If she recognises me, she doesn’t show it. I look away and pretend to write something in my notes. What the hell is going on here? I feel like I’ve been duped in some elaborate game. I try to look at her indirectly. I focus on the men she’s with so that she’s in my peripheral vision but won’t make eye contact with me. One of the men, introduced as Mr Miya, starts speaking. He has a slight hare lip and a confident voice. He has the look of someone who knows and gets what he wants. He pauses every few sentences for the translator to speak. I immediately feel sorry for him. It can’t be more than 20 degrees but he’s sweating so much droplets are running down his face and dropping from his nose. I’ve never seen someone so nervous. His English is pretty broken but he conveys the gist of Mr Miya’s speech. Every now and again he pauses for a few seconds as his tongue fumbles with the unfamiliar English words, and when Mr Miya feels he is taking too long, he reprimands him sharply in Japanese. The hostility in his voice doesn’t need a translator. I wince as I imagine the translator’s knees being broken later in an underground parking lot somewhere.
The speech comes to an end and everyone claps dutifully. The translator moves behind everyone and dabs at his face with a handkerchief. His fringe is slicked against his forehead. Mr Miya and the Minister shake hands and smile to the flashing of cameras. I hate photo ops; the overlong handshakes, the gormless smiles, the little quips followed by manufactured chuckles. The canned laughter of the political arena. We all clap after the photos are taken.
- Who is that woman who came in with the Japanese delegates?
The journalist next to me shrugs his shoulders.
- Damned if I know.
A short guy with immaculate hair and blindingly white teeth announces that there’s breakfast outside and that the budget vote speech will commence shortly afterwards in the Old Assembly Chamber. My stomach grumbles, but I remember the boerewors breath the security guard breathed all over me and my hunger wilts. I settle for a cup of coffee and watch the stampede for the breakfast buffet. If there’s one thing that’s a great leveller, it’s free food. Lowly aides and deputy ministers pack around the buffet like warthogs at a scant waterhole. Tailored suit pants groan and stretch as their wearers bend over to choose food. I spot the guys who don’t like to admit their weight, squeezing size 46 legs into size 42 pants. The poor stitches which have to hold those seams together…
I try to spot the old lady without giving it away that I’m looking for her. I flick my eyes across the room casually. As I finish my coffee I see her leave the room and walk down a small corridor. I pretend to answer my phone and make a show of not being able to hear the person who called me and walk towards the same corridor. Once in there I see her turn left down another. I take a deep breath and decide to follow her. It’s not particularly clever following important and possibly shady people around the halls of parliament, but I can always use the excuse that I’m looking for the loo or something. I need a photo of this woman. If no one can tell me who she is, I’ll need to do some sleuthing of my own. I notice that she has stopped and is on a call of her own. I stick my phone out in front of me at arm’s length like a middle-aged person trying to focus on the small screen and pretend to send an sms. I take a few pictures of her as I get close. They’re pretty blurry, but not bad considering the yellow light of the corridor and the fact that I can’t stand still. Her eyes follow me as I walk past but I don’t look at her. Her voice is clipped and sharp, and she is clearly not happy with whoever she’s speaking too.
- ...unacceptable! I delivered it myself precisely so this wouldn’t happen.
A pause. I slow down to hear more.
- I don’t care that the street was busy! Your job was to make sure there was no interference. You clearly didn’t do it. Explosions that go off in the wrong place make for messy business. You’re damn lucky your family...
I turn another corner and lose her words in the echo. This woman is clearly not someone to stuff with. I realise that I can’t really go back the way I came without looking suspicious, but the corridors and rooms I keep passing all look the same and it’s not long before I’m lost. I play the bumbling visitor and ask a harried clerk how to get to the Old Assembly Chamber.
I arrive at the Chamber’s gallery at the same time as the other journalists, who nod their heads in my direction in recognition. Parliament has been underway for a while it seems, because most people in the gallery and on the floor look to be in varying stages slumber except for the odd earnest or outraged MP. For a while I let myself enjoy the beauty of the sage assembly, the highly polished wooden walls, the exquisite roof, the rich green chairs, and reflect on the history that’s been written here, until the heckling from the MPs below brings me back. Parliament in person appears to be just as dreadful as on TV. A person from the opposition stands up to speak and is heckled and maligned the whole way through, much to the disgust of the speaker. She finishes and someone from the ruling party then speaks, which is the cue for the opposition speaker and her cronies to do the very same thing. If any of the dissent from either side was vaguely interesting or based on anything other than simple churlishness it would be okay, but it just seems like people heckle for the very sake of it.
