You stand on the veranda staring into the night. From one hand odours of your single malt whiskey rise and from the other the lingering burn of your pipe tobacco.
The air is fresh with the sounds of insects doing whatever insects in the night do, which you imagine is much the same as human activity – they seek food, have intercourse, avoid predators, die.
Before you the manicured gardens leading to the razor wired high wall protecting the sanctity of the club. Behind you the chatty farewells as the guests dissipate and servants begin clean-up operations.
So, is this how the career of a reluctant spy concludes?
Not that you ever saw yourself as a spy: more the blackmailed message boy who chose the wrong side in the battle for righteousness. You married the boss’s daughter, the boss lures you into nefarious activities which destroys your marriage, and your father-in-law blames you for that. Life wasn’t meant to be easy.
Still, your survived. If avoidance of criminal proceedings and public accountability constitutes survival. There must be a great protector somewhere, or be the recipient of good luck, more likely it has been bureaucratic incompetence. No wonder you drink so much. You are tired of alcohol.
Your stomach churns not from over consumption, as per usual you have imbibed far in excess of recommended limits. The punch line in the orator’s speech, the one singing your praises, leaves you revulsed.
‘And so, in conclusion let me ask you … is there a nice way to die? Well, is there?’ And in unison the audience approvingly applauded.
What does it take for a person to sacrifice their life for a cause? The ultimate love? The greatest love story ever written was about the unbreakable bond between two people who preferred death together than life separated. There are those who claim the greatest love was an omnipresent, or prescient, god sacrificing his only begotten son, though if you ever held that belief it has been lost long ago. The same as your loss of any feeling of love.
The venue is a private club, an exclusive refuge for yourself and the other members. All conversation inside the panelled walls are meant to remain there, amongst the portraits, floral arrangements, lounge chairs, and back scratching.
Beyond the polished balustrade upon which your hand rests are manicured gardens with gravel pathways and an artificial lake. Beyond the wall is suburbia comprised of same looking houses and yours had been one. In the better part, of course.
During the war you never felt that commitment to a cause, that sense of certainty, or righteousness, to justify altruism. You would never lay down your life for another although you almost did once. The neighbourhoods outside the wall are the communities you were told you were defending though the closer the war moved towards finality the less anyone believed in its claim to moral superiority. You in particularly had determined that the other side held the ethical high ground.
You wonder how many people out there possess such a sense of self, of family, community, or purpose, that they would willingly give their life for another. Part of you feels like rebuking them for leading plaid simple lives but that is exactly the lifestyle you sought and was denied.
Instead, you became aligned with the coterie inside and all of you were complicit in bringing far too many lives to mortal conclusion.
Still, you feel obliged to appreciate those that had come to wish you well, even if they cared as little for you as you did for them. There were not that many left and those that remained took any opportunity to gather, reassuring themselves that their existence once had meaning. Some of the old crew had died, of old age or other possible reasons. Some sat in jail, the sacrificial lambs to a redundant regime willing to convict the lieutenants while consorting with the generals.
Members who retained wives had brought them along. Marcus sat at the back with his husband, proudly defiant, which brought a suppressed snicker to many lips. You had been one of few who had been sympathetic to Marcus’ plight, though you had never spoken out in his defence. Another outsider trapped inside a cage not of their own making. Only with the new authority has such proclivities been legalised. While everyone had their suspicions about Marcus it been spread through a whispering campaign, and Marcus had never received a promotion.
You realised your brother may have been of the same inclination given he had never married, which would explain why there was no one to continue the family farm after he was killed in the car accident. As it had been decades since they had been in contact you would always remain uncertain. You hope that by taking on rehabilitation of the property you may find some recovery for your wounded soul. Or at least an escape, a refuge away from everything that you have been.
The sound of leather soles on the wooden floor and you knew who was coming. Botox Delux, so named not because he was a pretentious, preening peacock – which he was, as many who ruffled his feathers discovered much to their regret – but for his ability to smooth out the wrinkles that invariably arose when responsible for managing reprehensible activities. Botox Delux was the renowned Management Manipulator par-excellence in-excelsis sans-peer.
‘Well, my friend. An excellent evening. Supremely organised, if I say so myself, given you would never have had a farewell if it wasn’t for my efforts. Everyone was full of congratulations for your service and the quality of the evening. The best farewell ever they said, and we have had many recently.’
‘You can’t let it go, can you?’
‘What … oh … your most famous action. Or is that infamous,’ and he gave a little chuckle. Once you admired Botox and now you see him as the man with the cherub face of a sycophantic office manager and the mind of a malevolent manipulator. What led you to seeing your mentor in a new light? Perhaps because now in retirement you can relax and all the walls of self-protection were dissolving.
