A World Apart and Other Stories

  ‘Gene?’

  Asked a male voice, and he turned to see a short man, with jet black hair – Akira.

  Gene nodded and followed him to the camper.

  They greeted each other with serious smiles, but there was no conversation. It was strange how much they knew about each other whilst at the same time being perfect strangers. Each member took up a position then fell into silence. Lucy, a middle aged woman in a dull brown headscarf, started the engine and headed up towards the wooded heights above the city as it started to rain steadily. Gene, seated between Doris and Goran in the second row, stared out at the wet tarmac, unable to let himself catch furtive glimpses of his companions. He had not imagined this cold reality, had expected some camaraderie, some introductions, a handshake at least, some real contact. As it was they travelled on in silence and fearful respect, like the passengers on an underground train.

  The streets and highways were empty and it was not long before they pulled up and parked under some willows in a secluded area well away from the picnic areas and playgrounds. That had been Doris's idea, she did not want children to stumble across the van later in the day. They waited quietly for a while until Wesley got out and attached the tube to the exhaust whilst Lucy protected him from the rain with her umbrella. The tube was pulled back into the van through a small side window, then sealed off with plastic bags and masking tape. They were ready.

  There were no speeches, no mutual farewells. Each member of the group sat immersed in their own thoughts, patiently waiting for the engine to start up once more.

  Just before Lucy turned the ignition key Gene leant across Doris and opened the sliding side door.

  ‘I'm sorry. I, I... I'm sorry.’

  He closed the door gently behind him. They watched him walk away, but nobody spoke. There would be no recrimination, they had all signed that.

  Gene stood under the trees in the rain and watched the scene through the zoom lens of his pocket camera. The windows of the camper van were by now covered in condensation, but he could just make out Akira's jet black hair, and Lucy was still partially visible in the driver's seat. All of the passengers were gradually fading, dissolving into grey, until he could see them no longer. He turned and began to walk back along the deserted streets towards the city.

  BELLAVISTA

  The architects had designed Bellavista so that every home would have a view, even if it meant having to crane your neck out of a side window. Any blind spots had been reserved for commercial space, garages and service areas.

  The natural beauty of this part of the world could best be appreciated from the verandahs of the south facing villas, like the one belonging to Carlos Schneider, owner of a successful building company, and President of the Proprietors Association. This morning he sat on a wicker chair sipping his coffee while his eyes wandered idly past the perimeter fence down to the glittering sea.

  Then Johnny the Drunk came into sight, from the left.

  Today he was wearing gold football boots, white pirate trousers, and a tight-fitting black T-shirt with a picture of something gothic on the chest. His matted hair was plastered down under a white golfing hat, and enormous sun glasses, probably meant for a woman, completed his disguise. Johnny was the resident vagabond, and as such had first pick of second hand clothes.

  ‘Mr. President!’

  He gruffed, and stood to attention. Mr. Schneider didn't reply, hoping that if he ignored him he would go away.

  ‘Good day to you! Good day for hunting, Mr. President, sir!’

  Johnny stood his ground; he would have an answer.

  ‘Good morning Johnny. For hunting?’

  ‘Indians.’

  He started to laugh, then broke into a coughing fit.

  ‘Scalp 'em. Scalp 'em before they carry off your daughters!’

  Carlos paid no heed to Johnny's drunken remarks, the man was a buffoon. If it were up to him he would have him ejected from the grounds at once, but the women would have none of that. They had adopted him as if he were some kind of stray cat. They fed and clothed him, and gave him odd jobs to do so that he would always have a little cash for his drink and cigarettes. Whenever Carlos brought the issue up at the meetings a number of lefty types, best not mention any names, whinged on about Humanity and Samaritans and the like. Compassion for the less fortunate, they preached. Nothing about social leeches, parasites, scroungers and good for nothings. So Johnny was allowed to sleep in an old tool shed just outside the walls of the development, and could come and go as he pleased – the guards would only stop him if he were drunk.

  He thought of pointing out that it was the Indians that did the scalping, not the other way round, but was loathe to encourage him. The tramp hung around a little longer in the hope of a sign of generosity, but Carlos just sipped his coffee. Eventually he shuffled off, mumbling something to himself.

  It was not until that afternoon that Mr. Schneider learnt about the immigrants.

  There were three of them, two men and a woman, and they had moved into one of the empty properties at the back of the development. Michael Moretti had seen them that morning, and some of the children had been along to corroborate. They were Africans, sub Saharan Africans by all accounts. The police were called. No doubt the problem would soon be resolved.

  The following day Carlos Schneider was aghast to discover that the immigrants had not been evicted, moved on or deported. He demanded an explanation, which he received in all its twisted detail. They were not illegal immigrants. They were rather alegal, having slipped into the country via an administrative loophole. They were now squatting, and until they were reported to the police by the owner of the property there was nothing to be done. But this is private property. Yes sir. They must have found a way past the guards and forced entry. Yes sir. He decided to call an emergency meeting.

