Читать книгу The Lazarus Effect - HJ Golakai - Страница 9

Vee hung her legs out of the Toyota Corolla and polished off a Top Red apple. As lunches went, fatty steak rolls and unwashed fruit weren’t the best she could do, but it worked on the move.

“On the move” sounded great, considering how stagnant her career had become. The shocking part was she hadn’t really cared. Her recent blackouts told of a subconscious dissatisfaction, but her subconscious wasn’t really her problem if it didn’t speak up. True, making its presence felt by sending her into rapturous torture with no provocation at the oddest times was not ideal, but that simply meant there’d have to be some new ground rules.

Reminded of one, Vee popped a foil tab of Cipralex and swallowed the pill. Since the plan of keeping specialist appointments was canned – “psychiatrist” sounded so wrong and “therapist” far worse – it came down to medication for a so-called anxiety disorder. It was either a professional or the pills, not both. Screw it, she’d take the gamble. After watching the bottom fall out of her life, what else was there to lose? Wait and see was the new catch phrase.

She flipped through a paperback, but soon her mind wandered. She loved being the only investigative journalist on the team, because it spelled solo missions. Most people couldn’t handle having nothing but their own thoughts to keep those long hours from crushing their skulls in. Add to that the drudgery of fact-finding, wading through verbal muck and quadruple-checking copy to make a story look great beneath a by-line, and Vee was regarded with both awe and pity.

Hard to admit, but she was now an investigator in name only. Lately, guiding readers through the maze of the make-up industry and the scam of knock-off labels was the raciest her writing had been. Pumping out the last piece of junky prose under a “human interest” heading had made her snap. With her skills stretched across two sister publications and their associated bimonthly advertorial, she’d been snapping internally for some time.

Chewing thoughtfully on the apple core, Vee reflected on the scene two days earlier, when she’d finally marched into the main office to see the editor, proposal in hand and the toughest look of resolve she could muster.

After two years working with and for Portia Kruger, she still found the editor an enigma. Portia’s appeal was also her Achilles heel: she was gorgeous, intelligent and a prima donna, the last quality lending a superhuman ability to overestimate herself in the first two, often rendering her incomprehensible at the worst of times and insufferable at the best. To add insult to injury, she had money. Modelling since the age of ten and an Oxford degree made her marketable. An editorship at thirty, albeit largely acquired through her father’s connections and one that carried little clout in the industry, stepped her up to overbearing. As far as everyone was concerned, being at the helm of Urban magazine was as much a learning experience for Portia as it was for the staff. In private, they freely tittered that she was no more than a seat-warmer for a discreet private venture her old man kept alive to diversify his business portfolio. In public, they jumped like fleas at her command because she was, after all, the “real” boss’s daughter.

Vee had knocked on Portia’s door and entered in one smooth movement. It had become clear early on that Kruger was one who responded well to the mythical creature that was “authority”. If you came confident of what you wanted and fully prepared to fight for it, chances were pretty good of wrangling a tenth of what you’d expected when the dust cleared. The fickle winds of office gossip whispered that Portia was a little intimidated by Vee. Being an underpaid subordinate, even one with a top-class degree in journalism and media from Columbia University, wasn’t much to go on. All the same, Vee took the leverage where she could get it.

“I read your proposal last night,” Portia said, shuffling files. Most likely they had nothing to do with the piece. You had to hand it to Portia in certain areas. If she’d devoted a fraction of her precious time and mental agility to the proposal, it would be memorised back to front.

“It was interesting . . . really interesting.” Her cinnamon hair, usually wild and curly in the deliberately unkempt but stylish way only the fashion-conscious know how to achieve, was coiffed in an up-sweep. Once upon a time, lubricated with alcohol and the benefits of shallow acquaintance, they’d fallen into a drunken after-hours debate on pedigree, a topic Vee quickly discovered was a South African preoccupation. Portia settled the argument by asserting that her hair guaranteed she was coloured. The real lesson was that her hair and dress code gave vital clues as to her mood. Curly and up was bad, but Vee couldn’t remember why. Was someone getting fired, or merely shot down in truly memorable style? She felt the tough face starting to slip.

