Читать книгу The Maestro, the Magistrate and the Mathematician - Tendai Huchu - Страница 11

The Mathematician

Farai opens his eyes, sits up and swings his legs off the bed. The red LCD on his radio clock tells him it’s 06:01:23, meaning he’s 1 minute and 23 seconds late. He doesn’t use an alarm, his body knows when to rise and right now it’s telling him he needs to pee. He rubs his eyes and yawns.

Eminem, Malcolm X, and Adam Smith (no relation to Ian) look down on him from the posters on the wall. He steps on layers of white printed paper with black ink lettering, numbers, symbols and words from his inkjet. Around the bed are various thick textbooks. The papers feel smooth under his bare feet as he walks across the room and opens the curtains. His bladder screams out. He ignores it. He’ll go in his own time.

He goes to the living room and says good morning to Mr Majeika, who is hopping around in his hutch. Mr Majeika is one of those unoriginal rabbits trying to imitate dairy cows. Farai opens the hutch and strokes his black and white fur. ‘Your bedding needs changing, Mr Majeika. Fancy a bit of lettuce, just to get you started today? It’s good for you, coz you’re getting fat, shasha.’

Mr Majeika wiggles his whiskers in reply and observes Farai lazily.

Farai gets himself a glass of water and a few leaves of lettuce for Mr Majeika. He turns on the TV, switches it, via remote, from the live reality TV feed of housemates in the Big Brother house to Bloomberg. The Nasdaq is ↑, the Dow’s ↑, FTSE’s ↑, so life is good. He fires up his Vaio FE550G. He thinks about how it’d have been great to buy defense shares before the war. Raytheon’s ↑, doing great with all those Tomahawks flying across the desert, lighting up Iraq.

He checks his uni email account, 43 unread messages, and it’s only Monday, before the start of the business day. Most of it is junk. He logs off and goes on zse.co.zw. The connection is slow. The screen blinks like he’s on dial-up. He taps his fingers on the keyboard, trying to absorb the news on TV, making sense of the red, silver and green data stream running at the bottom of the screen. The ZSE page is down.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ he says, leans back in the chair and picks up the landline. He dials out international – direct, spare no expense when it’s business. It’s the AIMs where the fun stuff happens.

‘Hello.’

‘Dad, it’s Farai, how’s Mwana doing?’

‘I’m fine, your mum’s fine too, so is the dog and your little sisters, thanks for asking, Comrade Fatso.’

‘Sorry, Dad, I haven’t had my coffee yet. I’m still booting up.’

‘Mwana’s dead, I told you to get out of nickel ages ago.’

‘Commodity prices keep going up, China’s insatiable, they can’t get enough of the stuff. How come Mwana’s underperforming?’

‘I’m in Zimplats, and we’re doing alright. Really positive policies on PGMs, so Hartley or whatever they call it now is looking great, but everyone else in the industry is struggling. Gono’s hording all their forex and swapping it with Mickey Mouse money so they can’t function. They’re gonna sink. Do you want me to get you out?’

‘No, I’m in this for the long haul. They’ve got good proven reserves and their PGMs will be coming online soon. They’ve got eggs in quite a few baskets.’

‘It’s your money, little bull, but I say quit while you’re slightly behind. No one ever quits while they’re ahead.’

‘I’ll talk to you later, Dad,’ he says, hangs up and sighs.

Mr Majeika chews his lettuce, barely making a crunching sound as he watches the news from his hutch. Farai takes a sip of water and flicks over to CNN. Recycled footage: green, night vision clips of videogame-like explosions. It looks beautiful on the Sony widescreen plasma TV. He can almost feel the heat from the blast and taste the chemical smoke pluming in the air. The commentary uses words like, ‘surgical strikes’, ‘collateral damage’, ‘weapons of mass destruction’, and when the footage changes to armor-plated Humvees and Abrams, he knows for sure he should have bought into defense.

