ty of Cape Town Universi Signature removed The copyright of this thesis vests in the author. No quotation from it or information derived from it is to be published without full acknowledgement of the source. The thesis is to be used for private study or non- commercial research purposes only. Published by the University of Cape Town (UCT) in terms of the non-exclusive license granted to UCT by the author. University of Cape Town PART 1 STUNTMAN DEVESH INTERPOL’S MOST WANTED PERSONS: NAME: ‘STUNTMAN DEVESH’ GENDER: MALE AGE: 35 HEIGHT: 1,91 m HAIR COLOUR: BLACK CRIME: THEFT, FRAUD CRIME CIRCUMSTANCES: IT IS ALLEGED THAT THE ACCUSEDty of CapeIS A STUNT-DRIVER Town FOR HIGH STAKES INSURANCE FRAUD SCHEMES AND CROSS-BORDER DIAMOND SMUGGLING. Universi Chapter One Smile on his dial, tar in his lungs and shoulders in surrender. That was how Devesh Desai greeted each day’s arrival. By sunrise, he was awake, standing 1 ready for the day’s abuse. He held his tongue tight between his teeth and let the curses drip into the corners of his mouth. Devesh, the Abandoned. Devesh, the Ill-fated. Devesh, of all reckless abandon, dangling his life on his sleeve, was tired. Once a black sheep, always a black sheep. And fuck the white sheep. You can’t see the shit in my wool, thought Devesh. He knew one thing. There was one thing that kept him fired-up and hard. A single nugget of thrill-seeker’s wisdom: We live based on the huge assumption that we’ll be alive tomorrow. And this is a mistake. Devesh poured the coffee down his throat and read the obituaries. Scanning through the names of the recently dead always had a calming effect on Devesh. Dorothy Oliviera dies at 89, adoption advocate raised 19 children. Dr. D Koopman, influential surgeon general dies at 96. ty of Cape Town President Hugo Chavez, hero to Venezuela’s poor, is dead. He brushed his fingertips over the wide scar on his face and tried to ignore the beeping of his NokiaUniversi Classic. His second phone. The dirty phone. Only one man ever called him on that phone. And Devesh would finish his cigarette before he touched that phone. The dirty phone frustrated him. He wished he didn’t need it as much as he did. He wished to crack the screen under his heel and toss it into his big black bin. The Nokia Classic beeped again. He edged his scabbing hand towards his pocket and stilled the vibration of the beeping portal that dictated his life. Leave me alone. I flourish when left alone. 2 The Boss. The Boss. The Boss. He crushed the cigarette in his ashtray and took the dirty phone out his pocket. The message was an address: Mr R. Towfie. 17 Queens Road, Constantia. Collection of a red Mustang. A red Mustang? Now this could be worthwhile. He stepped into the shower. The hot water massaged his bruises and softened his scabs. Devesh hulked nearly two meters tall barefoot; his head almost touched the showerhead. Steam and warm water is the refuge of the injured. Devesh had always wanted to shower and smoke at the same time. Better yet, shower, smoke and drink his coffee at the same time. Steam, caffeine and nicotine simultaneously enjoyed – wouldn’t that be a treat. Clean and shaven, he drove on a street of Saturday drivers. Saturday drivers were always the most annoying because of the way Saturday drivers cruised. It made Devesh edgy the way Saturday drivers cruised, one behind the other, in their spiralling ant-line sinking deeper into the sand, ever so slowly, making him crawl. Devesh arrived in the suburbsty of of Constantia Cape at a lovely Town house. Big, velvety green lawn. Letterbox with number 17 nailed onto it in gold-painted metal. Wide windows. Wide shutters. White security gate. What a wholesome patch of suburban bliss, thought Devesh,Universi looking at the luscious lives of the decent people. Why did this Mr Towfie need his services? Behind the white security gate, was the 2011 Ford Mustang Premium Coupe blushing scarlet in its prime, bought cash and insured. Devesh itched to get his hands on it. He pressed the button on the security gate and looked into the little camera surveying him. He smiled and folded his hands neatly at his balls. Hi, I’m Devesh and I’ll be your stuntman for the day. 3 ‘Devesh Desai here to see Mr Towfie.’ The gate slid open, slowly, mechanically. Classy. The convenience that comes with legitimate money. A short, well-dressed man wearing an orange tie opened the front door. Mr Towfie’s tie looked like a long orange tongue. A long orange tongue lapping at Mr Towfie’s chest, about to coil itself around Mr Towfie’s neck and throttle him to death. Any minute now. Devesh had a pronounced dislike of ties. They made him uneasy. Their decency was too imposing. They struck a cord that set off an avalanche of irritation in his skull. What an eyesore. Hi Mr Towfie, I am an eating, shitting, fucking, spitting, licking, sucking, pissing, drinking, sweating, swearing, smoking, thieving, crying living human being. And I’m ok with that. And if you and your long orange tongue-tie aren’t ok with the fact you are exactly that too. You need help. Not me. The man looked like he’d breathedty of too Cape much conditioned Town air in his lifetime. The tallest hair on Mr Towfie’s head did not make the height of Devesh’s nipple. He stooped to shake his hand, staring at the orange tie, wary of getting too close to it. Mr Towfie’sUniversi house was spotless, complete with ornamentation, tasteful art, granite surfaces and expensive toys. What a waste of cash. This man had kids and a wife. Devesh tried to guess what had gone wrong. A soured business deal, blackmail, lawsuit? The empty television stand in Mr Towfie’s polished lounge spoke of debt. The extension cords still lay loose on the surface. Gambler? The orange tongue curled itself around the Mustang’s keys and extended them to Devesh who closed the set of keys in his big palm, enjoying the feel of the metal in 4 his hand. A mournful look deepened the creases between Mr Towfie’s brows and the long orange tongue-tie shrivelled up at the thought of losing its Mustang. Devesh nodded at him. I’ll take good care of her, Mr Towfie. The orange tie remained in the doorway as Devesh drove away in the blushing Mustang Coupe. Devesh resisted the urge to rev the V8 as he pulled away. He was not a disrespectful person. He was not a man without courtesy. He would rev the car later. He watched the orange tongue tighten around Mr Towfie’s balls in the rear-view mirror as the speedometer climbed: Yes, Mr Towfie, I am the writhing dregs clinging to the soles of your feet, feeding off the dirt accumulated as you walk. I see you, all of you. And I can honestly come to you now, all bullshit aside and say: Your tie is too orange. Your game is trash. And I’ve come to sweep it all up. Once he reached the N1 highway, the smile poured into his cheeks and dripped down his chin. He watchedty the of needle Cape move in Towna state of beatific calm. Devesh was a monk behind the wheel. Devesh was a thug behind the wheel. Devesh was a symphony conductor of pistons. He swerved in and out of the fast lane, overtaking and cuttingUniversi through traffic, choosing his best line through each corner. If life hadn’t dealt him such a shit hand, he would’ve been an F1 rockstar by now, travelling at un-human speeds, drowning in trophies, pussy and champagne. Eating life’s caviar without a fork and drinking life’s vintage wine from a plastic straw. The red Mustang blazed into the sprawling wine farms of Durbanville Hills. Rolling fields stretched out on either side of a long canopied road snaking through the endless vines. A tranquil, sunny nesting place to the rich white suburban Afrikaans. Devesh was alone. How I flourish when left alone. 5 Devesh took extra care to pollute the silence with the Mustang’s roar. He pulled back the reigns, steered the car up each hill’s rise and stormed down each steep dropping road. He sped around each bend, circling each hill freely until he approached the tallest one with the most spectacular view. Here, he stopped at the foot of the hill and let the car idle, marvelling at the spill of green in the valley before him. He lit a Camel and smoked it to the filter. The nicotine seeped into the upholstery of the car’s interior yet unmarred by the stench of cigarette smoke. Devesh tossed the filter out the window, exhaled slowly and began the climb in fourth to maximize power. He upped the velocity as he climbed to compensate for the incline of the peak. With each inch that Devesh climbed, he knew there was something pivotal left in him. As he mounted the hill, feeling the pending drop in his back, he knew it. He had always known it was still there. Deep down there, wavering. A flicker of a giant. There may be love left here if you listen at the precise frequency, under the right light ty of Cape Town level, with an exacting ear.