Like Clockwork

27

Its gold door handle distinguished the Isis Club from the halfhearted businesses that operated on the shabby eastern fringe of the city. Blackened windows prevented people from looking in. The doorman appeared when cars arrived. Some he directed to an empty parking lot. For others, a snap of his fingers summoned a valet. Clare decided that she would take the risk and park in the street. She was surprised at how self-conscious she felt going to a strip club alone, and was glad for the weight of her camera bag. It grounded her, announced her occupation to anyone who might stare at her. The doorman opened the door before she reached the handle, leaving her hand raised uselessly. She let it drop back to her side, disconcerted.

‘Clare Hart?’ he asked. The muscles around his neck bulged against the stiff-collared dress shirt.

‘That’s me,’ she answered, relieved that she did not need to explain. ‘I’ve come to see Kelvin Landman.’

The bouncer nodded, picked up his cellphone. ‘She’s here. Will someone come down?’ An eager press of men was gathering behind Clare. Her back prickled uncomfortably.

‘Miss Hart, do you mind stepping into the bar and having a drink? Mr Landman will be with you shortly.’ The bar counter was a majestic sweep of gleaming russet wood. Clare took the leather stool she was offered and ordered a whiskey from a girl tagged: ‘Melissa. I know I can help you’. The weight of the name tag made her transparent top sag strategically, to expose a rouged nipple.

Clare looked around the room as she waited for her drink. Opulence was blended with restraint. On the dark walls hung a range of erotic prints, coy French maids beckoning, black and white Japanese illustrations with strategically placed slashes of crimson, leering English squires bending rosy-cheeked milkmaids over rustic fences – it was a connoisseur’s collection. Deep leather armchairs in gentleman’s-club green and red huddled around low tables, were occupied by groups of paunchy, slack-mouthed men. A few had awkward wives with them. More animated than these were the guests with unabashed young women draped over them.

‘Hostess service,’ said Melissa, bringing Clare an excellent single malt. ‘Three hundred an hour for one. Five hundred for two. Meant to be no touching.’

‘That must be difficult,’ said Clare. She was watching a short-skirted blonde work her breasts up a man’s bare arm as she moved her pouting lips against his ear. Whatever she was saying made his tongue – wet and pink – protrude.

‘Ja, those guys wreck your clothes. There’s meant to be no touching now – just getting them ready for the show or the private rooms. Afterwards is open to negotiation, of course.’

‘Who’s that girl?’ asked Clare.

Melissa followed Clare’s gaze. ‘Cornelle, I think. She’s new. Do you know her?’

‘We’ve met before,’ said Clare.

‘Do you want to speak to her?’ asked Melissa. Cornelle turned, sensing that she was being watched. She blanched when she saw Clare.

‘I don’t think she wants to talk to you,’ said Melissa.

‘I think you’re right.’ Clare took a sip of her drink.

Melissa looked Clare up and down. ‘We don’t often get ladies,’ she said. ‘Hardly ever on their own.’

‘Who do they come with?’

‘The older ones come with their husbands usually, hoping it will stop him getting bored with their saggy tits and everything. The younger ones come with their bosses. They quite often buy the underwear. Would you like some? I can give you a catalogue.’

‘Thanks,’ said Clare. ‘I would like one.’

The girl reached under the counter and handed Clare a brochure; embossed in gold on its cover was the outline of a woman’s sumptuous body. ‘Cool, hey,’ said the girl. ‘They’re new. The whole place is going upmarket. The new owner bought all those expensive pictures to hang. And our movie catalogue is going to be great too.’

‘I didn’t know Isis made films,’ said Clare.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Melissa. ‘We used to just order from America or Holland and then sell them on. Now we’re making them here. Cape Town has such a great film industry. Really skilled technical people, you know. And that will make things much more professional for us.’ She wiped the counter and set out dishes of stuffed olives.

‘What sort of movies are you making?’