He goes to the bathroom, takes a long piss, and showers. He comes back out, towel wrapped around his body and knocks on Brian’s bedroom door.

‘Wakey, wakey,’ he shouts.

Brian replies with a torrent of abuse about his mum’s genitalia and wholly unfounded assertions about her sex life.

‘I love you too,’ Farai says, and goes back to the living room.

Water streams down from his short Afro onto his back. He can’t be arsed to use a hair drier. He moisturizes, using L’Oréal for men, because he’s worth it. His stomach grumbles; he won’t eat till midday though. He wants to have full mastery of his body, of every thought and emotion that comes from it.

‘Why the fuck do you have to fucking wake me up so fucking early in the fucking morning when I’ve fucking told you before to fucking leave me the fuck alone?’ says Brian, voice slurring, breath reeking of last night’s bender.

‘Dude, you have a stiffy,’ Farai replies. ‘Don’t point it my way!’

Brian takes a look at the bulge in his boxers and raises his eyebrows.

‘It’s not aimed at you. It’s just a morning glory, perfectly natural, nothing suspicious there.’

‘Didn’t you get lucky last night?’

‘Would I have this affliction if I had?’

‘What happened? I set you up with that Filipino chick, and you looked like you knew what you were doing. Please tell me you at least got her number.’

Brian sits beside him and uses a cushion to cover his flagpole. Some Arabic women in black are running across the screen, wailing, raising their hands to the heavens and beating themselves on the head. The voice-over states that laser-guided missiles are accurate to within a few centimeters though the occasional ‘collateral damage’ is inevitable.

‘Listen,’ says Farai as images of charred Iraqis fill the screen, ‘you’re walking around with a loaded gun. It’s unhealthy for a young, healthy male such as yourself to live like this. A man must allow for a maximum of 4 weeks between sexual intercourse. Look at this. These guys are on 6 month rotations, they’re not getting laid and that’s why atrocities happen. After 4 weeks of no action, blood flows away from the brain, and there’s way too much testosterone in the body wreaking havoc in the amygdala. You carry on like this, mate, and you’re a danger not only to yourself, but to society at large.’

A loud, very human cry comes from one of the bedrooms. Brian moves quickly to see what’s up. Farai shrugs and flips the channel to Al Jazeera where he is met with even more distraught Arabs. He decides it’s all too depressing and logs on to hi5 to see if he’s got any new messages. As the page is loading, he flicks to a half-finished chess game against his laptop. It bores him, he’s playing at level 10, the highest level, and the AI can’t keep up with him. Its gigabytes of processing power don’t match up to his integrated organic circuitry.

‘Farai, can you come and give me a hand here?’ Brian calls out.

‘I’m busy,’ he replies.

‘Come on, man, this is serious.’

Farai gets up, tightens the towel round his waist, and walks down the dim corridor to the last bedroom on the right. The pong of stale man-sweat hits him. Brian’s standing at the door. A naked, skeletal figure lies on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. At intervals he moans. This is their friend, Scott. Farai opens the window. Fresh air rushes in from outside.

‘Dude, what the hell do you think you’re doing? We’ve got neighbors. This is a respectable area, they’ll skeem we’re killing a goat in here or something.’

‘She didn’t text me back,’ Scott groans.

‘Would you like something to drink, tea, coffee, water, anything?’ asks Brian.

‘My life’s over. She hates me.’

They stand awkwardly around their naked friend, not quite knowing what to do. Brian fetches a glass of orange juice and gives it to Scott. Farai can’t begin to understand why someone would go crazy like this over some piece of ass. He paces around the room, picking up dirty clothes and putting them into the laundry bag, an activity that hardly makes a dent on the mess.

‘She totally hates me.’

‘That’s chicks, man. They promise you the moon and all you get is a tiny little star, like this.” Farai indicates a tiny little gap between his index finger and thumb.

‘Everything’s fucked.’

‘Do you mind putting something on, coz, no offense, but your naked ass and his stiffy are kinda freaking me out here.’ Farai laughs at his own joke.

