Please Do Not Disturb Page 5

  Having lifted my spirits on Horst’s bad taste, and seeing that Stu was nowhere to be found, I settled myself at the bar where, without a word, ancient Alias bent down to the fridge and placed a cold beaded beer in front of me. Alias kept my whistle wet, day slurred into night, and Stella, nocturnal by nature, arrived in this absurdly virginal dress, white, sweet and frilly as cream. But the dress wasn’t fooling me. She could wear a habit as black as coal, topped with a wimple pure as snow, I’d still see through her skanky soul. So I took a breath, arming myself for Round Two, but trust Stella, she hit me with a kiss.

  ‘You’re in a good mood, sweetheart.’

  ‘This is because the great Daniel Craig is arriving here tonight,’ she replied, looking around as if he might actually be hiding behind a pot plant. I resisted saying, ‘The odds of Bond turning up are on a par with you becoming Pope, my dear.’ Instead I said, ‘Well best make it a martini then.’

  While ordering, we were joined by the fainting giant, so I said, ‘I’m part way through a round, what’ll it be, what’s your poison? I’m Sean by the way, and this is my fiancée, Stella.’

  The giant smiled. ‘Carlsberg, thanks. Name’s Willem.’

  When he shook hands with her, Stella said, ‘What a lovely name is Willem,’ and I realised Stella, who was generally not nice to anyone, was flirting because she assumed he was famous. And he did look like one of those guys who turn up when they need a baddie with a vaguely South African accent. I asked him what I asked everyone who washed up at this bar, ‘What brings you here, Willem?’

  ‘Golf,’ he said. ‘My wife’s a Scot and she dragged me off to live in freezing Edinburgh so I’m here to thaw out. I’m from Zimbabwe originally, so hate the cold.’

  ‘Well, that’s your fault for marrying a Scot,’ I quipped. ‘Celtic roots are long and unforgetting, they always drag you back in the end.’

  Willem winked at Stella and joked, ‘Careful, lady, this old paddy will drag you back to freezing Dublin in no time.’

  Stella’s shrieks of false laughter drowned out my reply, ‘I’m from Cork actually.’ And as Stella was still cackling away, I grabbed Stu who was wandering past and said, ‘Hey, Stu, there you are. I’ve only one thing to say to you. Bond,’ cocking my eyebrow, ‘James Bond. Spreading rumours again, Stu. Tut, tut. Stell will be devastated when Daniel Craig doesn’t turn up.’

  ‘Just tell her Peter O’Toole and Clooney are coming.’

  ‘Fairly phenomenal considering Peter O’Toole’s dead.’

  ‘Is he?’ said Stu vaguely then, looking around, he asked, ‘Seen Horst anywhere?’

  ‘Thankfully not,’ I replied and, noticing Willem was now listening to me, said, ‘Let me warn you, Will. Horst is the fool who owns this place. Steer clear of the old bugger if you know what’s good for you. He’s an enormous prick and . . .’

  Stu developed a facial tic, Willem laughed, and when I said, ‘What?’ Stu explained, ‘Sean: meet Willem. Horst’s brother.’

  Ah, right you are! That’s where I knew the fella from. He wasn’t an actor. He was a better-looking version of Horst.

  When I protested, ‘What about the code, man?’ Stu said, ‘I was winking like a bastard.’ And I replied, ‘Well, I just thought you were having a stroke or something.’

  Our code was simple: if something bad was coming, or if Stella was on the warpath, Stu would whisper, Praying mantis, or he’d clasp his hands in prayer, giving me time to hike it down the golf course.

  So when Stu began his dance again, I assumed he was just demonstrating it to Willem, as I was in the middle of explaining, ‘Look, no offence, Will, but your brother’s a dick,’ when – what do you know – Horst crept right up behind me and shouted, ‘Howzit everyone. Have you all met my little brother Willem?’ Clearly not my night, I thought.

  Now there are few things more awkward than Horst entertaining, possessing as he does the social grace of Nixon. And with his brother around, Horst was really playing up the great-host bit. So when Stu’s lovely wife Fiona turned up for a drink, Horst made an almighty fuss, shouting, ‘This one’s on me, everyone!’

  This was Horst’s favourite line. He thought it showed his terrific sense of humour, when all it did was remind everyone that Horst owned the hotel, the drink you were sucking back and the seat your arse was spread over.

  As Fiona told Horst she was too busy, I stared at her balsamic hair and sweet smile and thought what a lucky prick Stu was. We all had a soft spot for Fiona, even Horst who now insisted, ‘Hey, I’m your boss, Fiona. Yah? So I’m ordering you to take a break, have a drink, meet my no-good brother Willem.’

