Ethereal

It is there.  Just a whisper.  Then it is gone.  Did I imagine it?  Did it emanate from somewhere inside me?  Or is it real?  Is it out there?  I touch it lightly to see whether it has substance.  

I play its nuances to see whether there is anything to confirm or deny its existence.  No, there is no substantiating fact; no definitive moment; no objective event.  

Then I wonder.... does it matter?  Would it be ok for me to pretend?  It brings me joy; releases my spirit; gives me wings.  What dangers, then?  

The danger, silly child, is to hold close a tendril of imagination, only to have it doused in the cold light of reality on any dawning morning.

Catalyst

Catalyst
resounds a drift
Causing
paradigm Shift

Unaware of
shaking earth
Unmoved by
stripping berth

Oblivious of
resounding change
Ossified by
something strange

One switched off
and one switched on
What could have been
is now gone

Allure

Remember, Gavin, our first conversation?  I sit in dejected misery, career shredded, heart filleted from backbone, soul destroyed.  For a latter-life breadwinner, no tragedy could devastate more.  Recently diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, barely able to process the events around me, you extend kindliness into my situation.   'Cast your burdens on Me, all of you who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  We are all made in His image', you say.

And when we probe business ethics and social morality? 'Vince is asking me to do business deals that I don't want to do.  He's ok with that', you say. Do you remember those ethics, Gavin?

Before you surfaced, I managed much in our new e-commerce venture, drowning in the process, parrying office politics fostered by dear old Vince, our Chief Executive Officer.  Into the office by 06h00, working weekends, there was no time to build other facets into my life.  After months of waking each night, noting tasks for tomorrow, being courted, flattered, pounded by Vince, setting deadlines, balancing workloads, losing my temper, stressing productivity, I just couldn't any more.  In no uncertain terms, I told Vince so.

Vince abandoned me.  He tired of my saying conventional things:  'You can't bribe your staff'. 'You can't lie to your clients'.  'You can't sell software that doesn't exist'.  He spotted the chance to sideline this ethical, competent, capable, and in so being, threatening, employee.  You replaced me, as he anticipated my retaliation and revenge, a recipe for dismissal.  I just didn't take the bait.  Instead of instant dismissal, there have been three years of constructive dismissal. 

Not being a skilled manager, Vince motivates staff by causing competition.   He buys loyalty by promoting people to their level of incompetence.  Knowing that nowhere else have they that level of influence, they submit to Vince's wiles.  Most of what happens is attributed to mischief and fun.  But often it is beyond the pale, within the grey murky depths of cruelty and ruthless malice.

Recently retrenched, young, with wife and child, plans to build a home, dreams for a lifetime, you were a most intriguing proposition for someone like Vince.  With blonde hair and blue eyes, engaging smile and somewhat crooked teeth, why, you are perfectly dressed for the part.

Vince projects an aura of benign well-being, lively humour, hiding keen ability to assess, instantaneously, vulnerability within his fellow man - to strip off the protective layer, scale by scale, to the naked desires, the manipulative weak-points in others, and to reel them in, or smash them on the rocks, with long-term strategies, where necessary. He wears light-rimmed glasses with round lenses, which enhance his image of bonhomie.  With minimal hair on his pate, he projects mystic, monk, sage, shaman. 

Having walked the road he set for me, I ponder that glint in his eye.  Is it mischief or malevolence, benevolence or malignance in his soul that is sated?  What angle will he take as he scans the environment, intent on prey swimming within range of his twinkling eye?  Where will he cast the hook next, and what bait will he use to lure and reel in his prey?

In you, Gavin, Vince spotted something.  Naivety?  Materialism?  A sleight of mind, that not you, but Vince, can see?  It's taken three years.  With feather-light touch, he's done it.  He's made you over in his image. 

Lure 1

When you arrived, it was instant favouritism.  Vince spoke with few others, and never with me, that washed up employee assigned to the role of bottom-feeder.  Over a period of six months, whilst the company wound down to a crawl, Vince explored your inner depths, sliding over the strong parts, seeking out the cracks and crevices, influencing and persuading, insinuating and pervading. 

Then came the first bait.  Vince dangled company cell-phones.   And how he played you.  You swung one for each of yourself and Vince's other favourite, making no play for the rest of the staff.  Fair play was abandoned for purchase of influence within power.  Vince tasted your corruptibility.  I watched, bile rising, gall spewing, the glint of eye, and flex of nostril as he caught and savoured the nuance.

As I woke each mid-night, with the taste of threatened unemployment looming, I'd pray, Gavin, that you'd assess the bait, see, taste, touch, smell it, that something inside you would glean the subtlety within it.   But the hook was baited, the trap set and you reveled. 

Lure 2

During those first six months, into the next twelve, Vince tested the water by offering you a medium sized client, stretching your client relationship skills, which are good, if not exceptional.  Despite your best, we lost the client.  So be it.  The exploration and influence, pervasion and invasion continued.  It stretched and flexed into your dealings with clients.

When was it that you first dissembled before a client?  Baited the first hook, cast the first lie, stole the first thought?  You're becoming quite well schooled.

My soul fades as I watch you turn from your truth.  But you can't see can you?  As I wake in the night tossing and turning, I pray, Gavin, that you'll assess the bait, see, taste, touch, smell it, that something inside you will return you to your truth.  May your affinity be with your ethics and values and not the material things, false accolades, lien attention with which you are seduced.

Lure 3

Can you do what it takes? You're building your own business now, Gavin, under the tender gleam of Vince's watchful eye.  Startup costs and effort are ours.  Once established, your company will be spawned off with you and Vince as directors.  The work is ours, the profit is yours and Vince's.  I watch as you flagrantly plagiarise intellectual property from other websites, priding yourself in your acumen.  Is it only with me that there is a cast in your eye when you mention these things?

Landed

No further lures are necessary.  Seduction is complete.  Gavin, you are an exact copy, a perfect reproduction of Vince.  He's cast you back to swim unfettered in the commercial environment equipped now to clone in others, as he has cloned in you, and to seduce clients into contractual obligations that our company may not meet. 

The garland is yours, the trapping of champions.  You have large office space, company cell 'phone, company car, overseas trips, whilst you build your house in company hours. 

