Читать книгу Face-Off - Chris Karsten - Страница 22

The first thing Jake noticed when Mr Heilbron arrived half an hour late for their lunch appointment was the shoes, ankle boots made of fancy leather, with gold buckles that glittered in the sun. Aviators pushed up on his forehead. Face and head smoothly shaved, skin shining like varnished wood.

“Wasim calls government officials penpushers, but you don’t look like a penpusher, you seem to be earning good money at Home Affairs, Mr Heilbron. What are those shoes made of: snakeskin, ostrich leather?

Mr Heilbron ordered fillet, told the gaunt waiter he wanted it just seared; he wanted to see blood in his plate. And a double Chivas, neat, no ice. Jake asked for a glass of chardonnay with his salad.

As the waiter left, Mr Heilbron looked at Jake across the table and lifted an eyebrow. “My shoes? You’re a smartass, aren’t you? Are you trying to say I do deals under the table? I can’t have a taste for stylish shoes?”

Jake put his palms up in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, cool it, man. I was just admiring your shoes, nothing more.”

“Crocodile skin,” Mr Heilbron said after a pause. “By Paciotti of Milan.”

Jake whistled through his teeth, brought his leg out from under the patio table and pointed at his own shoes. “Hush Puppies, my personal preference. Though I can also afford handmade shoes, of course, of . . . potoroo skin.”

Mr Heilbron sipped his drink, smacked his lips appreciatively, and lifted another eyebrow. “Potoroo? What’s potoroo?”

Jake waved dismissively. “You’re some kind of big shot at Home Affairs?”

“You could say so. Supervisor: Status Services, regional office, that’s my official title. Citizenship, passports, identity documents, birth, death and marriage certificates.”

Jake watched Mr Heilbron take another sip of the eighteen-year-old Chivas and thought of the description of “Counter Corruption and Security” he’d read on the Home Affairs website, the seven warning signs of possible corruption. Especially the first one: An official clearly living beyond his/her means. In his shirt pocket was a digital recorder with automatic voice response. It could be taken for a cellphone.

“And it’s a good job? Good money?” asked Jake.

“No, the salary is pathetic,” said Mr Heilbron. “My wife is the one with the money. Well, actually her father: he’s an entrepreneur. She likes giving me expensive gifts. What did you want to talk to me about?”

The waiter brought the food and Jake looked at the fillet. He would have loved to bite into a tender cut of meat himself, but his cholesterol levels forced him to choose the Caesar: fresh lettuce with croutons, parmesan cheese, grilled chicken strips, Worcestershire sauce for the salty anchovy taste, coarsely ground black pepper, olive oil, a splash of lemon juice.

“As I told you on the phone, Wasim recommended you . . .”

“I looked in my records and couldn’t find a Wasim Khan.”

“Er . . . Like I said, Wasim is a friend of a friend you helped. I don’t know the friend’s name. Is it important?”

“Personal references, it’s the only way I work.”

“He said Mr Heilbron doesn’t like clients throwing his name around.”

Jake watched him considering this snippet. “What do you need my help for?” he asked after a while.

“Four things, four status things” said Jake. “One: I want to change my name.”

“You don’t need my help for that. Form B1-85 to change your first name, Form B1-96 to change your surname. Do you want to change both?”

“Yes.”

“Seventy rand for each name change. You wait until it’s published in the Government Gazette, that’s it.”

“Number two: I want a new ID document issued in my new name.”

“Form B1-9.”

“And one for my bride. That’s the third thing.”

“You’re getting married? Let’s drink to that. Another Chivas?” Mr Heilbron tapped his finger on the rim of his empty glass.

The tongue is loosening up, thought Jake, and he beckoned the waiter. “My bride can’t get an ID book without a marriage certificate.”

“Form B1-27.”

“Holy shit, Mr Heilbron, you certainly know your forms, don’t you?”

“I’m not a priest, but I can marry you, in my office. In terms of Act 25 of 1961 I’m certified to conduct marriage ceremonies. The marriage certificate is free.”

