Bom Boy Page 11

  Gene swivelled in his chair to face Leke who nodded, with his back to him. He'd been interrupted. He only had a small window of time to process his appointments on the system. Despite the rain picking at the window his upper lip began to perspire. Gene swivelled back and Leke completed the transactions. He knew the clients well, the ones that would not notice an extra eight hundred rands being deducted from their schemes, the ones that wouldn't check. As Leke finished the last transaction a young girl temping for the week came round placing pamphlets on desks.

  ‘What's this shit?’ Gene asked, still sulking, but she ignored him.

  Leke picked up the one that landed on his desk. It was a promotional for a new form of massage therapy.

  ‘Hellerwork?’ he heard Gene say behind him. ‘What the fuck is that?’

  Leke scanned the sparse writing. After a few minutes Gene rose to go to the bathroom. Leke looked around the office. His neighbour was not at her desk and everyone else seemed preoccupied. He picked up the phone and dialled.

  When the receptionist answered he dropped his voice, close to a whisper, ‘Hello, I'd like to make an appointment… Mags. Mags Peachey.’ He rattled off his cell number and waited while the receptionist retrieved the diary. ‘How about tomorrow?’ he asked when she got back on the line. ‘The next day, then? Oh I see.’

  The hellerworker was a renowned practitioner, highly sought after with a three-week waiting list. Depressed, Leke listened to the receptionist give the far-off date of his appointment.

  He waited out the rest of the working day, at one point he felt as though his whole body was on fire.

  ‘You sick or something?’ Gene asked.

  ‘No I just–’

  ‘You’re sweating and it's freezing outside. Don't get sick on me man, here,’ Gene tossed a packet of tissues and Leke wiped his forehead.

  He was about to try and explain to Gene that maybe he was sick but the moment passed.

  ‘Check it out, Tsotso with the tits is back!’

  Gene, always going on about women's breasts. Leke looked to the copy hub, where Gene was pointing.

  ‘She was in my orientation session,’ Gene offered. ‘I know she hangs out the back during lunch, chain-smoking. She's hot!’

  She was tall but the addition of high-heels gave her a height that couldn't be ignored or forgotten.

  She seemed oblivious to Leke and Gene, soaking in all her movements a few metres away with Gene's running commentary for accompaniment.

  ‘Nice legs on her, eh?’

  Studying her profile Leke guessed that she never smiled. It was a strange thing to notice, he figured he never smiled; either but something about her face – it wasn't just that she never smiled it was as if she couldn't.

  ‘Hey!’ Gene shouted across at her.

  She looked up from her photocopying and Leke held his breath as her eyes passed over them. She jerked her head up in acknowledgment.

  ‘My copier's broken,’ she said as if they had challenged her presence in their workspace.

  ‘No problem, sweetheart,’ Gene answered and smiled like Leke had never seen him do. When's the next blood thing?’ he asked as her cellphone rang.

  She kept the phone between her ear and shoulder, talking and copying at the same time.

  After she'd left Gene wheeled his chair closer to Leke's, ‘You think she has a boyfriend?’

  Leke shrugged.

  ‘Know where she sits?’ he persisted. ‘I know she's in the legal department, do you know where that is?’

  Leke pointed down towards the other side of the office, a few steps took you through a passageway and into a separate wing of the building.

  ‘Haven't seen her since the clinic, clearly she's been busy. Heck, I had that, I'd keep it busy too. Nice,’ Gene murmured, running the backs of his fingers against his manicured stubble. ‘Very very nice.’

  Gene's leering felt obscene. Leke wanted to punch him.

  Wednesday 26th September 2012

  ‘What did you think?’ Tsotso asked her grandmother, who sat strapped under the seat belt, smiling but not talking.

  Tsotso had noticed that her grandmother said less and less these days, but the doctor had warned her about that.

  ‘Well, I liked it!’ Tsotso answered her own question. ‘And I don't normally love acapella, hey? Give me string and wind instruments any day. Just the voice on its own – that's never really excited me. But I guess the voice is an instrument too, hey? Wind, would you say? Makhulu, you listening?’

