Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Mother Estelle in forceful mode. ‘Don’t ask silly questions. You should know not to do that by now.’

  ‘It helps,’ said Fish, ‘knowing what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Bartolomeu. Just let us have whatever comes up. We’re talking about investment. We’re talking about partnerships. We’re talking Brics. You’ve heard of the Brics group of countries?’

  Fish tempted to say no. Went with, ‘That third world thing: Brazil, Russia, India, China, us.’

  Heard his mother sigh. ‘Never mind. I’ve got to go. Just get me what you can, Bartolomeu, dear. As soon as you can.’

  Fish thought, what was it with his mother? No contact from one week to the next, not even time for a quick coffee when she’s in town, then a business request. Mind you, he wasn’t the best of sons for keeping in touch. Wasn’t for Vicki’s insistence they’d talk even less often.

  He disconnected, keyed into his landline the number of the first agency on the Google page. Asked the receptionist for Linda Nchaba. Was told he’d be put through to Angie.

  Angie came on, said, ‘You’re looking for Linda? She’s with SupaGals. Or I think she was. I wanted her to come to us but Linda likes money. I couldn’t offer her enough.’ Angie laughed. A nice laugh, Fish thought, that conjured a picture of a woman in her fifties, short hair, lots of white cotton, a rich laugh as if Angie had smoked a few too many from a young age. ‘Fair enough, I suppose. Looks don’t last forever. You got to cash in on them while you can. Good luck, doll.’

  SupaGals was three down the list. Fish Googled the agency, brought up pictures of their models. There was Linda Nchaba named in their gallery. Range of photos of her doing a summer fashion number. Hot piece. Fish dialled. This receptionist said, ‘I don’t know anybody like that.’

  Fish said he’d been referred by Angie of Double m Models.

  The receptionist said, ‘Wait.’

  Fish waited. One minute, two minutes, was beginning to think he’d been dumped. The reception came back, wanting his details. Fish gave more or less the truth except he said he was a movie gofer, doing the dog work for a casting agency.

  Another long wait. A man came on, said, ‘You’re looking for Linda Nchaba?’

  Fish said he was.

  ‘Why?’ The voice officious. Challenging. A suit, Fish reckoned, but not a collar and tie. A pale blue open-necked shirt. Probably once upon a time a lawyer. ‘We haven’t seen her for a year. She’s overseas somewhere.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fish, ‘that’s what Angie told me.’

  ‘Angie at Double M?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘Thinks she knows everything. Mrs On-Top-Of-It.’

  ‘US, Angie said.’

  ‘As far as we’re concerned, and we’re her agency, Europe. Holland. Amsterdam, to be precise. I’ll email her your details.’

  ‘Please,’ said Fish, hesitated. ‘Listen, a favour, you couldn’t let me have her contact numbers?’

  ‘We don’t do that.’

  ‘Sure. It’s just …’ He let it hang there for a moment. ‘It’s just they asked for her especially. You know. Like they really want …’ Left that hanging too.

  ‘Who wants her?’ said the man.

  Fish gave him the story he’d told the receptionist adding two details: the name of a casting agency taken off a Google scan; the fact that it was in Los Angeles. A scan he’d done while they were talking. Chances were the dude with the blue open-necked shirt would Google a check too. Chances were though he wouldn’t bother phoning. The sort of gamble Vicki would put odds on.

  A silence, Fish staring at Linda Nchaba on his laptop screen, waiting, wondering if he’d get lucky. His cellphone rang. Unknown number.

  Fish answered.

  Mart Velaze said, ‘Two p.m. Truth. You know Truth?’

  ‘The coffee shop,’ said Fish. ‘With all the bones.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How’ll I know you?’

  ‘You won’t. I know you.’

  Fish heard the agency man say, ‘We’re her agents. Any contracts have to come through us.’ Fish keyed off his cellphone.

  ‘Yeah, sure. I’m just trying to find her. You know these movie types, they like the hype, like talking things up. That personal contact. When I was talking to …’

  ‘You tell them we’re her agents.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I’ve got an address. Edendale. That’s a township.’ He read off the street name and number. ‘Got that?’

