Moxyland (14 page)

 

Dr. Precious makes a note in her file and snaps it closed.

   'You can step off the scale now. You'll be pleased to know everything's fine. The nano has taken hold.'

   'You make it sound like I'm possessed.'

   Andile laughs. 'Taken hold, babes. Like it's happy in there. Your immune system is convinced the tech is friendly. No more trying to shoot it down. No more sniffly noses or itches. No problems.'

   'No meltdown?'

   'Tsk.' Dr. Precious really doesn't like my jokes. She doesn't think I'm an appropriate choice for 'The Project'. I know this because I overheard her saying so to Andile as I stepped from the lift. He replied, 'What are you going to do? Flakiness comes with creativity.' Which I kind of resent.

   Andile claps his hands together with decisive enthusiasm. 'Well, now that we've got the icky check-up stuff out of the way, we need five more minutes of your very precious time for the doccie. Making history, babes.' Andile ushers me out of his office, down the elevator to the second floor and through the configuration of desks in the agency proper.

   It's open-plan, the desks partitioned by gauzy white curtains hung floor-to-ceiling, audio dampeners woven into the fabric for privacy. There are interested looks, a couple of heads popping up like meerkats.

   'Just ignore them,' Andile says. 'It's not often they get to see
real
talent.' There is a snort of disgust from behind a console. 'Back to work, you graft-dodging slacker reprobates!' Andile shouts cheerfully.

   The lounge is weighted against the view, suede couches incongruously lumped together with an assortment of beanbags shaped like liquorice candy, pieces I recognise from a design magazine. Slumped on a plump foam sandwich of pink and black candy is a boy, bored, goodlooking and intent on studying the floorboards.

   He looks up when we come in, dark hair spiked and swept over his forehead in defiance of the thinning at his temples. Brown pinstripe jacket. White tie. I recognise him from somewhere, maybe from a glimpse of his file on Andile's desk.

   Andile seems surprised. 'Damian, china! You haven't interviewed?'

   'No. The camera-chick said, like, ten more minutes?' The boy slits his eyes at me, waryfriendly, like a cat.

   'Cool, cool. Can I offer you guys some coffee? Tea? Tequila? No, just kidding! Nothing? Okay! Just hang tight, shouldn't be too much longer. Be cool. You're ambassadors now. First generation! I'll just go see how she's coming along.'

   I take a seat opposite the boy, Damian. I've realised he's from a new spectro band, Kitten Kill or Killer Kittens, or some other configuration playing off violent acts towards baby animals. The point is that they're bigtime.

   Maybe he picks up on it, because the first thing he says to me is, 'So, how'd you get with the program?' As in, you don't look the type.

   I play it down. 'I'm a photographer. Fine arts.'

   'Oh yeah?' he says, not really interested. 'The rest of the guys are pretty peeved,' he goes on, just assuming I'll know who he's talking about. Unfortunately, I do. 'That they only wanted me, y'know? It's
swak
, hey. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's awesome, but end of the day, I gotta get up on stage with the rest of the band and perform.'

   I smile and nod. He is the obvious choice for the next evolutionary.

   'So, you in for the creative exchange? Ah, man, I'm so stoked about getting to play Seoul. I had to look it up on the map. I mean, yeah, okay, New Korea, but where is that actually?'

   A woman in chunky jewellery and stiletto boots over her jeans scissors into the lounge, holding a microcam. 'Damian? You're up. I hope you've been thinking up devastatingly smart and interesting things to say. Oh, don't look so nervous. Just be yourself. Recite some lyrics or something.' She winks at me. 'Don't think I'll be too long with this one.' She leads him away between the maze of curtained cubicles, already recording.

   'So, what is it that moves you, Dame? What's the one thing about music that grabs you, that hits you right in your gut?'

   I slip my Zion out of my bag, having already snuck it past the receptionist, and surreptitiously snap a photograph of the indentation Damian has left on the liquorice beanbag, the crease like a smile down the middle. Because things are only real if they are documented, if there is visual evidence.

   I mention this to camera-chick when she comes clipping back in. 'Oh yeah,' she says, 'absolutely!' and hustles me out onto the balcony, buffered with sliding glass panels to keep the wind at bay.