  Her grandmother was fiddling wkh the seat belt. ‘I don't like this,’ she whined.

  ‘Leave it, Makhulu. Please.’

  Umakhulu settled down again and Tsotso continued, ‘I understood something today – good music is good music, doesn't matter what instrument you’re using. Could you hear okay? I was worried about you and your hearing aid.’

  Her grandmother giggled. Tsotso touched Umakhulu's shoulder then focused back on the road.

  Just before they turned off the main drag nearing home, Tsotso broke the silence,

  ‘I know Naledi had a voice. I don't know how I know but I just remember red stilettos and Busi Mhlongo on the CD player. But my mother's voice singing louder than Mhlongo's. I didn't know it was Busi Mhlongo until many years later in a book store. I asked the guy at the desk and he looked at me like I was crazy. Like no one goes into bookstores and asks about the music they’re playing.’

  Umakhulu bent down to tie and untie her shoelaces. She was humming to herself.

  Tsotso watched her then looked back to the road when the light changed. ‘I don't mind really. I don't hate her. It's not so bad to love music more than anything. I'm probably the same,’ she hiccupped. One less drink at the bar would have been thoughtful.

  She parked the car and was thankful that Umakhulu posed no difficulty and let herself be guided through the parking lot.

  They stood outside the door to the flat as Tsotso searched for the keys.

  ‘Naledi,’ Umakhulu said confusing Tsotso, her granddaughter, with her daughter.

  ‘Yes, Makhulu,’ she kept searching, too much crap in the bag.

  ‘Naledi,’ her grandmother repeated and Tsotso looked down at her. The old woman reached up and cupped Tsotso's cheek. It was something she'd never done before. ‘My child,’ she said.

  The words, perhaps the memory of her favourite child, made her face gentle again. Not the harassed look, the telltale sign of a tumbling down mind. Tsotso bent to hug her. This was a good day.

  Saturday 29th September 2012

  The headaches persisted. His work kept Leke distracted but during weekends, with no Plaza Mall, keeping busy was difficult. He decided to take a walk in the streets of his neighbourhood.

  His favourite street was where Elias's corner shop stood; a narrow road still cobbled, making it unpopular for speeding cars. It seemed more suited to the trendy surrounding suburbs that had been redeveloped but somehow it landed up amidst the old and creaking neighbourhood that was excluded from the gentrification project. Still people visited it, walking and stopping to drink coffee, browsing the quaint second-hand bookstore or letting their tongues water over dainty cakes arranged in shop windows. They ignored the beggars and the skollies stretched out on the narrow pavement, nursing hangovers, careful to side step mysterious puddles and avoid eye-contact with girls too young to be mothers proffering their crying babies as evidence of their desperation.

  The street seemed confused to Leke, and sad. He walked up and down, counting the cobbles, occasionally moving to the side for a scooter to pass, or an ambitious loading truck.

  He stopped at Elias and peeped in, trying to see and avoid being seen. The old man hardly came out in the sun, complaining that his eyes were weak and harsh light could blind him. When he did come out he wore cracked sunglasses with masking tape holding the frame together. Customers complained of the lack of light in his store, they couldn't see the wares. Elias waved them off unbothered, people put way too much significance o
n how things look.

  ‘Feel it man!’ Leke heard Elias say. Leke watched him come round from the counter and approach the customer. ‘Doesn't that feel like quality to you?’

  Leke smiled, pleased that somehow people continued to come and his shop stayed open. He stood aside as the customer walked out through the shop entrance, she studied what she'd bought and, satisfied, she continued on her way.

  ‘Hey girlie!’ Elias had Whitie on her hind legs.

  Standing the Great Dane matched his height. They were trying to do the waltz, Whitie barked and Elias cackled – he attempted to hum the tune from Swan Lake but ended up coughing instead.

  Leke could not stop watching them.

  ‘I can see you, China. You better come in.’

  Leke retreated but he heard Elias protest and promise to hold Whitie down. He walked into the shop.

  ‘How you? Haven't seen you in a while.’

  ‘Been busy.’

  ‘How's that old crow? She dead yet?’ He was talking about the Rhododendron.

