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Vol. 1 Streets Paved with Gold
Vol. 1 Streets Paved with Gold
Vol. 1 Streets Paved with Gold
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Vol. 1 Streets Paved with Gold

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“The Kreutzer Sonata” is set against a background of the Mixed Marriages Act and the Immorality Act promulgated during the Apartheid years. A young black man by the name of Lucky takes a job in a run-down hotel in Johannesburg. The owner is an Austrian who is more interested in playing his trumpet than in managing his hotel. Lucky finds his loyalty to his boss being tested when he is a witness to his boss breaking the law.
“A Hero of the People” is set in Moscow after the fall of the Iron Curtain and the fall of Apartheid. A recently released South African political prisoner is invited to Moscow to receive a medal for his services to the Russian people. Surprisingly, his handler during his years of working underground avoids meeting him and he is left to be entertained by a low-level functionary. This gives his an opportunity to reflect on whether his sacrifice was worth it.
“A Day in the Life” chronicles the life of a migrant worker who is not allowed to live near his place of work because of the influx control laws current at that time.
“Bootblack” is a humorous story about a greedy financial adviser who comes to regret not taking the advice of the man who polishes his shoes.
“Mother Caught a Flea” describes a day in the life of a Zulu herd boy.
“Sangoma” highlights the conflict between traditional belief systems and western education.
“The Stokvel” is a humorous story about savings clubs. These savings clubs are very popular among working-class women. The members save for a whole variety of purposes such as buying groceries, paying for weddings and funerals and so forth. Miriam’s stokvel is different. The members save for pure extravagance.
“Egoli” is the Zulu name for “The City of Gold” otherwise known as Johannesburg. The streets of Egoli are believed to be paved with gold. The city attracts hundreds of thousands of migrants each year in search of a better life. But, is it really any better?
“The Second New Year” in the Cape has is the second of January. Originally, it was a holiday reserved for servants. Nowadays, the occasion is celebrated by the Minstrel Carnival where hundreds of bands, dressed in bright costumes, parade along the streets of Cape Town, competing for various prizes. The rivalry between the troupes is intense and dirty tricks are not altogether unknown.
“The Driving Lesson” is a story with an Aids background.
“Two of a Kind” has a strong ethnic flavour, involving a dispute over a Xhosa burial.
“The Badger and the Honey Guide” is an Aesop’s Fable translated into an African setting.
“The Snoek Run” chronicles the life of the Cape fishermen. The snoek is a barracuda-type fish which can grow up to two meters in length and possesses huge teeth.
“The Richest Man in the World” is about the alluvial diamonds found in the sand dunes of the Namibian coast. Which are more valuable in the desert: diamonds or water?
In “Run Kagiso”, the crowd in the stadium roars its support for Kagiso, the only black runner to complete the ultra-marathon.
In “The Journey” the shaman of a Khoi Bushman clan nominates !Goab to undertake a mission to plead with the god Mantis to release the rain animal thereby ending the drought that is ravaging the land.
“Friends and Rivals” is a humorous story about two women, both friends and rivals. Trying to be one-up on your friend can be a costly exercise.
In “Hotazel” two men on a long train journey share a compartment. They talk long into the night. Both come from completely different worlds. Fifty years later, the young man, now old, sits down to record the conversation: a story of the clash between two cultures.
In “Rogue” two arrogant young men take a couple of foreign tourists on safari. They think they are experts in understanding animal behaviour. They assure the tourists that they have nothing to worry about. However, their knowledge of animal behaviour does not stretch as far as rogue animals. On this safari, th

LanguageEnglish
PublisherClive Cooke
Release dateOct 2, 2018
ISBN9780463791219
Vol. 1 Streets Paved with Gold
Author

Clive Cooke

Worked for thirty years in the petrochemical industry in production and marketing, recently retired. Published ten books. Intends to devote more time to writing and to travelling.Specializes in small-scale human dramas rather than in epics. A shrewd observer of the complexities of human behavior. Loves contradictions and uncertainties. Health warning: there are unexploded land mines buried in my writing. The reader is advised to tread warily.Traveled extensively in Europe, North, Central and South America. Speaks four languages. Photograph: I'm the one on the left wearing the hat.