   The red bead of the camera winks steadily, for the record, recording, recording. 'So, is that why you became a photographer? To capture
life
? Do you feel like you don't have a hold on it otherwise?'

   'I'm not exactly a professional.'

   'Don't be humble, honey. And can you do me a favour? Can you start your sentences with "I became a photographer because blah blah blah…" Otherwise it's a nightmare in the edit. Fragmented sentences. You've no idea. So what do you like about photography? What about it moves you, that…'

   'Hits me in the gut?'

   She's unapologetic. 'Yeah.'

   'The immediacy. Sorry, sorry. What resonates with me about photography is the sense of immediacy. Catching the transitive before it slips away.'

   'So why'd you get into it?'

   'Easier than real art?'

   'That's great. That's funny. Self-deprecating is good. Now, can you do it again in a whole sentence?'

   'I became a photographer because it seemed easier than real art. And I can't draw.'

   But really, it was because I'm terrified of losing anything.

I get off at Salt River Station to pick up printing paper at an arts store at the Neighbourhood market that imports small orders specially for me. I'm about to cross Sir Lowry Road, when I'm distracted by a commotion outside the bottle store. It shouldn't be a bigtime deal, a woman having a seizure on the pavement, and normally, I wouldn't pay much attention to a defuse, but it's like something is pulling me over to gawk. I'm not the only one. An Aito is loping up and down on the kerb beside her, whining impatiently and yipping in excitement. There's no sign of his operator.

   'What? Never seen a robbery in progress, honey?' the liquor-store owner snaps at me, watching from his door, arms folded. I haven't actually, although I've seen plenty of defusings, but that's not why I stopped. Maybe it's a leftover I'm still dealing with from the pool hall, but it's like I'm compelled to be here.

   'Move along, chicklet. This is nothing to do with you.'

   'Okay,' I say, but I don't move. The woman's ravaged face and clothes mark her as street. She's as scrawny as a sparrow. Harmless, surely?

   The defuse seems to be tailing off. The manic tempo of her dirty bare feet drumming the concrete is slowing down, and this seems to calm the Aito a little. It stands quivering in excitement, shoulders hunched, ears pricked forward, intent on her. More like cat than dog. Although who knows what goes on in that re-engineered brain?

   More people have gathered to rubberneck, passing shoppers and a crew of street kids.

   'Nothing to see. Move along. Get going! You want I should have you crisped too?' The shoppers shuffle off indignantly, but the street kids stick around, just far away enough that they're out of the Aito's immediate reach, but not far enough for the shoppie, who flaps his arms at them in disgust.

   The defuse tails off and the woman lies there gasping, her eyes scrunched up. The Aito raises a proprietary paw and puts it on her chest, lightly, just enough to claim her. Despite myself, I step forward. The Aito raises its head, instantly alert, and its snout twitches as if to peel back its black lips in a snarl. But then it meets my eyes, gives a dismissive little whuff, and turns its full attention back to the woman.

   'You and this doggie got something going on, lady?' drawls the shoppie, to the delight of the street kids, who howl with laughter and catcall, slapping their thighs as if to call the dog – or me – over. I sink down next to the woman on the street, ignoring the filth. There is a Chappies gum wrapper crumpled in the gutter, and some unidentifiable mulch, food waste or other organic. I don't look too closely. She lies completely rigid as the Aito noses round her body, sniffing for drugs, under the shock-sharp rankness of her. It's like the rat that died in our ceiling in Durban and lay there for three weeks before my brother finally climbed up there, swearing at my dad for using the cheap poison – the kind that doesn't auto-dissolve the bodies. But there's another smell here, ozony cold and chemical.

   The woman is making horrible little whiny sounds, her eyes still squeezed shut, while the Aito shoves its snout into the saggy folds of her over-sized tracksuit, as if she'd been liposuctioned fresh that morning. Her fingers flop and twitch reflexively on the pavement, but she knows enough to keep her arms by her side, hands down, while it snuffles around her.

