, mother and child. The sight had cut him up then, the memory did now. He took a long pull at the thin coffee to ease the choke in his throat, and gagged. The coffee tasted like pulped cardboard. Sent him into a coughing fit.
Pylon said, ‘I’d thump you on the back if I could.’
Mace spluttered, wiped tears from his eyes.
‘Bloody hell!’
‘You can die drinking it.’
‘I almost did.’
‘I noticed.’
When Mace had his life back he heard Pylon out on the miracles of birth. The wonder of holding a new life in his hands. Some connection he’d felt with the ancestors.
‘You don’t do that crap,’ said Mace. ‘Normally.’
‘It’s what I felt,’ said Pylon. ‘Like there were a lot of people in the ward.’
‘With spears and shields and leopard skins.’
Pylon put on a pained face. ‘Hey, I don’t need the mockery shit.’ Thumbed through on his cellphone to the birth pictures he’d taken.
‘You photographed them, the ancestors.’
‘Very funny. Like I said, drop the mockery shit.’
‘Sorry, okay.’ Mace held up his hands in surrender.
‘Check this.’
Mace taking the cellphone. On the screen the sort of detail he could have lived without: baby Buso entering the world.
‘Amazing.’ Pylon smiling in wonderment.
‘Amazing,’ said Mace, handing back the phone.
‘No. Run through them,’ said Pylon. ‘There’s more.’
Mace wondered if Treasure knew about this, how her wounded mate had turned paparazzo.
‘Somehow there’s got to be a way I can download this. Store them on a computer. Pumla’ll know.’
‘What for?’ said Mace.
‘It’s history,’ said Pylon. ‘Family history.’
Mace gave him the phone. ‘Congrats. I’ll go and see the little guy for real in a moment. No offence: first things first.’
‘Business,’ said Pylon.
‘Business,’ said Mace.
Told him there’d been no ransom call, the only development that Gonsalves had got lucky, found a photo of the team on a cellphone belonging to one of the dead gents. Told him Silas Dinsmor was holding to the deal, no matter what the kidnappers wanted. That Tami was babysitting.
‘With my gun?’
Mace ignored this, told him about Magnus Oosthuizen. Said, ‘This’s where it’s getting stressed without you.’
‘I’m wounded,’ said Pylon. ‘And on … what’s it called, that fathers get? Paternity leave. Sorry for you.’
‘To hell with that,’ said Mace. ‘Wednesday I’ve got to fetch this dude. From Yemen. That’s like ten hours there, door to door. Four hour sit-around. Ten hours back. A knackers run.’
‘And the Dinsmor scene?’
‘All yours.’
‘Crap, Mace. Save me Jesus
, how’m I supposed to handle it.’
‘With Tami.’
‘She’s a girl.’
‘Who can chop bricks with her hand.’
‘No, man. I’m a father now.’
‘You’ve got to do it. We can’t drop the Dinsmor. We need the Oosthuizen. That’s serious money, given what he needs protecting.’
‘Ah, Mace, bra, what’re you saying? Treasure won’t be easy on this.’
Mace thought, Treasure wasn’t easy on many things.
In the ward Mace had to do a double-take. There’s Treasure lying on the bed with the new baby in the crook of her arm and Mace saw Oumou. Treasure nothing like his wife had been. Oumou tall, slim, her neck long and beautiful. Treasure stocky, shorter. No ways was she a mama, too modern for that with her jeans, her spaghetti strap tops, but no ramp model either. Oumou came close to that. Had come close to that.
Yet Mace saw Oumou. Christa nestled beside her.
He stopped. The room sliding away, the only sound the sound of his blood. He grasped the metal frame of the bed’s foot end. Oumou fading out.
Treasure said, ‘It’s me, Mace, not a ghost.’
Mace grimaced a smile.
‘Though Pylon says we’ve got the ancestors here too. Quite a party. Meet Hintsa.’ She angled the baby for Mace to see its sleeping face. Mace saw Christa.
He bent down to brush Treasure’s cheek with a kiss. Said, ‘Congratulations.’ She smelt of soap and something else antiseptic that he remembered. And the dampness of clay.
Remembered leaning over Oumou like this looking down at mother and daughter through a blur. He straightened up, stepped back to stand beside Christa. She shifted slightly so they weren’t touching.
He wanted to say something to her about Oumou, wanted to put his arm around her shoulder, pull her to him. But could feel a tension in her. Her attitude, her rigidity repelling him.