  Fish said he had.

  ‘Anything in Amsterdam?’

  ‘Can’t help you there. Only a cell number.’

  ‘That’d be good.’

  He got that too, keyed off the phone. Not surprised that it’d been this easy. Most people’d give you a break if they thought it was legit. Or there might be money in it.

  He grinned. Half an hour’s work was all it’d taken. The man on the top of his game. Thought he’d take himself down to Knead for breakfast.

  20

  The president emerged from the swimming pool, a neat man for his age. No flab, no potbelly, the rigid carriage of a controlled man. Towelled his face, his shaven head. Drank from a glass of fruit juice. Real squeezed oranges, mangoes thickening the juice. Ice cubes clinking. Condensation on the glass, leaving wet rings on the table top where he’d placed it.

  His secretary held out a cellphone. ‘The minister for you, Mr President.’

  The president took the phone, turned to look back at the glittering water.

  Said, ‘Comrade Minister.’ Drank his juice, listened to the nervous run of the minister’s explanation. Said, ‘Comrade Minister, you know what the cabinet instructions were. You understand the situation. There is no use in telling me these things. The cabinet has decided.’ A pause. ‘No. No. I cannot do that. I cannot override the cabinet. Of course I have done so when it is necessary, but on this occasion that is not the situation. You know what your fellow ministers expect from you and you know what I expect from you.’ The president pausing for a quick swallow of juice, saying, ‘No, Comrade Minister, we, I, have outlined how you will proceed. Yes, there will be unhappy people – important unhappy people, and this cannot be helped. You are minister of defence. We have a problem, and that problem must be finalised. Now. You have the file, you have the documents, everything is set out for you to cause this action. You will not follow any other course. You have work to do, Comrade Minister. I will not keep you from it.’

  The president thumbed off the call. Handed the phone to his secretary, a man in a grey suit, pink tie, shined shoes. Immaculate.

  Said, ‘You will need to chase him.’

  The secretary nodded.

  ‘Some comrades forget too quickly. They forget the life before. They forget what I know.’ The president finished the orange juice. Held out the glass. ‘Some more, I think.’ Stood there, the water drying rapidly on his body in the early heat.

  The secretary took the glass to the breakfast table under an umbrella. A jug there of the president’s morning blend. Refilled the glass. ‘Coach is ready, Mr President,’ he said.

  ‘At the tennis court?’

  ‘As you instructed.’

  ‘Good, good.’ He waved away the glass of juice. Set off across the slasto paving. After a couple of paces, stopped, called back, ‘Where’s Zama?’

  ‘Running, sir.’

  ‘He is always running. Does he never stop this running? It is bad for the joints, does he not realise this? When he is my age he will suffer. He will need operations.’

  ‘He has told me he is training, sir, for the Comrades Marathon.’

  ‘Ah, my son the athlete, always drawn to these marathons: the London Marathon, the New York Marathon, the Two Oceans Marathon. Good, it shows his stamina and dedication. Phone him. Tell him we need to talk this morning after my session. He has an hour to finish his training schedule.’

  At the tennis pavilion the president changed into whites, boun
ced onto the court, brandishing his racket. ‘You are ready to be beaten, Coach?’ he shouted at the man retrieving balls from the further reaches.

  The man came quickly towards him. At the net, they touched rackets. ‘Prepare to meet your match, Coach. Or have you been taking lessons?’

  The coach sniggered. ‘We’ll see, Mr President.’ Handed over a bucket of balls.

  The president walked to the backline, bounced a ball, once, twice, three times, preparing to serve. Threw it up, smashed an ace down the centre. Stepped to his left, waving the coach out of the way. ‘You do not want to get hurt, Coach.’ Cracked another hard one. Had it returned to his backhand, lobbed, the coach running left, getting behind it. The president at the net for a soft stopper. Triumphant, continued from side to side until the bucket was empty.

  Said, ‘Okay, Coach, now let us see what the white man can do.’

  ‘You do not want to warm up, Mr President, sir?’