Scott lies there, immobile. His eyes bother Farai, pupils dilated, the whites, red and bloody. He knows the story though, Scott has spent the last week psychotexting his ex, C, trying to win her back with romantic declarations, freaky poems, and not-so-subtle emotional blackmail about how life isn’t worth living without her. The chick was hot, no doubt. Farai remembers her – great tits, curvy ass, cliché Coca-Cola bottle body, smart, funny, and quick as a whip. A classy tsvarakadenga. He knew it would never last with his mate Scott. The chick had standards, yo.

‘You’re calling her too often. You’re giving her too much power over you, bro. You gotta hang back and wait until she wants you. Guaranteed she’s gonna come crawling back. Straight-up homies like us are hard to come by in this city.’

‘You think so?’

‘Would I be saying it, if I didn’t think it?’ Farai feigns offense. ‘Now get up your rasclut, you’ve got work this morning, haven’t you?’

‘I’m calling in sick.’

‘You can’t. You owe me, like, 2 months’ rent already.’

‘The wealth of the sinner is stored up for the righteous.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘Proverbs 13 verse 22,’ says Scott, and covers his head with a pillow.

Brian and Farai return to the living room, to the soft monotone sound of traffic picking up on Commercial Street. Through the window, Farai can see the river and a bit of the docks in the distance. He likes living in Sandport, by the water, especially at this point where the Water of Leith empties into the sea. There are great pubs and restaurants a short walking distance away. Everything a student could want.

‘We need to find, like, some serious mental help for Scott. I don’t dig this vibe he’s got going on,’ says Brian.

‘Well, Florence–’

‘I’ve told you before, don’t call me that.’ Brian raises his voice.

‘Aren’t we touchy this morning? See what I told you about all that testosterone in your bloodstream.’

‘Look, Farai, this dude’s acting all mental and we need to get it sorted, otherwise who knows what he might do?’

‘Weren’t you telling us just last week that some of the psychiatric models they use have no relevance to African people? Or have you changed your mind now and you want to see our friend’s brilliant brain warped by mind altering chemical concoctions your quacks are always so quick to prescribe?’

‘You’re twisting my words like you always do. You saw him. This guy’s having some sort of breakdown. He needs professional help.’

‘All he needs is a couple of shots of Sambuca to get his head straight. Can you do that for him?’

‘That’s the last thing he needs.’

‘You’re the nurse and I’m the doctor, comprende?’

‘You’re doing a PhD in economics, that doesn’t make you a physician.’ Brian frowns.

‘Just give him the damn Sambuca and give Mr Majeika a hit too. He likes that on a Monday morning, fires him up for the week ahead,’ Farai says, turns impatiently and goes to his room to get dressed. He’s already wasted too many of his precious morning minutes on this palaver. He wears a pair of Cavallis jeans, a cheap pair of Internationals (Bata) and a white cotton stretch dress shirt (M&S), on top of which he wears his black deconstructed overcoat (Religion). He slips on the Patek Philippe his father bought him when he turned 17. Then, he collects his keys and leaves the flat, but not before grabbing the handmade woollen scarf on the coat hanger, a gift from grandma.

* * *

Farai’s caught up in what passes for congestion in Edinburgh, seat laid back so his arms have to stretch to reach the steering wheel, gangster style, listening to Radio 4 – Thought for the Day. His car, a black PT Cruiser, which he bought because it looks like a monster, is fully equipped with a custom Kenwood KDC-X993 complete with subwoofer that gives the voice on the radio extra kick. The 22 cruises by in the bus lane. A woman in the green Corsa in front chats on her cell phone and uses the rear-view mirror to check her lipstick.

‘They don’t have congestion in Saudi Arabia,’ he mutters to himself.

The vicar talks in a flat voice, pondering the mystery of God’s will and the war. Using tortuous logic, he explains how war may be the ultimate proof that God wants us to have everlasting peace. The lights turn green and Farai begins to move again, slowly creeping up towards North Bridge.