I look at the chairperson and silently will him to say something, because it just seems that everyone is being obtuse out of some warped sense of political duty and party pride, rather than listening with a rational ear to what the other side has to say. After twenty minutes of this I’m just about ready to scream, when the somnolent chairperson awakes from whatever he was dreaming about.
- Honourable MPs, there must please be order.
There isn’t much authority to his tone, and after a light chuckle he returns to whatever his mind was dwelling on before he lifted the veil on it to speak. The MPs go right back to cackling and insulting each other. I manage to sit through another hour of this before deciding not to wait for the speech as I have a copy of it anyway. Plus I feel like I’m wasting my time when there are more pressing questions about who that old lady is and precisely what I’ve gotten myself into.
Leaving Parliament is mercifully easy and it feels good to be on the street again amongst real people who don’t feel the compulsion to smile for the sake of it when someone of a higher rank says something resembling a joke.
I need time to think and muse over the last 24 hours. As I inch my way through the city traffic and the buildings start to thin, I idly notice a black wisp of smoke up ahead. The traffic is even worse today than usual. It takes me 45 minutes to travel the six kilometres to the intersection where I turn off for my flat. I don’t give much thought to the smoke up ahead, or the sirens which are close by. It’s only as I turn onto my road that I begin to wonder what all the fuss is about. I don’t have to wonder for long.
Before me is my building. Where my third story flat used to be is a blackened shell with flames dancing merrily from the fuel my only possessions must be providing. The ground below is littered with chunks of concrete and burning debris which fire-fighters are dousing with foam. I get out of my car and vomit on the street.
© William Edgcumbe
Friday, July 25, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Antique Shop - Part 6
At least the little work I do is vaguely interesting. A magazine emailed me about covering the signing of a charter and budget vote speech in parliament today. At first the very word parliament made me shiver (Parliament Live was about the only thing that ever seemed to be on TV when I had school holidays. The scourge of not having M-Net.) but now that I think about it I’m really interested to see what goes down in person. I’m not particularly interested in politics, but to visit the halls where laws have been written and the entire history of South Africa has been shaped is a real opportunity.
I put on the one collared shirt and tie I own. I carefully slip the tie over my head so as not to undo the same Windsor knot that it’s been in for the last few years. I never could quite get the hang of it. My brother did this particular knot for me just before my graduation. My brother-
-I’ve tried not think about him or anyone else in my family but it just can’t be done. Everything I own, every association I have is wound through at least one of them in some way. No matter what subject flits through my mind, there is always an aspect that relates to them, even if only colliding at a tangent. I can’t think about this now. I’m going to be late. It’s nice to have an excuse to be somewhere, otherwise I’d end up sitting in my flat feeling sorry for myself.
I hate running late, but I seem to manage it every time. There’s no parking anywhere near the entrance to Parliament and I circle the block five times before I spot someone pulling out of a space in a little side alley. I run to the entrance and inside I’m met with classic bureaucratic lack of interest. Running the metal detector at the door are two portly police officers whose arteries have surely seen better days. The one doesn’t look up – I think she’s sleeping, but her partner looks up at me with bored eyes and holds my gaze for what must be fifteen seconds.
– Yes?
I baulk initially, because it only seems obvious that I want to come in.
– I’m here for the media briefing with the Minister of Minerals and Energy?
He sighs deeply and I can smell potato and boerewors. Any hunger pangs I might have developed for the next few hours wilt.
– Plees put all of your contents of your pockets in vis tray and step fru vis metal detector.
His accent makes me think of being trapped in Richards Bay just hours before a Steve Hofmeyr concert. I empty out my pockets and walk through the metal detector. The sleeping officer has managed to drool on her right shoulder. It’s a heart-warming sight and lifts my spirits just a little. I come to a bank of clerks sitting behind a long desk and join the queue. As soon as one of the clerks is free I walk up to him.
– Hi, I’m here for the media briefing?
– Sir, would you please wait to be called?
The guy behind the desk is the antithesis of the crack squad monitoring the metal detector. His suit is immaculate, his moustache trimmed to exactly the same width all the way along his top lip and he wears his glasses on the tip of his nose. I catch a whiff of the-lowly-clerk-on-a-power-trip and regret being next in line.
– Uh, okay.
I walk back to the front of the queue and turn around.
– Next.
I feel my blood begin to boil at his pettiness and walk over to him again.
– Name? Company? Identification?
I strain to answer all his questions politely and hand over my ID book. I try not to show my impatience – I’m already about half an hour late, but I know that as soon as he senses I’m in a rush he’ll be only too stoked to hold me up even more. He squints at my ID book, then at me, then at my book, then at me again. I’m sixteen in my ID photo, but not much has changed except for the patchy fluff I charitably call a beard when I look in the mirror. I decide to make light conversation to butter him up.
