The Lazarus Effect. HJ Golakai
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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