The Lion Seeker (34 page)

One Saturday evening after the showroom is closed he is scrubbing the black grease from his hands and forearms, bent shirtless over an oil drum full of green water, when Hugo comes down and puts his foot up on an engine block. He wedges a cigar and a cigarette in his lips, lights them both then pokes the ciggy into Isaac's mouth. —Know what? We just busted the sales record.

Isaac puffs, one watering eye half shut to the curl of smoke, drying his arms with a rag. —Know what? I turned twenny last week and didn't even notice.

—What you want from me, birthday smooch?

—Ganna get that from Yvesy. She's taking me to concert tonight.

—How sweet. Listen, I reckon it was your boss, that Labuschagne, he was in here also today.

Isaac shrugs. It's a possibility they'd talked about, one of the reasons he doesn't show his face in the showroom (an apprentice panel beater running a business on the side in the same industry would probably not go down well). Hugo says he knows Labuschagne from having visited the garages on Marshall Street to spread the word on their sales.

—Funny thing, says Hugo. He asked me do I know of a mechanic.

—He's
the mechanic.

—Ja, but he's looking to hire another one. Business is up for everyone, looks like. Nowadays can't find a good mechanic for love or money.

Isaac reaches for his shirt.

—Gotta hurry hurry hey, says Hugo. Mustn't keep the female waiting.

—Stuff you.

Hugo winks and dips in his pocket for the bottle. Isaac has a flash of a racing paper folded in there.

 

Late in the night after he drops off Yvonne he drives home with the taste of her still in his mouth and the lemony smell of her hair in his clothes, the drugged feeling of her spirit and presence still so strong in him that it lives like a sweet heaviness in his blood, beats a soft echo behind his every pulse. He doesn't even notice the Studebaker on Buxton Street till it flashes its lights at him as he walks towards his house from where he's parked. He hesitates. An arm comes out, scoops at him.

When he leans down, a voice says: —Isaac, sit with me.

He squints at the dark profile. An overhead light comes on. —Bladey hell.

—Please.

—Christ. The hell
you
doing here?

 

The attorney Papendropolous puts a briefcase on his lap once Isaac's next to him in the back, and the driver—wide-necked, stocky—steps out of the vehicle and shuts the door. Papendropolous asks Isaac to roll up the window.

—You been waiting here all night, what?

—I've brought a message from our mutual friend.

—Our who?

Papendropolous cants his spaniel nose, his thick eyebrows lift very slightly.

—Ukay . . . 

—He's heard good things about you. He wants you to know this. To encourage you.

—He does? Av—

Lips snap on the lawyer's even teeth. —Don't say a name. No need for it.

Isaac watches him. —What you mean he's
heard
?

—He hears many things, our friend. He has ears all around the city. Eyes.

Isaac thinks about this.

—He has also had second thoughts about . . . what transpired.

—Trans what?

—Your mother's request.

Isaac blinks.

—You understand?

—What, you saying he changed his mind?

—Yes.

—Why?

The eyebrows ripple, a kind of shrug for the face.

—What, cos a me?

A pause. —He's been impressed by what he's heard. Beyond that I can't say.

—Well what did
he
say exactly?

Papendropolous stretches his neck against his bracing hand, apparent irritation that raises the same in Isaac who tells him,—Look hey, what is this now? Back of car the middle of the bladey night. Why dint he just give us a bell like a normal? Why couldn't he come and see us and come in and speak to Ma himself? Ma, she is the one hey. Not me. He is her—

Papendropolous has his hand up; his lips snap again. —Isaac. Understand this first. You may not make contact. He doesn't want contact under any circumstances. Don't ever even refer to him in connection, got it?

—Why, is he not well?

—He's fine. What I'd like from you—acknowledge my terms. Otherwise this is all off. Acknowledge.

—I don't even know what this
is
.

—No contact. Don't even try. Else we say good night and I'll go back right now and you'll never hear from me.

