by Mike Nicol
An hour they sat there, watching blankly the trail of doctors and nurses in and out of the ward. Eventually a young doctor approached, dressed like he was heading off for a round of golf. Introduced himself as the surgeon who’d operated on Christa.
He sat opposite them, said, ‘Your daughter’s condition is stable. We need to keep her in ICU for a few more days. For monitoring. You see the bullet went through her intestines but that’s not the problem, the problem’s that it grazed her spine. Severed some nerves. At the moment, Mr Bishop, Mrs Bishop, your daughter’s paralysed from the waist down.’
Mace felt Oumou stiffen.
‘We’ll have to perform another procedure in a few days and maybe some things can be corrected. I’m not going to tell you she will walk again. All I’m telling you is we will do our best for her.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry I had to give you such news.’
There was something weird, Mace decided, about how things worked: that when you thought you were getting your life together, you weren’t.
THE DEAL
‘… in this city the world comes to party and traffick …’
- Anonymous businessman
1
‘Ludovico,’ he said to the receptionist. ‘You have a reservation for me.’ Speaking English not Spanish, although his Spanish was workable. Not a question but a statement. The receptionist fingering a version of his name on the keyboard.
‘You spell it L-u-d-o-v-i-c-o,’ he said. ‘Ludovico.’
The receptionist tapped at the keys again.
‘Ah, si.’ She beamed at him, as she had done when he approached her. Even teeth. Full lips. ‘We have a room for you over the plaza. There is more light.’
‘That would be good,’ he said.
She looked at the screen: ‘You are with us for two days, Mr Ludovico. I hope you will enjoy your stay.’
‘Yeah,’ he replied.
She wrote his name and room number on a small folder that contained a smartcard key, gave this to him.
‘Have a nice day,’ she said. Smiling at him again, her lipstick glistening.
‘Sure,’ he said, handing the card to a bellhop, smiling at her.
As he turned away, she exclaimed. ‘Oh! Momento! Mr Ludovico, excuse me, there is a present for you’ - and bent down to a cupboard beneath the counter, coming up with a shoe-box size package wrapped in navy blue paper, fastened with a ribbon, and a gift-wrapped cylinder that could only contain a bottle of wine.
‘Thank you,’ he said, reaching for the parcels.
‘You’re welcome.’
He noticed her eyes for the first time. Happy eyes, smiling too. Reminded him what he needed was a night at the ballet.
‘Any ballet on?’ he asked.
‘Ballet? Si, it is possible,’ she said. ‘I will find out in five minutes.’
‘Much obliged,’ said Ludo.
Riccardo Ludovico - known to his friends and enemies as Ludo - filled the bath with a few inches of cold water, sat on the edge, unfastened his shoes, eased off his socks, swung his feet into the tub. He sighed out loud at the relief. For ten minutes sat immobile, staring at the soap holder, two rounds of soap wrapped in cream waxed paper nestled there. Smoked a cigarette, flicked the ash into the water, stubbed out on one of the soaps.
‘Stay at the Carrera,’ Francisco had said. ‘Treat yourself. This is an important job.’
But the air ticket had been economy class. The plane full, his knees jammed against the seat in front, a woman alongside him of such girth she overflowed, forcing him sideways. Ten hours of this misery, no chance of a cigarette.
‘Maybe you upgrade the ticket, I’ll stay at a cheaper hotel,’ he’d suggested to Francisco.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ came back Francisco, ‘for ten hours?’
‘Twenty,’ said Ludo. ‘Ten there. Ten back.’
‘You stay at the Carrera,’ said Francisco. ‘Beautiful place. Like you’re in England. Floral drapes. Leather armchairs. Prints of hunting scenes. That sort of decoration. You stay there, Ludo. My treat for you.’
Ludo hadn’t pushed it any further. Francisco had.
‘Best location, close by to everything. Okay, so you must put up with a bit of smog, but this is right there in the middle of history. Behind the palace where they shot up that president. Whatsisname? From the air.’
‘That right?’ said Ludo.
