"Zoo City" - читать интересную книгу автора (Beukes Lauren)

16.

My new ride is a '78 Ford Capri in burnt orange and good nick, apart from a few rust spots and a nasty scratch on the passenger door. It's not the only one that's a little rusty. I haven't driven in three years and the car handles like a shopping trolley on Rohypnol.

Huron's heavy, James, handed over the keys without a word. Didn't bother to reply when I asked for the spare key. Wasn't there to help when it took me five tries to get the engine to turn over with a strangled choke, followed by a bout of spluttering and finally a sickly roar.

With 22 years experience in treating addictive behaviours and other compulsive disorders, Haven provides a multi-disciplinary approach, including counselling, the 12-step programme and cognitive-behavioural therapy.

A residential facility set on a tranquil and secluded country estate near the Cradle of Humankind, Haven provides a safe and supportive environment in which to reclaim your sense of self.

I take a drive out to Hartbeespoort Dam, that favourite watery weekend getaway for landlocked city-dwellers. The urban sprawl thins out as the road deteriorates; kitmodel cluster homes, malls and the fake Italian maestro-work that is the casino give way to B amp;Bs, stables, ironwork furniture factories and country restaurants. The hawkers selling giant plastic mallets and naïve Tanzanian banana-leaf paintings and the guys handing out flyers advertising new townhouse complexes get increasingly pushy as the spaces between traffic lights grow longer. A grizzled bush mechanic sits under a corrugated-iron leanto, rolling a cigarette and looking out for customers attracted by the badly hand-painted sign propped up outside advertising exhaust fittings. A tea garden proclaims itself HOME OF THE ORIGINAL CHICKEN PIE! And then civilisation falls away. The road narrows to one lane and opens out into dusty yellow grasslands and farms cordoned off with electric fences under a ferociously blue sky, with puffy white cumulus clouds already threatening a late-afternoon thunderstorm.

I nearly miss the turn-off to Haven, despite the very specific directions I was supplied with when I phoned to lie about setting up interviews for a non-existent story on the rise of rehab safaris for Mach magazine.

"After the sign to the lion park, turn right onto a dirt road. You'll see the sign," the warmly professional male receptionist had said. It would help if the name Haven was not one of nine small, precisely lettered arrows on a discreet sign-pole, including the Shongolo Hunting Lodge, Moyo Spa, Vulindlela Country Hotel and the Grassy Park Country Living Estate.

After doubling back (twice), I finally spot the sign and pull up at an intimidating black gate framed by electric fencing. I buzz the intercom and give my name. The gate slides open – Sim Sala Bim. I drive up the dirt road, if "drive" is the right word for what I'm doing with the Capri, which is behaving like a rhinoceros on rollerskates spoiling for a fight. I compensate by accelerating, kicking up billows of dust behind the car as it skids through the corners, past a copse of trees and a blue satiny wedge of dam with cormorants in the reeds.

I barrel round the bend and a sprawling farmhouse comes into view. It's repurposed rustic chic: stables and warehouses converted to dormitories, judging by the neat rows of windows hemmed by sunny yellow curtains. There is an aloe garden in front, being tended by a twentysomething in denim overalls, her hair in cocky little twists. She looks up, shielding her eyes from the morning sun, and waves me towards an acacia tree and a row of white lines in the gravel that mark out the visitors' parking. I pull in between a Bentley in racing green and a white minivan with tinted windows and HAVEN stencilled on the side.

As I crunch up the drive, the girl gravitates towards Sloth, holding out a piece of succulent.

"Hi, Munchkin," she says in a baby voice. "Oh, he's so cute." Sloth leans forward to sniff the aloe leaf. He takes a tentative bite, leaving a smear of milky sap on his chin fur, and scrunches his nose at the bitter taste. "Aloe's really good for the skin," the girl says. "We also grow indigenous herbs and organic veggies in the fields out back."

"No cheeseburger stand?"

The girl restrains a smirk. Her lost things are like a halo of dandelion fluff. "So are you inmate or rubbernecker?" she asks.

"Rubbernecker," I answer without hesitation. "You?"

"I'm a screw. Or on staff, anyway. Used to be an inmate. Repeat offender. Crimes against my body. Puking sickness followed by heroin, which led to more puking sickness." I'd be surprised at her forthrightness, but that's addicts for you. The twelve steps crack 'em open and then they can't shut up.

"You should grow hoodia," I suggest. "Isn't that a healthier way to suppress your appetite?"

"More natural definitely," Overshare Girl agrees, "although I've never really got that argument. I mean, puffadder venom is natural. Dying of gum disease at thirty is natural. You know why the Khoi used hoodia in the first place? So they could pretend they weren't starving to death. How's that for messed up?"

"Pretty messed up." I push her a little to see what comes out. "This a good place?"

"S'okay. High on the spoilt little rich kids and schleb factor, but you only really catch the brunt of it when you're on the other side. But the food is good. Organic. You got a cigarette on you?"