—Jee-zus. Hold your hormones, man.

—I've waited hours to speak alone. I go now and no one's the wiser. You dreamed me up.

Isaac watches him, the blunt shadows unmoving in the crannies of his downlit face. —You a tough little bastard aren't you.

—I represent our friend, that's all. I'm talking to you as interlocutor with your mother.

—The what now?

He arches his neck, grimaces. —The language barrier. So I'm dealing with you and you deal with her.

Isaac grins. —Ach, you just scared a her, isn't it. Don't blame you.

Papendropolous doesn't return any glint of humour. —I'll deal with you, he says flatly.

Isaac nods. —He'll deal. The wheeler-dealer. Well what
is
this bladey deal then? I won't try contact no one.

Papendropolous nods, opens the briefcase. His head ducks under the light, an ostrich egg of leathern flesh ringed at its peak with black hair. It's his nose that seems to edge first into the papers, as if to sniff out the most pungent document for the hirsute groping fingers.

He lifts out a foolscap envelope, yellow, the flap tied with red string. Unwinding, he says: —These forms need to be filled out. One form per family. This means the man plus wife and dependants, defined age fourteen and under. Signature lines leave blank, of course.

—Wait a sec now. What is this?

—What what is this? This is our friend.

Isaac thinks hard, his temples knocking with heartbeats. —Ukay, listen, what happened over there, I dunno if you know. What happened, she gave
him
money hey. Told him put what he could with that and then—

The sheets are neatly stacked on the shut briefcase across his lap now; his stubby fingers tap. —This is how he wants it.

—What you saying?

—He provides the funds, but your mother must direct them.

—Direct?

—See this?

He lifts a sheet. Isaac squints in the weak light; concentration is also difficult, so many other churning thoughts want their place in the front of his mind. It's a South African immigration document. Names, ages, address. —But this all checks like something
they
have to do, ay. I mean on their end.

—As I said, leave blank the signatures. But you
must
fill in the rest. They'll be sent on to the British consulate in Lithuania. Then all they will need to do is sign them to get their visas and travel tickets.

—Everything, tickets also? Paid for?

—Correct.

The paper is back on the pile; the fingernails tap.

—How's that ganna happen?

—It doesn't matter.

—Yes it does.

—Not to you.

—I wanna know.

He grimaces. —It's complicated.

—I've got a right.

Papendropolous closes his eyes for four seconds. —There is a senior individual in immigration who'll take care of this. But it has to be coordinated with others. It may take some time.

—Hey, and what about Aliens hey? What about that emigration board?

For the first time, a look of surprise: the lawyer blinks in a quick flurry. —It'll be arranged. Exemptions.

—It will?

—It is.

Isaac looks down at the forms. —For a price, right.

—Indeed. Every completed family application needs a payment of five hundred.

—Five hundred what?

—Pounds. In cash.

—Jesus fucken Christ.

—Indeed.

—Pardon my French, but seriously, man, a half a grand
each?
They mad in the head?

—Each family.

—Mad in the head.

—You said it already yourself, how immigration policy's not friendly to Lithuanian nationals. Believe me, it's difficult even for this price. Might not be possible at all.

Isaac thinks about this, looking away, lapping once around his mouth with a dry tongue, swallowing. The cost of a life, a price for everything.

—So we fill in these forms and then what? Send em back to you?

Another grimace, this one making like Isaac is a Stupid. —No, he says. I've said that and meant it. No circumstances does our friend want his name tied to this. Same goes for the recipient. This is why this is a cash deal. This is why I'm talking to you in the back of a car. The recipient's not accepting funds even from a representative like me, right? He wants it from your mother only.

—Why would he want that?

—Isaac.

—Doesn't make sense.

Papendropolous sighs. —I don't know. There's ever an inquiry, he can plead genuine compassion as a mitigating factor. Cites a personal meeting and appeal from your mother, et cetera. That's one reason I can think of. Also, that it had
nothing
to do with our mutual friend. But, Isaac, this part doesn't concern you.