  ‘The match will warm us up, Coach. There is no time for messing around. Best of three. My serve.’ Put down two strong balls: thirty love. The coach returning the next hard down the line on his backhand: thirty fifteen.

  ‘So. There is some spark left in the white man.’ The president smiling. ‘It is good to see, Coach.’

  From outside the court the secretary said, ‘Mr President, the minister is on the line.’

  ‘The minister of defence?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The president prepared to serve. ‘You must tell him to wait. I have business here.’ Powered a drive that the coach smacked back, to the president’s surprise.

  Thirty all.

  On the next serve a sharp exchange.

  ‘Forty thirty, Coach. Maybe I should take on the Yankee John Isner, give him some competition with my service. What do you think?’ Jiggered about from foot to foot. ‘You are ready for this?’

  The coach raised his racket, bent forward, balancing on the balls of his feet.

  The president served. The ball too low, grazing the top of the net, deflecting wide. Undaunted, cannoned the second ball, the coach taking it on the forehand for a stinging return. The president backhanding down the tramlines, getting a cross-court high bouncer. Took it at the peak, smashed. The coach on the backline jumping, getting his racket to it, the stroke awkward, the ball too long.

  A shout from the president.

  ‘That is the lesson, Coach. Never be caught on the wrong foot. Anticipate and position. The lessons of tennis, the lessons of politics. When you have a second chance it must be strong like the first. Otherwise what is the point?’ He held up his hand. ‘Wait a minute. I must talk to this mampara. Sometimes I think we are a country of stupid men. Stupid women as well.’ Beckoned for his secretary to bring the phone.

  Said, ‘Comrade Minister, you are interrupting my day. You are making it unpleasant. When it is beautiful like this with blue sky I do not want storm clouds on the horizon. I want you to fix what has happened. You are the minister of defence. What happened, taking care of what happened, is within your portfolio. If you cannot fix it, then you must tell me, and I will fix it. This is simple, Comrade Minister, all you have to do is say you need my help.’ A pause, the president listening, tapping his racket against the toe of his tennis shoe. ‘Good, Comrade Minister, good. You have my cooperation. You will find that I have already taken action, Comrade Minister. It is as I said to Coach: The second serve must be as strong as the first. Take care, Comrade Minister. Hamba kahle.’

  Without disconnecting handed the phone to the secretary. ‘Write his letter of resignation. Tell him he must sign it this morning.’ To the coach called out, ‘No need to change sides. Your serve.’ As he wheeled away said to the secretary, ‘Have you got hold of Zama?’

  ‘He will meet you at the hives.’

  ‘Good. Now let me show Coach how we Zulus sort out the wizards. Just call me Dingaan.’

  21

  They got to the hives in a golf cart, the secretary driving. The president sipping another fruit juice. Dapper now in a grey suit, white shirt, skinny blue tie with thin stripes. There was Zama waiting, looking at the hives: a cluster of eight in a stand of bluegums. Old trees that’d been there when Bambatha was part of a large cattle farm. Zama standing with a bottle of power drink in his hand. A tall man, light skinned, sleek with sweat. Two bodyguards waiting to the side.

  ‘You see them, Zama?’ said the president, approaching his son, pointing at the hives, at the active bees. Drawing Zama closer to the swarms. ‘Hear them. They are our lifesavers.’

  The hives, his father’s pride. How often hadn’t he heard the old man trot out the notion that without bees human beings wouldn’t last a week. That being the start of the sermon, the rest about how commercial honey was a mixture, a cocktail of import and local from who knew what source. But his honey was pure. The best in the country. His mission to have hives built at every village. Real African honey from African bees would ease the hard lives of his people. It was the medicine of the Zulu, the muti of their ancestors.

  ‘A golden sweetness that is both energy and health,’ said the president. ‘You should have a spoonful of honey every day. My people sing its praises. They thank me for showing them the wisdom of our culture.’

  Zama shrugged, took a drink from his bottle, pushed closed the lid. Called out to his guards that they could go.

