Devil's Peak (17 page)

22.

S
he sat staring at the window without seeing.
“I thought I was cutting myself because of my father, at first,” she said softly, and sighed, deeply, remembering. “Or because of Viljoen. I thought I was handling the work and that I was okay with it.”
She turned and looked at him, back in the present. “I never clicked it was the work that made me like that. Not then. I had to get out of it first.”
He nodded, slowly, but did not respond.
“And then things changed, with Carlos,” she said.

* * *

Carlos phoned early, just after nine, to say he wanted to book her for the whole night. “Carlos does not want money fight. Three thousand, hokay? But you must look sexy, conchita. Very sexy, we are having a formal party. Black dress, but show your tits. Carlos wants to brag. My guys will pick you up. Seven o’clock.” He put the phone down.
She waited for her anger to rise and fade. She sat on the edge of the bed, with the cell phone still to her ear. She felt the futility, knew that her anger was useless.
Sonia came up to her, doll in hand. “Are we going to ride bicycle, Mamma?”
“No, my love, we are going shopping.” The child skipped off towards her room as if shopping was her favorite activity.
“Hey, you.”
Sonia halted in the doorway and peeped over her shoulder mischievously.
“Me?” She knew her part in this ritual.
“Yes, you. Come here.”
She ran across the carpet, still in her green pajamas, into her mother’s arms.
“You’re my love,” Christine began their rhyme and kissed her neck.
“You’re my life,” giggled Sonia.
“And your beauty makes me shiver.”
“You’re my heaven, you’re my house.” Her head was on Christine’s bosom.
“You’re my only paradise,” she said and hugged the child tight. “Go and get dressed. It’s time to shop till we drop.”
“Shoptill hedrop?”
“Shoptill hedrop. That’s right.”
Three years and four months. Just another two years, then school. Just another two years and her mother would be done with whoring.

* * *

She phoned Carlton Hair and Mac for late-afternoon appointments and took Sonia along to Hip Hop across Cavendish Square. The sales people paid more attention to the pretty child with blonde ringlets than they did to her.
She stood in front of the mirror in a black dress. The neckline was low, the hem high, bare back.
“That is very sexy,” said the colored shop assistant.
“Isn’t,” said Sonia. “Mamma looks pretty.”
They laughed. “I’ll take it.”
They were too early for her hair and make-up. She took her daughter to Naartjie in the Cavendish Center. “Now you can choose a dress for yourself.”
“I also want a black one.”
“They don’t have black ones.”
“I also want a black one.”
“Black ones are just for grown-ups, girl.”
“I also want to be grown-up.”
“No you don’t. Trust me.”

* * *

The carer looked in disapproval at her outfit when she dropped Sonia off.
“I don’t know how late the function will finish. It’s best if she sleeps over.”
“In that dress it will finish very late.”
She ignored the comment, hugged her daughter tight. “Be good. Mamma will see you in the morning.”
“Tatta, Mamma.”
Just before the door closed behind her, she heard Sonia say: “My mamma looks very pretty.”
“Do you think so?” said the carer in a sour voice.

* * *

It was a weird evening. In the entertainment area of the house in Camps Bay, inside and outside beside the pool, were about sixty people, mostly men in evening suits. Here and there was a blonde with breasts on display or long legs showing through split dresses and ending in high heels. Like décor, she thought, pretty furniture. They hung on a man’s arm, smiled, said nothing.
Quickly she grasped that that was what Carlos expected of her. He was ecstatic over her appearance. “Ah, conchita, you look perfect,” he said when she arrived.
It was the United Nations: Spanish-speaking, Chinese, or Oriental at least, small men who followed her with hungry eyes, Arabs in togas—or whatever you called them—who ignored her, each with his mustache. Two Germans. English. One American.
Carlos, the Host. Jovial, smiling, joking, but she felt sure he was tense, nervous even. She followed his example, held a glass, but did not drink.
“You know who these people are?” he asked her later, whispering in her ear.
“No.”
“Carlos will tell you later.”
Food and drink came and went. She could see the men were no longer sober, but only because the conversation and laughter were a bit louder. Ten o’clock, eleven, twelve.
She stood alone at a pillar. Carlos was somewhere in a kitchen organizing more food to be sent. She felt a hand slide under her dress between her legs, fingers groping. She froze. The hand was gone. She looked over her shoulder. A Chinese man stood there, small and dapper, sniffing deeply at his fingers. He smiled at her and walked away. All she could think of was that Carlos must not see that.
Two Arabs sat at a glass table arranging cocaine in lines with credit cards and sharing it with a companion whose nipple showed above the neckline of her black dress. One of the men inhaled deeply over the table, leaned back in his chair and slowly opened his eyes. Languidly, he stretched out a hand towards her and took the nipple between his fingers. He squeezed. The woman grimaced. He’s hurting her, thought Christine. She was transfixed.
Late that night her bladder was full. She went upstairs looking for the privacy of Carlos’s en-suite bathroom. The bedroom door was shut and she opened it. A blonde in a blood-red dress was gripping one of the posts of the bed and her dress was rucked up to bare her bottom. Behind her stood one of the Spanish men with his trousers around his ankles.
“You want to watch?”
“No.”
“You want to fuck?”
“I’m with Carlos.”
“Carlos is nothing. You kiss my girl, yes?”
Quietly she closed the door and heard the man laugh inside the room.
Even later. Only a small group of guests remained in the swimming pool—two women, six or seven men. Extremely drunk. She had never seen group sex before and it fascinated her. Four men were with one of the women.
Carlos came and stood behind her. “What do you think?”
“It’s weird,” she lied.
“Carlos not for groups. Carlos is a one conchita man.” He put his arms around her, but they continued to watch. Small, rhythmic waves lapped at the edge of the pool.
“It looks sexy,” he said.
She put her hand on his crotch and felt it was hard. Time to earn her pay.
“First Carlos drinks,” he said, and went to fetch a bottle.