You are not consciously aware of what has occurred.  Do you sometimes ponder, retch, blanch, or feint?  Do you think about to whom and in what you have fidelity, and the icons for which they stand?  Perhaps.  It is in the cast of your eye, the shadow of the lash on your cheek as you speak.

If not now, Gavin, then sometime, something will show you the trap that you're in.  And when you see, Gavin, be very cautious.  In just one glint of an eye, that garland becomes a wreath.  And when it does, Gavin, take heart.  It is in that single flash that you revert.  Wiser, and discerning, you are better equipped for your truth, to become the image in which you are made.

The River

Wellspring rises

Gushing

Tempestuous

Untamed

Finding course

Surging

Compelled

Contained

Reaches mouth

Merging

Spreading

Shared

An idea is borne

Choice

In every moment

Of every day

I have a choice

I can choose a way

In every action

And every word

I have a voice

I have a sway

May it be

That what I do

Is not just for me

But for others too

Let me see

What I can do

To be a key

To make things new

To turn a tide

For all to ride

What can be had

Both good and bad

Is for all to share

Let life be fair

Do I risk hide and hair

And dare to care

In what I choose?

Why not today?

An Articulate Tale

A sheen of oily, and certainly self-afflicted, success glistens on Millicent Parvenu’s forty-five-year old, fat and frowning forehead.  A grey tendril escapes the perfectly quaffed parfait of blonde frivolity atop her head, as she smoothes, virginally, the hem of her risqué mini-skirt and does a tiny tattoo with her stilettos on the faux fur carpeting.  She tugs ineffectually at her sequin-bedecked mid-riff vest, which, failing to meet the mini, exposes a pierced belly button, ensconced in a flaccid firestone between the hem of her vest and the hip-hugging rim of her skirt. 

‘At last, everything has come together.  Perfection is in place.  My guests are glorying in anticipation of the most envied meal in the Peninsula.  And doesn’t Felicia sparkle with success?  She positively drips diamonds.  So elegantly set off against the casual chic of her camisole.  She is a gift to me, of note, is my golden girl, Felicia.  What would I do without her?  But then again, where would she be without me’, smirks Millicent.  There is no slip of the tongue in reducing Millicent  to Milly.  Millicent is adamant about that.

It had been a long haul.  Tonight is the summit, the pinnacle of Millicent’s manipulation.  Millicent is Events Co-ordinator and Manager of her own company, Parvenu’s Impeccable Parties, never commonly reduced to PIP.  There is nothing common about Millicent Parvenu, except herself.  Millicent had worked exceedingly hard to bring about this evening; this phantasmagoria; this triumph:  the most talked-of event of the decade. 

The feted and celebrated of Cape Town, much traveled; internationally; however unseemly; upon the hard-earned earnings of dismal, middle class South African retail shoppers, along with their esteemed spouses, are here; right here; not anywhere else; but here, in the presence of Millicent’s intimate circle of wealthy and influential friends.  The gushing, and the compliments, and the occasional tart dart, drip from every lip, sidling scurrilously past each carefully guarded tongue around the table.  It is the occasional tart dart that catches Millicent’s acute attention.  Who knows what might come of it? 

Millicent could call amongst her dearest friends, the Chairman of the largest IT Consultancy in South Africa, the Chief Executive Officer of a highly successful Insurance Comany [although never, but never at the same event, for glory’s sake], reputable factory owners, heads of leading retail chains, up and coming stars and starlets, and, her most recent protégé, the award-winning play-wright of the show ‘Plumb the Depths of your Wife’, Edward Oglesby [*blush*].  How fortunate for Millicent that she could, however distractedly, call up blushes, sometimes tears, and when strictly necessary, a plausible, if inelegant, faint, at whim, laid on especially, and only, for the gullible.

Millicent Parvenu, through never-ending networking, unbridled bribery and bare-faced back-stabbing has achieved the ultimate.  Here, in her daughter, Felicia’s, renowned restaurant, ‘La Chat’, Millicent, yes, Millicent Parvenu herself; herself, and no one else; has brought together the most quaffed; the envy of every Jones; names on everyone’s lips; celebrities of the City of Cape Town.  No toast, no word of gratitude, no pay-off would ever surpass this orgasmic moment.  Until, of course, the next one.

But in the midst of this unqualified success is a querulous blot.  There, at the far end of the table, sits Millicent’s husband, Felix.  His skeletal frame crouches fearfully inside his baggy grey suit, couched in the faux fur of the stool upon which he is perched   His bony fingers tremble timorously through the spotless cutlery, seeking purchase within an environment so alien; so foreign, and so frightening to him.  A tiny damp drip collects painfully on the end of his Romanesque beak.

‘Ugh, whatever did I see in that apology for a man?’, dismisses Millicent. ‘His chicken neck; his scrawny frame; his meaningless twitter; and that ceaseless drip from the end of his nose.  Why can’t he just vaporise?  And in more ways than one.  There’s not much left of his physique anyway.  At least he has a degree, a profession and status in the community.  Perhaps marrying a Veterinary surgeon had its moments, back then: that is, fiscal ones.  Although how he hopes to keep his clients, Heaven only knows.  He only wants the ones who actually care about their pets, particularly cats.  Who knows what he sees in them?  And I’m not just thinking of the cats.  And who cares anyway, these days.  Really!   But then, one must count one’s blessings, however small.  I have Felicia, born of our tactless and tasteless union.  I have moulded her to my own image, and she is, without a doubt, a gem.’

Through the haze of thrust and parry, Millicent allows herself a further moment of recollection, a moment in which she grudgingly admits that her husband might just have had other uses.  ‘It’s also true that Felicia loves cats.  Doubtless she learnt at least something from her father.  She has so many of the little darlings and breeds so successfully with them.  And never seems to have a shortage of happy families eager to receive them onto the hearthrug of their homes.  Why, each litter is snapped up within, and sometimes much earlier than, the recommended six weeks.  So perhaps, Felix, that peculiarity that I married, did make some vague contribution.  I must remind him to be grateful to Felicia for ensuring that he has an on-going community of feline clients.’

