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 controclass="underline" 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.—
Harald’s neighbour turned to his ear against the volume of laughter and music. — But you don’t know how he takes everyone’s troubles, doesn’t forget them. I’m telling you the truth. Although he’s a big man today. Helps many who don’t pay him. We were kids together in Alex.—
The professor was holding the beauty, Motsamai’s daughter, by the elbow. — Did you meet this niece of mine, Motshiditsi?—
She laughed as with long-suffering indulgence. — Ntate, who can pronounce that mouthful. I’m Tshidi, that’s enough. But Mr Lindgard and I have already met.—
— She’s my protégée. I saw her potential when she was this high and asking questions we dignified savants in the family couldn’t answer.—
He says what’s expected of him. — And she’s fulfilled what you saw.—
— Well, let me tell you she started off shrewdly by being bom at the right time, growing up at the right time. That’s the aleatory factor that counts most for us! Her father and I belong to the generation that was educated at missionary school, St. Peter’s, no less … Fort Hare. So we were equipped ahead of our time to take our place eventually in the new South Africa that needs us. Then came the generation subjected to that system euphemistically called education, ‘Bantu education’. They were equipped to be messengers, cleaners and nannies. Her generation came next — some of them could have admission to private schools, to universities, study overseas; they completed a real education equipped just in time to take up planning, administering our country. That’s the story. She’s going to outshine even her father.—
— You’re a lawyer, too.—
— I’m an agricultural economist at the Land Bank.—
— Oh that’s interesting … there are things that are unclear to me, in the process of providing loans for housing — although our field is urban, of course, the same kind of problems in principle must come up in the transformation I understand is taking place at the Bank.—
This young woman is too confident to feel a need to make him acknowledge any further her competence to answer, he’s passed the test, he’s placed himself on the receiving end of their exchange.
— In principle, yes. But the agricultural sector was not only integrated broadly into the financial establishment, through apartheid marketing structures, the Maize Board and so on — in fact in many ways it could afford to be independent of it — the Land Bank was there for them, essentially a politically-based resource for the underwriting of white farmers. The government, through the Bank, provided loans which were never expected to be paid back. The agricultural community, by definition white, because blacks were not allowed to own land, they weren’t even statistics in the deal — the white farmers were expected to make good only in terms of political loyalty coming from an important constituency.—
— And now this is changing.—
— Changing!—
— How d’you see it’s going to happen?—
He has only half her attention for a moment — she has caught the eye of, and makes a discreet signal with a red-nailed hand graceful as a wing to, someone across the room.