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    Vol. 1 Streets Paved with Gold - Clive Cooke

    Vol. 1

    Streets Paved with Gold

    by: Clive Cooke

    *****

    Published by Clive Cooke at Smashwords

    Copyright 2018 Clive Cooke

    *****

    Cover Design by Vila Design

    Cover photo courtesy of CanStockPhoto

    *****

    This volume comprises a collection of short stories. I have used the British style of spelling throughout and have taken liberties with English grammar to represent local speech. I have also added a sprinkling of foreign words for local colour. The meanings are given at the beginning of each story.

    *****

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    *****

    Contents

    The Kreutzer Sonata

    A Hero of the People

    A Day in the Life

    Bootblack

    Mother Caught a Flea

    Sangoma

    The Stokvel

    Egoli

    The Second New Year

    The Driving Lesson

    Two of a Kind

    The Badger and the Honeyguide

    The Snoek Run

    The Richest Man in the World

    Run Kagiso

    The Journey

    Friends and Rivals

    Hotazel

    Rogue

    *****

    The Kreutzer Sonata

    Glossary: ach (German) oh, expletive; los (German) let’s go.

    Lucky’s real name was Tshikane, but his mother was so pleased to have produced a son after three daughters that she called him her lucky-boy. The name stuck with him for the rest of his life.

    The family rented rooms at the back of a greengrocer in the village of Kliptown, named after a rocky stream several miles outside of Johannesburg. Lucky grew up with a gang of kids playing football in the dusty streets. The football was anything they could find from tin cans to empty plastic bottles. They made their own toys out of bits of wire, wood and scrap metal. There was no money to buy toys.

    Lucky’s father was a miner at the City Deep Gold Mine and the family saw little of him as he was a shift worker. His mother found occasional work as a domestic servant and took in ironing from people in the area to supplement the family income. They lived in the same house for more than twenty years and saw the mushrooming of the city as the mines boomed and people flocked from the countryside to find work. The township expanded westwards as far as the eye could see: row upon row of identical houses in soul-destroying monotony. But, it was somewhere to live, a place one could call home.

    As soon as he left school, Lucky followed in his father’s footsteps to City Deep. After a few weeks’ training he was sent underground. The job offered life-time employment, a weekly wage and accommodation in bachelor dormitories. However, after surviving several accidents underground, he realised that life-time employment on a mine could be quite short. If he had been a cat, his nine lives would have been used up within the first two years. He left the mine and tried various professions, eventually ending up at one of the smaller hotels in the city called: The Metropolitan.

    The name Metropolitan was more than misleading. It was a downright lie. The hotel was small, old fashioned and run-down. But, it did have a certain charm provided you overlooked deficiencies like a reliable supply of hot water, peeling paint and a roof that leaked during the rainy season. The owner liked to promote its historical connections to draw attention away from its defects. Although, it could argued that the hot water system was also of historical interest. The bar was supposed to have entertained the early mining magnates of the Rand. Fortunes were made and lost in the leather armchairs. Plots and conspiracies were hatched at the mahogany bar counter. But, that was in the distant past. By the nineteen seventies, it was struggling to survive.

    The present owner was an Austrian by the name of Ludwig Kreutzer. He bought the place for very little and spent even less on its upkeep. He had emigrated shortly after the war as Johannesburg was believed to be a place of unlimited opportunities, the city of gold. The staff called him: Boss Louis. Ludwig had never fully recovered from the horrors of the Eastern Front, a fact which could explain his eccentric behaviour and his total disregard for accepted conventions.

    Kreutzer was passionate about jazz and played his trumpet at two o’clock in the morning, if he felt so inclined, keeping the hotel guests awake. After a sleepless night at The Metropolitan, guests seldom returned for a repeat performance. Kreutzer shrugged his shoulders. Music was more important to him than his guests’ peaceful sleep. Stories about Boss Louis abounded, adding to the mystique of The Metropolitan: an eccentric owner, a run-down hotel, trumpet playing in the middle of the night. All it needed to complete the picture was a resident ghost. Patrons claimed to have seen Boss Louis sitting in his office dressed in nothing but his underpants, totally unconcerned about what other people might think. It was hot and there was no air conditioning, so he took off his clothes. His logic was as uncomplicated as that.

    Boss Louis was unmarried, but rumoured to be keeping a mistress. In those days, this was the stuff of hot gossip. However, the identity of the lady was a secret. Some people doubted that she actually existed. Then, he was believed to be running an illegal business from out of the back rooms of the hotel. There was not a shred of evidence to support this theory, but it added a whiff of danger to the hotel. Whether these rumours were true or not, was beside the point. Everyone wanted to see this exotic specimen who played his trumpet in the middle of the night and took off his clothes when it was hot. And so, the bar of The Metropolitan became a highlight of the tourist trail.

