47

AFTERNOON

IN GENEVA, DR QAPHELA WA YOZI CAME OUT OF an important IMF pre-lunch briefing (smoked salmon and caviar canapés had been served instead of the cheesy nibbles for lesser occasions), to be greeted in the foyer by the Argentinian delegate with a breezy, ‘Hola! I see your rainbow nation is in the news again.’

‘What is it this time? We try not to hog the news bulletins too often.’ Dr Qaphela gave a half smile to indicate he was making a joke.

‘I’ve just come from the TV lounge. A schoolgirl in one of your favelas claims to have seen a vision of the Madonna. It’s a first for Africa, they say. Not surprising, really. I hear the Catholic Church is making great strides there.’

‘Indeed it is.’ Dr Qaphela had little time for religion, though he did not let this slip at international gatherings.

‘It’s an unusual sighting too. The señorita claims that the Virgin was brown. Clever detail, that. Europe and Mexico have the monopoly on black Madonnas, so a brown one is a winner. Your tourist industry will bless this day.’

‘Our tourist industry is doing quite well as it is, thank you. Five million visitors at last count, and rising.’

‘Almost as many as Singapore,’ the Argentinian delegate said, moving on.

Dr Qaphela made for the TV room as soon as he was out of sight. The crawl bar running across the bottom of BBC World read: ‘SOUTH AFRICAN SLUM GIRL CLAIMS BROWN MADONNA VISION … PILGRIMS CONVERGING ON RUN-DOWN SHANTY TOWN OF CROCODILE FLATS.’

That place again. The president would be furious over escalating news coverage of yet another shack settlement, when he and his ministers were working so hard to house people and create employment in the shambles left behind by the apartheid regime. And who would he crack down on? The Minister of Redevelopment. It would be on his head. This was a major crisis. He’d have to fly home at once to manage the fallout.

He slid his cellphone out of his pocket and called his secretary. ‘Get me onto tonight’s SAA flight to Joburg. Then contact that oaf Ossewa and have him waiting for me at the airport tomorrow morning.’

‘There is no flight from Geneva on Saturdays, Minister.’

‘Then get me on the Frankfurt flight. It’s an emergency.’

‘Is one of your family ill?’ the secretary ventured.

‘No! I have to get home on urgent business. Hurry.’

‘It may not be possible to organise a connecting flight in time, Minister.’

‘You will make time, is that clear? Hire a jet if you have to. I will be on my way home tonight or you are a dead man,’ Dr Qaphela said, enunciating each word. ‘Understand? It’s your cushy job on the line. Not to mention your pension and other entitlements.’

‘Yes, Minister.’ The secretary put down the phone and reached for some Rennies to quell his heartburn. As he made the travel arrangements, he wondered what the emergency was – until he turned on the TV for a brief respite before driving the minister to the airport. Ah. Crocodile Flats had hit the headlines as a run-down shanty town. A stain on the minister’s immaculate reputation. He headed for the hotel garage with the smile of the soon-to-be vindicated.

Luxolo had closed the post office doors at twelve, as per Saturday regulations. When he’d locked them and pocketed the keys, he was surprised by the tailback of slow-moving cars and delivery vans in the road and all the people thronging the pathways. It was even worse after his lunch. What was going on? He hurried up to the Beijing Bazaar.

‘It’s the brown Madonna business, plus the happy clappers arriving early for good seats tomorrow,’ Girlie Ming said when Luxolo reached the front of the unprecedented queue at the counter. ‘How many for you?’

‘How many what?’

‘Pies, of course. My mother has been extremely busy today. I have chicken and mushroom, chicken curry or vegetarian. All very nutritious.’

‘I didn’t come for something to eat. I just want to find out—’

‘Stand aside then. Hungry people need to be served first. I’ll attend to you later.’

Luxolo waited, tapping his foot, until there was a lull and Girlie turned to him saying, ‘This has been our best day ever. People are pouring in.’

‘What’s going on today? Is it a festival?’

