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