* * *

She didn’t know whether to blame the drink, but Carlos was different in bed—desperate, urgent, as if he wanted to prove himself.
“I want you to hurt me,” she said.
Maybe he did not hear. Maybe he did not want to. He just went on.
When he had finished and lay wet with his own perspiration beside her, head between her breasts, he asked: “Carlos was good for you?”
“You were great.”
“Yes. Carlos is a great lover,” he said in all seriousness. Then he was quiet, for so long that she wondered if he was asleep.
Suddenly he rose to his feet, crossed to where he had dropped his trousers on the floor and took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit two and passed one to her before sitting down beside her, with his feet folded under him. His eyes were bloodshot.
“These people . . .” he said with venom and a deep furrow of distaste on his forehead. She knew him well enough to know he was not sober.
She drew on the cigarette.
“They did not even thank Carlos for the party. They come, they drink and snort and eat and fuck and then they leave, no goodbye, no ‘thank you, Carlos, for your hospitality.’ ”
“It was a good party, Carlos.”
“
Sí,
conchita. Cost a lot of money, famous chef, best
licores,
best
putas.
But they have no respect for Carlos.”
“Carlos is nothing,” the man in his bedroom had said.
“You know who they are, conchita? You know? They are
banditos.
They are shit. They make money with drugs. Mexicans!” He spat out the word. “They are nothing. They are
burros, mulas
for the Yankees. Cubans. What are they? And the Afghans. Peasants, I tell you.”
“Afghans?”
“
Sí.
Those arses holes in the dresses.
Conchas!
”
So the Arabs were Afghans. “Oh.”
“And the China and the Thai, and the Vietnam, what are they? They are
mierda,
Carlos tell you, they have nothing but chickens and bananas and heroin. They fuck their mothers. But they come to Carlos, to this beautiful house and they have no manners. You know who they are, conchita? They are drugs. The Afghans and the Vietnam and the Thai, they bring heroin. They bring here, because here is safe, no police here. They take cocaine back. Then Sangrenegra brothers take heroin to America and to Europe. And the South Americans, they help supply, but little, because Sangrenegra brothers control supply. That is Carlos and Javier. My big brother is Javier. He is biggest man in drugs. Everybody know him. We take heroin, we give cocaine, we give money, we . . . we
distribuya.
We take to whole world. Carlos will tell Javier about the disrespect. They think Carlos is little brother, Javier is not here, so they can shit on me. They cannot shit on me, conchita. I will shit on
them.
” He squashed the cigarette disdainfully in the ashtray.
“Come, conchita, Carlos show you something.” He took her arm and drew her along. He picked up his trousers, took out a bunch of keys, took her hand and led her down the passage, down the stairs, through the kitchen, down more stairs to a pantry. The house was completely deserted by now. He opened a half-concealed door at the back of the pantry. There were three locks, each with its own key.
“Carlos show you. Sangrenegra is not small time.” He pressed a light switch. Another door. A small electronic number pad on the wall. He typed in a number. “Oh, eight, two, four, four, nine, you know that number, conchita?”
“Yes.” They were the first six numbers of her cell phone number.
“That is how much Carlos love you.”
It was a steel door that opened automatically. A fluorescent light flickered on inside. He pulled her inside. A space as large as a double garage. Shelves up to the ceiling. Plastic bags on the racks, from one end to the other, all filled with white powder.
Then she saw the money.
“You see, conchita? You see?”
“I see,” she said, but her voice was gone and it came out as a whisper.