‘Of a kind. Haven’t you heard? One of the girls in the settlement, Sweetness Moloi, saw a vision on Thursday evening.’

‘People have been talking about visions in the post office all morning, but I thought it was just the usual. Sangomas and dreams,’ Luxolo scoffed.

‘No, it was the Virgin Mary. But an African Virgin Mary. This will bring visitors from far and wide.’ Girlie radiated the joy of an unexpected windfall.

‘Unbelievable,’ muttered Luxolo.

‘Indeed. An auspicious happening right on our doorsteps. I was just saying to Mommy that our feng shui consultation is really paying off.’

Deep in thought, Luxolo headed back to his rooms past the trading store where Eddie Drinkwater was being carried on a stretcher into an ambulance. If this event brought visitors from far and wide, the post office would benefit from the increased sale of stamps. They’d want to send postcards too, which could be a lucrative sideline. There was no reason why post office personnel shouldn’t benefit from private enterprise.

Around four, Rod found Obadiah cringing in a corner of one of the garages with his arms over his head. When he bent down to check what was wrong, he saw blood crusted on the handyman’s swollen face.

‘What’s going on here, bru? Who attacked you?’

‘Nobody.’ Obadiah tried to crawl away.

‘You need help. Come.’ Rod chivvied him into the hotel kitchen and went to look for Benjamin. ‘I found your man hiding in the garages. He’s been assaulted. Won’t tell who it was, but I reckon that thieving tsotsi was involved. We can add assault to the charge sheet.’

But Obadiah refused to say anything, even after he had been cleaned up and given a mug of hot sweet tea.

‘He’s been threatened,’ Rod said, and turned to reassure him. ‘You needn’t worry, bru. The thief’s been arrested. You can make a statement to the cops.’

‘No.’ Obadiah closed his puffy eyelids, too shamed and frightened to look at anyone.

‘Please talk to me,’ Benjamin urged.

‘No, sir.’

‘There were others,’ Rod guessed. ‘He can’t. Just leave it, Benj. I’ll have a word with the captain. Could be a gang behind all this.’

Obadiah’s eyes snapped open. ‘No, please! Not the captain. My wife—’

‘Shame, she’s bedridden. Anyone could get to her,’ Benjamin explained. He had kept Obadiah on until last because of her.

‘Okay, we won’t say a word to the cops. Promise.’ Rod gave the pleading man a clap on the shoulder, not noticing that he winced. ‘But I’ll follow this up. Nothing else to do except watch the other press bums sniff around like blue-arse flies after long-gone meat.’

Rod the Sod is well named, Benjamin thought as he watched him swagger out the door.

Raylene murmured behind him, ‘That one’s a hard case.’

‘But a paying guest. And the hotel’s fully booked. My luck has changed.’

‘That’s great, Benj.’

She had helped him with lunches and they were busy preparing dinners, having cleaned out the butcher and the café. Over the peeling and cutting and chopping and making do with available ingredients, they had been chatting like old friends, exchanging life stories and stealing glances in a way that made Benjamin’s heart hammer at his daring. When she laughed, dimples appeared that made him feel happy all over.

The bus bringing the Hot Gospellers slowed and turned into the parking lot of the motel where the road to Crocodile Flats joined the highway. They stayed here every time they came to sing at one of the prophet’s gatherings, never bothering to make a reservation because the motel bedrooms were seldom occupied longer than an hour.

‘Sorry, we’re full,’ the freckled desk clerk said to the choirmaster.

‘Don’t be silly, man. We’re regular customers. You’re obviously new.’ He turned to motion the choir members who were trooping in with their bags towards the lounge to order tea.

‘Too bad. We’re full. You must find somewhere else. And there’s nobody serving in there, folks.’ He waved at the lounge. ‘We’re short-staffed as well.’

‘But we always stay here. The room service is excellent.’

‘Private enterprise. I’m not supposed to notice.’ The clerk gave him a knowing wink. ‘Meantime, we’re booked solid.’

The wink was lost on the choirmaster, a serious musician who lived in a world of hymns and spirituals. ‘Where can we go then?’