The Scotsman, a red sandstone Edwardian building, looms up ahead. His wipers squeak against the windscreen because it is raining ever so lightly. The fuel gauge flashes red. He can never seem to remember to top up. The last time he ran out was on the M8 to Glasgow and the RAC hit him a £90 charge.

Traffic is clogged up on Nicolson Street and he has to navigate his way through an obstacle course of orange traffic cones. There aren’t any workmen on the closed-up section of the road, that’s just the way it is. Black soot covers the grey walls of the old buildings. He turns right after Surgeons’ Hall to find parking at the mosque.

‘Asalaam Alaykum,’ the bearded dude/car park attendant says, as Farai lowers his window.

‘Wa ’Alaykum Asalaam, to you. And no, Salman, I’m not converting this week. I already told you guys that I’ll only convert if you guarantee me 1 free meal a day from The Mosque Kitchen.’ Salman laughs and waves him through to a free spot.

The mosque, a gift from the Saudis, is a blocky solid building, fusing Islamic architecture with a baronial style that blends in with the stocky, gothic architecture of the rest of the city. Farai walks round it to Potterow where the minaret stands.

He crosses the road and walks through the university buildings, on to Bristo Square, and from there down to George IV Bridge. This takes him past Medina, Doctors, Frankenstein’s and a number of other pubs and clubs he’s trawled through on wild nights with his boys. A car hoots as he crosses the next street. He doesn’t look. It’s a reckless stunt and, reaching the other side, he congratulates himself on being the first black man to cross over Candlemaker Row against such odds. He thinks, It’s so easy to make yourself the first black man at anything. The first black man at this university, the first black doctor in such a hospital, the first black person to take a dump in a formerly all-white toilet in Joburg. To his mind, there’s something silly about the cult of ‘the first black ___’ and anyone who calls themself that deserves to be patted on the head and given a biscuit. Perhaps it served a purpose in the colonial era, but for Farai, a child of the revolution who comes from a dominant majority, it’s just bullshit.

He walks into the Elephant House where he’s the first black man to buy coffee that morning.

‘The usual?’ the girl at the counter asks. She wears a little apron that turns Farai on.

‘Quadruple espresso every time,’ he replies with a smile. She lingers, holds his gaze, as if she wants him to say something else.

Every Monday morning he frequents this rather quaint café – of which there are many in Edinburgh – which became famous when some woman wrote a children’s book about wizards and inexplicably became a billionaire. In reality, there is nothing particularly special about the venue except for its bizarre collection of elephant statuettes. It’s not particularly clean and has rather dreary terracotta walls.

He avoids the empty tables and goes to the one by the window, where an old man wearing a trilby is sitting alone, sipping green tea, a copy of the Telegraph on the table.

‘It seems rather busy today. I hope you don’t mind if I sit with you?’ Farai pulls up a chair.

The old man offers a brief incredulous look. A ‘humph’ that escapes from his throat is his only sound of protest. Eyeing Farai warily, he takes a sip of tea.

He has a sharp, beak-like nose and bright eyes behind a pair of spectacles. He maintains an aggrieved air under Farai’s glare. The waitron serves Farai’s espresso in a medium sized mug, placing it carefully on the table.

‘Will that be all? The muffins are great today,’ she says.

‘Thank you, but I have to watch my figure,’ Farai replies, his eyes never leaving the old man.

He smells the bitter aroma coming from his black brew. It almost knocks him back, the true sign of a good, strong coffee. 2 middle-aged professional women sit at a nearby table. A bony woman, with a pale face and dark rings around her eyes, stares into space, looking down periodically to jot something in a ring binder notebook. A man with a backpack on the table listens to his iPod. Farai’s attention remains intensely focused on the old man.

At last the old man breaks.

‘Miserable weather we’re having, don’t you think?’ the old man remarks in a thin voice.

Farai shrugs. He could have given a few stock responses; it’s not as if he doesn’t know the ritual exchanges about the weather.

