“I know about hardship. Remember where I came from.”
This material was not new to Hershel. Black had grown up in Mitchells Plain, mother a maid, father a drunk. Over the years, he’d frequently described for Hershel his rise to success; in each telling, his father became more derelict, his mother more saintly.
“I understand what it’s like to have your back against the wall,” Black continued. “I don’t want you to feel like that. You can come to us with your problems.”
Who was us? Black was the boss; Liam, though frequently to be found murmuring to Black and understood to be his deputy, was also only an employee.
As if reading his thoughts, Black said: “Now that Liam’s on leave, and of course I’ll be on leave soon, you’ll need to deal with Avram Tversky. Alone, without backup. Can you handle Tversky?”
Hershel nodded.
“Because you had that – that problem with one of his buildings. But you’re the only guy around when I leave. Big responsibility. He’s close to signing a huge deal with us.” Hershel nodded, attempting enthusiasm. “We’ll be managing all his properties: not just Long Street, but also Woodstock, Salt River, maybe elsewhere. Obviously we have to keep him happy until the deal is signed.”
There was an expectant silence. “Of course,” said Hershel. “I must keep Tversky sweet.”
“I get it, things are tough for you at the moment.” Black adopted a concerned expression. “Alex and all. How’s that, by the way?”
“Fine.” Hershel didn’t want to punctuate Black’s pep talk with a discussion of his marital breakdown. The document was sitting on his desk at home. (“Just sign the thing,” Alex had said. Even over the phone, he could hear that her jaw was set. “What are you waiting for? Nothing’s going to change, I promise. You haven’t changed – still as slow as watching tar melt, if you don’t mind my saying – and it won’t make any difference to ignore the situation. You’re just holding things up.”)
“Good to hear.” Black pushed back his chair to stand up, and Hershel followed his lead. “Gotta dash – meeting some guys at the Waterfront.” Black’s tone was cheerful, as if the talk had been pleasurable for them both. Hershel felt a hand patting him roughly on the shoulder. “Look after Mr Tversky for us.”
“You can rely on me, Maurice.”
Walking out of the boardroom, Hershel tried to infuse his veins with motivational energy. This morning he should be cold calling, trying to entice tenants from their current buildings to his sites. He wandered over to Hazel, who sat at the entrance in front of the double glass doors. Her desk contained her bulky old computer, a pad of lined paper and a pen ending in purple fluff, given to her by her granddaughter. She was probably in her late fifties, but looked younger, with her long hair dyed honey blonde. He popped a Kit Kat down on her desk.
“Thanks.” She opened a drawer for the chocolate; her fingernails had a gold glitter polish. Hershel caught a glimpse of her legs, tanned and comely. “You’re always thinking of me, Hersh. What did the baas want with you?”
“Told me to work harder and make him more money.”
Hazel snorted. Just visible through his open office door, Black was standing with his foot lifted onto his swivel chair, phone pressed to his ear.
Hershel manoeuvred himself around her desk and down the fluorescent passage towards his office.
“Hersh,” called Black behind him. “Remember: two arrows.”
Hershel turned to see his boss in the doorway, hands raised to shoulder height, drawing back an imaginary bowstring. He shot a fantasy shaft, and Hershel pressed his hand to his heart and took a step back.
Black laughed. “Hazel, is it hot in here, or is it just you?” he said as he made his way towards the lift.
By Friday, Black had gone – off to The Four Seasons in Mauritius for a short break with his current girlfriend. Hershel had heard a great deal about Black’s “island paradise”. Liam was in Hermanus, staying in his holiday house with his wife and kids until the second week of January. Hershel was sitting at his desk, doodling a giant duck with an outsized beak sitting on a Shetland pony.
Hazel knocked on his door and came to stand next to his desk, waving a sheaf of papers in his face. “Didn’t see you yesterday afternoon.”
“Ja, I left a bit early,” he said. “Thought I’d walk around the area, do some cold calling in person.”
Hazel gave him a yeah-sure look. In tight jeans and a black T-shirt with silver beadwork in the shape of an apple, she looked sexy to Hershel, despite the probable fifteen-year age gap. “A woman phoned. She didn’t leave her name, but said she’d call later. And here’s the list of businesses in Bree Street that the baas said you must contact.”
Hershel took the papers without a glance, dumping them atop the messy paperwork on his desk; he tried to stem the tide with his hands as the pile collapsed.
“And Tversky’s coming,” she said. “You better get your knickers in order. He’ll be here in two minutes.”
“Bloody hell, I’m trying to work on a lease.”
“Sorry.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Ooh! You’ve been working out?”
Hershel couldn’t help laughing; it was so obviously untrue. As a child, he’d been fat and needy, following his mother and his teachers around, wrapping his chubby body inside their skirts in order to avoid the rough games of his peers. Some of his happiest childhood memories were of sitting in the child’s seat in the shopping trolley, high up and out of harm’s way, enjoying a shiny, salty sausage while his mother trundled him around Pick n Pay. There had been a gap, from about eighteen to twenty-one, when his girth had been overwhelmed by the vigour of youth. For a while, he’d looked buff; girls had shown an interest. He’d surfed and lifted weights, run at night along the Sea Point promenade: high on endorphins, smiling at old ladies with their dogs, greeting hobos drowsing on the benches. “The world’s my oyster!” he remembered calling out one windy evening, powering up the hill into Bantry Bay, sea spray hitting his face.
But by the time he’d dropped out of university (there were a number of gaps in his transcript, though when discussing it with her friends his mother would say that a single final course, a most difficult and unfairly assessed one, had defeated him), Hershel’s weight had caught up with him. Academic struggle, comfort eating and the fact that he was no longer growing had all contributed to sluggishness. He stopped surfing and running, and the golden age of attention from the opposite sex faded.
Then, aged twenty-three, he’d met Alex. She’d been from a poor family, had gone to work straight after matric, but was sufficiently driven for them both. She seemed to regard him as a diamond in the rough, or maybe a statue waiting to be chipped from a block of stone. Or perhaps just a middle-class Jewish boy who’d studied commerce and would surely make a success of things. And Hershel had been impressed by Alex, her relentless brisk energy as she climbed the Woolworths ladder from cashier to food department supervisor, set on becoming branch manager. He’d also managed to make her laugh quite often. They’d married a year later, his mother and bride conferring for months over the wedding, planning every detail, even the underwear – black boxer shorts – he’d worn under his tuxedo.
“Speak of the devil,” said Hazel, as a bell rang from the front office. Hershel followed Hazel to the reception area. A short man in his mid-sixties, fit and strong, dressed in a white T-shirt and shorts and wearing leather sandals, was standing at the centre of the room: Tversky. He carried no briefcase and looked more like a holidaymaker newly returned from some strenuous hike than a businessman.
“Hello, Mr Tversky,” said Hazel, smiling. “Can I get you tea or coffee?”
Tversky shook his head, a minimal and abrasive movement. “No thanks.”