    Lucky’s career at the hotel blossomed. From general worker he rose to the position of waiter and then to barman. This was a highly skilled job requiring more than a detailed knowledge of the different kinds of drinks demanded by the patrons. It required a certain personality and Lucky had the perfect personality for the job. He was polite, friendly, respectful and above all a good listener. A barman needed to be part mistress and part psychiatrist.

    The hotel bar was the favourite watering hole of members of the press: reporters, editors, secretaries and various hangers-on and informers. It was almost their second home. They had editorial meetings in the bar. Each had his own bar stool and some of them their own glasses. A junior reporter dared not take the senior reporter’s chair or the editor’s personal glass. Lucky had to make sure there was never a mix-up. It was a responsible job.

    Newspaper people drank the hard stuff, too much of the hard stuff. Beer was for sissies. Brandy loosened tongues and Lucky got to know the clients’ private lives, their agonies, their joys and a good deal more. He had a memory for birthdays and anniversaries, but he steered clear of the newspaper people’s indiscretions. Some of their indiscretions were played out in public in Boss Louis’ bar. The perfect barman had to be blind and deaf, when the occasion demanded, as well as being part mistress and part psychiatrist.

    A political reporter on one of the morning dailies took a shine to Lucky. She would sit at the bar three evenings a week talking to Lucky. All he had to do was to nod his head, smile and occasionally acknowledge her presence as he went about his work. That was all she wanted anyway. Her ex-husband, she told him, never listened. It was like talking to an empty room until one day her husband moved out and the room really was empty.

    ‘Lucky, do you know what it’s like talking to an empty room?’

    ‘Would Madam like some ice?’

    Her name was Renée. She was in her mid-fifties, with strands of grey hair mixed with natural dark brown. She refused to dye her hair like other women of her age and she smoked continually. She only wore trousers. Lucky had never seen her wearing a dress and wondered if she had been married in trousers.

    ‘I really must give this up,’ she said fumbling with a battered packet of cigarettes. Lucky produced a lighted match. ‘You’re a star, Lucky, thanks.’ Above all, a barman had to be a diplomat in addition to being blind and deaf, a mistress and a psychiatrist. ‘He never paid me one cent in maintenance,’ said Renée. ‘I had to bring up my boys on my own. That’s why I’m still working. I won a court judgement against him, but he still didn’t pay.’

    Lucky filled up a bowl with salted peanuts and offered them to Renée.

    ‘Do you have any children, Lucky? I’ve got two. Not that they ever bother to visit me. I might as well not have any. I can’t stand Stevie’s wife…. mistress…. girlfriend.... whatever you want to call her. He’s been in trouble with the police. It was her fault. She’s the one who is involved in politics. Rick is in England. Says this country has no future. What do you think is going to happen, Lucky? Revolution? Africa is in my blood. I’m not leaving.’

    ‘Would Madam like another vodka and lime?’

    ‘I don’t agree with everything that is happening in this country, but it’s no paradise over there. Take it from me. The weather!’ Renée blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. ‘The winters are shocking and the summers not much better either. I guess I’m spoiled. Jo’burg has the best climate in the world. Don’t you agree, Lucky? I want Rick to come back to this country. The trouble is he has no qualifications.’

    ‘Can I call a taxi for Madam?’

    Boss Louis allowed Lucky to order taxis for the regular customers he considered a danger on the road and he paid for the service. Better a live customer than a dead one. Dead customers, he said, did not pay well. This was one of his favourite jokes which he repeated over and over again and Lucky, the diplomat, laughed heartily as if he had heard it for the first time.

    For Boss Louis, the hotel business was a means to an end. Music was the love of his life. He did not play in any particular band preferring to free-lance, but he was in great demand. He also tried his hand at composition. When Lucky heard him practising in his private rooms at the back, he stopped what he was doing to listen. He was enthralled.

    Lucky told Boss Louis how he enjoyed hearing him play his trumpet. It was not flattery, it was hero-worship. The man made magic with his lips. His top notes were pure, liquid gold sending shivers down his spine. Louis denied he was much good at his craft. He needed more time to practise, but the hotel kept him busy. Customers were a problem, customers annoyed him, he would be far happier without customers. He asked Lucky what kind of music he liked.

    ‘Music like Boss Louis makes.’