  The apartment taken over by the Africans had been empty for some time. Weeds grew from the most improbable positions on the terrace, and the windows were opaque with accumulated grime. It belonged to Cedric Gustafson, an ageing chess reporter based in Stockholm. All the bills were paid religiously, but Cedric himself had not been seen for a number of years. They would get in touch and demand that he report these intruders to the police. Then an eviction order could be obtained. All those in favour please raise their hands. Passed unanimously.

  Cedric Gustafson, they discovered, was dead. He had died eighteen months earlier but nobody had been informed. His estate was now being disputed between a number of ex wives, children and step children. But President Schneider was not a man who gave in easily. He called another meeting.

  It was agreed, by simple majority, that the intruders be approached by the Community as a whole. Perhaps they could thrash it out and come to some kind of amicable agreement? A little carrot and stick? Mr. Schneider would go, as President, accompanied by Ms. Mary De Klerk, vice- president, and Dr. Vasilis South, treasurer.

  Johnny the Drunk sat on the kerb and drank warm beer as the welcoming committee tried to communicate with the newcomers. He watched as waves of civic pride crashed against the rugged rocks of necessity. They courteously declined the community's kind offer for them to abandon the premises forthwith or face the consequences. They preferred the consequences.

  Unlike the apathetic gatherings of the past, the following meeting was a raucous affair, full of foul language and interruptions. Order, please! If we all speak at once...... The once homogeneous community had now fractured into small but vociferous groups that vied with each other for attention. Raising the volume and shouting down rivals appeared to be the commonly agreed manner to achieve this. Try as he may, Carlos Schneider was unable to control his neighbours and was fast becoming hoarse. He waved his arms, he personally approached especially distraught cliques, he tried sitting in silence, banging his hand on the table, feigning a walk out. But his fellow members would have their rant. He decided to suspend the event and was all but lynched.

  Two days later, once everybody had let o
ff steam, he was able to conduct a tense but relatively calm reunion where it was decided that two very different approaches be put to the test.

  First, the stick. The squatters would be virtually imprisoned in their new found home. The guards would let them know that if they ever left the development, they would never make it back in again. They would also be warned that the property they had illegally invaded was being watched round the clock, and that the moment it was left empty, the community would change all the locks, brick off the doors and windows, and put a guard at the main entrance. Only if the gilded cage idea failed would they put into the practice the contingency plan.

  Somehow they survived. It was difficult to know how, (sabotage was suspected), but the fact is that after a month they were still there. They seemed relaxed. They had barbecues in the long summer evenings, and put flowers in the window boxes. They chatted to the children, or shared a beer or two with Johnny on the front porch. Rumour had it that the elder man was a teacher and spoke fluent French. Rumour had it that Petra Idigoras was taking classes with him, and paying handsomely. Rumour had it that certain members of the Kitchen Club had secretly asked the woman for authentic African recipes.

  Plan B was exactly what Carlos had hoped to avoid, but his hands were tied. The three were approached again. The elder one would be teaching French on an official basis, the second man would help out on the gardens, and the woman would become an honorary member of the Kitchen Club. They would get papers, they could come and go as they pleased, they would be offered alternative legal accommodation, with a fixed rent. Welcome to Bellavista.

  At the following year's AGM the by now pregnant African woman sat amongst her drab neighbours dressed in her best colourful robes, like a pineapple on a plate of plums. All three had been invited to take part in the lively debates, though as non proprietors they would not be able to vote. Carlos Schneider suggested, in view of recent events, that security be tightened. The perimeter fence was full of holes and control at the main gate was lax. Are we all agreed on this point? The Africans nodded with their new colleagues. Yes indeed, unanimously.

  It was a windy November morning as Carlos was about to climb into his car when he heard the news. The Gustafson place again. They had crow-barred open the security doors. Eastern Europeans by all accounts, a whole family, eight or more.

  Call the police!

  THE NINE O ’CLOCK MUSE

  Inspiration exists, but it has to find us working.

  Pablo Picasso

  8.57 Sit down at my desk.

  8.58 Prepare writing materials.

  8.59 Take a deep breath.

  9.00 Ah, the challenge of the empty page! Now what shall I write about today?

  Something satirical, a diatribe? A touch of pathos and bathos, those two musketeers, or

  something unputdownable, a riproaring tour de force? A tear-jerker, perhaps. Although

  it’s been quite a few weeks now since I last wrote a piece of comedy.

  Maybe first I ought to think about who it’s aimed at, what market I have in mind.

  Middle-class middle-aged parishioners who’ve never heard a four letter word or

  imagined even the tamest erotic scenes? The plebs? A bit of light-hearted fun for those

  who have no time for tragedy or profundities of any type? Fellow writers? Again?