– Funny picture, hey?
– Sir, there is nothing funny about government documents.
I sigh and settle in for the long haul. More people are queuing up behind me, all looking harassed. I wonder if they’re also late for the briefing. The administrator doesn’t fail to notice that a longer queue has formed and his thin lips widen just a centimetre or two in what is barely recognisable as a smile.
He s-l-o-w-l-y opens a book, tears off a slip and copies the details from my ID onto it. I’ve seen calligraphers give less attention to their work. He finally closes my book and hands it and the slip to me without a word.
– Next.
As soon as I’m out of his line of sight I break into a trot. I go up a small flight of stairs and am greeted by yet another metal detector. With all the x-rays I’ll be passing through today I’m sure I’ll glow in the dark tonight. I wander through a few passages before finally stumbling across the meeting room I’m supposed to be in. I slip through the door and take a seat next to the wall. The Minister of Minerals and Energy fixes his eyes on me from across the table and I quickly look away. With just one glance he made me feel like a shamed schoolboy speaking to a headmaster after being caught cheating in an exam.
The room isn’t big – it has just enough space to fit a twenty-seater conference table, though there are people sitting on chairs against the wall on either side. I take out my notepad and start jotting down what the minister says. I don’t really have any context for what I’m supposed to be reporting on, but thankfully someone hands me a press release and copy of the budget speech the Minister will be delivering just now. I glance at the people in the room. Some are clearly journalists – no matter what events I cover, you can always spot the other journalists because they look like total slobs. I’m not particularly debonair, but at least I give a fraction of a damn about my appearance. Journalists are that special breed of person who know that they’re there to report, not to impress, and so can wear whatever the hell they like. They don’t have to answer to anyone they interview and use their independence as a license to act as they please. Sitting on the end of the table next to the minister are two or three textbook examples of reporters. I count one greasy ponytail, two stained t-shirts, one collared shirt only buttoned half way up with a gold chain nestled in some stunningly lavish chest hair, and three unshaven chins. I just know that as soon as they all stand up, at least one of them will be wearing parachute material tracksuit pants, probably lavender in colour.
Each journo asks questions which lie somewhere between probing and obtuse for the sake of it. They speak to the Minister in sneering tones of disdain, and I notice the lackeys around the Minister flinch each time a question is asked. I can tell that they wished they had the impunity to speak to him so frankly. The Minister seems unperturbed and answers each question confidently. It’s difficult not feel a little awe at the ease with which he responds to questions which accuse him of gross incompetence.
Everyone else in the room looks thoroughly bored. They’re all well dressed and look to belong to some tier of government or other. One guy picks his nose. Another doodles vapidly on a piece of paper. I suddenly realise that I should be taking notes and start scribbling so furiously that I don’t notice more people enter the room. It’s only as I hear Japanese that I look up in surprise. The Minister is shaking hands with three Japanese men. As they talk and a fourth man translates, I notice an older woman who must have come in with them. She is wearing a black suit and has cold, dead eyes. I know her from somewhere. I’m sure of it.
She flicks her eyes to me and I know where I’ve seen her before. She’s the old lady from the antique shop.
© William Edgcumbe
I put on the one collared shirt and tie I own. I carefully slip the tie over my head so as not to undo the same Windsor knot that it’s been in for the last few years. I never could quite get the hang of it. My brother did this particular knot for me just before my graduation. My brother-
-I’ve tried not think about him or anyone else in my family but it just can’t be done. Everything I own, every association I have is wound through at least one of them in some way. No matter what subject flits through my mind, there is always an aspect that relates to them, even if only colliding at a tangent. I can’t think about this now. I’m going to be late. It’s nice to have an excuse to be somewhere, otherwise I’d end up sitting in my flat feeling sorry for myself.
I hate running late, but I seem to manage it every time. There’s no parking anywhere near the entrance to Parliament and I circle the block five times before I spot someone pulling out of a space in a little side alley. I run to the entrance and inside I’m met with classic bureaucratic lack of interest. Running the metal detector at the door are two portly police officers whose arteries have surely seen better days. The one doesn’t look up – I think she’s sleeping, but her partner looks up at me with bored eyes and holds my gaze for what must be fifteen seconds.
– Yes?
I baulk initially, because it only seems obvious that I want to come in.
– I’m here for the media briefing with the Minister of Minerals and Energy?