‘When you reach a certain age,’ the old man sips his tea and continues, ‘and you have a bit of arthritis in the joints, and you wake up in the middle of the night, 10 maybe 20 times just to spend a penny, then yes, the rain can make you a little miserable.’

‘I think you should stop drinking so much tea. It’s a diuretic. The upside is the anti-oxidants will get rid of those pesky free radicals, which are eating you up as we speak. But, no, honestly, I don’t have to worry about old age. There’s a short life expectancy where I’m from.’

‘Then I feel sorry for you. There’s nothing better than hearing the sound of your grandchildren playing in the garden. What’s your name by the way?’

‘Rumplestilskin,’ Farai says, and the old man laughs. They are two strangers and meet here every Monday morning, following the same ritual, staring each other down until one of them speaks. Last winter, they had an epic encounter lasting 2 hours. Finally it was Farai who broke. It’s a pointless exercise, but 1 they enjoy. And they still don’t know each other’s names.

Farai takes a sip of his coffee, which tastes like tar and is therefore exquisite. He sighs and feels sleepy.

‘Are you teaching today?’

‘The uni uses its postgrads like slave labor. The first-years are spoilt, clueless little twats. How on earth did they pass their Highers if they haven’t mastered basic stats? And so, I wind up with them, on zero pay.’

‘In my day you just went to work and made your way up the ranks. Today, graduates who don’t know anything are given all the top jobs. Nothing beats experience, if you ask me.’

Farai begins to enjoy himself. They are moaning now. Moaning is an essential ritual here, and a learnt art. One must find at least half a dozen things to complain about before breakfast.

He takes in the view of the castle and the rooftops over the Grassmarket through the smudged windows of the café. 2 blonde girls wearing identical pink jumpers walk in, giggling. Their loud voices pierce the tranquillity of the room. The statues of the elephants that line the café, in the corners and on the banisters, give them frozen, reproving stares. The younger of the 2 fidgets as if she’s on a sugar rush.

‘I once saw Alexander McCall Smith here.’ Her voice carries across the room.

‘Isn’t that him over there?’ Blondie2 speaks in a staged whisper.

The pale writer in the corner puts down her pad and looks at Farai and his companion. There’s a sly smile on the old man’s face. He seems amused at being mistaken for a celebrity, even more so when everyone in the room is stealing glances their way. Farai scowls at the blondes whose conversation stops. He leans forward.

‘Are you some type of pervert, picking up young girls under the pretense of being someone you are not?’ he asks. That’d make sense in a café in which the male toilets are full of graffiti from Harry Potter fans expressing their love for the author.

‘What’s it to you if I am?’

‘Aren’t you giving them a raw deal? No offense, but old folks all look the same, and if they’re gonna roll with an old guy then they’ll want the genuine article.’

‘In our heads, we’re all celebrities.’

‘The way I see it–’

‘Have you ever read his novels?’

‘I’m a serious man. I don’t read novels. They’re a waste of time. The last one I tried was Don Quixote, which was forced on me in my lit class in high school. I didn’t even bother; I just bought the video and even that was boring. I thought, sod this for a game of marbles. In the end, I dropped the subject. Give me numbers, $, £, symbols.’

The old man rises up slowly, deliberately adjusts his tweed jacket, allowing everyone in the room to take a nice long look at him. He places a £2 coin on the table, which Farai pockets.

‘Oh, you are a rascal. See you same time next week,’ he says as he leaves.

Farai watches a woman near the counter ask if she may have a photograph taken with his erstwhile companion and grins as the old man obliges. He picks up the Telegraph, scans the familiar diet of war stories, crime and scandals. He notices an article in the sports pages passionately advocating an international boycott of Zimbabwean cricket. Farai considers making a scene and accusing the waitron of watering down his espresso, but decides he doesn’t have the energy, and so takes out his wallet and retrieves a £5 note that he leaves under the mug. He winks at the waitron as he makes his way out to class.