—It fucken does, Isaac tells this snot-nosed attorney, his voice lifting. And I don't understand what you just said properly, man, so just talk bladey straight English to me will you.

Papendropolous goes narrow in the eyes.

—What? says Isaac.

He shakes his head, a tiny movement. —It's got to be clean hands for dirty money. Your mother has to take these forms with the cash personally to the man. She and only she, with you of course as translator. Those are the terms. Clear now? Good. So—you want this or not? I need an answer.

Isaac looks at the forms, the briefcase. —You telling me now you sitting next to me here with, what,
thousands
of pounds right there?

—Sadly not. He digs out another envelope, shaped like an ordinary letter only longer, and unsealed. He removes two pages of heavy paper folded in three sections. Isaac sees a letterhead, fancy lines under three names. Vance, Johnson and Smythe, Attorneys at Law.

—A letter of release for the funds. When the time comes you and your mother take it to their offices on Diagonal Street. The funds are held in blind trust in the safe there. Your mother must sign for the release. Then you two go to the meeting with the recipient. It will happen quickly when it happens.

—So what, we just bell them up, let them know we coming?

—There're three direct phone numbers in that letter which ring through to Mr. Vance. When the time comes he will be expecting your call.

—When is that?

—You fill out the forms quick as you can. Be ready, that's important. But you also may have to be patient. What'll happen, sometime in the near future—could be next week, could be six, seven months, most likely somewhere in the middle—I'll contact you with details. Date, time, place.

Isaac says nothing.

—Understand me? Way it works, there'll be this short time when the right people're in place to see your relatives through. That's when you'll hear from me. You'll take your mother, go and get the money from Vance, go and pay it with these forms at the meeting. Got it?

—Ja, I get you man. What you think, I'm a Stupid?

—Then your answer is what?

—Hang on. Lemme think a sec.

There's a silence in which Isaac gnaws on the top of his fist.

—Ukay, why don't we just get the money right now? Keep it all ready with them forms.

—It's there for safekeeping, says Papendropolous flatly. Keeps the source of the funds legally secret and separate. And if things don't pan out, the money goes back to our friend. Obviously.

Isaac nods. —Ja, cos he doesn't trust us hey.

Papendropolous snaps his lips. —Look, I'm here to tell you how this is going to be done, Isaac. That's all.

—Oright, man, I hear you. Go over it again one time.

A measured inhalation: —I give you these forms. You fill them in. When things come together, I'll instruct Vance to expect your call, to release the funds. The exact date of the meeting with the recipient is going to be last-minute, that's the nature of how he wants it plus other factors that aren't your concern. You—both of you—be ready to move fast when you hear from me. First you go to Vance for the money, then to the recipient. When you see the recipient, don't say anything to him. Just let your mother hand him the package. Answer his questions if there are. Nothing else. Is that clear enough now?

—So now we fill these out and we wait.

—Correct.

—Cos you still waiting to hear from this oke in the guvmint?

—Basically, yes.

—So what if we fill em out and you don't hear from him, or like he cancels?

—That is a very real possibility. There's no guarantees here at all. But don't delay. It's also possible this could happen in the next couple weeks.

—Or not, says Isaac.

—That's right. Look—you want to proceed or no?

— . . . Ukay, give.

Papendropolous shifts the pile across. There's two joined pages that make a cover around a single page, Isaac finds, and two more of these covers with pages in them under the first. He looks through them: all are identical. —Wait a second.

—What?

—There's only three of these here.

—Three sets, yes.

—I don't understand.

—What now?

—You said each one is for a family.

Papendropolous cocks his head. —That's right.

—But she's got five sisters, man. There's
five
a them.

Papendropolous pinches his lips together with thumb and forefinger; his cheeks slightly puff.