  Of course it would be easier if I were, say, a musician. Then I could spend the morning

  whizzing through major and minor scales, practising tricky finger techniques, going

  over the difficult passages until I got them off pat. But it’s not much use me writing out

  the alphabet backwards, or making exhaustive lists of synonyms and antonyms. Could

  try out a few rhymes, I suppose, or a touch of onomatopoeia. Or both - crunch my

  lunch and the like.

  No, let’s be serious. Maybe I should decide on the genre. How l like that word, genre, it

  sounds sort of sophisticated. Hmm, or pretentious. Depends who’s listening.

  So, to choose!

  Poetry’s never been my strong point, though I’ve turned out one or two reasonable little

  ditties over the years. But it’s nitpickety stuff, what with pace, and rhythm, and

  measure, and all those shades of meaning. Anyway, nobody seems to have much time

  for it nowadays. It’s earned a bad name for itself; like Philosophy or Ancient Greek.

  Do you fancy an ode, a sonnet, a piece of free verse?

  No way, mate, couldn‘t think of anything worse.

  9.25 Pause, for thought.

  9.30 A short story’s not a bad idea, I don’t have to develop the characters very much,

  which is a boon, and I might be able to get it published in a magazine. Naturally I shall

  have to be careful which magazine I send it to, I don’t want to make the mistake poor

  old Darren made by sending a torrid soft porn bit to “Women Today”, a staid old ladies’

  rag he took for something much more upbeat. “Not suitable” and straight on the

  blacklist. One really should do one’s homework beforehand. Let it be a lesson to us all.

  Length’s a problem, as well. Some demand no more than two thousand words, others

  between five and ten thousand, and it’s such a bother to pad it out or trim it down

  once it’s already written and typed out and everything. Still, if I could think up some

  kind of elastic plot ...... or borrow one from something that’s out of copyright. The

  paper is often a source of inspiration.

  9.45 Read the press.

  10.30 If only I were a columnist, then it wouldn’t matter what I wrote, I could go on

  about the magnets on the fridge door and get away with it. All you need is a clever

  twist at the end, something along the lines of how much we resemble those tiny, many-

  shaped magnets in that, despite our different outward appearances, in reality we are all

  the same, and that our sole purpose in life is to cling tenaciously to our mod cons. The

  art of coherent waffle. That’s why there’s so much competition for the post. Still, who

  knows, one day I might get lucky and end up working for one of the big dailies, then I

  could stop worrying about being creative and just get on with the job in hand.

  10.55 Pause, for reassessment of literary career and future job prospects.

  11.15 Let’s go over the list again. Film or T. V. scripts, theatre. Kids’ adventure stories,

  romantic fiction, historical novels, biography. Autobiography. Ha, that’s a good one.

  Me, from my point of view. Scintillating stuff. What happened to me and what I did as a

  consequence, guiltily edited by yours truly. What a scam! No, I couldn’t. Or rather, I

  shouldn’t. The only problem is, they sell. God knows who buys them, but there’s

  invariably one in the top fifty. My past life, I wonder. Made a trifle more colourful,

  phrased so as to mislead without actually lying .... I’ll bear it in mind, at least Part 1.

  11.45 Pause, to idly wonder what’s for scrunchy lunch.

  11.55 Sorry about that, it’s a lack of discipline, I know. It’s so easy to lose

  concentration, but there really is no excuse for it. If you want to get anywhere in this

  business you really have to buckle down, to work at it, to train yourself, to force

  yourself to sit down at your desk everyday as if it were a real job. After all, I’m getting

  paid for this and there are deadlines to be met. It’s a question of will-power, of strength

  of character, of responsibility towards those who have put their faith in me. To strive,

  that is the word, I feel. I sit at my place of work, like any other labourer, so that later, on

  completion of my allotted task, I can safely, indeed proudly, claim that I have,
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  emphatically have, striven. I can then cash the cheque with a clear conscience.

  But there you are, I’ve gone off at a tangent once more. This won’t do at all.

  Well, I knew we’d end up here. Most of us do in the end. Alright, a novel it is, then.

  I’ve nothing against writing novels, I’d rather write them than essays or works of

  critical appreciation, but they take so long. The plot’s not a problem as just about

  anything goes nowadays ( let’s face it, it’s all been said before), and I can always chop

  and change as it moves along. No, it’s all that detail that tires me out, how it takes three

  pages of descriptive narrative to get him from the garden gate to the front door. And the

  psychological analysis of all those characters! Then you can’t remember if they lived at

  number 26 or 36, whether she had been married to a stocky broker or a broke stocker,

  Was it November or early May? So it all has to be mapped out and sorted out

  beforehand so that when you eventually get to have to put pen to paper you can hardly

  make the effort.

  Of course, that’s just it. One has to make an effort if one wants to be a professional

  writer. One has to look that sheet of blank paper in the eye everyday of the week, except

  weekends and holidays, and say “here I come !”.