“Problems are what I do,” said Hershel. He could feel his palms sweating again. He couldn’t afford to fuck this up.
Tversky placed a sheet of cardboard on the table between them. There were ridges from where it had been folded repeatedly, though now the cardboard was pressed flat. Hershel stared at the cardboard, his mind empty. “I don’t understand,” he said, putting forward a hand to touch it gingerly.
“Look.” Tversky picked up the cardboard and folded it to make a wedge, like a fan a child might make. “Seems small. But small things can cause big damage.”
Hershel wiggled his toes inside his shoes; the rebellious gesture calmed him somewhat.
“You’re managing 45 Long now, right?”
Hershel nodded. He was all too familiar with the building he was taking over. He’d managed it some time back, before some imprudent behaviour had led to his replacement by Liam. Besides Tversky, who conducted his business from the top floor, the tenants were Stef, who ran a life-coaching company, and a Congolese guy selling car wax.
“Then you’re the man,” said Tversky, placing the cardboard between them on the table, “who needs to stop this from happening. On the weekend this was jammed in the front door by Stefanie while she carried stuff inside. She didn’t bother to take it away. And it’s not the first time. I happened to be in my office and heard footsteps on the stairwell. Luckily, it was only a bergie wandering in off the street, drunk and confused, so no threat. But,” – now Avram spoke emphatically, leaving a didactic pause between each word – “anything might have happened.”
“I’ll chat to Stef, Avram. You’re right. You can’t leave a door open in this city.” He would have to muster courage to speak with Stef, but he promised himself he would do it. Hershel now decided to make the speech he sometimes gave to tenants when they complained about crime or security issues. It was important to come across as serious-minded. “You know that entering a building, any space really, is purely a matter of will.” He could hear Hazel’s heels tapping reassuringly against the wooden floors as she walked past the boardroom. “Some buildings open easily, but others are more difficult. The security of a building is a matter of the amount of will it demands from an intruder. How badly does he want to get in?”
“Very good.” Tversky clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, thinking. “Applies to the human heart as well, in fact. The heart is permeable by a strong will. Are you familiar with the mystical orientation, Hershel?”
“No. Though I’ve got no problem with orientations.” Hershel was not sure what Tversky meant but was not about to object to his lifestyle choices.
“You might have an aptitude for it. Actually, that reminds me, I’ve got something for you.” He bent down and extracted a sheaf of papers from a creased leather satchel. “I give it to all my new employees.”
“I’m not one of –”
“Letters written by a young Dutch visitor to the Cape, more than two hundred years ago. Motivational and true. Translated, obviously, and made more readable. But you can’t go wrong with a true story.”
Hershel received the papers gloomily.
“On the business at hand: I haven’t needed to tell you before, but I’m holding something precious on my floor. The safety of this thing can’t be left to the will of unknown people.”
“My advice is that you put it in a bank vault.”
“It needs to be where I am. I’m asking a small thing – keep my floor safe. Exert your will, Hershel. Let me tell you a story.”
Hershel kept his eyes on Tversky, working not to show dismay. Maybe, Hershel thought, there’s something about me that leads people to offer unsolicited parables.
“Once I was on a flight to one of those countries they invented when the Soviet Union broke up. Kyrgyzstan. Business takes you to some funny places. There was bad turbulence near our destination – screaming from passengers, hand luggage bumping around in overhead lockers. After a while, the pilot came on the intercom. The guy was completely relaxed. He spoke in Kyrgyz, then added a few words in English. What he said was – I swear to you, Hershel – ‘Don’t worry, everything is out of control.’ Within a minute the weather improved and we were smoothly on our way.”
“And the lesson is?” asked Hershel, keeping his tone free of sarcasm.
“Grace under pressure. I’ve got a building with weird and unreliable tenants, I know that. They drive me nuts, and I don’t even know what they’ll do to you now you’re back on the job. Still, I want you to take control. They’re the turbulence, but you’re the pilot.”
After Tversky had left, Hershel sat back in his chair, eyeing the papers on the desk. Would Tversky expect him to read them soon? Might he quiz Hershel on their contents? Perhaps he would just read the first bit.
Menno
De Kaap
14th January 1793
Dear Baltasar,
You were a fool not to join me. It is a warm, clear morning and I am off to hunt baboons. My life is an adventure, my friend, and you too could have been here, gathering up stories to tell your children – assuming, of course, that you manage one day to entice some wretched creature to be your wife.
Yesterday I found a position, not a moment too soon, because I had not a stuiver left. One might think that a recent student of Leiden University could enjoy his pick of tutoring positions here, as you did in Amsterdam, but the burghers of this town care no more for my knowledge of the natural sciences than would a goose. The children are taught by a supply of rickety old soldiers hired from the Castle. So I was relieved when, after a month of my looking for work, a man requested my services yesterday. I was to replace his son’s previous tutor, who had taken to getting drunk before the morning lessons, rather than following sound pedagogical principles and delaying until lunch.
I accepted immediately (no sense in waiting, and I received fifteen rixdollars in advance) and we went together to his house in Long Street. I shall be living there while I instruct the son, who – I should say now, while my dislike is fresh – is a nincompoop, a fat-faced twelve-year-old boy who cannot multiply or divide, reads simple stories of horses and farmers in a halting, sullen voice, and stares at me as if I am the idiot. It is not easy to imagine any satisfaction arising from our association.
I was directed to wait at the fireplace – unlit, since it is summer here – until dinner time. There I spent a dismal period with the boy’s paternal grandfather, a man as wrinkled as a prune, and a brown short-haired dog. Each occupied a chair. The conversation between the three fireplace companions went as follows:
I: Good evening to you, Sir.
Prune continues staring into the empty grate.
I: A fine dusk.
Prune slaps his hand against the arm of his chair.
Dog cringes against the back of its chair, anticipating a blow.
Prune (apparently speaking to both man and dog): Sit quietly and let us have some peace.
There was not a book to be seen among the contents of the room – which included a threadbare lion’s hide on the wall, a painting above the fireplace depicting with damning fidelity a pinched-lipped woman (could this have been Prune’s bride?), and several rifles on racks. After looking around for a while, I spent my time staring at my hands, until I became aware of an evil odour. At this I looked up, but nothing in the face of man or dog alerted me as to who might be responsible; perhaps they had both contributed. I sat in this silent tableau until I was called to the dining room.
At the head of the table sat my employer, Mijnheer Vandenbroeck. He was – indeed, is – short but imposing, dense with muscle and fat, like the side of beef that was served to us for dinner. His wife is thin and stern. You have already become acquainted with Prune and