And so the meal commences.  Melville Nabob, Felicia’s current lover, fulfills the front of house role, wining and wooing Millicent’s wealthy, influential and intimate friends and guests, in a way to which Millicent would have liked to have been accustomed.  ‘Such a pity’, though Millicent in another on-going moment of matriarchal jealousy, ‘that he isn’t mine.  I would have made something of him.  But never mind, I have Felicia, and through Felicia, I have Melville.  Given time, this restaurant, La Chat, has endless potential.’ A distant vision of a sumptuous country estate, framed in rosy hue, tentatively titivates the concealed corners of Millicent’s clutching mind.  ‘As long as I ensure that the events that I organise include La Chat on my itinerary, and as long as Felicia and Melville serve the quality of cuisine that they currently do, all will be well, I have no doubt.  I can relax and enjoy myself now.’

Millicent returns her attention to the table.  Her guests are expounding the wonderful Pollo Florentine – an exquisite main course of chicken breast, boned and skinned, and mixed with the delicate foliage and flavour of spinach; parmesan; sweet butter and whipped cream.  ‘Ah, yes’, boasts Millicent, to herself, the only one to whom Millicent really listens.  ‘I have brought so many friends here.  So often they choose the recommendation of the house, being Pollo Florentine’.

‘Enjoy, my friends, enjoy,’ minces Millicent.  ‘And don’t forget that this wonderful restaurant, so firmly listed as The Place to be Seen belongs to none other than my darling daughter, Felicia, and her magnificent mentor, Melville Nabob.  Feel free to bring friends in future.  I have no doubt that my daughter will honour both you and your guests with a complimentary glass of the finest wine that Cape Town has to offer.  Here’s to the subtlety of the delicate and complimentary flavour of cat pee in the gooseberry bush that you may detect emerging delicately in the wine – that is, if you have a discerning nose and particular palette.’  Millicent giggles girlishly as she raises her glass in a toast.

As everyone raises their glasses, Millicent’s eyes swivel to the end of the table, defiantly drawn to the pathetic spectre of her husband.  He does not raise his glass, but continues silently, and without emotion, to fiddle with his food, dragging it this way and that way around his plate, without heed to the wonder; the splendour; the crowning achievement, of his wife’s eminent success.

Another small drip gathers at the tip of Felix’s nose.  He continues to fiddle with the food on his plate.  The drip gathers both size and momentum.  As Millicent focuses with horror on the drip, each guest slowly but surely turns to see what has claimed Millicent’s undivided attention: the ultimate humiliation of Felix and his drip.  Those closest to him avert their eyes, as the drip agonisingly separates from the hair that escapes impudently from Felix’s nostrils, and plops into the centre of Felix’s plate.

The party breaks up.  Everyone is in a hurry to be somewhere else, away from Felix and his failure; his failure, amongst others, to be part of the festive occasion; away from the draining effect of his distracted silence, and the Chinese torture of the drip.  Millicent squirms in her humiliation and cannot wait to leave.  There will be another time, but never, not ever, another place.  Under no circumstances will she ever bring Felix again.  In fact, if she had any sense at all, and if divorce wasn’t still something of a stigma, she would leave him. 

As they wait for their car, Millicent flays into Felix.  ‘How could you.  How could you ruin this evening.  My business and that of my child, and yours, if you cared, depend on acceptance by all who are rich and famous around us.  You belittled us in your introversion, and made it aversion.  How can we possibly ask that people perceive this evening to be a repeatable experience, when there is Felix the Drip as a memory?  You disgust me.’

Felix is silent until the Mercedes arrives.  With every nuance of a gentleman, his fragile frame carefully hands the meaty Millicent into their car.  He bids the chauffeur drive on as he settles back comfortably, and picks in a pernickety way at his teeth with a titular toothpick, dislodging the last offending morsel from his incisors, although where it can have come from no one knows.  After all, Felix ate nothing at dinner.  For a long moment Felix ruminates.

‘I realise you don’t love me, my dear.  In fact you despise me.  This is no news to me.’  Felix makes another lengthy and thoughtful foray into his mouth.  ‘This is going to make quite a splash in our local newspaper.’  ‘Yes’, says Millicent.  ‘Well it would have, if you had only, and for once, given a thought to me, your wife, and your loving daughter, Felicia’.  

‘I’m not talking about the party, Millicent’, animates Felix.  ‘I’m talking about exposure by the Veterinary Council that you and your fond Felicia will have to live down.’ 

‘Oh, come on Felix.  You can’t brush this social gaffe off onto Felicia and me.  It’s unthinkable and absurd.  You have no social skills at all.  And what can it possibly have to do with your vapid Veterinary Council?’ 

A glint appears fleetingly in Felix’s eyes.  ‘Was a time when I was the light of your life, your knight in shining armour, your protector, provider and friend.  Well, my dear, those days are irretrievably gone.’  Felix delves into his pocket and produces a small tissue-wrapped parcel.  He carefully unfolds the delicate fabric to reveal a fragment of what resembles a fragile ivory chain.  ‘Do you know what this is?’  Felix whistles through yet another drip gathering momentum on his nose.  ‘I’m not interested,’ dismisses Millicent.  ‘After the way that you humiliated me this evening, how could I be?’  ‘Well, my dear, I think you should know,’ intimates Felix, as the glint congeals into a disconcertingly maniacal gleam.  ‘It’s the end of an articulated tail.’

‘Stop being irrelevant and obscure, Felix.  I tire of your meaningless prattle.’  Although a little taken aback, Millicent is incapable of readjusting her eternal, if not maternal, engineering of Felix into servile subservience.

‘This is just desserts for me.’  Felix languorously plucks a perfectly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wipes, for the very last time, the very last drip from the end of his Romanesque nose.  ‘A cat has an articulated tail.  I fished this out of my food.  Are you aware that those faux fur furnishings aren’t faux?  Your precious daughter, and her grabbing gigolo, are serving cat, disguised as Pollo Florentine, and decorating their den of iniquity with cat fur.’

Felix, for the first time in a long time, fully fleshes out his suit.  He has just had his authority and influence re-instated within the bosom of his family.

Under Wraps

Characters

Penelope Rand                     A thirty-something sophisticated businesswoman

Oliver Punt                             A thirty-something sophisticated businessman

Prudence Wiseman              A thirty-something psychologist

Donovan Lawson                  The editor of Ferret

Tom, Mike, Ian                       Journalists with Ferret

Background

Penny and Ollie are partners in the Wealth Risk Assessment Portfolio [WRAP] Consultancy that assesses financial risk of major investments in large commercial and government projects. 