   'You a cop? You with the guy inside?' the shoppie says, bending his knees to talk to me confidentially. 'Cos it was legitimate, okay? Bitch started pulling down the merchandise, falling around.
Dronkie
. She's been in here before, causing shit. Stealing shit. And how long is your friend gonna be in there anyway?' Behind him, out of range, the street kids are capering and strutting, waving their arms, imitating him.

   Her forehead, when I lay a palm on it, is clammy. But what else was I expecting? I don't quite know what I'm doing or why I can't leave the situation alone. At my touch, her eyes flare open. She stares at me, frantic, her lips popping bubbles of spit as if she's about to say something, but then the Aito rumbles warningly and she squinches her eyelids shut again, clamps her lips as if she could suppress the tight squeaks escaping her throat.

   'You check my records, okay? You'll see. Always, every week, some bergie or skollies causing trouble for me. What are my customers supposed to do?'

   I raise a placatory hand, keeping the other on her forehead. The Aito lifts its paw off her chest, now totally disinterested. It swipes its head up and down the street, scanning, and then starts digging into its flank with the edge of its teeth. I guess fleas are a problem when you come into regular close contact with the homeless and criminals.

   'I'm logging one crisp every coupla days. And now I gotta pay extra cos I'm over the limit? It's not fair. It's not my fault you can't take care of this rubbish. Now I gotta do your job?'

   The woman opens one wary eye, and blinks it, comically. And then the other.

   'I wasn't…' she starts in a voice so little and pathetic, I have to lean in to hear her. Her breath is ripe with cheap
papsak.

   'Hey, you even listening to me?' the shoppie snaps.

   And suddenly, the Aito lunges forward, leaping over the woman's body, shouldering me aside, and grabs one of the street kids who has gotten too close, fastening its mouth like a bear trap on his arm and crashing him down to the street in one movement. There is a branch-crack of bone, followed by the inevitable screaming.

   The other kids scatter. Gone before the Aito looks up, like roaches skittering away into the city's dark places. Without thinking about it, I already have my Zion out, snapping the dog-hybrid standing hunched over the child, growling, the boy's left arm twisted underneath his body. The shoppie is sprawled on the pavement where he'd tumbled over backwards with surprise. And I know this is illegit, that you're not supposed to photograph police procedurals without a media permit, but I don't care.

   Behind me the woman sees her opening, scrambles to her feet and takes off down the street. The Aito cocks its head at me with what I swear is disbelief. It snaps at the boy, closing its teeth with a sharp clack a hair's breadth from his face, and then bounds after the woman, almost playfully.

   And then – it's gone. The feeling, the compulsion, whatever it was, has vanished. I snatch my bag from where I was kneeling – was that what the kid was after? – and stow my camera deep inside.

   A citicop emerges from the liquor store, doing up his belt, relief apparent on his face, but his face drops when he sees the scene and the kid screaming and writhing.

   The shoppie turns on him. 'Finally! Look what your dog has done while you were dicking around in the toilet!'

   'Excuse me? You can't talk to an officer like that.'

   'Look at this! This is scaring away my customers!'

   'You want I should fine you for verbal abuse? Hey, you, girlie, get away from that kid. You don't want to interfere.'

   'His arm is broken.'

   'I can see that, lady. But this is police business.' He softens this with a sugary smirk. 'Don't worry your little head, sweetness, he'll get the medical attention he needs.'

   'Hey, she was taking photos!' The shoppie, seeing his opportunity to worm out of the hot spot, flings an accusatory finger. All the attention is now diverted to me, no one is paying the slightest heed to the kid sobbing through his teeth.

   'Was she now?' The cop saunters over, so I can smell his sweat and the cinnamon of his gum, the pink chewed lump lurking in the back of his mouth. 'I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it. Né, cherie?'

   'I'll delete them. I'm sorry.' I'm furious with myself for apologising, for the instant wave of guilt.

   'What's with this hair? One colour not good enough?' He moves to touch my hair and I twitch away, which makes him laugh. 'What's your name,
meisiekind
?'

   'Kendra.'

   'Ag, don't worry,
Kendra
. I'm not going to take your camera or even put in a log on your unauthorised activity. This time. But I'll be watching out for you.' For an awful moment, by the way he's leaning in, I think he's going to ask me for a kiss. 'Now shoo, we're busy here.'