‘Damn sure,’ said Francisco. ‘They got everything there. Restaurants. Health club. Pool outside. The oldest hotel in Santiago, Ludo. Be my guest. Stay a few days. Take some time out.’
Francisco’s normal style: I make the arrangements, you do the job.
‘Bullshit,’ said Ludo, standing in the water, talking to himself in the full-length mirror at the end of the bathroom. ‘Get in. Do the job. Get out. That’s how we do it. That’s how we always do it.’
No need to unpack, for two nights it wasn’t worth it.
The phone rang. The receptionist to tell him Swan Lake. Swan Lake, his worst but what the hell. Had her book him a ticket for that night.
The phone rang again: Francisco opening with the standard line: ‘That was a safe flight?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ludo.
‘You got the package?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ludo, staring at the packages where he’d put them on the bed.
‘Everything okay?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ludo.
‘What d’you mean you don’t know?’
‘I haven’t opened it yet,’ said Ludo.
‘Saint’s sake.’ Francisco’s voice going up an octave. ‘Why’ve’nt you?’
‘I just got here,’ said Ludo. ‘I got things to do. Unpacking. Maybe take a swim. Have some lunch.’ Ludo smiling at himself in the cupboard mirror, the phone lodged between his shoulder and left ear. ‘Is the wine good?’
‘The best. Enjoy.’ The line went dead.
Ludo grimaced at himself. He needed a shave. More than that he needed a drink.
At the pool bar he took a table under an umbrella. Only a few people on the patio, nobody around showing flesh any younger than his own. He took out his silver cigarette case, opened it, tapped a Camel against the case.
‘Señor?’ A lighter flared in front of him. Ludo looked up at a waiter’s impassive face, slight smile but nothing ingratiating.
‘Gracias,’ he said leaning into the flame, wondering if he should try out his Spanish, deciding against this. ‘You do cocktails?’ he said in English.
‘Si, señor.’
‘Yeah. Like what?’
‘Is a local drink I may suggest?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Is a pisco-sour.’
‘Being?’
‘Señor?’
‘What’s it made of?’
‘Is Pisco. Like aperitif and lemon that is very cold.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ludo.
‘In a tall glass.’
‘That’s good.’
‘For señor?’
‘I guess,’ said Ludo.
The waiter nodded. Ludo blew a stream of smoke up against the umbrella. With each draw he felt better, letting the smoke rub around his lungs, waiting a beat before sending out a blue plume.
‘Señor.’ The waiter set down the drink. Tall as he’d said, the rim encrusted with sugar, the glass opaque with condensation. ‘Salud!’
As the waiter didn’t leave Ludo realised he had to try the drink. A taste he took to immediately.
‘Is good?’ asked the waiter.
‘Yeah,’ said Ludo. ‘Bring me another, huh.’
Halfway through the second pisco-sour Ludo remembered he hadn’t locked the wallet with his passport and the air ticket and a clip of dollars in the room safe. Nor his cellphone. Left them lying on the bedside table like a classic jerk. The package unopened on the bed. Hotel of this nature there was bound to be an attendant went in every time you left the room. He took the rest of the drink in one.
First thing he saw the room had been straightened, the
counterpane smoothed out, the wine and the package placed on the writing table. The wallet on the bedside pedestal, nothing missing. Also his Nokia. His Discman and his blues CDs. Great hotel! He sighed with relief, sat down at the escritoire and opened the package, this time tearing the wrapping.
The pistol inside was a used H&K 9mm with a silencer, five rounds in the magazine. Not what he’d asked for but good enough, light, easy to shoot. Also a pair of garden secateurs. Brand new.
He locked the package and his wallet and his cellphone in the safe.
That evening, Ludo did the ballet. Cringed at the opening bars, then thought, d’you wanna hate this or what? Relax. And went with the mood, even finding grace in the swans, figuring, maybe he’d been too hard before, there was beauty here if you looked unbiased. Or he’d got the romance for the first time. What the hell! He enjoyed it, bought a programme as a souvenir. The sort of thing he could show to Isabella. Isabella always threatening to overcome her prejudice. Offering a pas de cheval, neighing at the same time, whenever he talked of ballet tickets. Swan Lake in Santiago would amaze her. Amazed him. Hyped him. Back at the Carrera he toasted three pisco-sours to Tchaikovsky.