  Leke smiled.

  ‘Come, this nonsense between you and Whitie must stop! Come, Leke. Closer man! Pet her,’ he took Leke's hand and ran it along the dog's coat.

  The sleek black hair and twitching muscles, the warmth coming off her body, surprised Leke.

  ‘That's a girl. She's a beauty this one.’

  ‘You love her,’ he didn't know where the words came from.

  Elias was taken aback but responded, ‘I was there the day she was born. Almost exactly five years ago to the day’ he whistled and Whitie barked.

  ‘A friend of mine, Marta, breeds up in Malmesbury Show dogs. Just a few litters a year, not many. They call it whelping, when the bitch gives birth. I'd been bugging Marta for months to help with the births. I've always had an interest; I was almost a vet you know? You think all I do is sell seed? And I got money stashed away too – I'm not the poor bastard you think I am. Anyway, so Marta finally called up and invited me. Man, Leke!’ he whistled again and Whitie barked.

  ‘Watching it happen is like doing it yourself man, the scientists proved that Leke. Didn't you see that documentary? Ag, doesn't matter man. I was there. Now, look at this, see her spots, Leke?’ Elias showed Leke the marks, pride in his voice. ‘Aha!’ Elias continued, fully into his own tale, ‘that was funny to me ‘cause I got spots too. Check here,’ he turned his back to Leke and lifted the bottom of his jersey ‘See?’

  Along the left side of his back, just above his glutes five splodges of taupe coloured flesh, the rest of Elias's skin was a raw pink.

  ‘See my China?’ Elias said covering up again and turning back to face Leke. Whitie and me, we the same race man. You get the Blacks, the Whites, the Coloureds and then there's the Spotted.’

  Leke could still hear Elias's hacking laughter as he walked up the bridge.

  Friday 5th October 2012

  Leke picked the parking tower opposite the Plaza Mall as his new stomping ground. It was four storeys and from the top floor he could see the Plaza Mall atrium.

  He drove up the sharp ramp deciding, for a change, to stop on the sparsely lit third parking level. The engine protested under the weight of his foot on the accelerator. He reverse-parked, turning his head and taking in the view of the twinkling Cape Town harbour where a large ship docked. Red's engine sputtered, a final lament, before obeying the turn of the key and cutting off.

  To the left of the parking space, the ground rose up towards the top parking level. Looking to the far right corner, beyond the line of structural columns, were double doors leading to what Leke guessed was a stairwell. He'd never left his car to check. The thought of getting out never crossed his mind. Even those people that fascinated him the most, the best he would do was to lean closer to his front windscreen. He seldom worried about being seen, in the short time he'd been coming he was yet to see a security guard manning the boom or patrolling the grounds.

  9pm passed. For over an hour there were no people about and Leke relished the silence and the darkness, only an occasional twitching in his face showed the sign of his eager anticipation. It wasn't Plaza Mall but it eased his headaches and that was something.

  Leke leaned forward at the sound of a car revving up the ramp followed by beams of light as it came round the corner. He noted a large man in the driver's seat and a woman sitting beside him. They were laughing. They parked on the level above; the car doors slammed and there was continued laughter, fading, as they walked towards the stairwell and then, as the doors closed, the sound was swallowed.

  He waited, his mind light, a weightlessness that moved into his limbs till he felt he might be somewhere in outer space, buoyant and insignificant.

  Half an hour later a woman came from the stairwell and walked towards her car. She was dressed for a party in a short, sequinned dress that shimmered. Her thighs were exposed and the rest of her legs, from the knees down, were clad in tight leather boots. Leke heard the sound of her car alarm deactivate. She drove past, down the ramp to the unattended boom and was gone. The parking lot was silent again.

  Leke looked at his watch. Almost 10pm. He drifted off and woke with a start when he heard the bang of a car door. He rubbed his eyes, he could hear mumbling. He wound down the window, cringing as the machinery squeaked. The click clack of high heels and a shuffle. He sat frozen, waiting for something to happen.

  ‘… there you go.’

  ‘But what about the rabbits? Shouldn't we wait for them?’