“But it might be a little too hard-core for a major feature, though. An article on missing persons sounds riveting, but can it really appeal to the bulk of our readership?” What the words meant was not that a valid piece on the rising incidence of missing children might not appeal to her readership, but rather why should she yank one of her best writers off Urban’s bread-and-butter features to run free on a solo project.

Portia sat back in her leather chair and eyed Vee squarely. Vee feigned boredom, determined not to play along. The proposal was detailed and solid, and she’d dammed up the biggest holes by interviewing the two assigned case officers. It was obvious that Portia was spoiling for a fight, and unfortunately Vee was her favourite sparring partner. A different tack was required.

“I thought this was why you needed someone like me here. To give this place an edge, make sure it doesn’t become another rag on how to play dress-up and giggle when you want a promotion,” Vee said. “This will be a great story to cover, and you know it, but it needs my full attention. I’m not on anything hugely important at the moment.”

Elegant caramel shoulders, well within the boundary of a perfect BMI, lifted themselves and came down again. The girl even shrugged stylishly.

“Oh, I beg to differ, Voinjama. Your time’s been devoted admirably well, what with some of the great features you’ve done here. I mean, the kudos you got for reporting on the recurrent episodes of xenophobic violence earlier this year, it’s still on everyone’s lips.”

“A story that, sure, had my name on it but didn’t even appear in Urban.” Vee stopped as Portia flinched. Any reminder that the serious material regularly got shifted to the pages of City Chronicle underlined the fact that pivotal decisions on content were beyond Portia’s control. And any suggestion that her powers were constrained, or that the larger, more respectable newspaper was able to lord it over them, was hugely unwelcome indeed.

Portia blinked twice, slowly. “Would you like to go over to the Chronicle?” she asked with dangerous softness. “They are a part of us, after all, and you’ve done stuff for them before. It wouldn’t even be like you were moving.”

Vee shook her head, determined not to bite. “No.” Yes. Did she? Portia was right; they were both part of one media group, and moving one building over to the newspaper wouldn’t be like moving at all. They all looked so happy over there, with their concise job descriptions and real lunch breaks. She was willing to bet no one over at City Chronicle had fitful daymares of dead teenagers swanning over them.

Portia smiled. “The grass is never as green as you think it is on the other side.”

“Wasn’t thinking of grass. Or the colour green,” Vee answered evenly. “All I meant was, how often does it happen nowadays that I can at least pretend to be an investigative journalist? I need something more substantial, something to sink my teeth into.”

“Good. Because I’ve got just the thing. Singer cum Joburg socialite –”

“Please not again . . .”

“– kicks the drug habit, bags herself a steamy Frenchman, buys into Camps Bay property. She’s new to the Mother City scene and aching to talk about herself, especially her latest album. We want it first.”

Once more she rearranged what Vee now noticed were two files, one of which she recognised as her draft.

“So what’s it to be?” Portia angled. “The sob story on poor missing urchins or . . .”, edging her preference forward with little subtlety, “a career-making scoop on the hot and happening pop star?”

“Career-making? Baby-sitting a monstrous ego for two pages nobody’s really gonna read . . .”

Portia’s hand went up to stop her and call the final bid. “Which is it, Johnson?”

Resolved, Vee reached across and slid her file over.

Luckily, Portia’s coiffed hair signalled a playfully combative, but not spiteful, mood. Considering the ease with which she backed down, Portia must’ve been anticipating the day Vee would come out of hibernation, put her foot down and demand a project more worthy of her grey cells. Whatever the editor’s motivation, Vee was glad she had leave to be here, sitting in the Corolla, parked in Little Mowbray opposite the home of one Adele Paulsen, waiting to conduct the first face-to-face interview of what would hopefully be an insightful article on the missing young of Cape Town.