Pru and Penny have been friends through school and university and have remained friends since.

Don is the editor of Ferret, a new periodical that has emerged as competitor to Noseweek, dedicated to exposing corruption.

Tom, Mike and Ian are investigative journalists with Ferret.

Setting

Scene One:                Ollie's up market penthouse lounge. 

Scene Two:                Pru's consulting practice. 

Scene Three:             Don's office. 

Opening Scene

Stage is dark and empty.  Penny is alone in the spotlight.  She is miming running in panic.  Faint sound of three pairs of running footsteps in the background, growing louder.

Penny:            Wouldn't listen…. Could see me now…. Where to?  Can't make

it…. Taxi? …. Isn't one…. Running steps…. They're behind me….

Pepper spray…. Handbag gone…. Not the alley!…. Run, run, run…

Don’t trip…. Want me dead…. That email….. Mustn't know…. Need to tell…. Can't scream…. And  Pru?….  Can't breathe….. Wouldn't listen …. Faster, faster, faster….  Is she in danger, too?…  Catching up….. Warn her?… When I'm gone, will they know?  Get away…… Exhausted…. Run, run, run….. faster, faster, faster…… Wouldn't listen…… 

Spotlight fades to darkness, only the sound of three sets of running footsteps and Penny's rapid panting.

Scene One

Ollie                You're doing it again, Pen.

Penny:            What, Ollie?

Ollie                Fiddling with your wrists, Pen.

Penny:            I'm not, Ollie.

Ollie:               Yes, you are.  Look at your skin!  It's chapped and red from all the chafing.  I'm worried about you, Pen.  You're losing it.  You're not even aware of what you're doing.  That ceaseless plucking at your wrists…. Have you thought of seeing someone?

Penny:            I'm trying to work it out, Ollie.  The sequence of actions.  What tiny sign triggers what reaction?  I keep going through it in my mind.

Ollie:               You're imagining the whole thing, Pen.  There is no such thing as conspiracy theory.  We're all individuals on this planet getting on with our lives in the most constructive way possible… as you were, until a few months ago.  I wish you hadn't done that leadership-training course at Pollsmoor Prison.  It really got to you.  You're paranoid.

Penny:            But I've explained Ollie, quite often, actually.  That was the trigger point.  The time when I realised that I've seen it repeatedly whilst consulting.  It was seeing the same behaviour in an unfamiliar setting that brought it all together for me.

Ollie:               We've been close friends for more than ten years now, Pen.  I must believe that there is something of the old you left inside your head.  Go through it for me one more time, and whilst you're at it, sit on your hands.  That plucking really gets to me.

Penny:            I'm not sure I'm up to repeating it.  You won't hear me anyway, Ollie.

Ollie:               One last time, Pen.  Maybe this time you'll convince me.

Penny:            You know on these leadership-training courses we appoint roles for the participants? 

Ollie:               Yep, you've told me about it before.

Penny:            You see what I mean?  I've repeated it so often you can almost tell the story yourself.

Ollie:               Ok, ok.  Sorry.  Back to the roles.  Describe them to me.

Penny:            The point of the course is to position reformed prisoners to function in the outer world.  It's an attempt to re-integrate them into society, and to assess their response to both being in authority and being sub-ordinate to authority.  Most prisoners landed up in prison because they abused power or flouted authority.  So the sessions are designed to gauge the extent of their rehabilitation.

Ollie:               I hear it, Pen.  And I respect what you do.  To get involved in helping people in this way is socially responsible.  What I don't understand is how your involvement in this somehow turned you into a gibbering idiot.

Penny:            That's cruel, Ollie.  If you refuse to see what I'm saying in a reasonable light, then there's no point in continuing.

Ollie:               Ok, keep going, and you're at it again, Pen.  For heavens sake, sit on your hands.

Penny:            We went through parliamentary procedure with the participants and the voting of various participants into roles.  There is a Chairman, a Vice Chair, a Secretary and a Treasurer.  As we were describing the roles, I sensed pressure building in the room.

Ollie:               What do you mean by pressure?

Penny:            I can't describe it.  Everyone went very still.  Unnaturally still.  Until then there had been the normal amount of fidgeting, coughing, playing with pens, scribbling.  As we went through the roles, the stillness set in and I noticed everyone looking at Sinethemba's cuffs.  Sinethemba was slowly rotating the buttons on the cuff of his left sleeve.  It was about then that things started to connect.

Ollie:               What do you mean connect?

Penny:            It's the same behaviour that I see in meetings where major financial decisions are made.

Ollie:               It's co-incidence, Pen.  How can such discrepant groups be vaguely connected?

Penny:            Let me finish.  Normally in these training sessions, people nominate

                        each other.  This session was different.  Sinethemba didn't say a word.  Gerald nominated himself for Vice Chair.  This was quickly followed by Lucky nominating himself for Treasurer, and Andiswe nominating herself for Secretary.  It was right at the end that Sinethemba nominated himself for Chairman.  No one else nominated anyone else and everyone supported the nominations.

Ollie:               Ok, so it's a bit different from the norm.  It doesn't explain why that's a problem or how things are connected?

Penny:            As we left, I commented on what had seemed a bit odd.  Howard, my co-facilitator explained about the number gangs.

Ollie:               You mean those gangs built on some kind of legendary folklore?

Penny:            Yes.  Johnny Steinberg, a journalist, wrote about them in his book 'The Number'.  They wield absolute power and absolute control in the prisons in a strict order of prison society.  Its anti-social and what we would regard as sick.

Ollie:               So you're in a prison dealing with prisoners, some of whom may be involved in these gangs.  So what?

Penny:            I was disquieted.  I know without doubt that I've seen exactly that behaviour before.  Remember that tender meeting at the South African National Defense Force?  We had to assess the purchase of one of four short-listed software packages for handling their accounting?  After that debacle in SANDF about the armaments deal that was so corrupt, it was imperative that a system with failsafe checks, balances and escalations was implemented.  The decision was critical, with three compliance officers watching the proceedings.  Remember? 

Ollie:               Of course.  I was there.

