Gordimer Nadine - The House Gun

— Oh I find the teenage is the worst! In our culture, I mean, you don’t kiss your auntie, but you must greet her in the proper way we’ve always done.—

Harald, under his conversation with others heard; Claudia was laughing, talking about Duncan.

— You’re in the legal game, with Hamilton? — The brother-in-law, or was it some other relative.

— No, no, insurance.—

— That’s also a good game to be in. You pay, pay all your life and if you live a long time before you die the insurance people have had more of your money than they’re going to give out, isn’t it.—

There was head-thrown-back laughter.

— That’s the law of diminishing returns.—

The different levels of education and sophistication at ease in the gathering were something that didn’t exist in the social life Harald had known; there, if you had a brother-in-law who was a meat packer at a wholesale butchery (the first man had announced his métier) you would not invite him on the same occasion when you expected compatibility with a client from the corporate business world, and an academic introduced as Professor Seakhoa who would drily produce an axiom in ironic correction of naïve humour. Hamilton put a hand on either shoulder, Harald’s and the meat packer’s. — Beki, my friend here doesn’t come knocking on your door selling funeral policies, he’s a director who sits away up on the fifteenth floor of one of those corporate headquarters where bonds for millions are being negotiated for industries and housing down there below — the big development stuff.—

— Well, that must be an even better game, nê. More bucks. Because the government’s got to pay up.—

New faces appeared with the movement in and out, about the room. Some young friends of the adolescents, their voices in the higher register. The academic, whose belly wobbled in appreciation of his own wit, turned to tease them. Claudia — where was Claudia — Harald kept antennae out for her — she was talking to the son, no doubt about the prospects of a career in medicine, he had been captured by his father and delivered to her. A glimpse of her face as she was distracted for a moment to the offer of samoosas : Claudia’s expression with her generous frown of energy; probably about to suggest that the boy come to her clinic, put on a white coat, lend a hand where it could be useful and try out for himself what the practice of medicine should mean in service to the people and the country. She laughed again, apparently in encouragement of something the boy was saying.

A tiny, light-coloured old man had already scented substantial food and sat with a heaped plate on his knees eating a chicken leg warily as a cat that has stolen from the table. Everyone sauntered, talking, colliding amiably, to another room almost as large as the one they had left, where meat, chicken and potatoes, putu and salads, bowls of dessert decorated with swirling scripts of whipped cream were set out. Harald found his way to her. — We didn’t expect a party. — But she only smiled as if she were still talking to another guest. — Oh I don’t think it’s really that. Just the way the family gets together for the weekend.—

He had the curious feeling she wanted to move away from him, away among others choosing their food, among them, these strangers not only of this night, but of all her life outside the encounters in her profession, the dissection of their being into body parts. Here, among closely mingled lives that had no connection with hers and his — even the connection that Hamilton had in his chambers was closed off by an entry to his privacy — if she lost herself among these others she escaped from what held the two of them bound more tightly than love, than marriage, a bag tied over their heads, unable to breathe any air but that of something terrible that had happened on another Friday night. There was the hiss of beer cans being opened all around but Hamilton, who had filled his clients’ gin-and-tonic glasses several times, brought out wine. His own glass in hand, he went about offering one bottle after another; Harald didn’t refuse, as he customarily would, to mix drinks — anything that would maintain the level of equanimity attained would do. A man holding his plate of food carefully balanced before him came dancing up with intricate footwork as if with a gift; not of food, but with an unspoken invitation to partake — of the evening, the company, the short-term consolations. A man who had overheard that Harald was in the business of financing loans was taking the opportunity to corner him for advice, with heckling interruptions from others.

— It’s no win, man, without the collateral you can’t get the kind of money you’re dreaming about. Ask him. Ask him. Am I right? If you want to build a little house for yourself somewhere, that’s a different thing, then go to one of the government agencies, housing whatyoucallit, you get your little cents for bricks and windows—

— A casino! And where’ll you find a licence for that—

— Oh licence is nothing. Don’t you know the new laws coming in about gambling? He’ll get that. But if he finds the property, the piece of land and maybe there’s something on it he wants to convert, or maybe it’s empty — then the trouble begins. Oh just wait, man. Objections. Objections from the people in the neighbourhood, applications to the city council — you don’t know what hit you, it can drag on for months. And still you won’t win. I know, I know. Freedom. Freedom to object, object.—

— That’s how whites see it. Live anywhere you like but not next door to me.—

— Let him answer Matsepa—

— We don’t have capital. What is this ‘collateral’ but capital? For generations we’ve never had a chance to create capital, tonight’s Friday, every Friday people have had their pay packet and that’s what they ate until the next pay day. Finish. No bucks. Collateral is property, a good position , not just a job. We couldn’t have it — not our grandfathers, not our fathers, and now we’re supposed to have this collateral after two years of our government. Two years!—

— But let Matsepa ask, man!—

— The people your company gives money to for projects, where is their collateral? Where do they get it?—

— Look — the route to take is by consortium. That’s how it is done. We are talking of sizeable projects which require development funds; yes. — Harald hears his Board Room vocabulary in his own voice coming on as at the accidental touch of some remote control: who is that holding forth? — It’s a matter of the individual who has the vision, the idea … project … finding others who will come in … most have studied … the project requires … criteria laid down … our co-operation with the National Development Council … viable economically … benefit to the population … employment … production of commodity … The man may have the brains — and the empty pockets; he has to link up with people whose position in some trustworthy way … — He was being heard by a young man, a son, lying in a cell looking up at a barred window.

— So I must look for another Dr Motlana or Don Ncube?—

— Man, they’ve got all the ideas already, they don’t need you, Matsepa.—

— I’m coming to see you, anyway, Mr … Lindgard, that right? I’ll contact your secretary, she can call me when you’ve got free time. I move around a lot but at least I’ve got a cell phone, there’s my collateral.—

Hamilton came by. — Gentlemen, no free consultations. We’re here to relax. My people, Harald … I can’t get out of my car in town without someone blocking my way and wanting to know what they must do about some shop that’s repossessed their furniture or their wife who’s run away with their savings.—