‘It’s all under Isis Productions. I’ve been in two already. I got to choose my own costumes too. But those were only soft-core. There’s also hard-core, girls-only flieks – all the usual stuff. Some of our customers like to star in their own blue movies. So we’ve been doing some of that too. Some only like to have the lapdances filmed. Others like more. It’s cool for them. Quite expensive, but cool. There are also some girls who do live webcam stuff – so anyone who can afford it can do pay-per-view from home.’

‘Did you ever meet a girl called Charnay?’ asked Clare.

‘Charnay… that’s a good name. Was it her real name?’

‘It was. Charnay Swanepoel.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘She was slim, tall, very long black hair. About seventeen. Apparently she was interested in making films too.’

‘I can’t remember. Maybe I saw her. Check our website. There are pictures of all the girls who have been in anything to do with Isis.’

‘I will,’ said Clare. ‘How old are you, Melissa? Where are you from?’

‘Me? I’m from Beaufort West. You can’t imagine how boring the platteland is. I came here when I was seventeen, but I’m nineteen now. But I look young still, hey?’ she pulled her mane of blonde hair into two pigtails and batted her eyelashes. ‘I do quite a lot of the barely-legal stuff – you know how many guys just freak for the schoolgirl look.’ She was thin, fragile even. In a uniform, without make-up, she would pass for fourteen. Or less.

‘Who is the new boss?’ Clare asked. Melissa’s effervescence was gone. The colour drained from her face, leaving her blusher starkly scarlet on her white cheeks. She fumbled with the glass she was wiping. Clare looked into the mirror behind her. Kelvin Landman stood in front of the thick velvet curtains.

‘Hello, Clare. You look lonely.’ He smoothed her hair. ‘I’m glad that Melissa has been keeping you entertained.’ His diamond cuff links glinted as he leaned against the bar and snapped his fingers – boldly displaying his power. A drink materialised and Melissa was gone, taking a tray to check on already scrupulously tidy tables. Landman picked up his glass.

‘Come through,’ he said. ‘The show is about to start.’

Clare followed him, bringing her drink with her. Landman held the heavy curtains aside and she went through. The room was an updated Moulin Rouge: the ubiquitous kitsch of commercial sex. The low stage was draped with plush red and gold. A low ramp thrust its way into the centre of the room. Men clustered at the tables, moving the chairs to be closer to the promise of the dancer’s ramp. The mandatory poles were present, painted shiny black and red. Kelvin Landman’s table was on a small raised dais, his entourage smaller than when Clare had met him at Otis Tohar’s party. ‘Where would you like to set up your camera?’

‘Here,’ said Clare, positioning the tripod so that the strippers would appear behind him when they came onstage. ‘This is perfect,’ she said, clipping the camera into place, checking batteries, tape, light. She pinned the mike under his shirt, startled at how smooth, how cold, his skin was. Then she sat back, watching him preen. The lure of celebrity that a lens promised was irresistible. Clare gave her standard caveats, that she was recording this interview, that he should answer in full sentences so that she could be edited out later, that he should look into the camera’s eye and not hers. She asked him to tell her who he was, where he came from.

‘Kelvin Landman. Born in 1968 in Cape Town. I grew up on the Flats. I had my troubles with the law. I was involved in street gangs where I lived in Manenberg. But who wasn’t, there?’ he grinned broadly at Clare. Then he remembered her instruction and looked back at the camera. ‘I had some trouble with politics too, so in the eighties I went overseas. Into exile.’

‘Where did you go? How?’ prompted Clare.

‘To Amsterdam. My uncle was in the merchant navy at that time. And as you can imagine, there are many places to hide on a boat, especially if you are a pretty boy. Which I was, in those days, believe it or not. I worked my way over and jumped ship in Amsterdam. I met some people working there, started at the bottom and worked my way up. Then I got asylum papers, so I was legal.’

‘What exactly were you doing there?’

‘A bit of import, bit of export – luxury goods. They’ve got it sorted there, I tell you. Hash bars and the women selling themselves with no problems from the police. I learnt how to run a business.’

Clare’s face was wiped clean of expression. ‘Explain the import-export thing to me.’

