Читать книгу Paradise - Greg Fried - Страница 4

As Hershel slid around a stationary taxi on Adderley Street, watching in his rear-view mirror for oncoming cars, a pedestrian stepped obliviously into the road ahead. Hershel pressed the hooter and his hatchback Renault – a car unsuitable for a man of his size, he often thought – emitted a quack. Why were the hoots of small cars so unthreatening?

After stopping for a couple of Kit Kats at the nearby Seven Eleven, Hershel headed on to Black Enterprises, a corner building at the bottom of Kloof Street. He took the lift to the second floor and walked past the office of Maurice Black, who looked up from his paperwork.

“You free?” said Black, gliding backwards a short distance on his smart office chair. It wasn’t really a question. “Let’s talk in the boardroom.”

With fake leather chairs and a wood-veneer table, the windowless room was furnished to radiate efficiency and success. Usually, during impromptu meetings, Black perched with his backside on the edge of a desk, looming above his seated employees despite his shortness. Now he positioned himself at the head of the table, Hershel taking the seat to his right. Black laid a blue ring-bound notebook on the table. He was about to speak when the cellphone in his pocket started belting out Gloria Estefan’s Conga.

Black picked up, listened briefly. “Tell them,” he said, “to stick it.” He raised a palm towards Hershel: wait. Black’s head was smooth, though hair curled over the V in his shirt and erupted from his forearms. “If they’re gonna ink, they must do it now. They’re umming and ahhing. They’re wasting our lives. This is an awesome property – people are lining up.”

For Black, the market was always fantastic; any crummy space was full of potential. Like all great self-promoters, Hershel thought, Black believed his own stories. Consequently, even in these bleak times, with agents giving up and developers going bust every day, Black carried on leasing and selling property in the city centre, closing the deals.

Off the phone now, Black turned his attention back to Hershel. “Coffee?”

Hershel shook his head. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat; he rubbed his hands on his trouser legs. Despite the midsummer heat and the claustrophobic room, Black was too cheap to switch on the air con unless a client was present.

Black leaned forward. “Have you ever watched Japanese archery, Hersh?”

“Sorry, what?” A fresh round of moisture broke through the pores in Hershel’s palms. He placed his hands discreetly under the table.

“The Japanese.” Black positioned a forefinger to slant his eyelid.

“I know who they are.”

“But have you watched them in action? A couple of years ago I was in San Francisco, at Golden Gate Park – they’ve got an archery field out there, and the Japanese teams came and practised. Even the Olympic team. You’ve got to go. Seriously, Hersh.” Black nodded, a man offering a word to the wise.

Hershel nodded back, as if in his current or foreseeable financial situation a trip to San Francisco was a possibility.

“But here’s the thing,” said Black. “How many arrows do you think the coach gives each team member?”

Hershel shook his head.

“Come on, guess. Take a risk.” Black arched his eyebrows. “You could be wrong, that’s all.”

Hershel closed his eyes, as though he were thinking. When he opened them, he said, “One.”

“Wrong!” Black held up a pair of fingers. “Two. I saw it myself. Now guess the number of bull’s-eyes. There were ten people in the team.” Black was looking at him, eyes narrow. “You know the answer.”

“Twenty.”

“Exactly. Two arrows per man, twenty bull’s-eyes. Every – single – day.” Black punctuated his words by hitting the table lightly with his flat palm, dull thuds in the airless room. “There’s a lot to learn from the Japanese. You know what I mean?”

Hershel didn’t. They were good archers. What would you expect from the Olympic team?

“Come on, Hersh, what’s the lesson? I’m telling you this story so you can take something away.”

Hershel shifted his buttocks in the seat. Now his lower back was sweating. He wondered how many other agencies were hiring in this climate, and briefly, for he’d thought about this many times, whether he had any other viable skills or products to sell. He was half an accountant, as his mother often said – he’d passed some exams, though not others – but he had no further training. He’d been lucky to get this job with Black. Maybe he could do better in other things, though. You never knew. His grandmother had wanted him to become a doctor: as a child, he’d been urged to wind reams of wet toilet paper around her arm to form a plaster cast. Hershel had spent many lugubrious hours in this way. But his medical prospects had vanished in high school, when his marks had failed to take off, and the most he could finally manage was to become a fraction of an accountant. Still, perhaps his true self lay in a different direction. His grandfather had driven sheep from one Lithuanian village to another, sometimes carrying them on his back. Maybe that kind of work, just to take one example, was what he was really cut out for.

