Someone had misplaced the public protector’s collection of James Taylor tapes and the office was in uproar. Lawrence Mushwana was livid. Despite handwritten signs all over the building, declaring the touching of his tapes a firing offence, they always went missing, and precisely at the moment when he most wanted to give them another whirl on the official tape-deck. It was like Randy van Warner sang. You left me just when I needed you most.
‘And that’s another thing,” he snapped at his secretary who was frantically rummaging through cobwebs and fishmoths in the Imvume drawer. ‘Tony Yengeni wants to borrow my Crowded House tape — he’s always dug Into Temptation — but I think he’s still got Randy van Warner, so please tell his Correctional Services personal assistant to tell his valet to tell his squire that he can’t have it until I get Randy back.”
The secretary blanched. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. Adrian Vlok has your Crowded House tape.”
‘Good God!”
‘Yes sir. I think he said he wanted to listen to Fall At Your Feet. He also asked if you had anything by Toe Jam, but I told him it was Pearl Jam and said you didn’t lend out your mid-90s Seattle grunge. Oh sir! Here they are!”
The James Taylor collection, a Rotatrim box prettily illuminated with glitter and gold stars, had fallen behind the row of six filing cabinets in which Democratic Alliance complaints were stored in no particular order; and as he fished it out, he glanced at the latest additions. Alec Irwin must recant. Jacob Zuma is unfit to rule. The wind blows too much in Cape Town. The squirrels outside Parliament are uppity and poo in our hair. Not enough people have access to the earlier work of Rodgers and Hammerstein.
He asked his secretary to clear his diary, locked the door, inserted Sweet Baby James into the vintage Sanyo, and reached for his official stationery.
‘Dear Phumzile,” he wrote. ‘How are you? I am fine. Thank you for the lovely photographs of your trip to Dubai. I had no idea there was so many karaoke bars in the Emirates, nor that Bulelani looked so good in a sequined jumpsuit. If you’re ever free (as I told Tony Y this week), I must insist that you both come round for dinner at the humble home of Public and Mrs Protector, and we can compare Elvises. My contract doesn’t permit me to do Suspicious Minds, but I have been told that my Return to Sender rivals the King himself.”
He paused, his tongue wedged in the corner of his mouth, to affix a gold star to the page. The first chords of You’ve Got a Friend tinkled out and he wrote, his steady penmanship matching the easy progression of the sentiments that burbled from the stereo.
When you’re down and troubled / and you need a helping hand / and nothing, whoa nothing is going right. / Close your eyes and think of me / and soon I will be there / to brighten up even your darkest nights.
‘Yes, Phumzile, the people might say that you were setting a bad example. They might say you were using taxpayers’ money to finance your holiday. But I say no. I say it was justified and I have the big red rubber stamp that proves it.” He banged it down smartly on the page as Taylor crooned about the north wind starting to blow: CLEARED, it read, and he dabbed at the ink with his elbow.
‘Besides,” he continued, ‘what are the taxpayers really complaining about? There are five million of them registered with Sars. You spent R600 000. That works out to 12c per taxpayer. Can anyone really begrudge you 12c? Twelve cents to see the mighty cranes of the jewel of the Arabian Sea? Who are these tight-fisted, penny-pinching Scottish-Swiss misers who would deny you the pleasures of office?”
He scratched in his drawer for his My Little Pony sticker-sheet, but found only his A-Team sheets. It didn’t look good. He’d lost Face. Hannibal wouldn’t do either: the ‘I love it when a plan comes together’ caption under the little head looked too much like an admission of a conspiracy. Murdoch was insane; and BA was saying ‘I ain’t gettin on no plane, fool!’ which was clearly inappropriate, given the circumstances. He compromised with a smiley face, signed off on the whole affair with a flourish of ink, sealing wax and official signet ring; and sat back in his chair to listen to Taylor —
Winter, spring, summer or fall, all you have to do is call and I’ll be there, yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ve got a friend —