‘I had specifically asked you not to talk about it. That story is my haunting.’
‘Well, what ones would you prefer I share? Only victory stories?’
‘Our battle was for nothing. We lost the war.’
‘Did we?’ Botox raised his glass of whiskey. ‘Look at the colour of that. Pure gold. If this is defeat, then long may it run.’
He passes across your farewell award which you look upon as if being asked to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a decaying cockroach. It was banal enough: brass mug fixed to a plain wooden base and a plague that simply read ‘To Codger Spumante. For Services Rendered’.
As if you were a winner when all you feel like is the person demeaned as ‘a loyal little message boy’ who had served with the losing side?
Botox smarts. ‘Should I have shared the time when we thought you had crossed? I have kept that little one secret you know.’
It was true, Codger almost had crossed and although he would never admit it, he now wished that he had. ‘You damn well knew what was going on.’
‘Plausible denial, old boy, plausible denial. Yes, it was brave of you to take that risk. We did well didn’t we, even if you did have us scared for a while. Thank goodness we managed to pull you back at the last moment. I would have missed you. Anyway, let’s not dwell on it. What is the past for, except as the foundation to our everlasting friendship? Time for a night cap, what do you say.’
Botox finished his whiskey, then signalled the waiter to replenish their glasses, though this time you decline the offer. To yourself you say, soon I shall be free.
‘You once enjoyed it. Don’t ever forget that. Once you really were one of us and you relished being part of the team. We had aspirations for you, and you went and let us down. Which became a recurring pattern didn’t it?’
And then his signature smirk – the lip curl, sardonic eyebrow, snorting nostril – dismissive of inferiors, and, finally, you realise that includes you. You feel inadequate and angry with yourself for being misled for so long. You always knew that Botox could be pompous and arrogant and contemptuous. Until now you had also considered yourself immune from his contempt and the realisation that he had always been playing you, makes you feel stupid and inadequate. And angry. A surging sense of betrayal at Botox, at self, at the world in general. You burst.
‘It is just one big game for you, isn’t it? One jolly big roller coaster ride with every bend another thrill. You care nothing for the havoc left in the wake as long as you get what you want.’
Botox took a breath. ‘In any conflict achievement of your objective comes with collateral damage. You only need to determine the acceptable level of expendability. We have been through this before.’
‘You had kept me in the dark.’
‘Some matters cannot be shared. Anyway, let’s not dwell on it. What is the past for except foundation to our everlasting friendship?’
On the ceiling next to a solitary light a gecko crouches waiting in prey for any insect that strayed within reach. Your mind is thrown back to Botox’s closing address to the audience. The one you find so objectionable.
The dining room of Tudor walls of white paint and mahogany panels, landscape realism paintings or portraits of past members, ceiling fans slowly turning between chandeliers. Rectangular tables covered in white cloth splattered with remnants of the evening’s meal. At the front a small podium, where Botox stood delivering the farewell oratory to conclude Codger’s career.
‘In conclusion let me tell you a little tale, one that several of you would have heard before yet one too enticing to resist. I see as soon as I mention it the subject of our conversation is blushing, as well he should. We all have our little crosses to bear, skeletons in the closet so to speak, in our game there are an abundance of little actions we would refer forgotten. Though I doubt Codger reached those lofty heights there is this one act of Codger’s, that, well … what can I say? It was saving grace for our dilemma and, I have to say, in all honesty, the last thing I expected from the dear boy.
‘We had been questioning’ – Botox drew the word out and tapped his nose, bringing forth audience mirth as they all knew the implications of the word ‘questioning’ – ‘one of those recalcitrant types that refused to speak no matter what inducements were provided. A bit deserving of respect in that regard I dare say though a deep frustration on our part. The decision was taken that we had reached the point to, shall we say, dispose of the evidence. Usual procedure prevailed and I won’t bore you with the exact details. Sufficient to state that in accordance with procedure the night was dark and location remote.
‘We reach our location only to realise that we had left the derringer back in the office safe. It had been provided by some old crim and we couldn’t use our service pistols of course. Nothing traceable permitted and all that. We face quite a dilemma and that is when dear old Codger stepped up to the mark. I have to say I didn’t know he had it in him. He picked up the shovel and bludgeoned our prisoner into the ground. I still don’t quite know what came over him, he was like a soul possessed that I had never seen before, or since I may add, yet by the time we had managed to convince him to cease all that lay on the ground was a bloody pulp.