  Happily, Horst’s performance fell apart when his own wife, Marlene, stumbled in. What a sight: a sloppy brunette with a belly swollen over her belt, sad drunken eyes, and the leathery channel between her far-flung breasts so mottled it made me dizzy. When she spotted Willem, she wrapped herself around him, squealing, ‘The brother I should’ve married!’ adding a disturbing humping motion to the hug.

  Horst’s discomfort was sublime. Twitching like a dog with an unreachable itch, he snapped at Alias to sort out Marlene’s usual: whisky unlubricated by mixers or ice. Marlene dispatched the drink, tapping Morse code on her empty glass – sos for a top-up – and things were settling into the dull rhythm of another humid night at the bar, when somewhere along the line I offended Horst. Though it looked tough as an elephant’s scrotum, Horst’s skin was actually remarkably thin. And midway through one of his African lectures, he was patronising me mercilessly. ‘Sean, the real problem is we’ve all made a monster. A monster called Africa. I’m no racist; I’m just a realist. Do you know much about corn?’

  ‘I know I hate it.’

  ‘Corn’s man-made, Sean. We created it from grasses centuries ago. If man doesn’t break the husk and replant the seeds, it’ll stop growing. It can’t harvest itself. It’s completely reliant on us to survive. That’s what Africa is. Africa is a white creation and blacks can’t sustain it without our continued support.’

  My reply, ‘Without continued exploitation,’ got a laugh from Marlene, always one to side against her own husband. But then I noticed Horst’s fat head turning crimson – and I caught Stu flashing me a don’t-annoy-my-boss look – as Horst yelled, ‘How often do I need to explain this, you dumb paddy? Corruption isn’t a part of the economy: corruption is the economy. In the same way oil is the economy of Saudi Arabia, corruption is the Bwalo economy.’

  At which point I served Horst my favourite line, ‘You white Africans are all alike. You think just because you’re born here you own it.’ To which Horst returned his favourite riposte, ‘Well you expats are worse. Running away from dirty secrets back home. God only knows what shit you are running from, Sean. Terrifies me to think.’

  ‘The problem isn’t corn,’ I yelled, conscious that everyone was silently watching Horst and me, ‘the issue is that Africa is the most over-owned continent in the world. The Dutch, Portuguese, Italian, French, Brits have all used her up like an old whore.’

  ‘Well you know more about old whores than I do,’ barked Horst and everyone took in a sharp breath. Christ. I’d walked right into that one. Stella pretended not to hear. I wanted to slap the smile off Horst’s face but knew he wouldn’t hesitate to hit me back. Eventually, Willem broke the strained silence, ‘So the political situation is volatile, this finance chap vanishing . . .’

  ‘Shhhhh,’ I hissed, putting my finger to my lips. ‘Don’t talk politics, Willem. Learn from the monkeys,’ and I covered my mouth, ears, eyes and, finally, my balls. ‘Politics is officially off the conversational menu. It’s actually illegal to talk politics. Bwalo may look like roses, with its safaris and smiling natives, but it takes a lot of terror to achieve this much peace.’

  ‘Bullshit, Sean,’ Horst shouted. ‘The Big Man’s lost it, he’s just another dumb kaffir . . .’ and Fiona spat out the word, ‘Eugene!’ with such scolding force that Horst spluttered, ‘Sorry, Fiona, that slipped out, I meant to say . . .
he’s just a dumb coloured,’ checking if the term was more acceptable but getting an equally appalled look from Fiona. Alias moved down the bar, out of range, Stella stared deep into her drink. Even through his dense lack of awareness, Horst knew he wasn’t winning friends. And seeing him up against the ropes, I added a little upper cut. ‘This isn’t a Klan meeting, you prick. You have to watch yourself, Horst, your Kurtz complex is getting out of control.’

  That’s when Horst came at me with his fat fists. Willem actually held Horst back as I wobbled on my stool. Then Charlie skipped by – I heard the word Whore sliced clean through the hubbub – and in the confusion, I dodged a punch from Horst only to be dragged off, slapped by Stella, and left in the car park staring up at the confusion of stars.

  When I finally returned to the bar, Horst thumped my back, giving me the fake crap, ‘Don’t worry about Stella, she always comes back, eh . . . like a fucking stray dog . . .’

  ‘I’ve no fight left in me, Horst,’ I admitted, plonking myself on a stool, raising my hands in surrender.