  ‘Zama.’ The president reaching up to touch him on the shoulder. ‘It is time. Time we talked of some matters.’

  Zama looking at him, frowning. For years his father had kept him out of the family businesses, the imports and exports, the mining interests, the Chinese deals. Probably the old man didn’t realise he knew about these dealings, believing his son had his own matters. True, Zama had gone his own way. First the military. Then something with fashion models that kept him busy, earned him money. What Zama did was never his father’s concern, but now he was saying it was time to talk of family matters. This puzzled Zama, made him wary.

  ‘My son, there is family business for your attention.’ The president finding Zama’s eyes behind the sunglasses, holding them until they both glanced away.

  ‘I have a full plate.’ Zama gazing again at the hives.

  That was the problem with his father. His expectations. That no one else had a life. That he could click his fingers to command. Build them hives. Give them the lives of bees, their legacy. What did he know about his children, the children from his other wives? What did he know about him, his eldest? Nothing. They were strangers. Mysterious beings that could be seen and heard but whose lives happened elsewhere.

  ‘You must find time. This is important, a big business that supports our family.’ The president waved an arm at the palace buildings, the amphitheatre, the guest cottages, the tennis courts, the swimming pool, the clinic. ‘You think only government money can build this? No, no, it needs more than government money to build this. This has family money. From our investments, my son. Investments you must now control.’

  ‘Under your eyes.’ Zama defiant, taking off his sunglasses. Saw the president smile, no doubt pleased to see the insolence. The spark. He would need the spark to stand up to his father. ‘No. I have other matters.’ Zama keeping his lips tight, his eyes squinting against the glare. ‘Why do you bring me here to say this? Why can’t we talk inside?’ Zama feeling the sun on his skin, too hot. ‘Inside, out of the sun.’

  ‘You do not like the sun. You are like white people. Worried about your skin.’ The president raised his hand, called to the secretary for one of the big golf umbrellas, said, as it was opened above them, ‘There are ears in the palace. It is better to talk here.’

  ‘Pah!’ Zama shook his head. ‘That is nonsense. You have been president too long, my father.’

  ‘I am president-for-life. Is that too long? Perhaps it is too long. But this is what the people want. It is the people who asked me to stay. I am the people’s vote. I must listen to the people, Zama. I am their servant.’ The president indicating that t
hey should walk. ‘Maybe one day you will find out about being a leader. Then you will understand what it is to be alone.’

  They walked closer to the hives, Zama waving bees away from his face. ‘We are too near.’

  ‘They sense your fear,’ said the president. ‘Those who are afraid can be attacked, subjugated. It is a law of the universe.’

  Zama stepped back. Said, ‘About what? What are we to talk about?’

  The president turned to face him. ‘I will tell you. It has been on my mind. You see, for five years we have had major mining interests elsewhere in Africa. Gold. Diamonds. We are serious players.’

  ‘For five years, you kept it secret.’ Zama unsurprised. ‘For five years you have never told me.’ Looked at his father. There had always been unease between them. He was too much like his mother, the other mothers told him: the shape of his nose, his thin lips, his caramel skin. There had always been this between them.

  ‘There is lots you don’t know, Zama. You were not ready. I am telling you now.’

  Zama thinking, they were right those who talk about patience: for everything there comes a time. A man. Now it is my time.

  ‘Where are these mines?’

  ‘You will see. There are men coming later who will talk to us.’

  ‘What men?’

  ‘You will meet them.’ The president touched his son’s elbow. ‘These mines are very productive. Major investments. I think it is time for you to manage them. This is your portfolio now.’

  ‘Why?’ Zama, edged off. The bees still an irritant.

  The president followed him. ‘Why do you ask that? Why do you question me?’

  ‘I know you. You are my father.’

  The president laughed. ‘You are my son. Are you worried when something good happens? You are sharp. You question, why does he do this now? It is a good question. We must be sharp because there are many knives hidden in the smart suits. Come, we must prepare.’

  ‘Is that all you’ll tell me? Not where these mines are? What they produce? How much they produce? What we earn? Nothing?’