    ‘You want to learn?’

    ‘Too much, Boss Louis, too much.’

    Ludwig laughed. ‘Let me tell you: it’s easy to start, but hell is it difficult to be really good. I’ve been trying since forty years.’

    ‘I learnt to ride a bicycle,’ said Lucky.

    ‘Ach, scheisse!’ said Ludwig dismissively. ‘You haff no idea.’

    Lucky made himself a trumpet out of a piece of rolled up paper and blew down the one end. It sounded like a bullfrog with bronchitis.

    ‘What are you doing?’ asked Renée.

    ‘I am playing the trumpet, Ma’am, like Boss Louis.’ Renée laughed. She took out her packet of cigarettes. It was empty. She crumpled it up and gave it to Lucky to throw away. ‘I’m going to be the best trumpet player in the world, Madam. One day I’ll go to America, make records and become rich and famous.’

    Renée said she might have a toy trumpet stored away in her attic. Her son Stevie used to play one when he was young. Dreadful noise it was too. Was Lucky interested? She ransacked her attic and found it at the bottom of a musty old trunk. It was not a toy, it was the real thing, a bit battered, but the valves worked. One afternoon, she brought it to the hotel and gave it to him. Lucky put it on the shelf behind the bar. He looked at it lovingly every time he walked past. He could touch it whenever he wished. He put the mouthpiece to his lips blew hard. Dust rather than music came out of the other end.

    After finishing work that evening, Lucky took the trumpet home and polished it. Do you take this trumpet to be your loving….? Yes, yes, I do, I do…. I declare you to be man and trumpet. You may kiss the trumpet. Lucky kissed his bright, shiny new instrument passionately.

    Next day, Lucky showed Ludwig Kreutzer his trumpet. Boss Louis took it in his hands without saying a word. Lucky watched him turning it over, examining it with a professional eye. He tested the valves. He put it to his lips and played a few notes. Then, he fastened his pale blue eyes on Lucky.

    ‘So, you want to learn, ja?’

    ‘Too much, Boss Louis, too much.

    ‘Okay, to-night we begin.’

    The deal was signed and sealed. There were no negotiations and no ante nuptial contract. There was no ring and no formal ceremony. There were no last-minute cold feet and no chance of reneging. Lucky had committed himself for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.

    The weeks passed and Lucky practised every evening after work under the strict supervision of Boss Louis. As Ludwig had said, progress was relatively easy to start with. However, his pupil was less enthusiastic when it came to learning to read written music. Why did he have to do this? He just wanted to play. Boss Louis was adamant. Lucky would have to do it properly, or not at all.

    ‘I hear you have started lessons,’ said Renée one afternoon over her vodka and lime.

    ‘Yes, Madam. Thank you, thank you. Thank you for everything.’

    ‘Don’t mention it. I’d like to hear you play some day.’

    ‘I am only a beginner.’

    ‘Stevie will never play it again. It was only gathering dust. But, you can do something for me too. Think of it as returning a favour.’

    ‘Anything, Madam.’

    It was the honeymoon period for Lucky and his trumpet. No obstacle seemed to be too great, no goal unattainable. He had finished playing scales and had started playing simple tunes. But, what he really wanted was to make music that made one’s body move and one’s feet tap the ground, like Boss Louis. However, this was still a long way off.

    That winter, Ludwig Kreutzer’s bar was more crowded than usual. Icy winds from the Drakensberg whipped dust off the gold mine dumps. The setting sun plunged into the smoke of half a million coal fires. Amongst the regulars in the bar, there was a scattering of new customers. They kept to themselves huddled together in the corner. The reporters viewed them with suspicion. They knew who they were, but not why they were there. With the extra custom, Lucky was extremely busy. He hurried from one order to another with hardly any time to rest. He caught snatches of conversation on the new Mixed Marriages Act that was before parliament. The new law did not concern him. He had a steady job and was making good progress with his trumpet. One day, he would become a professional musician. He would go to America. He would make records. He would become rich and famous. He did not want to become involved in politics.

    ‘I need a favour,’ said Renée late one evening after the crowd had thinned out. Lucky was watching the clock on the wall. In half an hour, he was due to have a lesson with Boss Louis.

    ‘Madam?’

    ‘I’m a reporter. I’m always looking for stories: inside information, gossip, that sort of thing. Now tell me, what’s this about Mr Kreutzer?’

    ‘Boss Louis?’

    ‘I’ve heard he has a mistress.’