Gone one, Ludo let himself into the artist’s apartment. Had on his work outfit: hooded jacket, clean sports shirt, jeans, Nikes. A cat stench hit him, made pungent by the warm weather. He found the bedroom; with the shutters closed the room was dark, but enough light to make out Señor Ramon Moraga Salazar on the far side of the bed, on his back, snoring. The woman lying on her left side facing away from him. Their only covering a sheet. Perfect situation.
Ludo drew the H&K from a pocket inside his bomber jacket, shot Señor Salazar through the heart from a distance of ten centimetres. Nice gun, low recoil, the silencer minimising the muzzle flash. The cartridge tinkling away somewhere. The man jerked at the impact like he’d had a nightmare. The woman woke up screaming. Ludo smacked her on the side of the head with the pistol stock. End of screaming. He wasn’t concerned with the cartridge, give the cops some excitement. Put the pistol back in his inside pocket, took the secateurs and a Ziploc bag from the back pocket of his jeans. Señor Salazar’s right hand dangled over the bed. Ludo snipped off the index finger, a crack someway between snapping a lobster leg and pruning roses, dropped the keepsake in the Ziploc, wiped the blades of the secateur along the sheet. On his way out dumped the pistol and the pruners in the kitchen garbage bin. Some more excitement for the cops.
Six hours later Ludo checked out. Full lips, the receptionist, said, ‘But you have another night booked.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ludo. ‘I don’t need it.’
Then he gave her a padded envelope and asked for it to be posted airmail.
‘To New York?’ she asked, glancing at the address.
‘Yeah,’ said Ludo.
‘From here?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ludo, smiling.
She frowned. ‘It will take some days, Mr Ludovico.’
‘I guess.’
What she didn’t want to ask was why he didn’t post it when he was back in New York. So he helped her out.
‘It’s a present,’ he said. ‘My friend likes to get presents with foreign stamps.’
2
Mace and Oumou sat other side of Elizabeth Tlali’s desk. Personal account advisor was the title under her name. Mace and Oumou dressed for this meeting with the bank: Mace in a suit with an open-necked blue shirt, Oumou in a long black dress, a string of silver and amber beads round her neck. Elizabeth Tlali told them that the bank would have to foreclose. As the situation stood there had not been a single repayment for three months. ‘Mr Bishop, Mrs Bishop,’ she said, ‘you understand our position.’
Mace said, ‘It’s only been built a year. We need more time.’
Oumou said, ‘What is this foreclose?’
Mace could see out the window behind the personal account advisor to the lower end of Longmarket Street, people crossing over from the Town Hall to the Grand Parade, and beyond that tourist coaches pulling up outside the Castle. He and Oumou had driven down into the city in the station-wagon, no ways was Mace going to leave the Spider on the Grand Parade even with the top on. Too many skollie-boys lurking around ready to slit the hood.
‘Basically,’ he heard Elizabeth Tlali saying, ‘what it means is that we will have to sell your house in order to recoup the money you owe us.’
‘But already,’ said Mace, ‘the house is worth more than the money we borrowed to build it. That means you’ll be throwing away our money.’
Before they’d left home he’d stood at the pool looking back at the house: Oumou’s dream: lots of glass, concrete beams, straight elegant lines. Some tall stone pines behind it and you looked up beyond that at Devil’s Peak. He turned to his right there was the grand face of Table Mountain, a better aspect he had to admit than from the Victorian. Not that Oumou or Christa wanted to live there after the kidnapping.
He’d wondered about bringing in some Cayman money. That wealth sitting out there that he couldn’t touch. How stupid to lose the house for the fear of laundering a few thousand K. Maybe it’d come to that. In his hand was the bank’s letter, just a tone short of threatening legalese.
The hell with you, he’d thought. This is our house.