‘But wait, the best is still to come. Well of course Codger’s clothing is covered in the deceased’s blood, as if he was starting some new fashion style, for only the most discerning aficionado’ – Botox’s mirth was sending him teary and the audience rocked in laughter – ‘when dear old Codger looks at us, and in the most sweet and innocent voice says, ‘Do you think there is a nice way to die?’ Indeed, is there? Ladies and gentlemen, a little piece of home-grown philosophy that typifies our departing warrior, and as he winds his merry way into retirement let us wish him many more pleasant evenings and when the time to part does come, let us trust that it is in a nice way.’
You had never forgotten that man’s face. It was true. You always woke in a cold sweat with the victim’s anguished eyes burnt into your skull. It loomed at you in an elevator and at traffic lights: at first full of fear, then fatalistically accepting, even welcoming, as beneath the gag he sang ‘Nearer My God To Thee.’ And then defiant. This was one they had not managed to break and he had humiliated them. Perhaps that was why you had struck out so viciously.
It hadn’t been your intention to act in such a way. As usual, the group was inebriated to the point where the ability to make a conscious decision was debatable; the consequence of ‘another long day in the office’ as Botox had put it. They spent the night with two fires, one burning the carcass while the other roasted their own meat, while they ate and drank themselves into a stupor. That was their coping mechanism.
As the audience laughed you took another sip from your whiskey, politely acknowledging the applause while your head screamed escape.
Every time you heard that story another part of your self-esteem died. Botox thrived telling it because he knew it humiliated you. No-one ever asked how you felt. The rage within you that took over and only now do you realise it wasn’t the prisoner you were battering to death but yourself and what you had become. You had wanted to die but lacked the courage. Just as you lacked the courage from the day you found out how your father-in-law had used you to refuse to obey, or when you decided that you were part of the wrong side. You always lacked the courage of your convictions. You were malleable and that is why you were chosen to be the bearer of secret messages to agents hidden on the other side. You think about whether that fundamental weakness was displayed in childhood which reminds of that girl who took a brief fancy to you and then fled and you failed to chase.
At that point in the evening Botox noticed the woman sitting in the back row, a monster in purple sheen dress with ferocious flaming hair.
‘Oh dear,’ Botox said, giving a small nervous laugh and then shrugging his shoulders. ‘I don’t think that one was ever publicly revealed. Best kept amongst ourselves, what you say.’ He sniggered. The Genuine Remorse Commission took a dim view at attempts to keep past crimes secret.
After the war the Genuine Remorse Commission had been established to uncover war crimes. It exposed some and some people went to jail yet for reasons unknown, or some people claimed known reasons because who really wants to dig deep into what happens during war, it lacked substance. You had expected to be called in front of the Genuine Remorse Commission and was surprised when it didn’t happen, and while Botox had been called for reasons you didn’t understand he was released without any follow up.
In the evening air staring into nothingness past crimes were washed away with whiskey. Botox signalled the waiter for a refill and you marvel at his capacity to consume excessive amounts without displaying the effect.
‘There is individual responsibility you know,’ he says. ‘You cannot spend your life blaming others. Face up to it. The instinct was there. It’s an inherent part of you.’
Codger gazed reflectively into his glass.
‘I have to accept responsibility for my actions. But … Bah! What does it matter? That’s what we always say when things don’t turn out right isn’t it? What does it matter? Nothing matters. Who cares? Now I care and it is too late. Perhaps. I don’t know.’
‘Just know that when you fail, as I fear you will, here you will find a welcoming fireplace, a comfortable armchair, and a glass of delightful whisky. Plus the companionship of old friends who will welcome your return with a cheer. We do care for you, you know.’
‘With a good deal of mocking I dare say.’
‘Only the most generous.’
The night air was filled with subtle disturbances. In the distance a truck revved its engine. Frogs croaked in the lake. A moth attacked the wall light. The gecko’s darting tongue captured a bug.
‘Still no word I take it?’
The growl in Codger’s throat grew until he almost spat. ‘Of course not. After all these years there never will be.’
‘Not even from … what’s her name again?’
‘No.’ You had no desire to explain further. Your marriage had ended in ruins with neither former wife or only child, a beautiful daughter, prepared to speak to you ever again.
Servants were cleaning up the dining room. The guests were wending their way home, apart from those who continued to deny advancing years and sought out the city’s vibrant nightclub scene.
‘You don’t have to go you know,’ Botox said.
‘Too late now. No turning back.’
‘No one would blame you if –’
‘I don’t want to. My mind is set.’
‘You cannot run from yourself.’
‘The hole in the soul? Perhaps not. But I do not have to stare it in the face each day.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘Not at all.’ For the first time that night Codger smiled. ‘Possibly just a little perverse.’
You think, I once thought I could be an artist and now I am just a portrait in decay. The person I thought my friend taking delight in my worst memories.
