I suppose, is what it is,” said Kitty. She knew quite a bit about Chinese culture because at the time of the Beijing Olympics she’d done a school project on the I Ching, the great classic of Chinese spiritual literature. Ts’ui and feng were hexagrams of great fortune. Her attention drifted out of the second-storey window to the view of the antique market below.
“What are you saying, woman?”
“My name is K— Elsa. If you want your situation with the de Bottons resolved then kindly refrain from referring to me as ‘woman’.”
Pong chortled on the other end. “I know how you liberated lovelies think, I went to Oxford – your type always has too much to say …”
“And Eastern bloc blondes don’t?”
“Ha, ha. Actually that’s true – I like them best when they’re young and only speak Russian or whatever other heathen language, then I can hear but don’t have to listen. They’re like my pretty little budgies, chirping.”
Joe Blue gave Pong thoughts of a bed with satin sheets in Sky No.2, Purple Before Night. Stretched out in the sheets was a melancholy naked woman with hair the colour of Sun No.5, Sun On Wheat.
Joe Blue paused mid-sketch, picked up the Love Africa magazine from his desk, and read more of the article out to the demon pups:
Once upon a rainy day in Khayelitsha, two schoolboys were arguing about magic, love and miracles. One of the boys, Ebenezer Siyengo, a sensitive poet type, was in love with a girl who didn’t love him back, and he was bitter with disappointment, and so he shouted in a fury at his friend who did believe in love: “Get real, you idiot, there’s no magic in the world, love is a useless addiction worse than smoking or tik, and miracles never, ever, ever happen!”
At that instant, a baby boy who would come to be called Joe Blue was born in an overcrowded shack, and at the very moment of his birth, SWOOSH!, a bolt of brilliant blue lightning surged through the roof of the shack and hit Joe Blue’s hands. His hands turned bluish, but they weren’t burned at all. People in the neighbourhood said: “WOW! It’s a miracle that baby’s hands weren’t burnt!” But the real miracle of that day was only revealed when, at the age of two, Joe Blue found a sheet of cheap white paper, picked up a pencil in his blue hands and drew his big brother, Ebenezer, with all the skill of a professional artist. Then the people in the neighbourhood said again, this time with dropped jaws: “Wow! The baby drew that? Wow! Hayibo! WOW!” Actually that’s all they could say, over and over, because they were so amazed and flabbergasted.
Time went by as it always does, faster every year, and Ebenezer became an ace shoeshine superman in the City Bowl. SHIMME CHA-CHING! Out of the money Joe Blue’s brother made polishing the two thousand shoes of a big-time criminal, a con-man from Germany, he paid for Joe Blue to have lessons at the University of Cape Town Art School. Joe Blue was ugly, scrawny, his ears stuck out, he was shy and his hands were blue. So he wasn’t much of a hit with the girls, but Joe Blue had talent like magic, buckets of it, and real magic is rarer than phoenix feathers. That’s why Joe Blue’s big brother worked his fingers to early arthritis shining all those shoes to pay for art lessons and the very best art equipment too, because Joe Blue was growing up to be a modern-day Michelangelo …
“She’s right about my ears.” The pups still hadn’t woken. Joe Blue shrugged, bemused by the article; the journalist had used plenty of artistic licence. He put his pen to work again and sketched Reginald Pong with a phone in one hand and a half-gnawed lobster claw dripping with pink sauce in the other.
CRUNCH-CRUNCH. Pong finished a mouthful of lobster, dabbed his lips with a silken napkin and said: “Very well, Madame Bleu. Tell me then, what is this chen?”
The scene in this frame exhausted almost all of Sky No.11, Blue Before Dark, because Joe Blue filled in everything – even the whites of Kitty’s eyes – in that colour. “Chen … The violent thunder that makes change and moves heaven and earth.” Kitty was lost again, watching the clouds above the market. “I’m sorry, Mr Pong, but my fath— my husband, Felix, is dead.”
“What! How? When?”
Kitty could not bring herself to tell him. It was too hurtful even to think about.
“Details are not important, Mr Pong.”
“I imagine he had many enemies, your husband.”
Kitty ignored Pong and continued. “What’s important is that I am familiar with your case and I will be able to help you.” This was a lie. She had given the case files on her dad’s desk a cursory glance. Except for the one on the Framboise family and their global patisserie chain – that she had read with some fascination.
Like everyone else, Kitty had seen films about these kinds of things, but what did she know about running a private detective agency? Would she be able to help Reginald Pong and the others? She remembered that in the Pong file, Felix had written: “Must meet with P to tell him about XL, EE and D. NB account o.d.”
“Felix wanted to meet with you,” said Kitty to Pong. “He had something important to tell you.”
“Indeed. I’m at the Leopard Lounge at the Twelve Apostles Hotel right now waiting for him. Dead! Most inconvenient. Damn it.”
“Let’s make it tomorrow at twelve, same place.” Kitty wondered how she was going to come up with something to tell Pong by twelve the following day. She was tall for her age. She guessed, with a bit of make-up and the right clothes, she could get away with pretending to be a young Mrs Bleu.
“Fine. And it better be good, Madame Bleu.”
As the call on Felix’s mobile ended, the landline on the desk rang and Miss Basoko answered. Kitty mouthed No more calls for me and set about examining the Pong file.
“Mademoiselle Mashamba,” Miss Basoko said. “Mbote. Sango nini?” FISH-SWISHEE! She did some cursory dusting while she spoke into the receiver. The feathers Joe Blue sketched on the long-handled duster were the same colour as the basil plant: Edible Green No.7, Lightly Cooked Peas.
“Ça va bien, merci. Malamu, as you say it, Beatrice. Tu va bien? Ozali?”
“Malamu.”
“Please can I speak to Kitty? It’s urgent.”
Beatrice shook her head. “Kitty is not taking calls. You understand the situation.”
“I’ve got to speak to her. Is she there? How is she?” This required a close-up of lips the colour of Sun No.3, Red Paradise Sunset Red.
“Yes, she’s here … but so much work to do and so sad. Not eating for two days.”
“It’s the shock. But she’s got to eat and I have to talk to her. Please, Beatrice, please.”
“I try. Nakeyi, Mademoiselle Mashamba.” Miss Basoko held out the telephone to Kitty, who had stopped looking at the Pong file and was staring through the window at a dismal stretch of cumulonimbus clouds.
“Et nous baignerons, mon amie,” mumbled Kitty, thinking of a French poem.
Miss Basoko tapped her on the shoulder. “Mademoiselle Mashamba says it’s an emergency.”