Black continued, “The coach gives them only two arrows because failure is not an option. They don’t even look at the target, you know? I mean, at some point they must look, but when they shoot, some of them even have their eyes closed.” Hershel made his eyes wide to show surprise. Black paused. Hershel could actually see his boss’s rib cage expanding as he inhaled to make his next point. “I want you to adopt that mind-set:” – he looked caringly at Hershel – “the mind-set of success. Failure is not an option. That must be your mantra.”

A pep talk: so Hershel’s job seemed to be safe, for now. His boss opened the blue notebook on the table. “Here are your figures for the past three months.” He flipped the book around and slid it towards Hershel. “No bull’s-eye.”

The figures were depressing, even Hershel could admit that. He’d landed three small rental agreements, each bringing in a few thousand per month from their respective landlords – Black earned five per cent of that, Hershel another five. From his labours, he and Black had each earned enough to go out to a movie and a nice-ish dinner afterwards, if they’d been so inclined. Hershel drew in air and expelled it loudly through his lips. The impossible combination of people without cash and acres of vacant space in town meant a whirlpool of sellers, developers, agents going down the spout.

“It’s not like I’m firing you or anything. I just want you to have better sales. You’re number three here, Hershel.”

“There are only three.”

“What about Hazel?”

“She’s the receptionist.”

“Still important.”

“Of course, but –”

“I know about hardship. Remember where I came from.”

This material was not new to Hershel. Black had grown up in Mitchells Plain, mother a maid, father a drunk. Over the years, he’d frequently described for Hershel his rise to success; in each telling, his father became more derelict, his mother more saintly.

“I understand what it’s like to have your back against the wall,” Black continued. “I don’t want you to feel like that. You can come to us with your problems.”

Who was us? Black was the boss; Liam, though frequently to be found murmuring to Black and understood to be his deputy, was also only an employee.

As if reading his thoughts, Black said: “Now that Liam’s on leave, and of course I’ll be on leave soon, you’ll need to deal with Avram Tversky. Alone, without backup. Can you handle Tversky?”

Hershel nodded.

“Because you had that – that problem with one of his buildings. But you’re the only guy around when I leave. Big responsibility. He’s close to signing a huge deal with us.” Hershel nodded, attempting enthusiasm. “We’ll be managing all his properties: not just Long Street, but also Woodstock, Salt River, maybe elsewhere. Obviously we have to keep him happy until the deal is signed.”

There was an expectant silence. “Of course,” said Hershel. “I must keep Tversky sweet.”

“I get it, things are tough for you at the moment.” Black adopted a concerned expression. “Alex and all. How’s that, by the way?”

“Fine.” Hershel didn’t want to punctuate Black’s pep talk with a discussion of his marital breakdown. The document was sitting on his desk at home. (“Just sign the thing,” Alex had said. Even over the phone, he could hear that her jaw was set. “What are you waiting for? Nothing’s going to change, I promise. You haven’t changed – still as slow as watching tar melt, if you don’t mind my saying – and it won’t make any difference to ignore the situation. You’re just holding things up.”)

“Good to hear.” Black pushed back his chair to stand up, and Hershel followed his lead. “Gotta dash – meeting some guys at the Waterfront.” Black’s tone was cheerful, as if the talk had been pleasurable for them both. Hershel felt a hand patting him roughly on the shoulder. “Look after Mr Tversky for us.”

“You can rely on me, Maurice.”

Walking out of the boardroom, Hershel tried to infuse his veins with motivational energy. This morning he should be cold calling, trying to entice tenants from their current buildings to his sites. He wandered over to Hazel, who sat at the entrance in front of the double glass doors. Her desk contained her bulky old computer, a pad of lined paper and a pen ending in purple fluff, given to her by her granddaughter. She was probably in her late fifties, but looked younger, with her long hair dyed honey blonde. He popped a Kit Kat down on her desk.

“Thanks.” She opened a drawer for the chocolate; her fingernails had a gold glitter polish. Hershel caught a glimpse of her legs, tanned and comely. “You’re always thinking of me, Hersh. What did the baas want with you?”