She hadn’t been entirely upfront with Portia, who had no clue that Vee had only fragments of a lead, or with Adele Paulsen, who’d chosen to believe she was a law enforcement agent investigating her child’s disappearance. The former she would deal with later. Portia was fond of giving her sufficient rope to hang herself with, a public embarrassment Vee had so far managed to avoid. As for the interview, experience had taught her that lying would only get you through the door and no further. If Adele Paulsen smelled a rat early on, Vee could kiss it all goodbye. She popped some gum in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Coming clean was invariably harder than lying.

A boisterous group of bare-chested young men in shorts and sneakers jogged past. One caught her eye and whistled, calling out something in Afrikaans that made the rest burst into laughter. Vee turned away, dismayed as a familiar and unwelcome warmth spread threateningly below the navel. Lately her mind was a lust-polluted cesspool, and, being somewhat single-minded, she knew it would affect her work. It was hard to give one thing solid attention when sex, the loss of it from her life, the acquisition of it again with any decent regularity, how much of it other happy bastards were having, all seemed to occupy a startling portion of her thoughts.

The unsettling part was that men were everywhere, a miserable statistical half of the population. Since re-entering singlehood, she had noticed they were more everywhere than she’d ever known them to be before. Their obliviousness with respect to their sexual appeal was practically malicious. Striding around displaying V-shaped torsos misted with sweat and bare, muscled legs . . . it had to stop. Her last major assignment, a quest into the world of xenophobic riots and a city shredded by hateful prejudice, had propelled her into the arms of a skilled, smouldering Angolan. No more mistakes of that kind again.

A woman laden with bags of shopping began fiddling with a front gate, prompting Vee to jump out of the car and set the alarm.

“Ms Paulsen? I’m Voinjama Johnson. We spoke yesterday morning.”

The older woman looked briefly confused, then said: “Yes, yes of course. Miss Johnson . . .”

She trailed off and went back to prising open the clasp. Vee stepped up and unburdened her of two Shoprite grocery bags and followed her into the front yard. It was a small house with a tiny but manicured front garden. The stone walkway leading up to the front stoep was crumbling in several places but swept free of dirt.

Vee watched in amazement as a black puppy under a tree produced what looked like its body weight in excrement. She thought of her own dog as the puppy bounded over happily and barked. Adele Paulsen rubbed it with one affectionate foot and brushed it aside, climbing the steps as she rummaged for her house keys. She launched into an explanation of how being a teacher was very trying work, especially without the use of a car, which meant she was always late for the appointments she didn’t forget.

The woman was obviously house-proud. The entrance hall was neat, and the wooden floors looked like they’d enjoyed a recent application of polish. In the sitting room, the setting sun poured through heavy floral curtains and gave the room an open and cheerful air.

The tidiness brought on an unexpected swell of depression, and Vee quickly brought her emotions in check. If she’d lost a child – which she had, but not in the pure sense – keeping a home clean and welcoming would be a very low priority. She remembered her own time of misfortune: unwashed body and swollen eyes, perfectly happy to marinate in her own stink and pity were it not for those who loved her. Society extolled the virtues of strength, but nobody ever gave any solid advice on how to break down properly. How long could a mother bustle about playing hostess, all the while mentally pushing aside the thought that her only child might be somewhere no mother would ever want her baby to see?

“I completely forgot the time,” Mrs Paulsen called from the kitchen. “I hope you didn’t have to wait too long.”

“Not at all,” Vee lied.

Idly, she examined a large ornate cabinet filled with china plates, dusty mugs and tiny figurines. If there was one thing that crossed all cultural boundaries, it was the off-limits cabinet with the delicate glassware and precious silver.

“Ian gave most of those to me,” Mrs Paulsen said, following her eyes as she set down the tea tray. “From his travels during his university and post-grad days. Me, I haven’t really travelled much. To Namibia once, before I got pregnant with Jacqueline, and once the two of us went to Zimbabwe in the good old days when it was such a nice country.”