"Sorry, I tend to bum off other people. Anyone interesting?"

"Schleb-wise? That British Big Brother star – the Pakistani girl? Melanie whassisface? She's really sweet. Not what you'd expect at all. She says they just made her look like a major-league bitch in the edit. Um. Some big-shot politician's son. Minister of Parking, or whatever. Some people just do their time, you know?"

"You just doing your time?"

"Sure. It's in the coding, right? It's funny, 'cos I used to be really big-time into astrology. Had a woman I used to see like once a month, sometimes twice. She was cool, even though I think she was making it up half the time. But I really wanted to believe that there were these magic celestial bodies that would direct my life, tell me what to do, and it turns out it's not stars, it's some bits of screwy DNA. I'm just meat with faulty programming."

"That's why you've chosen to stick around?"

"That gate you came through? It's like a revolving door. You go out, you come back in. Might take years, might take hours. It's inevitable. They tell you this stuff about cognitive behaviour and about breaking the pattern and being mindful. All I'm hearing is that there's no such thing as free will."

"They give you a rough time?"

She shrugs. "Some rougher than others."

"I have a friend who was here, S'bu? He doesn't even like to talk about it."

"S'bu Radebe? He was a sweetie. But really shy. He had a really hard time. Kid from the sticks. I mean, he shouldn't have been in here in the first place, even Veronique said, and he was having to listen to all these hardcore addicts talk about the bad shit they'd done, prostituting themselves, abandoning their kids-"

Killing their brothers, I add to the list, but only in my head. What comes out of my mouth is: "He shouldn't have been in here?"

"Ag, you know. Issues are like weeds. Everyone's got them. You can pull them up, you can poison them, even tually they'll just grow back. S'bu's too sensitive for the world. He just needs to toughen up a little and he'll be fine. His sister, though? She was nuts."

"Aren't we all?"

"Her and the boyfriends. Hei wena."

"You mean like Jabu?"

"Excuse me? Hi there! Can I help you?" I recognise the warmly professional voice I spoke to on the phone.

"I'd like to carry on talking to you," I say to the girl, as the husky man in a checked shirt and an earnest smile starts walking over. "Chat later?"

"Doubt it. The inmates are going on a daytrip and I'm driving." She blows Sloth a kiss. "Bye, cutie!"

The receptionist leads me into the cool interior of the farmhouse. Whoever decorated has decent taste in art or, quite possibly, psychedelics. The reception area has wooden floors half-covered by a cheerful orange, red and blue woven rug. There is a print of Technicolor lunatic smiley flowers hanging above the hotel-style reception desk.

In front of the desk two cream and gold suitcases monogrammed all over with distinctive LVs are parked beside an oversized couch half-occupied by a boy who sighs dramatically and reposes himself, jiggling his foot impatiently.

"I'll be right with you," says my guide, over his shoulder to the boy, ushering me down the corridor and through to an office marked DR VERONIQUE AUERBACH -EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR on the door, together with the admonition PLEASE KNOCK.

He ignores this, flinging the door open to reveal the lady in question sitting tucked into the bay window that overlooks the garden, reading a magazine.

"Oh good," she says, slipping into her shoes and standing to greet me. I catch a glimpse of the cover of the magazine. Mental Health amp; Substance Abuse Dual Diagnosis. A glance at the bookshelf built into the hollow base of the window seat reveals similar numbingly academic titles. There is a heavy wooden desk stacked with a scramble of papers and files encroaching on a slim silver laptop at the centre of it all, like the eye of the hurricane. Above the desk is a painting of a Zulu hut on fire, a deep phallic root extending into the ground and figures writhing around inside in torment.

"Heavy reading," I say as she shakes my hand. She has a grip like a pro golfer, loose, but in total control.

"Homework," she replies with an easy grin that furrows lines around her eyes. She's short, barely five foot in her heels and black trouser suit, but there is a sharp curiosity in her eyes that goes with her chin – the kind that jabs into other people's business. She has a calico pixie cut, russet streaked with grey. I get the impression she's the art buyer. It's the shoes. Teal-blue Mary Janes with playful detailing – purple and red flowers perched on the straps. "I'm Veronique, obviously. Thank you so much for coming out."

As if I was the one doing her the favour.

"Thanks for accommodating me at such short notice."

"It's a catchy headline. Rehab safaris. Makes it sound so glamorous."

"It's all about the hook."

"Mandla Langa," she says noticing my interest in the

burning hut. "His early stuff was all circumcision-related. It's about culture and tradition, rites of passage, the difficulties of being a man. And also being mutilated."

"Do your clients relate?"

"We call them patients. But, yes, I suppose some of them do. C'mon, I'll give you the tour." She's all brisk enthusiasm.