  ‘Don't worry about them, Makhulu. Your bed's made up. Warm bath. Hot tea. What do you say? That's it. Watch your step.’

  ‘Hot tea you say? I like hot tea. But not too hot. Will you blow it for me?’

  ‘Yes, Makhulu. I'll blow it. Let's get inside. It's cold out here.’

  Their voices carried, bouncing off the concrete surfaces of the dim car park. He looked to the left, from where the voices came, eventually they turned the corner and he saw two figures in silhouette, walking down the ramp headed for the double doors. One leaned on the other. They walked beneath one of the few functional light fittings and Leke drew in his breath.

  Tsotso looked different, still not smiling but softer somehow Naked, without a bunch of files in the crook of her arm or a laptop dangling from her shoulder.

  She had to bend to support the older woman, her arm around her upper back, urging her on. For a long while after the doors closed behind them Leke felt he could still hear the uneven tapping of her heels on the ground.

  He felt as if he'd discovered treasure or some delicious secret. His body tingled. It was the same tingle he'd got when his adoptive mom slipped him a sweet before dinner and winked, ‘Don't tell Daddy!’

  He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror as he drove down the ramp, when he smiled the whiteness of his teeth surprised him.

  Driving home the streets of Salt River looked different. Red's rumble cut through the icy cold. Back in Woodstock the roads were bare, he'd left the car window down and an icy wind blew in. It was so quiet he imagined he could hear the houses take a breath between dreams.

  Leke clicked open the garage door and drove Red into the studio.

  He hadn't noticed earlier but there was a missed call from Marcus. He'd left a message wanting to know if Leke was coming on Sunday.

  Stepping into his studio a harsh odour entered his nostrils and Leke realised his home was filthy He saw it through her eyes, imagined her walking around inspecting the dark corners, and a sense of embarrassment came over him.

  The easy joy of a few minutes ago, the glee, wafted away. Although he sat motionless on his mattress, Leke's senses were scrambling – hastily trying to sustain the clean scent of happiness. The stink of his unwashed floors and sticky walls pervaded.

  Many years after Jane's death, Leke must have been sixteen or so, he came home from school to find Marcus and a half-empty bottle of whisky at the kitchen table. It was the only time he ever saw him drunk. Leke had ignored him, warming his dinner in the microwave
and heading for the TV room.

  ‘How come you didn't speak?’ Marcus's voice was hoarse and the usual clip in his words wasn't there.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘After she died. How come you did that thing? Not talking,’ both hands wrapped around the short glass and Marcus stared into the liquid.

  ‘I don't know.’

  ‘Don't you remember? Think back.’

  Everything had happened so quickly. Maybe words and conversations speed up time, ushering it into always a darker future, crowded with unfamiliar shapes. Maybe he'd used silence as a balm to the uncertainties of life.

  ‘Leke, I asked you a question.’

  ‘I don't know, Marcus. I think I was scared.’

  ‘Scared? Scared of what?’

  He was young; perhaps he'd thought that if he said nothing, if he barely even breathed the world would shrink to a size he could fit into.

  ‘Scared of what, Leke?’

  ‘I don't know.’

  Sitting in his studio, on the edge of his bed Leke wiped away a hot tear. It had worked. The two worlds, waking and sleeping, that it had been his duty to navigate as a boy had shrunk to the space of a smudge. His headache returned,. He slept, fell into a charcoal black hole and emerged exhausted, his muscles aching from a fight he couldn't remember.

  Sunday 11th October 1992

  For Leke:

  I have nightmares about my grandparents’ visits to the babalawo. Everything happens as if I'm actually there. In one dream I'm my grandfather and I can feel my wife's clammy palm in mine. In another dream I'm my grandmother.

  There are even times when I'm the babalawo; I see everything through his eyes:

  ‘What brings you here?’ I say. I can't speak Yoruba so the babalawo in my dream can't either. He is yellow like me – omo pupa – with curly hair that springs up after I push it down.

  ‘Ejo ko,’ I say. The little Yor uba I do know is plastered all over my dream – I always have something to prove to my father.