He sighs deeply and I can smell potato and boerewors. Any hunger pangs I might have developed for the next few hours wilt.
– Plees put all of your contents of your pockets in vis tray and step fru vis metal detector.
His accent makes me think of being trapped in Richards Bay just hours before a Steve Hofmeyr concert. I empty out my pockets and walk through the metal detector. The sleeping officer has managed to drool on her right shoulder. It’s a heart-warming sight and lifts my spirits just a little. I come to a bank of clerks sitting behind a long desk and join the queue. As soon as one of the clerks is free I walk up to him.
– Hi, I’m here for the media briefing?
– Sir, would you please wait to be called?
The guy behind the desk is the antithesis of the crack squad monitoring the metal detector. His suit is immaculate, his moustache trimmed to exactly the same width all the way along his top lip and he wears his glasses on the tip of his nose. I catch a whiff of the-lowly-clerk-on-a-power-trip and regret being next in line.
– Uh, okay.
I walk back to the front of the queue and turn around.
– Next.
I feel my blood begin to boil at his pettiness and walk over to him again.
– Name? Company? Identification?
I strain to answer all his questions politely and hand over my ID book. I try not to show my impatience – I’m already about half an hour late, but I know that as soon as he senses I’m in a rush he’ll be only too stoked to hold me up even more. He squints at my ID book, then at me, then at my book, then at me again. I’m sixteen in my ID photo, but not much has changed except for the patchy fluff I charitably call a beard when I look in the mirror. I decide to make light conversation to butter him up.
– Funny picture, hey?
– Sir, there is nothing funny about government documents.
I sigh and settle in for the long haul. More people are queuing up behind me, all looking harassed. I wonder if they’re also late for the briefing. The administrator doesn’t fail to notice that a longer queue has formed and his thin lips widen just a centimetre or two in what is barely recognisable as a smile.
He s-l-o-w-l-y opens a book, tears off a slip and copies the details from my ID onto it. I’ve seen calligraphers give less attention to their work. He finally closes my book and hands it and the slip to me without a word.
– Next.
As soon as I’m out of his line of sight I break into a trot. I go up a small flight of stairs and am greeted by yet another metal detector. With all the x-rays I’ll be passing through today I’m sure I’ll glow in the dark tonight. I wander through a few passages before finally stumbling across the meeting room I’m supposed to be in. I slip through the door and take a seat next to the wall. The Minister of Minerals and Energy fixes his eyes on me from across the table and I quickly look away. With just one glance he made me feel like a shamed schoolboy speaking to a headmaster after being caught cheating in an exam.
The room isn’t big – it has just enough space to fit a twenty-seater conference table, though there are people sitting on chairs against the wall on either side. I take out my notepad and start jotting down what the minister says. I don’t really have any context for what I’m supposed to be reporting on, but thankfully someone hands me a press release and copy of the budget speech the Minister will be delivering just now. I glance at the people in the room. Some are clearly journalists – no matter what events I cover, you can always spot the other journalists because they look like total slobs. I’m not particularly debonair, but at least I give a fraction of a damn about my appearance. Journalists are that special breed of person who know that they’re there to report, not to impress, and so can wear whatever the hell they like. They don’t have to answer to anyone they interview and use their independence as a license to act as they please. Sitting on the end of the table next to the minister are two or three textbook examples of reporters. I count one greasy ponytail, two stained t-shirts, one collared shirt only buttoned half way up with a gold chain nestled in some stunningly lavish chest hair, and three unshaven chins. I just know that as soon as they all stand up, at least one of them will be wearing parachute material tracksuit pants, probably lavender in colour.
Each journo asks questions which lie somewhere between probing and obtuse for the sake of it. They speak to the Minister in sneering tones of disdain, and I notice the lackeys around the Minister flinch each time a question is asked. I can tell that they wished they had the impunity to speak to him so frankly. The Minister seems unperturbed and answers each question confidently. It’s difficult not feel a little awe at the ease with which he responds to questions which accuse him of gross incompetence.
Everyone else in the room looks thoroughly bored. They’re all well dressed and look to belong to some tier of government or other. One guy picks his nose. Another doodles vapidly on a piece of paper. I suddenly realise that I should be taking notes and start scribbling so furiously that I don’t notice more people enter the room. It’s only as I hear Japanese that I look up in surprise. The Minister is shaking hands with three Japanese men. As they talk and a fourth man translates, I notice an older woman who must have come in with them. She is wearing a black suit and has cold, dead eyes. I know her from somewhere. I’m sure of it.
She flicks her eyes to me and I know where I’ve seen her before. She’s the old lady from the antique shop.
© William Edgcumbe
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