a bird past other commuters slumped in their threadbare sedans. The gauche salesman had spoken about kilowattage and torque and deceleration curves: V6 engine, 2996 cc, torque 221 at 2 500, zero to a hundred in 6.3 seconds. Richard had taken care to remember the statistics, so that he could rattle them off nonchalantly while suggesting to admirers that the car was just a ‘plaything’, simply a lowly means of transport in his already bedazzled world. And for the first few weeks his parking bay had garnered longing looks and low whistles. For a blessed while, he had felt satisfied. He had bought an expensive pair of Police sunglasses, some racier music CDs and, as a playful touch, a small green gecko that clung rakishly to the back window. The tyres had squealed pleasingly as he pulled into the parking garage. He had revved the engine a little more than necessary, announcing his morning arrival.
But a few weeks later his partner and friend David Keefer had bought the new Porsche Cayenne 4 × 4, with sparkling metallic paint and towering wheel hubs. Despite its massive solidity, it retained a sleek look, like a stalking predator. Everyone had wanted to sit on its smooth yellow-brown seats and listen to the surround-sound speakers that enveloped you in pitch-perfect notes. David chose some pretentious classical remix, with high-strung violins and a thudding bass beat, to show off the full range of the system. Richard had to confess that the effect was awe-inspiring. The seats were wide and embracing, with generous legroom.
‘Now this is the way to travel in Africa,’ David announced, as if the tall ginger-haired man planned to drive anywhere but from his sea-view home to the office and back. Richard’s SLK seemed a little tame next to the grand lines and chunky off-road tyres of the Cayenne. ‘Three-point-six-litre engine, you know,’ David added, and then nodded unintentionally towards Richard’s sports car parked alongside. ‘Quite good ground clearance, too,’ he mused. Richard had glared at him, but his friend’s bumbling personality nullified any hint of malice.
David had expressed his concern that if he put his wave-ski on the colossal car, it would scrape against the neon lighting rods of the parking garage. The worry was genuine, but it also exposed Richard’s low-slung vehicle, whose only problem was clearing the sunken kerbstone in his driveway without tearing the car’s belly open. David might just as easily have been querying whether a new brand of condom was not perhaps too small for his substantial girth. Richard was dismissive and suggested, unkindly, that a few broken lights seemed a small price to pay for the enjoyment of such a manly vehicle.
His irritation was further compounded when the firm’s new ‘partner of colour’ – as the senior partner Selwyn Mullins was inclined to refer to Igshaan Solomons – had arrived in a new two-door dark-blue sports Bentley. Richard had never seen anything quite like it: the paintwork was so rich it looked wet, as if you could sink your arm in up to your elbow. It was a long, sturdy vehicle with doors that stretched nearly all the way to the rear wheels and began way in front of the seats. The back window was tiny, the wheel hubs rising up to make way for the implausibly large wheels. The light leather was hand-stitched and the interior was finished off with real oak inlay. A large crest on the bonnet announced the car’s pedigree.
Richard asked him about the specs: ‘Oh, I don’t really know,’ Igshaan had responded blithely. ‘Us darkies don’t really go for data; we’re more into the styling. Doesn’t that colonial dashboard look hilarious?’ The man’s droll attitude towards the car infuriated Richard.
Carmen, the receptionist with big, silky eyes, was the first to slide into the passenger seat. Igshaan grinned as he held open the door for her, putting on a Cape Flats accent as if he were the doorman of a Bonteheuwel minibus taxi. ‘ Net
But a few weeks later his partner and friend David Keefer had bought the new Porsche Cayenne 4 × 4, with sparkling metallic paint and towering wheel hubs. Despite its massive solidity, it retained a sleek look, like a stalking predator. Everyone had wanted to sit on its smooth yellow-brown seats and listen to the surround-sound speakers that enveloped you in pitch-perfect notes. David chose some pretentious classical remix, with high-strung violins and a thudding bass beat, to show off the full range of the system. Richard had to confess that the effect was awe-inspiring. The seats were wide and embracing, with generous legroom.
‘Now this is the way to travel in Africa,’ David announced, as if the tall ginger-haired man planned to drive anywhere but from his sea-view home to the office and back. Richard’s SLK seemed a little tame next to the grand lines and chunky off-road tyres of the Cayenne. ‘Three-point-six-litre engine, you know,’ David added, and then nodded unintentionally towards Richard’s sports car parked alongside. ‘Quite good ground clearance, too,’ he mused. Richard had glared at him, but his friend’s bumbling personality nullified any hint of malice.
David had expressed his concern that if he put his wave-ski on the colossal car, it would scrape against the neon lighting rods of the parking garage. The worry was genuine, but it also exposed Richard’s low-slung vehicle, whose only problem was clearing the sunken kerbstone in his driveway without tearing the car’s belly open. David might just as easily have been querying whether a new brand of condom was not perhaps too small for his substantial girth. Richard was dismissive and suggested, unkindly, that a few broken lights seemed a small price to pay for the enjoyment of such a manly vehicle.
His irritation was further compounded when the firm’s new ‘partner of colour’ – as the senior partner Selwyn Mullins was inclined to refer to Igshaan Solomons – had arrived in a new two-door dark-blue sports Bentley. Richard had never seen anything quite like it: the paintwork was so rich it looked wet, as if you could sink your arm in up to your elbow. It was a long, sturdy vehicle with doors that stretched nearly all the way to the rear wheels and began way in front of the seats. The back window was tiny, the wheel hubs rising up to make way for the implausibly large wheels. The light leather was hand-stitched and the interior was finished off with real oak inlay. A large crest on the bonnet announced the car’s pedigree.
Richard asked him about the specs: ‘Oh, I don’t really know,’ Igshaan had responded blithely. ‘Us darkies don’t really go for data; we’re more into the styling. Doesn’t that colonial dashboard look hilarious?’ The man’s droll attitude towards the car infuriated Richard.
Carmen, the receptionist with big, silky eyes, was the first to slide into the passenger seat. Igshaan grinned as he held open the door for her, putting on a Cape Flats accent as if he were the doorman of a Bonteheuwel minibus taxi. ‘ Net
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