Penny:            Do you remember what happened?

Ollie:               Of course.  The decision went through to purchase a locally built product, which supported the ICT industry here in South Africa.

Penny:            Yes.  I also remember that we both thought the system inferior in several respects to the likes of SAP, which was another of the short-listed packages.

Ollie:               These things happen, Pen.  Sometimes one has to trade off risk

against bigger issues like promoting the ICT industry in South Africa.  It's not a perfect world where each decision stands alone.

Penny:            That's not the only thing that happened.  Prior to the decision being taken, there was that deathly stillness in the room.  And as I recall, there was intense focus from various people in the room, and the Chairman was playing with the cufflink on his left sleeve. 

Ollie:               I don't recall in that detail, Pen.  Even so, so what?  It's not unusual for men to fiddle with the cuffs on their sleeves, or to straighten their ties, or refold the handkerchief in their breast pocket.  The same as women pat their hair, study their nails and bat their lashes.  It's just normal human behaviour that you've witnessed in two vastly discrepant scenarios.  That doesn't mean to say that the whole country is now involved in some conspiracy theory.

Penny:            Those aren't the only examples.

Ollie:               What other examples do you have?

Penny:            More recently, and after the Pollsmoor course, we were called in to assess which investments would be used to support the pension fund portfolio of all government employees.

Ollie:               Yes.  That was a difficult one.

Penny:            It was.  We both thought that investment in RandGold and Exploration was not the wisest decision, but it went through anyway.

Ollie:               Sure.  These things happen.  We both know that financial decisions are influenced by external factors and that decisions are not always optimal.  It has to do with distribution across market segments.  And sometimes it's the best of a bad basket.  I'm not about to argue Statistics 101 with you.

Penny:            Well, prior to that decision, there was intense silence from some of the decision makers and the Chairman was fiddling with his left cufflink.  I even nudged you so that you would take careful note of what happened.

Ollie:               Yes, and I did take note.  Sure, some people were quite still.  People do that when they're deep in thought.  And the Chairman was fiddling with his left cufflink, and the guy opposite me was stroking his chin, and the guy on his right was scratching his nose.  You're imagining it, Pen.  This simply isn't real.  I think you're restructuring memories to suit this weird theory that's got into your head.  And I still don't see how these vastly discrepant worlds can possibly be connected.

Penny:            Maybe you should read 'The Number'.  During the apartheid years many people were imprisoned for political reasons.  They weren't necessarily criminals.  Through that process, the folklore of the number gangs permeated through society.  With the affirmative action requirement in South Africa, many high profile positions are filled by ANC activists, some of whom were in prison, and some of whom know someone who was in prison.

Ollie:               That's just a fact of South African life.  It still doesn't add up to your fantastic conclusion.

Penny:            Let's reserve judgment.  The two of us can go through one or two more of these meetings and if you watch carefully, you might just agree with me.

Ollie:               The thing is, Pen, your behaviour in these meetings is becoming disruptive.  At our last meeting, you were fiddling with your wrists, and I saw the Chairman staring at you.  He called me aside afterwards and asked if there was something wrong with you.  I can't have you damaging our relationship with clients.  Our company is successful right now, and I have every intention of keeping it that way.

Penny:            What are you saying, Ollie?

Ollie:               Quite frankly, Pen?  You're not going to any more meetings with clients until you've sorted your head out.  Take some leave, see a psychologist, get yourself sorted.  I can manage on my own in the meantime.

Penny:            But, Ollie, we've always said that there should be two of us at any meeting to debrief afterwards.  It's the only way for us to keep perspective and ensure the integrity of our recommendations.

Ollie:               That's true, Pen.  I won't be working on my own.  I've sourced a really hot analyst who can replace you in the interim.  Get help in the next month or two and afterwards perhaps we can continue working together.  Otherwise, I'm going to force you out.

Scene Two

Pru:                 What do you mean, force you out?

Penny:            That's what he said.  He won't hear me.  He keeps fobbing me off with accusations of insanity.  I can't believe that after years of working together he could contemplate this.  I helped build that company.  He has absolutely no right to force me out.

Pru:                 Let's keep perspective on this, Pen.  Your theory is a bit over the top, and it's built on such flimsy evidence.  You're talking about a whole nation being subject to some kind of corrupt conspiracy and you've arrived there by watching arbitrary bits of body language, all of which are quite normal in context.

Penny:            That's true, Pru.  It's that it repeats over and over again.  Bear in mind that these decisions involve millions of Rands.  If money is being siphoned off, it has to be criminal if it's not public. 

Pru:                 You're making quantum leaps here, Pen.  You start with a bit of cufflink fiddling, build it into some kind of conspiracy theory and then accuse the entire government of being corrupt.  Even though there are examples of corruption, it's not necessarily on such an enormous scale.  This does smack of delusional.

Penny:            How long have you known me, Pru?  Years and years.  We went to school together, varsity together, and we've been seeing each other regularly ever since.  Have I ever before seemed delusional to you?

Pru:                 Well, not unusually so.

Penny:            What do you mean not unusually so?  I'm not nuts.  You're my last resort, Pru.

Pru:                 Well, for starters, we're all a bit odd in some ways, and I was teasing you, and you're being histrionic by suggesting for one minute that I'm your last resort, Pen.

Penny:            What do you mean you're not my last resort?  If you don't believe me, then no one will.  We've gone through way too much together for you to doubt me now.  I am not unhinged, and you know it.  There simply isn't anyone else that I can go to.

Pru:                 Well, that's where I think you're wrong, Pen.  There are organisations that have their ears to the ground.  You might want to consider speaking with someone who’s closer to these corruption issues than you are.

Penny:            Like whom, for example?

Pru:                 Well, there's Noseweek and there's Ferret, that new periodical that takes up issues of public interest that large organisations might not want the public to know about.

Penny:            That's a thought.  Would you like to make a recommendation?

Pru:                 I read both.  Public opinion seems to be moving away from Noseweek to Ferret.  It's new, it's zippy, and it's available on the Internet.  You subscribe and read on-line.  It's making a major dent in Noseweek's market for these reasons alone.

Penny:            Do you know anyone there?

Pru:                 No, but hang on a sec, I can look up who to contact on-line and you can take it from there.

