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| CHAPTERS FIVE AND SIX |
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FIVE “Repulsive, degraded and coldly self-assured.” That is how people like me were described by one of this country’s great poets (oh yes, I read poetry too - you are still surprised?). Well, thank you very much, Mr Guy Butler: I will take it as a compliment. Except that you, too, made the old mistake. Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but what a fool you were, even all those years ago when it may still have been true, to call us rebels, vengeful crusaders, underdogs with a rabid bite of protest. I told you, I do not like the political title, it draws too much attention. You may, however, continue to blame others on my behalf: blame the racists of the past especially or, better still, the racists of the present. Surely they are worse than God-fearing mafia men like myself? Again, I laugh at your ideas, not mine. But perhaps I have been exaggerating. There may indeed be some in the thieves’ den who deserve leniency - like the ones you met earlier - you might say they were unfortunate, although I would say they are simply stupid. Theirs is petty theft, money for drinking their pathetic lives away. If they ever get ambitious they will work for people like me; we run a sophisticated business. Others still, I am sure, are forced into crime by desperate need, political turmoil, abusive parents, alcohol, drugs, blah blah blah … tell Oprah, or better still, tell Felicia, if she is still around … but as for me, brothers and sisters (I use the terms with irony), I chose to be where I am today. If you offer any man the choice: shedding his own blood, sweat and tears in order to grind out a living, or watching while others bleed, sweat and cry as he rakes in a profit, which would he choose? Do not be fooled by your fellow-men. We all choose the easier path. We do not merely succumb to temptation, we embrace it - and if we are clever enough, we will barter our soul to the devil for the highest possible price. Of course, I could have been a fairly successful businessman. I am sure my greed could have driven a legally entrepreneurial spirit. I am sure my cool indifference would have been a valuable asset at any corporate negotiating table. Could have - would have - but didn’t. Don’t be so sentimental. I am where the money is right now. You say, What about patriotism? National pride? Ubuntu? I say the financial bottom line is written in dollar signs and pound signs, I do not care for the Rand. So. I have had the final say; our conversation is at an end now. But don’t be too sad. I will see you again. SIX The Cape peninsula is, in that most unfortunate South African English idiom, stunning; for now, let us simply say that it is inexpressibly beautiful, and not attempt to express its beauty. Those who take the time to travel up the west coast will find it as deep and wide and refreshing as the Atlantic Ocean itself. The route east and then north up the Indian Ocean shoreline is well-trod but remains infinite in variety and charm. Inland, the Karoo is quietly breathtaking, the mountain scenery of the Drakensberg is without doubt spectacular, and the plains of the Free State interior glow browngreengolden under cumulonimbus and blue skies. In the north-west of the country, game runs free towards the landscapes of Africa; in the north-east, dense tropical vegetation nestles against the escarpment as it drops away to become the open savannah of the lowveld. Across all these are the vistas we proudly pronounce as uniquely South African: incomparable and inconquerable. But there is, of course, more to South Africa than beauty; and as surely as all things depend on money, so we cannot forget in our survey the hub of commerce that is Egoli. Johannesburg, Gauteng does not hear loving descriptions of natural splendour bestowed on her. Her own people boast of bright lights and money and fast action, not the moon or natural bounty or the deep rhythms of Africa. They forget, and ignore, and mistake - for this plutocratic leviathan still carries within her a lifeblood that can never be lost: witness the crisp, clear highveld mornings, and the scent that rises off the earth after thundershowers late in the day. Others can tell you, furthermore, of lovely green gardens, lakes, trees beyond the counting; valleys on which the sun shines by turns with a bright white light, and a blue, and a gold that comes from Heaven, not the mines. Looking out over one such valley, the suburbs are hidden beneath the trees of the largest man-made forest in the world, trees making a sea of every shade of green, washing blood off hands, hiding perpetrator and victim alike. In the foreground, a large park offers a hint of wilderness, grass and dams and rustling leaves; on the horizon, the skyscrapers rise from the ridge without apparent offence. On certain days, in a certain light, some have thought this the most beautiful valley in the world - although this is doubtless simply because they live there. Nevertheless, although the ground is not as holy as in other valleys in Africa, nor the view lovely beyond the singing of it, it is worth the mention, if only to set the scene. Rohan Thompson did not have such lofty thoughts on his mind as he descended southwards into this particular valley and sought one of the twin sets of skyscrapers on the other side. He was on a single-minded mission: one that would take him, not left - to the wealth and prosperity of Sandton and surrounds - but right - into the city centre, the old town, sitting under the dubiously watchful eye of the Hillbrow Tower, that distinctive emblem of Jo’burg City. Driving through town, Rohan remembered being lost the week before in the network of one-way streets and colourful shops, frightened by the swerving taxis and the way their passengers spilled onto the road in front of him, but invigorated by the pervading sense of people getting on with the challenges of everyday life. That sense had been dulled within him over the last