“Told me to work harder and make him more money.”

Hazel snorted. Just visible through his open office door, Black was standing with his foot lifted onto his swivel chair, phone pressed to his ear.

Hershel manoeuvred himself around her desk and down the fluorescent passage towards his office.

“Hersh,” called Black behind him. “Remember: two arrows.”

Hershel turned to see his boss in the doorway, hands raised to shoulder height, drawing back an imaginary bowstring. He shot a fantasy shaft, and Hershel pressed his hand to his heart and took a step back.

Black laughed. “Hazel, is it hot in here, or is it just you?” he said as he made his way towards the lift.

By Friday, Black had gone – off to The Four Seasons in Mauritius for a short break with his current girlfriend. Hershel had heard a great deal about Black’s “island paradise”. Liam was in Hermanus, staying in his holiday house with his wife and kids until the second week of January. Hershel was sitting at his desk, doodling a giant duck with an outsized beak sitting on a Shetland pony.

Hazel knocked on his door and came to stand next to his desk, waving a sheaf of papers in his face. “Didn’t see you yesterday afternoon.”

“Ja, I left a bit early,” he said. “Thought I’d walk around the area, do some cold calling in person.”

Hazel gave him a yeah-sure look. In tight jeans and a black T-shirt with silver beadwork in the shape of an apple, she looked sexy to Hershel, despite the probable fifteen-year age gap. “A woman phoned. She didn’t leave her name, but said she’d call later. And here’s the list of businesses in Bree Street that the baas said you must contact.”

Hershel took the papers without a glance, dumping them atop the messy paperwork on his desk; he tried to stem the tide with his hands as the pile collapsed.

“And Tversky’s coming,” she said. “You better get your knickers in order. He’ll be here in two minutes.”

“Bloody hell, I’m trying to work on a lease.”

“Sorry.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Ooh! You’ve been working out?”

Hershel couldn’t help laughing; it was so obviously untrue. As a child, he’d been fat and needy, following his mother and his teachers around, wrapping his chubby body inside their skirts in order to avoid the rough games of his peers. Some of his happiest childhood memories were of sitting in the child’s seat in the shopping trolley, high up and out of harm’s way, enjoying a shiny, salty sausage while his mother trundled him around Pick n Pay. There had been a gap, from about eighteen to twenty-one, when his girth had been overwhelmed by the vigour of youth. For a while, he’d looked buff; girls had shown an interest. He’d surfed and lifted weights, run at night along the Sea Point promenade: high on endorphins, smiling at old ladies with their dogs, greeting hobos drowsing on the benches. “The world’s my oyster!” he remembered calling out one windy evening, powering up the hill into Bantry Bay, sea spray hitting his face.

But by the time he’d dropped out of university (there were a number of gaps in his transcript, though when discussing it with her friends his mother would say that a single final course, a most difficult and unfairly assessed one, had defeated him), Hershel’s weight had caught up with him. Academic struggle, comfort eating and the fact that he was no longer growing had all contributed to sluggishness. He stopped surfing and running, and the golden age of attention from the opposite sex faded.

Then, aged twenty-three, he’d met Alex. She’d been from a poor family, had gone to work straight after matric, but was sufficiently driven for them both. She seemed to regard him as a diamond in the rough, or maybe a statue waiting to be chipped from a block of stone. Or perhaps just a middle-class Jewish boy who’d studied commerce and would surely make a success of things. And Hershel had been impressed by Alex, her relentless brisk energy as she climbed the Woolworths ladder from cashier to food department supervisor, set on becoming branch manager. He’d also managed to make her laugh quite often. They’d married a year later, his mother and bride conferring for months over the wedding, planning every detail, even the underwear – black boxer shorts – he’d worn under his tuxedo.

“Speak of the devil,” said Hazel, as a bell rang from the front office. Hershel followed Hazel to the reception area. A short man in his mid-sixties, fit and strong, dressed in a white T-shirt and shorts and wearing leather sandals, was standing at the centre of the room: Tversky. He carried no briefcase and looked more like a holidaymaker newly returned from some strenuous hike than a businessman.

“Hello, Mr Tversky,” said Hazel, smiling. “Can I get you tea or coffee?”

Tversky shook his head, a minimal and abrasive movement. “No thanks.”