Botox was having his own reflections. He was finally acknowledging that he was generally mistrusted by the world at large, and that his last remaining friend no longer liked him.
They neither felt nor heard the person hover into their terrain, as her mammoth frame silently glided over the floor.
‘Good evening gentlemen,’ Cinders says in her quietly mocking tone. ‘I thought I might find you two here reminiscing on past misdeeds.’
Codger had often reflected on how telling silence can be. In the minutes prior to his infamous shovel killing the night air had frozen with poignant expectation, like waiting at the crossroads for a moon to give direction, the nervous clicking of the prisoner’s teeth a rhythm at the gates to hell.
He had also reason to consider how a book can be written in a look. The eyes never lie may be a clichéd phrase but it was the truest statement he had ever heard. The bulging eyes of a prisoner consumed with fear and panic. Colleagues’ incapable of making a decision looking upon him with expectation. The smirking winks of commander Botox as if to say I know what you are thinking so just get on with it. The hardening in his own eyes as his decision became decisive action. He did it because no one else could.
The look between you and Cinders expresses shared knowledge and a common understanding that others are excluded from. It’s a memory from a shared experience that has left a legacy of trust and obligation. Two strangers in challenging circumstances who saved each other’s life.
Botox sees it and misreads what is being displayed, which is what most people would do. He sees suppressed passion, chortles saying, ‘What is that old phrase again? Old lovers never die, they just live on faded dreams.’
Both you and Cinders laugh but at Botox rather than with him and neither deems to try and dissuade him misperception. He notes the mirth in your eyes and corrects himself, ‘ah. Is it love unrequited?’. Again you and Cinders laugh because again he is wrong; though you cannot deny you once felt the urging in the loins for Cinders which she either never noticed or studiously ignored. Now you feel embarrassed at the thought of an old man seeking dalliance with a younger woman.
Now you observe the withering looks Botox and Cinders share. They despise each other. Two implacable foes forced into grudging alliance. Completely different in outlook and completely similar in approach, one now ascendant while the other has entered his decline.
‘If looks could kill’ then Botox and Cinders would have murdered each other ten times over.
Cinder’s sulphurous red lava spitting glower was neatly deflected by an opaque wall lacking emotion. Her darts penetrated clouds and withered. Botox responded with barbs of callous indifference, like spears covered in smouldering acid. They evaporated when struck by Cinder’s fragrant air of superiority. Botox’s eyes sunk into his skull becoming fathomless pits then spewed the pent up frustration of a career stalled by the ascent of his opponent.
Cinder stepped back, placed her hands behind her back, closed her eyes and pointed her head towards heaven, intentionally displaying vulnerability. The exposure of the neck normally being a symbol of respect and honour towards the person being met, Cinder is mocking Botox as an insipid jellyfish.
Stillness.
You step between them.
Still the silence crushed.
Suddenly, Botox spins around you to face Cinder. A small man, he lifted himself to his toes, then jumps to lightly kiss Cinder on the cheek. ‘My dear Madame Cinder you really should not leave yourself exposed. You don’t know where the barbs could come from.’
Cinder lowers her head and opens her eyes; the volcanoes swinging into dancing flowers. She wraps Botox into her mammoth arms, declaring, ‘Darling Botox. A person could crush the very breathe out of your malignant soul. And if it wasn’t for this man,’ Cinders nods in your direction, ‘you would already be in jail. Who do you think protected you both from the GRC? You owe me.’
Botox steps back, shaking yet defiant, ‘Just following rules dear. Which was also your excuse.’
You feel the frustration build, on this the day you are saying goodbye to all, and scream, ‘Soon I will be gone and I will never see you again!’ A statement that shocks Botox and Cinders and deepens our sadness. Is this really all I have left? Then it is better I am gone.
*
The character of Codger Spumante is a compilation of people I have met or read about across southern and eastern Africa. The story Botox Delux tells at Codger’s farewell function is true. South African journalist Jacques Pauw made a TV documentary about the apartheid operative and assassin Eugene de Kock. In the documentary one of de Kock’s agents, Peter Stewart, tells the tale of killing a captured ANC operative after the gun failed, concluding with a smirking ‘well, is there a good way to die?’ A few months later a short newspaper article appeared. Stewart was in his garage working on his truck when he dropped his screwdriver. The screwdriver shorted the connection on the truck’s starter motor causing it to surge forward pinning Stewart to the wall, where he remained stuck for several hours until finally dying. Which can lead a person to conclude, ‘Yes Peter, there is a good way to die and it wasn’t your death.’
Painting credit Edvard Munch, Selvportrett med sigarett, 1895
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