‘Search me. Unless you want to trek into town, there’s only the Outspan.’

‘You mean the old hotel? I thought it was closing.’

‘Dunno about that. But there’s something funny going on over there, I’m telling you. Trucks and buses and cars have been turning onto the gravel road all day.’

The choirmaster’s smile was relieved. ‘Ah, yes. They’ve come for the prophet’s gathering tomorrow. That’s why we’re here. “Hooray for the Hot Gospellers,” he always says. You must have room for us.’

‘We don’t. F-U-L-L spells full, china. And they’re mostly journalists who’ve checked in. Weird okes asking about satellite links. Here!’

‘Now that’s funny,’ the choirmaster said, his smile fading. ‘The parking lot is empty. You’re telling me barefaced lies because we’re a black choir. This is blatant discrimination. I’ll report you to the Constitutional Court.’

The desk clerk shrugged. ‘Do what you like. We’re full. They all left as soon as they’d dumped their bags, going like Boeings. Maybe our room girl can tell you why.’ He turned his head and yelled, ‘Salomie! Come in here.’

‘Yes, sir?’

She glided out of an archway in a red maid’s uniform with the collar and lapels tucked under, revealing more of her lacy white bra than the choirmaster felt was decent.

The desk clerk said, ‘What’s going on in the Flats, hey? This oke doesn’t believe me when I tell him we’re full.’

A pair of sultry brown eyes engaged the choirmaster’s. ‘It’s the Virgin Mary,’ she said. ‘One of the school kids saw her, and now everybody’s coming. It’s, like, a vision, they say.’

‘A vision, here?’

‘No, there.’ Her smile was a languid double curve that slowly broadened. ‘It could even be a miracle, one guy said. Only I think he meant getting a room for the night. The Outspan’s full too.’

As she spoke, a 4x4 skidded into the parking lot and the driver jumped out, banging the door behind her, and barged into the reception area panting, ‘Any rooms available? We need two. Camera crew and me.’

‘Sorry, no, ma’am.’

‘Bloody hell. Bloody BBC.’ She ran out again.

‘Believe me now?’ the desk clerk asked as the woman roared off.

‘If I was you guys,’ Salomie said, edging closer to the choirmaster, who could not help noticing her musky scent, ‘I’d go on into town. There’s a nice hotel on Prinsloo Street.’

‘Leave the man alone, Salomie, and get back in the kitchen.’ As she flounced off, the desk clerk added, ‘That one’s a real hoer, china. She’ll go with anyone. Be careful.’

Comprehending at last, the choirmaster drew himself up. ‘How dare you! We’ll find somewhere else. And don’t expect us here again.’

‘Good luck,’ said the desk clerk, and was still laughing as the choir straggled back to the bus.

‘Drive us to the prophet’s house.’ The choirmaster gave the order with a majestic wave to erase the memory of the musky scent.

The Tuscan mansion was capacious. One floor of the prophet’s wives’ en suite bedrooms had enough king-size beds to accommodate the entire choir, albeit head to toe and three to a bed. Few slept well that night.

Captain Ngobese had a squad of men on traffic control all afternoon, directing delivery vans to their destinations and arriving cars to parking spaces along back roads and on the open ground by the bridge. Strangers swelled the crowds on the tarmac’s gravel verges and even ventured into the settlement, braving a tide of shack dwellers flocking towards the village centre. Cameras flashed everywhere, though missed the Lancia carrying Sid Barker back to Joburg. He’d left Sweetness to Mother Esmé and escaped, sitting well back so he couldn’t be seen. Father Alboreto wore one of Benjamin’s shirts over his cassock, with a folded serviette concealing the dog collar.

Mother Esmé had been driven to the ex-garage where she remained closeted with Sweetness and the nuns with all the curtains drawn and the workshop door closed behind a notice saying STRICTLY NO ENTRY. There wasn’t a chink left for even the paparazzi to penetrate.

Tex kept the café open until ten, when he ran out of cooldrinks after a full delivery in the afternoon.