Penny:            Maybe I can just send an email from here whilst we're at it, and book an appointment?

Pru:                 Sure thing.

Penny:            Thanks, Pru, for being a friend, for giving me space, and helping me.  As always, I'm not sure what I'd do without you.

Pru:                 What are friends for?

Scene Three

Don:                Well, Penelope - may I call you Penelope?  This is all rather frightening.  Are you suggesting that there might be a nation-wide conspiracy to defraud the South African public and that this conspiracy is controlled by the Number Gangs from the prisons?

Penny:            That is quite baldly put, Don.  But yes, that's pretty much the gist of it.

Don:                There are certainly fraudulent activities within the South African Government.  We write about them quite extensively as you know.  Our investigations have not led us to understand that these isolated occurrences of fraud, however large or small, are inter-connected.  What a fascinating theory.  Have you mentioned this, perhaps, to anyone else?

Penny:            Only those who know me well and who might be affected by what I'm going through as a consequence of this deduction.

Don:                Would you be comfortable if I asked some of my journalists to join us?  They would be most interested to hear what you have to say, and might throw some light on the situation.  Perhaps they've stumbled across scenarios that support your theory.

Penny:            By all means, Don.  It's quite a relief to have someone outside of this scenario actually listen to me who doesn't think I'm completely nuts.

Don:                Tom, Mike, Ian.  Would you like to join us for a few minutes?  Tea for you, Penelope?

Penny:            Thanks very much, Don.  Iced water would be great.

Don:                Well, gentlemen, thanks for joining us.  May I introduce Ms Penelope Rand.  Penelope, these are Tom, Mike and Ian, three of my investigative journalists.  Ms Rand has some rather compelling evidence to support a fascinating theory of conspiracy pertaining to grand scale fraud perpetrated on the South African public by prison gangs who have infiltrated key positions in the government and private sector.  Penelope, would you like to go into more detail, now that you have a captive audience?

Penny:            I'm not sure how much time you have available.  It's a fairly lengthy story.

Don:                Take your time, Penelope.

Penny:            I'm going to walk you down a road that I've been walking for some time now.  I can't really tell you when the conspiracy started, probably before 1994.  I can only begin where my understanding of it begins…

                        [As Penny speaks, she notices that Tom, Mike and Ian are sitting deathly still, and that Don is slowly but surely twisting the button on the left cuff of his sleeve]

                        But before I commence, may I use your cloakroom?

Don:                Of course.  Mike, please escort Penelope to the Ladies?

Closing Scene

Stage is dark and empty.  Penny is alone in the spotlight.  She is miming running in panic.  Faint sound of three pairs of running footsteps in the background, growing louder.

Penny:            And Pru?….  Can't breathe….. Wouldn't listen …. Faster,

faster, faster….  Is she in danger, too?…  Catching up….. Warn her?… When I'm gone, will they know?  Get away…… Exhausted…. Run, run, run….. faster, faster, faster…… Wouldn't listen…… 

[A single gunshot.  Penny drops to the ground.  The stage goes completely dark]

Zodiac Haiku

Troops ram fireballs

A fragrant purple flower

Withers in a flash

The girl dressed in blue

Listens to the humming-bird

As bull paws the earth

Twins play artfully

One to sell and one to buy

Winning an aggie

Crab's protective shell

Luminesces emerald green

In moon lit water

Cameo Lion

Set under the fiery sun

King of his domain

Mobile virgin earth

bedecked in red grains of sand

Adapts to wastrels

Diplomatic scales

Weigh the vacillating farce

Of hot air buffoons

Scorpion's cruel sting

Stabs resurgent agony

Until drowned in death

With discerning skill

Archer fires his moral dart

Thereby changing laws

Sea-goat ploughs his seed

Saturnine in earthy truth

Scrimping prudent thoughts

Water borne aloft

Hoisted high into the Air

Tilted, gushes free

Fishes dart in fear

Neptune ponders soberly

Giving life to sea

Lip Gloss

June 2001

'Guys Shmooze, Chicks Smooch', I chuckle.  'Ai, Katryn!  I wish you wouldn't talk like that', sighs Pa.  'You've been so rude, ever since you started working for that kaffir at the Department of Agriculture'.  'Ag, nee, Pa.  And you say I talk ugly!  It would of been ok to say that eight years ago, but you got to move with the times', I retort.  Ma just shakes her head.  This has been the war zone between Pa and me since I was in Grade 11 in 1996.  What Pa doesn't see is that the world has changed. 

After supper, Pa settles in to read his paper, and Ma and I go out onto the stoep to watch the sun set.  It's beautiful to watch that red fire ball sink behind the hills.  The outlines of the aloes stand so stark in the fading light.  We've got a smallholding in Albertinia.  It only just pays the bills, and the bit Ma makes in the aloe factory and the bit I make at the Department means that we live ok, considering. 

But boy, did I have to lie to get that job!  It's not easy being white in South Africa any more.  It was just a little lie.  I mean, why would a typist need Grade 12 Biology for heavens sake?  It's not like I grow the plants or feed the sheep.  And if my boss can't spell, why should I have to?  Besides, if I need to check the spelling of a word, there's always the computer with the Internet on that I can use at lunchtime.  I just go onto www.dictionary.com and hey presto!  I got the spelling. 

I probably wouldn't of got the job at all, if it hadn't been for Sipho, my boss's son.  Sipho is a pump jockey at the Total garage on the N2 between Durban and Cape Town.  And, well Sipho and I have a thing going.  Ma sometimes teases me in an offish sort of way.  She plays up the word pomp, you know, pump, and I just laugh.  I don't ask her personal things like how many times a week she and Pa get it on, so why should I tell her who's my latest dipstick?  Pa hates it that I cross the colour bar, and Ma doesn't like it much.  But then, it's fashionable to show that you're beyond apartheid.  When I chat with friends in Cape Town, they think it's cool that I've got a black boyfriend.  Ma worries about if we get married, and what colour the kids will be.  She worries that they'll be albinos; you know the ones that are very pink with big black blotches.  There are some in our town, and they're outcasts.  Not even the coloureds have anything to do with them.