Over the rim of the teacup, Vee studied her. This woman devoted a daily portion of her energy to remaining on the move so that no one could see how miserable she was. And how angry. The canned rage was hard to get at over the pain, but it was unmistakably there. It must be a struggle for her to carry on as a preschool teacher, seeing those eager eyes and sweet smiles every day.

“And where are you from?” Adele asked, pushing short brown hair behind both ears. “Your accent’s very different.” She leaned over, deftly spooned three measures of white sugar into her tea and then reclined in her armchair. Moving Adele. Still Adele. Vee cast a swift vote for Moving Adele. Still Adele looked ready to rise at any moment and slap the taste out her mouth for holding the cup the wrong way.

“I’m Liberian. From Liberia,” Vee added stupidly.

Adele “ahhed” and looked ceiling-ward, snapping her fingers in recollection. In the measured tones of an educator, she rattled off the capital city and two neighbouring countries and pressed on the current state of the politics since the end of the civil war. Vee felt pleasantly surprised and impressed. Most locals had little knowledge of other cultures “further north”, as they called it.

“To tell you the truth, I really didn’t know what to expect after I spoke to you yesterday,” Adele went on, returning to small talk. “With a surname like Johnson . . . but you’re obviously not coloured. What does your first name mean?”

Vee’s internal alarm gave a warning beep at the urging for more chitchat. They were officially in avoidance-tactic territory, and time was something she didn’t have much of.

“I’m named after a trading city in the north. There was a mix-up on my birth certificate between my place of birth and my chosen name, so . . . Voinjama stuck.”

Vee about-faced, turning serious. “Mrs Paulsen, I have to be honest as to why I called. I mentioned I’m investigating old missing persons cases, but . . . it’s really for a magazine article. I’m an investigative journalist for Urban magazine; maybe you know it.”

When the other woman gave no response except to settle deeper into the sofa, Vee plunged on.

“I’m not connected with the police in any way, nor am I a private detective. But I do care about what happened to your daughter, and other children like her, and that’s why I’m here.”

Truth kept light. Honesty was wonderful, but too much of it, especially here, was bound to come across as highly questionable, even absurd. How on earth to tell a mother that during a panic attack she was hounded by what looked like the ghost of her missing daughter? The photograph that she’d “borrowed” from the bulletin board at the Wellness Institute would remain under wraps for now.

Vee squirmed under Adele’s gaze. The discomfort reminded her of waiting outside the principal’s office to be punished.

“So Ian, Dr Fourie, he didn’t hire you to find Jacqueline? How’d you find me?”

“Um, no, he didn’t,” replied Vee, taken aback. Had she gone that far in her misrepresentation? She was certain she hadn’t. Ignore the second question.

Armed with the photograph and buckets of innocent charm, she’d managed to wangle an identification out of the more talkative members of the paediatric nursing staff. People were helpful if they thought there was a chance of seeing their names in print. It was easy enough to link Jacqueline to her mother, but suspicion sealed off communication beyond that. Otherwise, all she got was a very tenuous connection to a Dr Fourie, of which both an Ian and a Carina falling under that surname had refused to take her calls.

“I’m sorry if I led you to think otherwise,” she continued. “I hope you don’t change your mind about speaking to me.”

She cringed internally. It was never advisable to give a source the option of shutting you down. Plus her own health and sanity depended more than her livelihood on finding the truth behind Jacqueline Paulsen’s disappearance. Envisioning the hovering dead wasn’t fun any more. As they regarded each other, she saw with relief her plaintive look was matched by Adele’s own desire to talk.

“How much do you want to know?” the woman said wearily. When Vee produced her Nokia and switched it to voice recording, Adele nodded mutely, giving the go-ahead.

“Please,” said Vee, propping it on the table, “everything.”