“Right,” said Jake. He leant closer, elbows on the table. “The fourth thing . . .” He paused while the waiter brought the Chivas and an espresso for himself.

“The fourth thing is the passports, for me and my bride.”

“I see you’ve got it all worked out, step by step, the one a prerequisite for the next. You could do it all quite easily through the normal channels. Why involve me?”

“It was what Wasim’s friend advised. If the normal channels don’t work, he said, give Mr Heilbron a call. Well, the normal channels don’t work for all the steps. Changing my name and surname is no problem. Neither is my new ID book.”

“You don’t want to be Jake Diamond any more? What kind of name is it anyway? Jewish?”

“Yep, Jewish. Actually, Afrikaans-speaking Boer Jew, to be precise.”

“You don’t want to be a Boer Jew any more? Who do you want to become, Van der Merwe?”

Jake shook his head. “Yusuf.”

Mr Heilbron frowned. “Yusuf? An Afrikaans-speaking Boer Jew wants to become a Muslim known as Yusuf?”

“I’ve had an epiphany. I converted.”

“And your bride?”

“That’s the other problem. It’s why I can’t go through the normal channels,” said Jake, noticing Joe, photographer at the Record, between parked cars on the street, camera around his neck, zoom lens focused on their table. Table 12 on the patio of the Moosehead, he had told Joe, but make sure he doesn’t see the camera. Be discreet, get a clear shot of his face. And don’t hang around; take the photos and leave.

“Another Chivas, Mr Heilbron?” he asked, to divert the man’s attention.

“Don’t mind if I do. The other problem?”

“My bride,” said Jake. “Fauzia . . . stunning girl, by the way.”

“Fauzia? Also a convert?”

“No, it’s her real name.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem is that Fauzia is from Rawalpindi.”

Jake saw the gears click in Mr Heilbron’s mind; the frown was back, eyes focused.

“You mean Pakistan?”

“Right. Is it a problem when love knows no borders?”

“It could be a problem. But it’s not insurmountable. Is it love? I mean, true love . . .? You and your bride have real feelings for each other? Or . . .”

“Or a marriage of convenience? Hell, Mr Heilbron, the clock is ticking, I’m no spring chicken, and this is my first bride. The first time I’ve ever felt this way about a woman, prepared to change my whole life, even my name and faith. Yes, I do believe it’s real love.”

“How did the two of you meet? Were you in Pakistan?”

“No, she’s here on holiday, visiting relatives. The Khans . . . Wasim, remember? He introduced us, she’s his cousin.”

“So you’re head over heels, you say?” said Mr Heilbron.

“Can you do it?”

“A marriage certificate, an ID, and a passport for your bride from Pakistan? It’s a tall order, Mr Diamond.”

“Jake. Call me Jake, it’s what she calls me too. Until I become Yusuf, of course.”

“I know all about your personal life now, Jake, but what’s your profession?”

He’d been expecting this, too. “You mean you want to know whether I can afford largesse for all your trouble? I’m in the jewellery business. Did I mention that my grandpa was on the diggings? My grandpa Judel.” He was in urgent need of a toilet, but the conversation had reached a critical point. “My grandpa’s line of work was diamonds and gold. India is the biggest market for gold in the world, inexhaustible; they’re crazy about bling over there . . . Bollywood actresses, cricket players with gold chains round their necks.” Jake let Mr Heilbron digest his words, then resumed: “The family business is in my hands now. I told Wasim the day Fauzia and I return from our Caribbean honeymoon I’m building a brand-new mosque in Fordsburg. He can have the plans drawn up in the meantime, six minarets, money is no object – that’s if Mr Heilbron can help, of course. Which I doubt.”

The man stared at him and Jake wondered whether he had laid it on too thick. He hoped Joe had got good photos, incriminating flashy Mr Heilbron in the process of digging his own grave.

“Well, Jake,” said Mr Heilbron, more forthcoming now, “of course I can help you and Fauzia. I’m the supervisor, everything goes through my hands, all those documents for you and your bride. Understand what I mean?”