  Horst thought a moment, then said, ‘Fair enough, Sean, fair enough.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Alias, get the paddy a cold one, he needs it. This one’s on me, everyone!’

  I sulked and by the time I’d finished that beer I realised it was getting really late. People were peeling off the bar, Marlene was slurring into her whisky, Willem made a shaky exit. But I waited a while longer, dousing my bruised pride in another beer, before bringing out something I’d stored for just such an occasion. ‘Hey, Horst, your new portrait is great, by the way. It’s really very impressive. I mean it. Beautifully done.’

  Assuming our truce still held, Horst quickly checked my face, before saying, ‘Thanks, Sean. Yah, cost me a fortune but worth it. That is art, my friend.’

  ‘I don’t know much about art,’ I replied humbly, waiting a beat, before shouting, ‘But I know that ain’t it!’

  This time Horst raised his hands in surrender, gathered Marlene up like sackcloth, and said, ‘Fuck you too, Sean.’

  Two beers later and Stu returned, sitting next to me, looking like a beaten dog. ‘I’m so sorry about what Charlie said to Stella. No idea where he got that word from.’

  ‘Boy’s got a brain like his old man. Relax. Hakuna matata and that shite.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow, I’ll make Charlie apologise to you.’

  ‘You get a kid to apologise for telling the truth it will mess him up. Forget it.’

  We tapped bottles and I was mildly surprised by how maudlin I sounded as I said, ‘We started happy, Stell and I. You know? I loved her fire, her pout, her arse, juicy and round as a mango. God really put the time into that one, I tell you. But now everything’s crap. And did I tell you I got mugged on Victoria Ave last week? Boys high on gak looked keen to slash my throat.’

  ‘You can only rob a dead man once,’ Stu said sagely and, when I didn’t say anything, he asked, ‘Hey, come on? Are you all right, Sean?’

  I didn’t reply, I was close to tears and I knew talking was a sure way to open the waterworks. The events of the day suddenly caught up with me and I laid my head delicately into my hands as if holding together a split coconut. Still feeling the threat of tears, I confessed, ‘Shit, Stu, I’m being unrealistic trying to do anything here.’

  Panicking slightly that I might actually cry, Stu said gruffly, ‘Buck up, old boy.’

  But I couldn’t buck up and my voice thickened as I explained, ‘We don’t even have working toilets at the university. Place stinks of shit and I’m teaching classes of fifty with two books between all of us. And did I tell you about this bookcase?’ Stu tried to get a word in, ‘Yes, it’s all you talk about . . .’ but I ploughed on, ‘Well it’s still fucking there! So rotten it can’t hold a piece of paper, never mind a book. Falling to bits and each time I scream at the Nazi librarian to throw it out he gives me this doe-eyed look and tells me it’s government property, he’s waiting for the paperwork to allow him to toss it out!’ Stu tried to shush me but I wasn’t to be stopped. ‘That fucking bookcase is the bane of my life. My job’s a joke, Stella’s a liability, I can’t write, I’m making a mess of everything, there’s no hope here, Stu, no hope.’

  He laid a hand on my back and whispered soothingly, ‘Hey, hey, listen, come on, old man, you’re doing the best you can. Remember: even a single act has an impact.’

  ‘Scots saying?’ I asked and Stu replied, ‘Ashanti actually.’

  ‘Ash-a-te,’ I muttered, struggling to wrap my drunken tongue around it. ‘Ass-tea.’

  ‘Here’s another goodie: the salvation of a nation begins in the mind of one man.’

  ‘How about: every man, woman and child shall have my name on their lips?’

  ‘That has to be Hitler,’ guessed Stu.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Tafumo?’

  ‘Charlie Chaplin.’

  ‘Not far wrong then. Fiona’s at me to leave too. Back to Britain, back to the real world as she calls it, to run some B&B, hating every cold, wet minute.’ Stu stared up at the velvet sky speckled with stars. ‘This place spoils you for everywhere else.’

  ‘It’s not looking good,’ I admitted. ‘No sir. But I tell you what’ll happen next. Sure as my name’s Sean, I’ll be back on my kitchen stoop in a few hours, thinking I have to get out of here, how my African adventure is over, and right then, like clockwork, at the darkest hour before the dawn, when my head’s filled with badness, my arse frozen to the stoop, that sun will rise and seduce me all over again, pulling up her dark nightie, flashing her mango-yellows and pawpaw-pinks, and I’ll think, Ah sure, I’ll stay another day.’ A mosquito fizzed in my ear. I batted it away. ‘Jesus, I’m getting poetic, that’s a sure sign I’m pissed. Isn’t that right, Stu?’