few days, and he surveyed the scenes around him with a misanthropic reserve. Today, driving through this most dangerous (says who?) and vibrant (says who?) and impoverished (who cares?) of city centres, he was neither scared nor impressed nor empathetic. The aggressive impulses of resentment gave him a carefree confidence, and his hope of revenge - whatever form it would take - was a guide to steer a steady course through the streets that had so bewildered him before. “Suzy’s new and used discount clothing store” was as busy as ever. The shop’s interior, although small with a low ceiling and hardly a metre between the rows of wooden display tables, was as loud and colourful as the sign hanging over the entrance. Covering every possible space on the tables, the floor, the walls, even the ceiling, were T-shirts, jeans, shoes, dresses, ties, leather jackets, underwear, suits, skirts, blouses, the works, all neatly stacked or hung up and categorised according to price - anything from R5 to R500. Customers exchanged greetings and compared goods, carrying on lively discussions in languages Rohan did not understand. Play it cool, he said to himself; just find Suzy, or the manager, whoever, someone who can tell you something. ‘Can I help you my darling? You seem a little confused. What are you looking for?’ Rohan turned with surprise to see this voice: a short, round black woman wearing a pink dress looked up at him with a big, friendly face. He felt very embarrassed. ‘I, um …’ So much for playing it cool. ‘I’d like to see the manager,’ he blurted out, trying to sound assertive. ‘Manager, owner, saleswoman, till assistant, security guard - that’s me. I’m Suzy. Is something the matter?’ ‘Yes. I - ’ He tried again. ‘You sell - ’ No good. He rushed through: ‘Last week I saw a man walk out of this shop, your shop, having bought a t-shirt that belonged to me and was stolen along with my car and many other goods a few months ago. It was bright yellow and it had number on the front: 2704. That’s how I know it’s mine. I want to know how you got hold of it.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. A yellow t-shirt? I don’t know. I’m afraid it’s impossible for me to keep track of what comes from where. Sometimes I buy just one or two things from people who walk in here off the street, if they are good quality or quite cheap. The same rule applies if I buy a batch from a supplier. I don’t deal with crooks, if that’s what you think. But I couldn’t say anything about your yellow t-shirt. You know sometimes I sell more than a hundred items a day here.’ It was clear she was proud of her business, and with good reason. She seemed hurt by the suggestion of dishonesty. Rohan was all politeness in reply: ‘I see. Not to worry. I’m sorry to trouble you. I’m very sorry. It’s just that I really want to find …’ What? He didn’t even know what he wanted to find. Suzy excused herself to help a customer and Rohan turned reluctantly, guiltily to leave. Outside, he stood on the pavement, blinking in the harsh sunlight. Utterly bewildered, he was fast losing his vigilante conviction, and would probably have given up there and then if it wasn’t for the hand that grabbed him lightly at the elbow and the voice that spoke softly amidst the noise of the street, as if it were whispering in his ear: ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with young Mrs Suzy inside. You see - I think I may be able to help you. Asmal’s the name.’ Asmal thrust out a hand with long, thin fingers. Hesitantly, Rohan met his grip, shuddering inwardly at the greasy feel of his palm. Immediately he thought of his wallet and keys, tucked firmly into the pockets of his jeans but not unpickable. He studied the character attached to the slimy hand: sleight frame, cheap suit, a shock of peroxide-blonde hair that clashed unpleasantly with his olive skin, and a pair of unsteady eyes. A tsotsi gone wrong. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong colour. Rohan was curious, although he felt extremely uncomfortable. It seemed he was living in a world of outdated stereotypes. ‘You see, I’ve bought and sold a few things at Suzy’s in my time. You could even say I’m a regular. I watch the comings and goings - I’m very observant - and I recognise some of the people. I suppose what I want to know is: how much is this t-shirt worth to you? I think you know what I mean. I have some … information. I could point you in the right direction. Obviously I can’t get involved, I’m an honest man, I don’t mix with criminals, but I’ve seen one or two faces, and I know things Suzy doesn’t, sweet little lady that she is, and I’ll let you in on a secret for - shall we say R300?’ You bloody shark, thought Rohan. Honest man nothing. No doubt this guy did know one or two faces of exactly the criminal kind. Whatever he had to say would probably lead to a dead end and a waste of R300. But was there a choice? Rohan knew he couldn’t give up so soon. Play it cool this time. Just relax. It’s your money, you’re in control. ‘R200.’ ‘Done. You have it with you? Good. So here’s the deal. There’s a guy who’s into cars, right? Or he works for a guy who’s into cars. But sometimes he gets a car, and it’s more than he bargained for. Maybe there’s a computer inside - big money there, but he doesn’t want it, he wants to sell it to a guy who’s into computers. But he doesn’t know anyone in computers. So he needs a link - a middle man. The link takes it for a price, sells it to the guy who’s into computers, and gets a cut on the way. You follow? And of course it’s not only computers. Everything has resale value in this country, my friend. Every product needs a link. Even clothes. There’s a link who sells to Suzy, though she doesn’t know he’s a link. She must be a bit stupid if she doesn’t know, but anyway. Of course, I know. I know who, and where, and once he comes into the store, I know when. It’s too late for you - when’s no good to you. But I’m guessing you’d love to know who and where … Now do you have that R200?’ |
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