"I'd say about fifteen to twenty per cent of our patients are foreign," Veronique says. Like a good journalist, I dutifully take notes. "A lot of them are from the UK. It's a last resort for the families – that old attitude of 'send the troublemakers to the colonies!' But we also get people coming in from Nigeria, Angola, Zimbabwe. Naisenya, the young woman you were talking to outside, is Kenyan for example. Mostly, it's a matter of money. Three months with us costs the same as a week in a UK treatment centre like the Abbey."

She opens the door onto a spacious lounge with chairs arranged in a loose arc, facing a huge open fireplace – big enough to cook children in. Above the mantelpiece is a mounted Perspex light, featuring a naïve drawing of a cocky gentleman devil smoking a pipe, reclining in an armchair. On the opposite wall is a dreamy etching of a goat with its head bowed and a chain around its neck.

"Between the devil and the deep blue scapegoat?" I say.

"It's just art, Ms December," she says, not meaning a word of it. "The most important part of what we do here is penetrating people's denial systems, removing the alibis that will trip them up."

"Sending their sins out into the wilderness to die."

"It's one of the theories of being animalled, of course," she says.

"I never liked that one. Give me the Toxic Reincarnation theory any day."

"I don't think I'm familiar with that."

"It's very now. Global warming, pollution, toxins, BPA from plastics leaching into the environment has disrupted the spiritual realm or whatever you want to call it, so, if you're Hindu, and you go through some terrible trauma, part of your spirit breaks away and returns as the animal you were going to be reincarnated as."

"What do you think about it?" I'm aware of her standing very still, all the better to psychoanalyse me.

"Does the therapy session come free with the tour?"

"Sorry, it's habituated. I'll stop." She holds up her hands in mock defeat.

"We were talking about art, I believe? The light is Conrad Botes and Brett Murray. The scapegoat is Louisa Betteridge."

"It's an upgrade from the rehab facility I went to. The only art we had was graffiti drawn on the toilet walls."

"Was that in prison? I've always wanted to do a prison programme. We run an outreach project in Hillbrow, you know. We do good work. A lot of aposymbiots. You should visit."

"Maybe I will," I smile thinly to make it clear that this will happen when hell turns into a family-friendly summer resort. "Same deal?"

"Same tactics, different strategy. This isn't a broken leg, it's a long-term recovery. You don't want to do a story on that, do you? Make some noise? We've got some sponsors involved in our Hillbrow project, but it's difficult."

"Not really in my brief, sorry. I can pitch it for next time, maybe."

"I understand. Come, I'll show you the dorms."

We pass through the courtyard where a bunch of crazily beautiful boys and girls are lolling, smoking and chatting. There is a high ratio of killer cheekbones per capita.

"You obviously get a lot of models," I say, walking up a flight of stairs to the dorm floor. Two beds to a room. They're bright and cheery and rich in personal detail.

"Also musicians. DJs. Journalists. Advertising people. There are certain lifestyles where high-risk behaviour is endemic to the culture."

"Any names I'd recognise?"

"We take our privacy policy very seriously, Ms December. I hope you're not fishing for some celebrity scandal. I didn't take you for a tabloid journalist." Unfortunately, that's one step up from what I actually am.

I decide not to ask her about Song or S'bu directly. Instead I show her the contents of my folded-up tissue – the dried herbs I found in Song's bathroom.

"Actually, do you mind if I ask you what this is?"

She takes a pinch between her fingers and sniffs it. "I'm not the herb expert, but I'd guess African wormwood? It's very commonly used for cleansing, both by naturopaths and in traditional purification rituals. Some of our patients are into more alternative treatments."

"But you're not?"

"I like good old-fashioned medicine. Methadone is a very good thing. Although a lot of medication is based on herbal remedies. And you shouldn't discount the power of the placebo effect."

"Magic?"

"There haven't been enough studies to ease my mind about the efficacy."

I change tack, trying to circle back. "So what are the challenges?"

"With foreign patients? Language barriers, occasionally. The temptations of the exchange rate. It's very easy and very cheap to get drugs in Johannesburg. Not here, obviously. The problem comes afterwards, when they're in the third phase, out in the real world, staying at a halfway house."

"What about romance?" I fish.

"Sex addiction, you mean?"

"I was talking more about hook-ups."

"Totally inappropriate, of course. We try to discourage it. I say that because often it's a way of finding a substitute high, something else to latch onto, which ultimately doesn't help the patient."

"But it happens."

"It blooms like wildflowers. It's a very vulnerable time. Patients can form intense bonds that won't survive the fresh air of the real world. You're a recovering addict, so you would know. People can be very manipulative. They can end up enabling each other, falling back into old habits. And even if they don't, most of the relationships don't last in the world out there."

"Any chance I could speak to some of your clie- er, patients? Like Naisenya?"

"I'd be happy to set up some interviews for you. If you'd like to leave me with your card?" She holds out her hand.

I pretend to scruffle in my wallet. "Oh, hey. Fresh out."