  When no reply came, I turned to see Stu was now face down asleep on the bar. Alias was packing up, midges crowned the lights, and it was that late even the crickets were quiet. Sitting there, I made a small, fundamental, decision, nodding as the idea solidified. Tomorrow, first thing, soon as the sun cracked over the earth, I was going to go to the university and toss that bookcase away. Granted, it wasn’t much. But it was something and I smiled, in control again, as I pointed at Tafumo’s portrait behind the bar. ‘Don’t mess this up for me, Big Man. Believe it or not, this is the best gig I’ve ever had.’ Tafumo glared back like a disapproving barman.

  Josef

  I sat in a listening cubicle with my earphones on, eavesdropping on Horst’s office. When I was younger, I’d walk into the Mirage having heard what the members were gossiping about that week and I’d feel like God, like I had access to people’s minds. Now that memory brings nothing but shame. Snooping around people’s lives for what? To hear that someone slept with someone else’s wife, that someone fired their lazy cook, that some minister was taking backhanders.

  David hadn’t let go of his Horst theory. Twice today he’d brought new transcripts, conversations with words, suspicious words – codes – highlighted in yellow. He’d run his highlighter so many times over certain words that parts of the page were wet with ink, dotted with sodden yellow suns.

  I was reluctant to give credence to his theory. Horst was cast from an old mould: yet another white man who thought he owned Africa. But this wasn’t Zimbabwe; Tafumo wasn’t taking Horst’s hotel or land. Horst thrived under Tafumo. He wasn’t political, he was a racist but not a supremacist, he was no Terre Blanche, he didn’t care who was in government as long as he kept making money. Having said all that, I’ve learned that men rarely do things for rational reasons. The tropics warp white men in strange ways.

  Someone entered Horst’s office. The door slammed like a starter pistol and a woman shouted, ‘You’re screwing a kaffir! Don’t deny it, Eugene!’ I heard Horst try to deny it with an indignant snort but the woman yelled, ‘Don’t insult my intelligence, bastard. That tiny dingle-dangle of yours is the only indiscriminate piece of flesh on your bastard body!’

  Horst interrupted, ‘Just a fu
cking minute, Marlene!’ but she railroaded him. ‘Tell me you used a rubber! If you think you’re coming near me with that diseased cock you’ve another thing coming! I’ll chop it off, Eugene! When you sleep I’ll fucking get the panga and chop your bastard cock right off . . .’ There was another bang, which I assumed was the sound of the office door slamming, then the tick-tack of heels followed by Horst’s stomping feet. There was some comedy to it, I suppose, but in the main it was depressing, people’s secret lives, the time they wasted, betrayals and anger. I leaned back and waited, letting the static calm me. It was a pleasant noise and I pushed the earphones hard against my head, losing myself in the sound: a soft fizz, like waves against sand, the chatter of guests in the distant lobby, the purr of air conditioners, swish of fans, and someone, as if their lips were pressed against the microphone, whispering into my ears, ‘Sefu.’

  With my heart beating and beating, I stood and jogged the short distance back to my office, where I unlocked the bottom drawer, extracted my folder, stuffed it under my shirt and told Beatrice to cancel all my meetings. I drove to Patrick’s house. The guard, who was one of mine, opened the gates. The house was similar to mine, not as big maybe. Red brick with a green tin roof and white bars bent over its windows.

  A week ago Patrick came to me. Told me Jeko had called him into his office and said the World Bank wanted to see the national accounts. As Finance Minister Patrick was responsible for issuing a budget for the World Bank. Diligent as always, Patrick assured Jeko that it had already been submitted to Tafumo for approval. But Jeko shook his head. ‘I know you’re educated and I’m ignorant but your maths is wrong, minister. You see, the problem we are having is that we can’t show deficit. The World Bank must know we are doing well so we can borrow more money.’

  Insulted and angry, Patrick had shouted, ‘I’ll not have a little man like you tell me how to do my job. I’ll talk to Tafumo directly.’ Never one to raise his voice, Jeko had apparently whispered back, ‘When you talk to me, you talk to Tafumo. Now please, calm yourself down, my friend, and come and look here. I am not the enemy of you, minister. I am here to help. And I’ve just the thing to assist you with your little problem.’ Jeko then opened the drawer of his desk. Patrick leaned over to look. He said at first he was expecting to see a set of fiddled accounts. Inside the drawer was a gun that lay on top of a photograph of Patrick, his wife and children. The photograph was strange, like a holiday snap but taken from a distance. Jeko said nothing more as he slid the drawer shut.