It's like when Ma and I tease each other about lipstick.  Ma says she's from the old school, when lipstick came in a tube.  You put it on once and it stuck fast all through the day.  She says I'm like the new generation when lip-gloss comes in a pot.  You put it on a thousand times a day as you lick you lips, making darn sure that nothing, but nothing, sticks to you for long. 

I make my own lip-gloss.  Ma gets aloe gel from the factory.  I mix in some cochineal and voila!  I got my lip-gloss.  It costs too much otherwise.  We got to trek all the way to Mossel Bay to find a Clicks, and then it's still like thirty Rand a pot.  This way, it's almost free.  Ma teases me about the cochineal.  Sometimes it comes out so red, she calls it Kotchineal, as in puke.  She's funny is my Ma. 

Ma's right about the lip-gloss in many ways.  There was a time, back in the old-fashioned colonial days, when you needed to be stiff upper lip and all that, when what you said stuck to you.  Nowadays, if you want to be part of the new South Africa, then you just got to have a smart mouth.  What you say doesn't have to be the truth.  It just needs to be smart enough so some of the money sticks as it passes through.  A bit like the Pretoria handshake, you know.  You just got to hope it's your palm that's being greased.  Of course, it helps if you have an uncle in the government business.  We're very into nepotism here in South Africa.

It's dark now, and time to go inside.  I collect our coffee cups and make my way to the kitchen.  Pa looks at me kind of funny.  'It says here in the paper that the Department of Agriculture in Albertinia is dealing with fishing quotas between Stilbaai and Gouritzmond.'  'Ja', I say.  'We got nothing much else to do.  Aloes grow themselves most of the time, so we're dealing with the quotas.  You should see the queues of folk who come in with application forms.'

'You should of said', says Pa.  'Night, Pa'.  I wonder why I should of said?  I mean, we got a boat and all, and we fish sometimes, but not much.

What a surprise I got at work today!  Pa came in to apply for a portion of the quota!  He insisted on speaking with Mr Sondiswe, my boss, and I heard him schmoozing big time and talking about Sipho and me.  What a cheek!  Like knowing Sipho got me this job.  Does he figure it's going to get him fishing quota, too? 

After Pa left, Mr Sondiswe spoke with me.  'Your father has applied for fishing quota', he says.  'Oh, really?' I say.  I've learnt that part of lip-gloss is to be a bit dumb, most of the time.  If you're dumb, and say little, then less sticks.  'Are you still seeing much of Sipho?' asks Mr Sondiswe.  'Now and then.  When we're free from our busy work schedules', I smarm.

This afternoon, I got the first batch of fishing quota allocations to type up.  Pa got quite a big one.  I mean, he's just one person with one boat, and he got half of what the local fish market got, and they're fifty people with four boats.  But then they're coloured, and coloureds don't get much of a look-in in the new South Africa.  It's only really the prossies in their neighbourhood that make any money these days, them with their fish net stockings, mini skirts and bright red lips.  What some people will do for money! 

I've got to hurry.  Sipho and I are hiring a video and going to his place this evening.  If his parents aren't home, it'll probably mean a bit of a snog.  I better take my diaphragm.

So what will I wear tonight?  It's only Sipho and it's only his house, so I'll pass on heels and a mini.  Maybe just jeans and a T?  Sipho likes it when I don't wear underwear.  He likes my boobs to swing free.  Like in the Valley of a Thousand Hills in the Drakensberg.  There, the black women don't wear tops at all.  Their boobs just hang out.  With their skins, they can take the sun.  I'm a bit freckly and my skin is fair, so I can't do that.  Besides, the locals would faint.  Can you imagine me walking down the highway with no top on?  They'd think I was a prossie!

I'm careful about my make-up though.  I see there's a zit on my chin.  I cover it well with my cover stick.  This is one bit of make-up that's got to stick.  I'll do the lip-gloss just before I go in.  It'll be off again in five minutes, what with all the smooching and stuff.

Before I go to meet Sipho, Pa nods at me with approval.  'That Mr Sondiswe is a very smart man', says Pa.  'I called in to find out about the fishing quota, and he says I've been allocated ten percent of the total quota.  That's pretty good for someone like me.  There'll be profit enough to employ some fishermen, so I won't have to do it myself.  I heard they're going to lay off some people from the fish market.  Those coloureds really know their stuff'.  Pa rubs his palms together almost feeling the quantity of money that will roll in.

On my way to meet Sipho, I stop in at the Ahjee Supply Store.  I want to buy some chocolate.  It's my contribution to the evening.  There's a new Indian on the till, and hey!  He's a looker.  He's got those dark brown limpid eyes, framed with thick black lashes, and carefully coiffed hair, not like Sipho's.  Sipho's mos a krul-kop, being black and all.  This one's also got that rich brown skin some Indians have.  It's nice when there's new talent in town.

'So, you from around here?'  I ask, licking my lips.  'I moved here last weekend', he smiles lazily.  'Your family here?'  'Yes, I'm staying on my uncle's farm just outside Albertinia'. 'Whose your uncle?'  I ask.  'Mr Ahjee', he looks at me quirkily.  I mean, we're in the Ahjee Supply Store, right?  And Mr Ahjee owns the biggest farm in the area, has shares in the biggest aloe factory, and owns the supply store.  What am I waiting for?  'So I'll see you more often then?'  I ask pouting and fluttering my eyelids.  'I guess', he says, gazing intently at my lips, as I slide my tongue slowly over them.  For just a moment, I'm sorry that I didn't put on lip-gloss.

Well, that's certainly one for the books.  I'll have to plan my strategy carefully.  He must never know about Sipho.  Most of the white folk here in Albertinia won't have much to do with me, because I cross the colour bar.  It's an attitude from the old days.  And probably an Indian wouldn’t want a girlfriend who's been with a black guy.

It won't really work with Sipho.  He's black and there's always the albino risk.  I wonder if Indian and White pigment mixes better?

But then when we're together, and after the movie, and Sipho is so strong and kind to me, and the sex is great, I say to myself, 'What will I be losing if I make a play for the Indian?  Then again, Sipho's just a pump jockey, even if his father is high up in the government.  It's best to go where there's real money.'