‘That’s not how we see it,’ said Elizabeth Tlali. Elizabeth Tlali wearing a pin-stripe black suit, skirt not trousers. She wore no rings, no jewellery. Her wristwatch, Mace noticed, was expensive, the name Raymond Weil discreetly on the face.
‘This house is for our daughter,’ said Oumou. ‘She cannot walk. Everywhere is built for her wheelchair.’
‘I know,’ said Elizabeth Tlali. ‘I am aware of your personal situation.’
‘Then,’ said Mace, ‘you know that your bank was happy to lend us the money, more than we asked for, so we could build the house.’
Elizabeth Tlali nodded. ‘I know. We make every effort to help our clients, Mr Bishop.’
‘So give us more time. Extend the bond. Make it thirty years. Thirty-five years. For God’s sake your money’s safe. There’s the house as security. Just give us a chance to pay for it.’
‘We have not even lived there for two years yet,’ said Oumou. ‘For all that time except for the last three months we have paid.’
Elizabeth Tlali said yes that was on the record. That was why they’d allowed three months leeway. Mouthing on about the bank and its responsibility towards its client. Mace thinking, blah, blah, blah, they could put it up for auction, sell it out from under them, and not even bother to get all the money back. Still have him for the balance owing. Even when, on the open market, he could get probably a good couple of hundred thousand more. If you believed Dave Cruickshank. Which he did. Dave also telling him, ‘Hang in there, my son, the market’s turning up. We’re talking twenty per cent plus returns in the coming years. Cape Town’s hot. We’re getting international interest.’
‘What you’re saying,’ Mace said to Elizabeth Tlali, ‘is you don’t care if you put us on the street. Worse, put us in financial shit without any assets. Our daughter’s a paraplegic, you heard my wife, we had this house designed to make her life easy. But okay, this doesn’t matter. From your perspective you just want your money. What I’ve got to say is I don’t see any morality in this Mrs Tlali.’
‘Ms,’ she said.
Mace stared at her, wondering who trained bank staff to irritate the customers.
Oumou said, ‘What we would like to ask for is another three months. Please. If we could have the extra months we can then afford to pay.’
Elizabeth Tlali shuffled through the papers on her desk. ‘I have here your bank statements, Mrs Bishop. What they tell me is you and Mr Bishop can’t afford your house.’
‘In two months,’ said Oumou, ‘I shall have an exhibition. All the money from that will go to the house.’
Elizabeth Tlali smiled. ‘I hope you are very successful, Mrs Bishop. But we cannot rely on that.’
‘You have my revised business
plan,’ said Mace. ‘You can see the potential. That’s not thumbsuck. That’s modelled on conservative values. By professional consultants.’
‘Of course. But it is a plan. What you have proposed may not work out quite so well.’
‘It was fine when you lent us the money. Not as good a business plan but that didn’t matter then. Then you said, here’s the money Mr Bishop. We’re on your side.’
From a drawer in her desk Elizabeth Tlali took out a block of notepaper, the bank’s logo top centre. She wrote the date on it. Glanced up at Mace and Oumou, said, ‘Alright, I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do. The bank has its rules and because you haven’t paid, you’ve broken the rules. You understand that?’
Mace thought, here we go, the my hands are tied, sorry I can’t help you line of bullshit.
‘But I have discretionary powers, in terms of a first contravention.’
Mace didn’t like the word contravention but let it ride seeing as Elizabeth Tlali seemed to be heading in the right direction.
‘My suggestion is,’ she said, ‘that you come up with one of the missed payments within what? … say ten days. Something to show your good intentions. Something I can show upstairs. For that I can go three months, end of that time unless the bank sees some money the people upstairs are going to force me to foreclose.’ She wrote on the pad, ‘Decision postponed to end January 2002’, Mace reading it upside down.
‘Fair enough,’ he said, standing up.
Elizabeth Tlali closed the file, dropped it onto a pile in an out-basket. She stood, extended her hand to Oumou. ‘Good luck with your exhibition. What’s it? Paintings?’
‘Pottery,’ said Oumou.
The woman kept hold of her hand. ‘You know Clementina van der Walt’s work?’