    Lucky was bad at lying and he felt most uncomfortable talking about his employer.

    ‘I don’t know, Madam.’

    ‘Come on, of course you know. One good turn deserves another, remember?’

    After Lucky’s shift ended, Ludwig was waiting for him in his private lounge at the back of the hotel. He held out a small, round tin. ‘Here, take this,’ he said. ‘It is ointment for your lips. I use it in winter, because of the dryness. You can’t play with cracked lips.’

    ‘Thank you, Boss Louis.’

    ‘Next time, you buy your own.’

    The lesson went badly. Lucky could not concentrate. He wanted to tell Kreutzer about his conversation with Renée, but he could not find the right words and it would have been disrespectful to talk to Boss Louis about his private affairs. Of course, all the staff in the hotel knew about Ludwig’s mistress. Her name was Tumi Modise. She was black, pretty and fashionable. Lucky rather fancied her himself. He owed a lot to Boss Louis. If Renée asked him again, he would make up some excuse. He could pretend to have forgotten, or to be stupid, or that he did not understand. Perhaps, she would not bring up the subject again.

    Six months later, Lucky and Ludwig had reached the stage of being able to play duets together. Lucky played the easy parts.

    ‘If you make a mistake, just carry on. Don’t stop,’ said Ludwig after several breakdowns.

    ‘Yes Boss Louis.’

    ‘If you play in a group, you have to keep the time. It is the most important thing you do. Wrong notes are not important. One… two… three. Can you count?’

    ‘Yes, Boss Louis.’

    ‘It doesn’t sound like it. Now once again, los!’

    Lucky put his instrument to his lips. This was work rather than fun. Ludwig was a hard task master, but he recognised talent. His pupil had the potential to go far, if he worked hard. And Ludwig was the man to keep his nose to the grindstone. Lucky’s honeymoon with his trumpet was over. He and his instrument were having a mid-life crisis, although divorce was never an option.

    ‘Practice, practice, practice,’ said Kreutzer.

    ‘Yes, Boss Louis.’

    Lucky had wanted to make excuses for himself, but he knew that Boss Louis would not listen.

    Kreutzer invited Lucky one Friday night to go with him to a club in Hillbrow where he was playing in a group. He was scheduled to play one of his own compositions which he called: Sonata for Cat and Mouse. Lucky had heard him working on it late at night.

    This was his first visit to a night club and Lucky was apprehensive. As a black man, he was not allowed into the club. He might be arrested. Boss Louis said it was not a problem and followed this with a string of expletives in German. Lucky did not know what to expect. He followed Ludwig inside the night club like a dog on a lead trying to stay as close as possible to its master. He was wearing a suit and a tie, the only suit and tie he owned. It was the suit he wore to church on Sundays. Boss Louis tipped the manager at the door and said that Lucky was working in the kitchen. The man pocketed the money and let them through.

    Ludwig introduced him to his friends. They were all in their fifties.

    ‘This is Kurt,’ he said. ‘He thinks he can play the guitar.’

    The man let out a laugh and replied with something equally insulting in German. All the members of the quartet were Austrians. Kurt had a grey beard and long, sparse hair. The other names escaped Lucky.

    ‘I’ve heard about you,’ said Kurt.

    ‘Thank you, Sir.’

    ‘I’d like to hear you play some day.’

    ‘You will,’ said Ludwig.

    It was after eleven when Ludwig’s quartet walked onto the cramped stage. The first piece they played was a warm-up, slow and meandering with the trumpet taking a minor part. The drummer stroked his cymbals showering the room with starlight. The applause was restrained. Lucky stood behind the stage curtains. He was not allowed to sit amongst the white clientele.

    The second number was fast and loud. Ludwig’s trumpet took the lead. The drummer’s sweat glistened in the spotlights. There were shouts of appreciation from the audience. Then, Ludwig introduced his new composition: Sonata for Cat and Mouse. ‘It is work in progress,’ he said. ‘I need to hear it with the full ensemble to get the balance right.’

    It was after three when they left the club. Lucky was on duty the following day and dead on his feet. Ludwig was in a state of high excitement. He sat in the front of the taxi talking all the way home. Lucky heard his voice fade into oblivion. Kreutzer was considering recording his new composition. He felt it was his best so far. His friend Kurt had contacts in the recording industry. The piece needed polishing and shortening. But, he was pleased with it. What did Lucky think? Lucky, was splayed out on the back seat of the taxi fast asleep.

