"Zoo City" - читать интересную книгу автора (Beukes Lauren)28.I hand over the cash to Vuyo in the lobby of the Michelangelo. It's the most upmarket hotel I can think of that's still vaguely accessible. I've dressed accordingly in a sundress and dark sunglasses with a red faux snakeskin briefcase I purchased from the Sandton City luggage shop for the occasion, together with a brand-new phone. I can afford it. And for some moments in your life, it's worth making a scene. Especially the kiss-off. I sit beside Vuyo on one of the couches in the sumptuous flash of the lobby and flick open the briefcase on my lap, not caring who sees. I'm feeling reckless. "All here plus the fee for the recent extras. Do you want to count it?" "I trust you," says Vuyo, calmly flipping the briefcase shut. "We're rehearsing for a movie," he says smoothly to an overweight man in a Cape Town t-shirt goggling at us. "You shouldn't," I reply. "Can I say that I am sad?" "You could. It won't make a difference." "I am sad. We worked well together." "I worked. You ambushed." "Ah. But I knew you would rise to the occasion. You are a hard-headed woman, Zinzi December. Sometimes you need a push." He still hasn't reached for the briefcase. "This isn't a sting, I hope. No cops about to swoop down?" "I thought about it," I confess. "But I'm too busy trying to dig myself out of the plague pit that's my life right now." He leans in close to me. "This money? I will give it back to you doubled. Another R500,000 a year from now. Come work with us. You're an asset to the Company." "There's more chance of Sloth sprouting wings and starting his own airline. Not that I don't appreciate the offer. I'm trying to get clean." "Zinzi. What are you going to do? Keep digging up trinkets for old people for spare change?" "Something better. Or worse. Depends on how you feel about the media. I'm hoping for better." "Well, if you ever need a dentist…" "I have Ms Pillay's email address." He stands up to shake my hand and, just like that, I am cut free. Or not quite. There are 3,986 new emails in my inbox, unread. I set up an auto-reply to all of them. This is a scam. No one is going to give you millions of dollars for nothing. Save your money. Spend it on ice-cream. Go out to dinner. Take your loved ones away for the weekend. Pay off your credit cards. Have an adventure. Blow it on skydiving lessons or drink or hookers or gambling. But please, don't send it to me or anyone else involved in this ugly little fiction. And next time, don't be so fucking naive. Vuyo is going to be pissed. But not pissed enough to have me killed. Not when he doesn't have an animal yet. And hey, there will be others. I add a final line, even though it's a petty revenge, far less than he deserves, even though it might implicate me, or at least my anonymous pseudonym, Kahlo999. Questions? Please contact Giovanni Conte gio@ machmagazine.co.za It takes a long time to send 3,986 emails, watching the status bar count them off. There is a deep satisfaction in this. A satisfaction that is dented when one of the addresses bounces. It takes a techno-naif to fall for a 419, but they're usually not so unsophisticated that they can't even get their return address right. From: Kahlo999 Date: Sun, 27 March 2011 21:51:59 +0200 To: ‹no-one› Subject: RE: This is a scam. No one is going to give you millions of dollars for nothing. Save your money. Spend it on ice-cream. Go out to dinner. Take your loved ones away for the weekend. Pay off your credit cards. Have an adventure. Blow it on skydiving lessons or drink or hookers or gambling. But please, don't send it to me or anyone else involved in this ugly little fiction. And next time, don't be so fucking naive. Questions? Please contact Giovanni Conte gio@ machmagazine.co.za – --- From: ‹no-one› Date: Sun, 27 March 2011 21:51:59 +0200 To: ‹no-one› Subject: ‹no subject› I danced until my feet broke off. Until my shoes turned red with blood. I always wanted to be a girl in a storybook. – ----- It's too strange, too poetical to be spam. I open up the Word doc and add it to my collection. It bothers me, like a pubic hair between your teeth. Or a ghost in the machine. Hey, it's not like I have anything else to do with my life right now. I take my laptop downstairs and four blocks over to the Nice Times Internet Café to print them out. The guy at the shop wraps the hard copies in a brown-paper bag for me, so it's only when I get home and spread them out over the floor that Sloth freaks the fuck out. He's been resting on my back, half dozing, but when the pages are arranged on the linoleum, he starts hissing, tugging at my arms to pull me away. "What's your problem? Is it this?" I pick up a page, and he hunches his shoulders and bats the page out of my hand. He scrambles off my back and backs into the far corner, behind the bed, bristling like the pages are possessed. Maybe Vuyo was right and this is bad Sloth is not convinced this is a good idea. I'm kneeling in the middle of my apartment, burning He opens his mouth. "A better suggestion that doesn't involve going back to Mai Mai," I add quickly. His jaw snaps shut. And then he sneezes twice, abruptly. "See? It's a sign." Resigned, Sloth holds out his lanky arm and I take a pinprick of blood with a vintage brooch from my jewellery box and wipe it off on the most recent email. I pour a liberal dose of paraffin over the crumple of papers in the pot, add a splash of the What happens instead is that a two-foot-high flame shoots up from the pot, singeing my eyebrows. I fling myself away in surprise and my foot catches the pot. Flaming paraffin splashes over the floor. Sloth screams in alarm and starts crawling for his climbing post, moving amazingly speedily. He clambers up his pole, reaches out and hooks onto one of the loops of rope hanging from the ceiling and swings towards the front door, which is probably the smart option. If I had any sense, I'd be doing the same. Instead, I grab the first thing at hand, which just happens to be my yellow leather jacket, and start beating out the flames. The fire resists valiantly, but I finally manage to whack the life out of the flames – and my jacket. The fire dies reluctantly, almost resentfully. Greasy, evil-smelling black smoke pours out of the pot and boils off the floor. Choking and gagging on the smell, I fumble to open the window. And then it hits me. I open my eyes to find Sloth shaking me by my shoulders and whining. "Okay, it's okay. I'm fine." I sit up gingerly, rubbing the back of my head, where I seemed to have smashed it against the floor, possibly repeatedly. My heels ache, as if I have been drumming them in a seizure. I'm lucky I didn't bite off my tongue. Or break a nail. |
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