“Can you do it, Mr Heilbron? It’s not dangerous, is it? I don’t want to get you into trouble.” Jake leant across the table confidentially, for the sake of the sensitive microphone in his pocket.

From the corner of his eye he noticed the two men who seemed to be admiring a black BMW X5. Shades, one wearing a fez, the other a baseball cap, peak pulled low over his forehead, talking on his cellphone.

“I know what I’m doing. It won’t be the first time,” said Mr Heilbron. “But it will cost you. I’m not cheap – others have to be paid down the line, I don’t work alone. The . . . largesse for everything will be eighty thousand.”

Bingo!

“What?” said Jake. “Eighty thousand?”

“Half when you place the order, balance on delivery.”

“How long?”

“Six weeks.”

“No sooner?”

“I’m up to my ears. Orders from all over Africa, a lot of clients from Pakistan. How old is your bride? I hope she’s older than eighteen, otherwise . . .”

“Will you take a cheque?” Jake noticed the two men again, in their dark glasses and hats, strolling among the pedestrians, a swagger in the hips.

“No cheques, strictly cash. Let me know when you’re ready to pay the deposit, forty thousand, in used banknotes, as they say in the movies.”

The two men had stopped at a street vendor to look at knick-knacks made of wood and wire: masks, egrets and guinea fowl, giraffes and monkeys.

“I have to take a leak.” Jake got up.

“Shall I order again?”

“Sure. Espresso for me.”

It was three o’clock, sunny and hot, the mercury at about thirty degrees, Jake guessed as he made his way inside. The long Friday lunch, a liquid lunch for many, meant most of the patio tables were still occupied.

Waiting his turn at the urinal, he heard loud conversation and fits of laughter from the patio, the beer and wine talking under umbrellas. Mr Heilbron had surprised him. He hadn’t thought the official would flaunt his greed so openly – those crocodile-skin shoes!

Jake washed his hands, held them under the drier, wiped the last drips on his trouser legs as he walked out, jeans faded, baggy at the knees. He smiled. Yudel – that was a good one. He wouldn’t have minded if his grandfather had indeed struck the diamond mother-lode. Wouldn’t mind taking a young bride on a Caribbean honeymoon either. Instead, every month he scrimped and saved to pay the bond on his small Brixton house, his divorce having ruined him. His son was in Perth; he seldom heard from him. He visited his daughter from time to time, on their cattle farm at Modimolle, to see his two grandchildren.

Back on the patio he blinked his eyes against the light. Table 12 was empty. He looked around for Mr Heilbron, couldn’t see him anywhere.

He sat down, wondered whether Mr Heilbron had smelt a rat. He didn’t think so. The man had seemed keen for that forty thousand down payment.

The waiter ducked in under the umbrella, white napkin draped over his forearm. “Anything else, sir, or shall I bring the bill?”

“The bill,” said Jake.

“Is your friend coming back?” asked the waiter.

Jake saw what he meant: the glass with Mr Heilbron’s last Chivas was still half full.

He looked up at the waiter. “Did you see him leave?”

The waiter nodded in the direction of the street. “He went that way, with two dudes. Didn’t say whether he was coming back, that’s why I’m asking.”

“Two dudes?”

“Big shots. Spoke to him here at the table. He got up and went with them, over there, where the cars are.”

Jake peered up and down the street. No sign of Mr Heilbron.

When the waiter brought the bill, he asked: “Those two dudes, what did they look like?”

“One was wearing a baseball cap, and the big one with muscles and tattoos wore a fez.”

“Did you see them leave in a car?”

“I wasn’t looking; none of my business.”

Jake put the notes on the tray. “Keep the change. What colour were they?”

The waiter counted the money. “Race, d’you mean? You want me to lose my job? We’re supposed to be colour blind.”

Jake sighed. “Were they white, black, brown or green?”

The waiter shrugged. “In between, I guess.”

Jake nodded. He suspected they also belonged to Mr Heilbron’s clientèle.