is no problem. Neither is my new ID book.”
“You don’t want to be Jake Diamond any more? What kind of name is it anyway? Jewish?”
“Yep, Jewish. Actually, Afrikaans-speaking Boer Jew, to be precise.”
“You don’t want to be a Boer Jew any more? Who do you want to become, Van der Merwe?”
Jake shook his head. “Yusuf.”
Mr Heilbron frowned. “Yusuf? An Afrikaans-speaking Boer Jew wants to become a Muslim known as Yusuf?”
“I’ve had an epiphany. I converted.”
“And your bride?”
“That’s the other problem. It’s why I can’t go through the normal channels,” said Jake, noticing Joe, photographer at the Record, between parked cars on the street, camera around his neck, zoom lens focused on their table. Table 12 on the patio of the Moosehead, he had told Joe, but make sure he doesn’t see the camera. Be discreet, get a clear shot of his face. And don’t hang around; take the photos and leave.
“Another Chivas, Mr Heilbron?” he asked, to divert the man’s attention.
“Don’t mind if I do. The other problem?”
“My bride,” said Jake. “Fauzia . . . stunning girl, by the way.”
“Fauzia? Also a convert?”
“No, it’s her real name.”
“I don’t see the problem.”
“The problem is that Fauzia is from Rawalpindi.”
Jake saw the gears click in Mr Heilbron’s mind; the frown was back, eyes focused.
“You mean Pakistan?”
“Right. Is it a problem when love knows no borders?”
“It could be a problem. But it’s not insurmountable. Is it love? I mean, true love . . .? You and your bride have real feelings for each other? Or . . .”
“Or a marriage of convenience? Hell, Mr Heilbron, the clock is ticking, I’m no spring chicken, and this is my first bride. The first time I’ve ever felt this way about a woman, prepared to change my whole life, even my name and faith. Yes, I do believe it’s real love.”
“How did the two of you meet? Were you in Pakistan?”
“No, she’s here on holiday, visiting relatives. The Khans . . . Wasim, remember? He introduced us, she’s his cousin.”
“So you’re head over heels, you say?” said Mr Heilbron.
“Can you do it?”
“A marriage certificate, an ID, and a passport for your bride from Pakistan? It’s a tall order, Mr Diamond.”
“Jake. Call me Jake, it’s what she calls me too. Until I become Yusuf, of course.”
“I know all about your personal life now, Jake, but what’s your profession?”
He’d been expecting this, too. “You mean you want to know whether I can afford largesse for all your trouble? I’m in the jewellery business. Did I mention that my grandpa was on the diggings? My grandpa Judel.” He was in urgent need of a toilet, but the conversation had reached a critical point. “My grandpa’s line of work was diamonds and gold. India is the biggest market for gold in the world, inexhaustible; they’re crazy about bling over there . . . Bollywood actresses, cricket players with gold chains round their necks.” Jake let Mr Heilbron digest his words, then resumed: “The family business is in my hands now. I told Wasim the day Fauzia and I return from our Caribbean honeymoon I’m building a brand-new mosque in Fordsburg. He can have the plans drawn up in the meantime, six minarets, money is no object – that’s if Mr Heilbron can help, of course. Which I doubt.”
The man stared at him and Jake wondered whether he had laid it on too thick. He hoped Joe had got good photos, incriminating flashy Mr Heilbron in the process of digging his own grave.
“Well, Jake,” said Mr Heilbron, more forthcoming now, “of course I can help you and Fauzia. I’m the supervisor, everything goes through my hands, all those documents for you and your bride. Understand what I mean?”
“Can you do it, Mr Heilbron? It’s not dangerous, is it? I don’t want to get you into trouble.” Jake leant across the table confidentially, for the sake of the sensitive microphone in his pocket.
From the corner of his eye he noticed the two men who seemed to be admiring a black BMW X5. Shades, one wearing a fez, the other a baseball cap, peak pulled low over his forehead, talking on his cellphone.
“I know what I’m doing. It won’t be the first time,” said Mr Heilbron. “But it will cost you. I’m not cheap – others have to be paid down the line, I don’t work alone. The . . . largesse for everything will be eighty thousand.”
Bingo!
“What?” said Jake. “Eighty thousand?”
“Half when you place the order, balance on delivery.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks.”
“No sooner?”
“I’m up to my ears. Orders from all over Africa, a lot of clients from Pakistan. How old is your bride? I hope she’s older than eighteen, otherwise . . .”
“Will you take a cheque?” Jake noticed the two men again, in their dark glasses and hats, strolling among the pedestrians, a swagger in the hips.
“No cheques, strictly cash. Let me know when you’re ready to pay the deposit, forty thousand, in used banknotes, as they say in the movies.”
The two men had stopped at a street vendor to look at knick-knacks made of wood and wire: masks, egrets and guinea fowl, giraffes and monkeys.
“I have to take a leak.” Jake got up.
“Shall I order again?”
“Sure. Espresso for me.”
It was three o’clock, sunny and hot, the mercury at about thirty degrees, Jake guessed as he made his way inside. The long Friday lunch, a liquid lunch for many, meant most of the patio tables were still occupied.
Waiting his turn at the urinal, he heard loud conversation and fits of laughter from the patio, the beer and wine talking under umbrellas. Mr Heilbron had surprised him. He hadn’t thought the official would flaunt his greed so openly – those crocodile-skin shoes!
Jake washed his hands, held them under the drier, wiped the last drips on his trouser legs as he walked out, jeans faded, baggy at the knees. He smiled. Yudel – that was a good one. He wouldn’t have minded if his grandfather had indeed struck the diamond mother-lode. Wouldn’t mind taking a young bride on a Caribbean honeymoon either. Instead, every month he
