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190 | denis beckett<br />
spoon – he and his friends had oohed and aahed at the five<br />
degrees Gael and I shared – and look what had happened. He<br />
shook his head sorrowfully and said, “Man, you must stop this<br />
fooling with politics and stuff. You can still make a career, I<br />
know it, I have faith in you.”<br />
rims took his faith and his limousine off and I went inside.<br />
The extractor fan from the fast-foods joint had packed in<br />
again, so I was hit by a fog of rancid cooking oil. The rain had<br />
turned the foyer into a mud-pool and the office was empty.<br />
rachel Browne was off ill. a note from NomaV said she was<br />
“researching”. There was no good reason to mope in the office,<br />
and very good reason to take off my suit.<br />
I made for the sauna at the country club and ladled on the<br />
steam and counted the reasons why not to go get a real job.<br />
There were two: (1) It was a chickening-out. (2) I’d have to<br />
refund a fortune of advance subscriptions.<br />
Too bad. Objections were overruled. That night I told Gael<br />
I was going to get a real job. She was not opposed. Next day, a<br />
friday, there was no NomaV. The office felt moribund. It was<br />
time to close. all weekend I was certain.<br />
On Monday, NomaV produced a story, pages and pages, on<br />
Winnie Mandela; installment two.<br />
This was a riveting piece of work. It was not about to appear<br />
anywhere else. Journo fashion had ceased to venerate Winnie,<br />
but did not yet know whether actual criticism was kosher. Worse,<br />
NomaV, while hardly seeking Winnie’s Pr account, was brutal<br />
on the liberation priesthood who had blocked their eyes when<br />
Winnie reigned but, now that she was down, “descended on her<br />
like vultures” to “heap all blame on one pair of shoulders”.<br />
Let alone her judgments, NomaV had done mind-blowing<br />
reportage. She put names and flesh to rumours that the nation<br />
bandied in the abstract. It had to be published. Oh, dear.<br />
Winnie 2 was not the only must-be-published. I had a<br />
blockbuster of my own on Boksburg, in its five minutes of fame<br />
as capital of the right. It was the best thing I’d written, then,<br />
but it was almost a book. No-one but Frontline would take it.
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