    ‘Tired?’ asked Renée. Lucky was yawning. He poured a tot of vodka into Renée’s glass and looked around for lime juice.

    ‘Late night, Madam.’

    ‘Well, did you find out for me? Remember what we spoke about?’

    Lucky was suddenly wide awake. ‘Madam?’

    ‘I heard that Mr Kreutzer is having an affair with someone who works in the hotel. I want her name.’

    Tumi’s relationship with Boss Louis had recently become illegal. The Immorality Act and the Mixed Marriages Act had passed through parliament. Lucky had heard the reporters talking about it. Renée was staring straight at him. He avoided her gaze.

    ‘Excuse me Madam.’

    The Sports Editor was waiting to be served. Renée waited until the editor had returned to his table. She lit a cigarette. ‘One good turn deserves another, remember?’

    ‘Madam?’

    ‘Stevie’s trumpet. You owe me a favour.’ Lucky remained silent. Renée waited for him to reply. ‘I didn’t give you the trumpet, Lucky. I only lent it to you. Now listen to me, this is important. People are putting pressure on me. I can’t go into details, but I need this information urgently. All I can say is that the safety of Stevie and his girlfriend depends on this.’

    Renée jerked her thumb over her shoulders. She was pointing to the group of strangers in the corner. Lucky followed her directions. The strangers were regular visitors now. They did not mix with the journalists. The hotel staff said they were security policemen. Anyone who had been unlucky enough to see the inside police headquarters would recognise them from the way they dressed, the way they behaved and the way they spoke.

    Lucky was cornered. ‘Madam, I don’t know….’

    Renée’s face hardened. Her voice had a cutting edge to it. ‘That’s not good enough.’

    ‘I’m sorry, Madam….’

    ‘I am disappointed with you, Lucky. I told you already they are threatening me…’

    ‘Madam, I don’t know.’

    ‘I thought we understood one another. I thought we were friends. Well, we’ll have to see about that trumpet then, won’t we?’ She finished her drink quickly, banged her empty glass down on the counter and walked out of the bar.

    Lucky was upset. What should he have done? Had he made a mistake? Should he rather have helped Renée? Should he go back and apologise? He did not want to become involved in politics. He only wanted to play music…. go to America…. make records…. become rich and famous. Perhaps the whole thing would blow over in a matter of days…. Renée was scared. She was obviously being threatened by the security policemen. If he gave her the information she wanted, no-one would find out who had told her. Newspaper reporters protect their sources. If he did not tell her, she would find out from one of the other hotel employees. Money loosens tongues. If he did tell her about Tumi, he would be repaying his debt and she would let him keep the trumpet. But, this was betrayal. Boss Louis had done a lot for him and he ought to show his appreciation. But, the Austrian was also at fault. Even if he was a foreigner, he should know that he had to obey the laws of the land whether he liked them or not.

    ‘You liked my Sonata for Cat and Mouse? You liked the club? It’s my favourite.’ Lucky did not answer. ‘Tired? Perhaps we give it a break to-night…. ja?’

    ‘Boss Louis…’

    ‘Frankly, I am tired myself.’

    ‘Boss Louis…’

    ‘Did I tell you? I am changing the middle section. It needs tightening up. It sags in the middle like my waistline.’ He gave a deep chuckle. This time, Lucky the diplomat, did not laugh.

    ‘Boss Louis….. Miss Renée…. she is talking to strangers.’

    ‘Customers?’

    ‘No, Boss Louis, security policemen. Township people know who they are.’

    ‘Ach scheisse. What do they want here?’

    ‘It’s about Tumi…. the new law.’

    ‘Scheisse. I don’t listen to those people. Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse. I marry who I want to. I sleep with whoever I want.’ Ludwig was shouting and stamping his feet. Lucky had never seen his boss quite so angry before. ‘It is my life. Scheisse. I will not have policemen looking through my bedroom windows. They can go to hell!’

    A few days later, Renée was back on her stool in the hotel bar. She was her old friendly self again. Her conversation was lively, but the trust between her and Lucky had broken down irretrievably. As the evening wore on, she became increasingly drunk and her conversation louder and louder. She addressed the world at large, but nobody was listening except for Lucky. It was his job to listen.

    ‘They’ve arrested Stevie.’ Lucky glanced at Renée. She was crying softly. Lucky produced a tissue from under the counter. ‘You could have saved him. A simple favour, one human being to another. That’s all

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