‘You figure out what is in demand and then you supply. You can get what you want as long as you are willing to pay the right price. That is the business principle I have applied since I came back to Cape Town. We import vodka and hot Thai chilli. And we have lots of sweet things to export – wine, peaches.’

One of the men sitting listening sniggered. ‘Shut the fuck up, Benny,’ snarled Landman. ‘Whose fucking interview is this?’ Benny held his hands up in submission and cowered into his seat. Turning to Clare, Landman took a deep breath. ‘Where were we?’

‘You were telling me about supply and demand. What about here? In this club?’

Landman looked around, genuinely proud. ‘I supply my clients with what they need.’ He pointed to the men waiting along the ramp. The music throbbed. ‘And I provide employment.’ He grabbed a passing hostess, her buttocks exposed in tight black hotpants. He twisted her flesh, his eyes holding hers, daring her to do anything less than smile delightedly through the pain. ‘What else would these girls find to do?’ he asked, dismissing her. Clare watched her retreat, a welt emerging on the smooth skin. ‘I suppose you could call me a philanthropist. I give men what they need and women what they deserve.’

The lights suddenly dimmed, releasing Clare from the interview. A pulsating drumbeat filled the air, the rhythm unmistakable. Clare turned her attention to the stage. A spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating a girl, naked apart from the intricate metal bondage gear biting hungrily where her flesh was softest. She was tightly blindfolded. Her tongue glistened red behind her parted lips. Two corseted women, strapped into high, shiny boots, stepped out of the darkness to spreadeagle her and handcuff her to a pole. Both held whips that they flicked first across their hands and then across the girl’s breasts. The sound cracked sharply in the silence, and the girl’s nipples stood erect. Slowly, the music began to pulse faster, and the lights went up a little. The strobe turned slowly, tattooing the girl with flickering pornographic inanities. Each new word brought fresh blows from the stiletto-heeled dominatrixes. The girl writhed, either in faked agony or orgasm. Clare watched, mesmerised.

Landman touched the inside of her knee. ‘That is Justine. I see you like it. This is “Fetish Night” – very popular, as you can see.’ Some of the men were taking turns now, at a hundred rand a time, to bring a velvet horsewhip down on the bound body that now hung limp against the pole.

Clare shook herself, switching her mind from the degradation on the stage back to Landman. ‘Where do these girls come from, how do you recruit them?’

He turned his attention back to the camera. ‘Some are local. Quite a few are foreigners – they’re often better dancers,’ he explained, ‘more committed to the profession. Fewer piercings, fewer drugs, no families to worry about. But you can check, there are no illegals here. All of them have their papers. With the unique skills these girls have, it’s not so hard to get Home Affairs to comply.’

‘Your mother must be proud of you,’ said Clare. ‘You have done so well.’

Landman spat. ‘My mother was a dronklap who forgot to feed me when I was baby and who loaned my sister out to any “uncle” who’d buy her a dop. Right now she can’t remember her own name, let alone that she ever had a son.’ He paused and swivelled around to watch the show. It had shifted to a complicated harem scene that involved yashmaks and lapdogs. ‘But we are doing well.’

‘We?’ asked Clare.

‘My business partner has bought this building. And another one recently, in Sea Point, for the next Isis Club. We’re building a chain that will challenge the other operators. Much less tame, much more extreme. Our next move will be Isis Safaris – “Where all your wildest fantasies come to life”.’

‘That’s an expensive investment.’

‘Sex is a very lucrative business, Clare. The demand is always there and the supply is limitless.’

‘What has your strategy been?’ asked Clare.

‘We’re consolidating, branding our products, developing our niche market – for the connoisseur who thought he had it all. There’s so much growth potential: products, spin-off goods, movies. That’s where you make your money.’ Clare thought of the elaborate edit suite she had glimpsed at Tohar’s apartment. The memory called to mind Tatiana’s sobs as she huddled there, alone. Landman continued, on a roll with his newly acquired business-speak. ‘Movies are where you really make your money. You can, for one, sell the same girl over and over again. She doesn’t get tired, doesn’t get her fucking period, doesn’t get thirsty. It’s perfect. And because it’s the movies, you can make all sorts of things look as if they really happened – when in fact they didn’t. Some men pay a lot to see their darkest fantasies come alive.’ He laughed. ‘Or dead.’