“We’ve got a problem,” he said as Hershel ushered him into the boardroom, which still held the unpleasant memory of Black’s inspirational talk.

“Problems are what I do,” said Hershel. He could feel his palms sweating again. He couldn’t afford to fuck this up.

Tversky placed a sheet of cardboard on the table between them. There were ridges from where it had been folded repeatedly, though now the cardboard was pressed flat. Hershel stared at the cardboard, his mind empty. “I don’t understand,” he said, putting forward a hand to touch it gingerly.

“Look.” Tversky picked up the cardboard and folded it to make a wedge, like a fan a child might make. “Seems small. But small things can cause big damage.”

Hershel wiggled his toes inside his shoes; the rebellious gesture calmed him somewhat.

“You’re managing 45 Long now, right?”

Hershel nodded. He was all too familiar with the building he was taking over. He’d managed it some time back, before some imprudent behaviour had led to his replacement by Liam. Besides Tversky, who conducted his business from the top floor, the tenants were Stef, who ran a life-coaching company, and a Congolese guy selling car wax.

“Then you’re the man,” said Tversky, placing the cardboard between them on the table, “who needs to stop this from happening. On the weekend this was jammed in the front door by Stefanie while she carried stuff inside. She didn’t bother to take it away. And it’s not the first time. I happened to be in my office and heard footsteps on the stairwell. Luckily, it was only a bergie wandering in off the street, drunk and confused, so no threat. But,” – now Avram spoke emphatically, leaving a didactic pause between each word – “anything might have happened.”

“I’ll chat to Stef, Avram. You’re right. You can’t leave a door open in this city.” He would have to muster courage to speak with Stef, but he promised himself he would do it. Hershel now decided to make the speech he sometimes gave to tenants when they complained about crime or security issues. It was important to come across as serious-minded. “You know that entering a building, any space really, is purely a matter of will.” He could hear Hazel’s heels tapping reassuringly against the wooden floors as she walked past the boardroom. “Some buildings open easily, but others are more difficult. The security of a building is a matter of the amount of will it demands from an intruder. How badly does he want to get in?”

“Very good.” Tversky clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, thinking. “Applies to the human heart as well, in fact. The heart is permeable by a strong will. Are you familiar with the mystical orientation, Hershel?”

“No. Though I’ve got no problem with orientations.” Hershel was not sure what Tversky meant but was not about to object to his lifestyle choices.

“You might have an aptitude for it. Actually, that reminds me, I’ve got something for you.” He bent down and extracted a sheaf of papers from a creased leather satchel. “I give it to all my new employees.”

“I’m not one of –”

“Letters written by a young Dutch visitor to the Cape, more than two hundred years ago. Motivational and true. Translated, obviously, and made more readable. But you can’t go wrong with a true story.”

Hershel received the papers gloomily.

“On the business at hand: I haven’t needed to tell you before, but I’m holding something precious on my floor. The safety of this thing can’t be left to the will of unknown people.”

“My advice is that you put it in a bank vault.”

“It needs to be where I am. I’m asking a small thing – keep my floor safe. Exert your will, Hershel. Let me tell you a story.”

Hershel kept his eyes on Tversky, working not to show dismay. Maybe, Hershel thought, there’s something about me that leads people to offer unsolicited parables.

“Once I was on a flight to one of those countries they invented when the Soviet Union broke up. Kyrgyzstan. Business takes you to some funny places. There was bad turbulence near our destination – screaming from passengers, hand luggage bumping around in overhead lockers. After a while, the pilot came on the intercom. The guy was completely relaxed. He spoke in Kyrgyz, then added a few words in English. What he said was – I swear to you, Hershel – ‘Don’t worry, everything is out of control.’ Within a minute the weather improved and we were smoothly on our way.”

“And the lesson is?” asked Hershel, keeping his tone free of sarcasm.

“Grace under pressure. I’ve got a building with weird and unreliable tenants, I know that. They drive me nuts, and I don’t even know what they’ll do to you now you’re back on the job. Still, I want you to take control. They’re the turbulence, but you’re the pilot.”

After Tversky had left, Hershel sat back in his chair, eyeing the papers on the desk. Would Tversky expect him to read them soon? Might he quiz Hershel on their contents? Perhaps he would just read the first bit.