ringing. The machine – an ancient thing held together by duct tape – whirred and groaned as it expressed a page, millimeter by millimeter. A high-contrast black and white image emerged, like a Rorschach blot on paper discolored by age. The machine beeped and Zondi reached down and tore the page free.
He saw a man and a girl, posing stiffly for the camera. At first Zondi was convinced that he was looking at a youthful photograph of a woman he had once loved, dead more than ten years. But the girl in the picture only resembled her. This photograph was recent. The man was familiar, too, and when Zondi placed him, he felt another part of his carefully managed life slip out of alignment. He was holding a wedding invite. But Zondi knew he wasn't being invited to a wedding. This was an invitation to something altogether different.
He crumpled the page, still warm from its journey out of the belly of the machine, ready to toss it into the trash. But some impulse stayed his hand, and instead he put the fax in his pocket and left the room forever.
Inja stood at the stainless-steel urinal, pissing down onto the little white balls that lay in the trough, smelling his urine mixing with the fake pine. He held his cell phone in his free hand, speaking Zulu, saying "Yes, yes. When? And who is dead?" Voice booming off the tiles, loud as if he was using a public address system.
An old white man in short pants, knee-length socks and polished shoes, came into the men's room, took one look at Inja, and chose the privacy of a stall. Inja ended the call and pocketed his phone. Shook and zipped. Left the bathroom.
One of his taxis had been hit in Bhambatha's Rock. Driver dead. Part of the ongoing war he and the other operators waged against one another for control of the rich taxi routes. There would have to be reprisals. Even more reason for him to get out of this place.
Inja walked across the steakhouse in the town of Stellenbosch, forty minutes outside Cape Town. Dodging waiters in cowboy hats and white and half-breed children shouting, running wild. If a child of his behaved this way he would feel the whip till he bled.
Theron sat eating in a booth in the smoking section, behind airtight glass, a haze thick as a veld fire hanging over the tables. Inja sat down opposite the Boer. A steak and chips waited for him, the meat well cooked the way he liked it.
"I want it cremated," he'd told the colored waitress with the tits Theron couldn't keep his eyes off.
Breasts meant nothing to a Zulu man like Inja, growing up with girls walking around topless in the traditional way. But the flesh of a woman's calf – just below the hollow of the knee – now that aroused him. And that was the area the Zulu girls always kept covered, with skins and beads. The waitress wore a short skirt and when she'd walked away his eyes were drawn to that area just south of her knee. Inja had a flash of his fingers untying the beads around his new young wife's calf on the night of their coming nuptials. He had to send a hand down to adjust the fit of his pants.
The Boer was speaking. "Okay, time to tell you what I want. For all the help I've given you." Theron gulped at his brandy and Coke.
Inja sliced into his steak and took a mouthful, chewed, eyes fixed on this arrogant white pig. "There is still the bail hearing tomorrow."
"Relax. Dell isn't going to get bail. I've got the prosecutor and the magistrate by the balls. They'll do as I say."
"So," Inja said. "What do you want?"
Theron laid his knife aside, lighting up a cigarette, blowing smoke into Inja's face. "There are only two things a man wants: sex or money. And since I don't want to fuck you, chief, it's gotta be money." Laughing.
The Boer looked up as the waitress arrived with an Irish coffee. Theron flirted with her, winking. Watching her ass as she moved through the tables. "How much you wanna bet me she'll write her phone number down on the check?"
Inja said nothing, chewed, working his way
He saw a man and a girl, posing stiffly for the camera. At first Zondi was convinced that he was looking at a youthful photograph of a woman he had once loved, dead more than ten years. But the girl in the picture only resembled her. This photograph was recent. The man was familiar, too, and when Zondi placed him, he felt another part of his carefully managed life slip out of alignment. He was holding a wedding invite. But Zondi knew he wasn't being invited to a wedding. This was an invitation to something altogether different.
He crumpled the page, still warm from its journey out of the belly of the machine, ready to toss it into the trash. But some impulse stayed his hand, and instead he put the fax in his pocket and left the room forever.
Inja stood at the stainless-steel urinal, pissing down onto the little white balls that lay in the trough, smelling his urine mixing with the fake pine. He held his cell phone in his free hand, speaking Zulu, saying "Yes, yes. When? And who is dead?" Voice booming off the tiles, loud as if he was using a public address system.
An old white man in short pants, knee-length socks and polished shoes, came into the men's room, took one look at Inja, and chose the privacy of a stall. Inja ended the call and pocketed his phone. Shook and zipped. Left the bathroom.
One of his taxis had been hit in Bhambatha's Rock. Driver dead. Part of the ongoing war he and the other operators waged against one another for control of the rich taxi routes. There would have to be reprisals. Even more reason for him to get out of this place.
Inja walked across the steakhouse in the town of Stellenbosch, forty minutes outside Cape Town. Dodging waiters in cowboy hats and white and half-breed children shouting, running wild. If a child of his behaved this way he would feel the whip till he bled.
Theron sat eating in a booth in the smoking section, behind airtight glass, a haze thick as a veld fire hanging over the tables. Inja sat down opposite the Boer. A steak and chips waited for him, the meat well cooked the way he liked it.
"I want it cremated," he'd told the colored waitress with the tits Theron couldn't keep his eyes off.
Breasts meant nothing to a Zulu man like Inja, growing up with girls walking around topless in the traditional way. But the flesh of a woman's calf – just below the hollow of the knee – now that aroused him. And that was the area the Zulu girls always kept covered, with skins and beads. The waitress wore a short skirt and when she'd walked away his eyes were drawn to that area just south of her knee. Inja had a flash of his fingers untying the beads around his new young wife's calf on the night of their coming nuptials. He had to send a hand down to adjust the fit of his pants.
The Boer was speaking. "Okay, time to tell you what I want. For all the help I've given you." Theron gulped at his brandy and Coke.
Inja sliced into his steak and took a mouthful, chewed, eyes fixed on this arrogant white pig. "There is still the bail hearing tomorrow."
"Relax. Dell isn't going to get bail. I've got the prosecutor and the magistrate by the balls. They'll do as I say."
"So," Inja said. "What do you want?"
Theron laid his knife aside, lighting up a cigarette, blowing smoke into Inja's face. "There are only two things a man wants: sex or money. And since I don't want to fuck you, chief, it's gotta be money." Laughing.
The Boer looked up as the waitress arrived with an Irish coffee. Theron flirted with her, winking. Watching her ass as she moved through the tables. "How much you wanna bet me she'll write her phone number down on the check?"
Inja said nothing, chewed, working his way
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