A waitress brought a fresh round of drinks to the table and cleared away the ashtray and dirty glasses. Landman’s phone rang. He picked it up and checked the number. He didn’t answer. It rang gratingly four more times. ‘We just have to keep our main man steady.’ He put the phone back into his pocket. ‘Keep him convinced that teamwork is the best.’ The interview was over. Clare repressed the urge to down her whiskey. Instead she packed up her camera, hoping that Landman would not notice that her hands were shaking.

‘Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘You have been most informative.’

‘Sure,’ said Landman. ‘Any time. You let me know.’ He slapped her bottom. ‘You’re going to make me a star, aren’t you, baby? Move over, Patrice Motsepe, Mr Oppenheimer. Watch this space: here comes Kelvin Landman.’

Clare zipped her bag closed and said through clenched teeth, ‘I don’t know about being a star. But probably famous for a day or two.’

She desperately needed to get out. The cool night air was cleansing, and she gulped it in as soon as she was outside. She felt complicit in Landman’s misogyny and ambition. And defiled by her own fascination with what she had watched, by the pulse she had banished from between her legs only after it had left its wetness behind. She opened her window wide, hoping the sea air would blow her clean. She would have another shower, scrub herself, as soon as she got home.

But the road home took her past the turnoff to Riedwaan’s house. Clare took it without thinking. She slowed as she descended the steep one-way road where he lived. The lights were on, and before she had even thought about what she was doing, she’d parked her car and knocked on the door. Riedwaan opened it and drew her inside without a word. His hands were on her body before he had latched the door behind her. He pushed her against the wall and kissed her, obliterating from her mind what she had watched all evening. The tension that had held Clare so taut melted away. Then Riedwaan led her to his unmade bed.

Later, Riedwaan got up and poured them both whiskeys. He lit a cigarette and pushed Clare’s hair aside, stroking her naked back from shoulder to flank.

‘Isn’t it your birthday tomorrow?’ he asked.

Clare turned her head to look at him. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.

‘I remember these things.’ He leant over and kissed the curve of her waist. ‘What shall we do? Croissants? A walk on the mountain?’ He flipped her over, moving his hand down her belly towards her thighs. She didn’t resist when he put his glass down and pulled her on top of him again. She couldn’t give him an answer because he was kissing her again. Like a drowning man. He fell asleep as soon as he had come, but Clare lay wide-eyed long into the night. She was not looking forward to the hours she’d have to spend over the next few days listening to the recording of Landman’s voice, transcribing and editing until she had every nuance ready for her documentary. And, of course, she also had her date with Mrs Ruiters, who had called earlier to say that Whitney had to be moved somewhere safe. She had insisted Clare meet with her. She wanted her to record her statement, and she was too afraid to tell her over the phone.

Clare thought of that coming Sunday, her birthday – and hoped she and Riedwaan would spend it together. They would get coffee, sweet winter oranges, newspapers, and then return to the bed that held the mingled traces of their desires. They would read and doze and make love. They would do normal Sunday things together. They could maybe start again and this time she would make it work. She turned to him and fell asleep.

Clare was wide awake at five. Riedwaan was sprawled across the bed: one hand at home on her hip, the other curled under her hair. He knew she couldn’t sleep if the nape of her neck was exposed. At six she inched out of his embrace. The pull of Constance was irresistible, and so Clare chose her twin. She slipped out of bed. Riedwaan awoke while she was dressing in the dark, searching for her keys. He watched her in the darkness, saying nothing as she slipped out of the room. He held her pillow tight against his chest, but her warmth was already gone. Traces of her perfume taunted him. He got up and made coffee, taking it into the cold courtyard to watch the sun rise.