* * *

They were in the pool, just Carlos and her. She sat on the step with her lower body in the water. He was standing in the water with his arms around her and his face against her belly.
“Conchita, will you tell Carlos why you become . . . you know.”
“A whore.”
“You are not a whore,” he said distastefully. “An escort. Why did you become an escort?”
“You don’t want to know the truth, Carlos.”
“No, conchita. I do. The real truth.”
“Sometimes I think you want me to be this good girl. I am not a good girl.”
“You are. You have a good heart.”
“You see, if I tell you the truth you don’t want to hear it.”
He straightened his arms so he could look at her. “You know what? That is not the way Carlos thinks. Look at me, conchita. I am in drugs. I have killed guys. But I am not bad. I have a good heart. You see? You can be good, and you can do things that are not so good. So tell me.”
“Because I like to fuck, Carlos.”
“Sí?”
“Sí,”
she said. “That is my drug.”
“How old were you? When you fucked first?”
“I was fifteen.”
“Tell Carlos.”
“I was at school. And this boy, he was sixteen. He was very beautiful. He walked home with me every afternoon. And one day he said I must come home with him. I was very curious. And so I went. And he said I had beautiful breasts. He asked if he could see them. And I showed him. Then he asked if he could touch them. And I said yes. And then he started to kiss me. On my nipples. He started to suck my nipples. And then it happened, Carlos. The drug. It was . . . It was like nothing I had ever felt before. It was
intense.
I liked it so much.”
“And then he fucked you?”
“Yes. But he was not experienced. He came too quickly. He was so excited. I didn’t have an orgasm. So afterwards, I wanted more. But not with boys. With men. So I seduced my teacher . . .”
“You fucked your teacher?”
“Yes.”
“And who else?”
“A friend of my father. I went to his home when his wife was away. I said I wanted to talk to him. I said I was very curious about sex, but I cannot talk to my parents about it, because they are so conservative. And I know he is different. He asked if I would like it if he showed me. I said yes. But you know what, Carlos? He was just as excited as the boy. He could not control himself.”
“Who else?”
“I fucked a lot of guys at university. For free. And then one day I thought, why for free? And that is how it happened.”
“Look,” said Carlos and pointed at his erection. “Carlos likes your story.”
“Then fuck me, Carlos. I love it so much.”

* * *

Wasserman, the acclaimed playwright, Professor of Afrikaans and Nederlands. Fifty-three years old, with a soft body, bushy beard and a beautiful, beautiful voice. At the start of every session she would have to lie in the bath so he could urinate on her, or else he could not get an erection. But from there on he was normal, except for the reading glasses—the better to see her breasts. He would come once a fortnight at three in the afternoon, as he had a younger wife who “might want something too.” He needed time to recharge before the evening. But his young wife would not let herself be pissed on, that was why he came to Christine.
They were waiting for him at precisely four o’clock. When he opened the door to leave her place at the Gardens Center, they hit him with a pick handle, breaking his teeth and jaw.
She heard the commotion and grabbed a dressing gown. “No!” she screamed. They were wearing balaclavas, but she knew they were the bodyguards. One looked her in the eyes and kicked Wasserman where he lay. Then they both kicked him. Seven ribs broken.
“I will call the police!” One of them laughed. Then they dragged him by the feet to the stairs and down two flights and left him there, bleeding and moaning.
She grabbed her cell phone and ran down to him. She bent over him. The damage made her nauseous. She touched his broken face with her fingertips. He opened his eyes and looked at her. There was a question through the agony.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, holding his hand while she spoke.
He made a noise.
“I can’t stay here,” she said. “I can’t stay here.” There would be police. Questions. Arrest. She, Sonia could not afford that.
He just moaned, lying on his side in a pool of blood around his face.
She heard doors opening.
“The ambulance is on its way.” She squeezed Wasserman’s hand and then ran upstairs to her room and locked the door behind her. Feverishly she dressed herself. Carlos. What was she to do?
When she went out quietly, she went down first. She saw there were security personnel with Wasserman at the foot of the stairs. They did not see her. She walked up one flight of stairs, trying to keep calm. She walked slowly so as not to attract attention. She pressed the button for the lift, waited. Voices below. The lift took an eternity to arrive.
Carlos.
She phoned him once she reached the street. He did not answer his phone.
She went to her flat, sat on a chair in her sitting room with her phone in her hand. What was she going to do?
Later she phoned the ambulance services. They had taken Wasserman to City Park. She phoned the hospital. “We can’t give out information.”
“This is his sister.”
“Hold on.”
She had to listen to synthesized music, sounding tinny in her ear.
Eventually Casualty answered. “He’s in Intensive Care, but he should be okay.”
Carlos. She phoned again. It just kept on ringing. She wanted to get in her car and drive to his house. She wanted to hit him, smash his skull with a pick handle. He didn’t have the right. He couldn’t do this. She wanted to go to the police, she wanted to blow him off the earth. Rage consumed her. She looked for her telephone book and got the number of the police.
No. Too many complications.
She wept, but from frustration. Hate.