June 2003

'So how's college, Sipho?'  I'm not interested, but one has to gloss over these break-up things.  Sipho's been at the local Agricultural College for eighteen months now.  He doesn't have much time to share with me any more.  'I don't think this is working out, Sipho.  We never really see each other any more'. 'I'm sorry, Katryn.  I thought that you'd be pleased that I am making something of myself for our future'.  He's very disappointed, naturally.  He likes it that I'm pretty and white.  I'm kind of a prestige symbol in his life.  His friends think it's cool that he has a white chick.  'I'll be going home now, Sipho.  Stay cool, you hear?'  As I wander home, I'm sorry.   He's a nice guy, is Sipho.

'So how's it going, Pa?'  I'm not interested.  Pa is so into his fishing business that it's all he talks about.  'The Ausbergs are going back to Germany.  Their smallholding is up for sale.  I'm thinking of buying it', boasts Pa.  The Ausbergs have the smallholding next to ours, also growing aloes.  'You must be doing well, Pa.'  'Yes, I am, but it's also going cheap.  The Ausbergs are pessimistic about the outlook for South Africa.  With the consistent non-delivery of basic essential services to the community, they predict that the ANC will lose support and all hell will break loose.  In their minds, we're sitting on a time bomb.  They compare us to Zimbabwe and say that our time is still coming.  They've made a mint during the past ten years, and they're taking it with them when they go.  Besides, I don't have enough money now so will have to pay them out over the next ten years.  This means that they can hedge their bets.'  Ah, lip-gloss.  They're getting out whilst the going is good.  'Well, that's great, Pa.  You're so busy.  Who’s going to manage it for you?'   'I've spoken with Mr Ahjee from the Supply store.  He says he knows some people who might be interested.  We'll see.'

'I'm going out now, Pa.  Ivan and I have a date tonight.  Must I ask him to speak to his uncle?'  Ivan is the cute guy from the supply store.  His uncle is Mr Ahjee.  'No, Katryn.  Let time run its course,' says Pa as he settles down with his newspaper.

Things are going well between Ivan and me.  Ivan is extremely good looking.  About six months ago a cameraman from Bollywood was passing through and stopped off at Ahjees.  They're doing a film out on the beach at Gouritzmond.  Ivan has been offered a part in the film.  He doesn't work at Ahjees any more.  He's on set all the time.   

I go out to Gouritzmond over weekends.  Ivan has a mobile home there, so accommodation isn't a problem.  When Ivan and I are not together, I hang out with the make-up and wardrobe people.  They like my lip-gloss.  They are impressed with the fact that it's made out of aloe gel, with all its medicinal properties.  They want to broker a supply chain of aloe-based products with Max Factor in the United States.  Mr Ahjee is going to put up the money to make this dream come true.  I have resigned from the Department of Agriculture.  This is the moment I've been waiting for.

June 2005

'So how was the trip, Katryn?'  'Great thanks, Mr Ahjee.  Looks like everything is set.  The Supply Chain with Max Factor is in place.  I guess now it's a case of managing it'.  'I'm pleased to hear that, Katryn.  The company, Ahjees Gloss Aloe Products [AGAP], is already showing an amazing profit.  There is something I need to mention.'  'What's that, Mr Ahjee?'  'We no longer need a Supply Chain Manager, Katryn.  I'm sorry, but your post is redundant.  Here is your retrenchment contract.  We've offered you a good package with fair benefits.’    'You are advertising a post for a Services Manager.  Why are you not offering me that post?' I whine. 'The affirmative action quotas mean that we must employ a black person, Katryn.  Sorry, but it's the only way to go.  I don't have more time, so excuse me.  I wish you everything of the best for the future.'  Mr Ahjee all but closes the door in my face.

Ivan isn't here to comfort me.  He's gone to India with Bollywood Studios.  He's not famous, and probably never will be, but he lives well with his Indian wife who is very beautiful.  She doesn't wear make-up.  She has a flawless skin and doesn't need any.

'I'm sorry about your losing the fishing quota, Pa'.  It's very hard for Pa.  'They say I'm not qualified, and experience doesn't count, Katryn.  There is nothing I can do.  It's the new law.' 

There is a new fishing company in Albertinia, Sondiswe Fishing Cartel [SFC].  Sipho is the managing director.  With his Agricultural diploma, he's well placed to manage the company.  They've been allocated Pa's quota.  SFC has amalgamated with the old fish market.  Most of the employees are coloureds.  Those coloureds really know their stuff.  Sipho married his black secretary.  She is very beautiful.  She doesn't wear make-up, or underwear for that matter.  You can see the way her boobs swing free.

'And the aloe farm, Pa?'  'Without the fishing quota, there isn't enough money to pay the Ausbergs.  Their smallholding is on the market.  AGAP has put in an offer for it.  It's less than I paid for it, but we need the money, so I'm going to take it.'  'Ai, Pa.  I'm sorry that the tides have turned for us.'  A wry smile washes Pa’s face.  ‘Your Ma says this is nothing but an ahjee-bahjee.  Mr Ahjee just took AGAP.’  A look of deep affection wells up in Pa’s eyes.  ‘She’s funny is your Ma.’

I've applied at the Department of Agriculture for my old job back.  Mr Sondiswe has indicated that there are twenty applicants, mostly young black girls, one of whom is Sipho's wife.  The affirmative action quota in the Department of Agriculture has not been met.  It's a given that I won't be offered the position.

'So I'm not sure what to do, Ma.  Everyone's moved on.  Others are living my dreams'.  We're on the stoep outside, coffee cooling in cups on the floor at our feet.  'Like I had it all, and now it's gone'.  'Think of it this way, Katjie', says Ma.  'You had a wonderful time.  You've been to the United States.  You've learnt a lot about people and their ability to stick with one another.  Perhaps you have even learnt something about sticking with others yourself.  You're twenty-four.  It's time to put away the lip-gloss and move onto something more substantial.  Maybe it's now the time in your life for a little bit of lipstick'.  She smiles her quiet, teasing smile.  'Perhaps time in Cape Town would be good for you'.  Ma digs into her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper.  'Pa found this in this evening's paper.  Yardleys are looking for a Supply Chain Manager.  They have a big lipstick factory in Epping and are looking to expand into the African market.  Let this be your yardstick.'  Ma anticipates the twinkle in my eye.  ‘And no, Katjie, I’m not talking about a dipstick’, she dimples at me.  The two of us laugh long into the night.