The Maestro, the Magistrate and the Mathematician. Tendai Huchu
of the causality-seeking neurons in the brain. So religion said the end was not The End, there was something larger, another chance, the weighing of scales so that there was a final justice, immortality, punishment, God, anything at all except the Nothing beyond proof that was waiting for the Maestro if he fell. This for the Maestro was the reason he read these books, to try to make sense of life, the side of the equation that was at least known. And so he hopped and hoped from one to the next, searching, trying to unlock the secrets of Kafka, Sartre, Dostoevsky, Nietzsche, hoping that one of them had peered behind the veil, into the unknown, so that a sliver of the unknowable was captured and contained in the words on a page. His mobile rang, startling him, and he let go of the book. It fell, hitting him on the chin, tumbling, flapping in the air like an owl trying to gain flight as it continued on its death spiral, round, round, round it went until it landed on the pavement with a clap. He hauled himself up and leapt off the windowsill into the flat. He answered his phone. Hello, he said, and it came out sounding more of a challenge than a greeting. The person at the other end was silent. In his haste he’d not checked the number, but he knew who it was. Maestro, why you are breathing so loud? Is this a bad time? It was Tatyana, the only person who would call him at this time, the only person who would call him at all. She mostly worked nights and, once she knew he was an insomniac, took it as a licence to call at any odd hour. I was just reading, he said. You’re always reading, every time I telephone. Go out, boogie, it’s Friday night, she replied. He waited for her to say something else; there was a silence that had to be filled. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he asked, How’s work? She thought about her answer. Tatyana was the kind of woman who could stare you down and win. It’s busy as usual; nightshift is always busy, so many shelves to stack. You want to come and see me some time? He mumbled a reply about how he was busy and had a lot of reading to catch up on. She coaxed him and made him promise that they’d meet soon. Then she hung up. He closed the window. It was only now he noticed the chill in the night air. He ignored his familiar craving, telling himself he wasn’t going to have another fag until morning. Almost without thinking, he ran his finger along the cold spine of a book. Of late, he found himself preferring the company of his books to the companionship of people. Tatyana was virtually his only friend, if he could call her that. Everyone else had forgotten him or given up on him once he’d withdrawn, almost as though he’d quietly sunk into quicksand that no one else could see. At work he was friendly, exuding something resembling warmth, but outside of work he kept to himself. There was something safe in the white pages of a book. A book could be opened and set aside. It could be read and reread, each time a new, deeper meaning deciphered. People, well, people were harder to read. So much was hidden in the twitch of the brow, a sweaty palm, the tenor of the voice, subtle gestures, and things left unsaid. People were moving, dynamic, inconsistent in a million ways. He imagined Tatyana at her shift, wiping shelves, replenishing them. He counted sheep, got to a hundred and stopped. He switched the TV on, flicking through many channels, and failing to find anything worth watching. There was an overwhelming choice, even avoiding the temptation of Playboy, Babestation and the late night adult entertainment channels. On National Geographic, a crocodile waited patiently in a river for a herd of kudu taking tentative steps to the banks. The narrator spoke in a cool, soothing voice, explaining how it had been a long dry season and that this was the only source of water for hundreds of miles. The kudu walked along the muddy banks, reached the river and began to drink. The Maestro watched as the crocodile drifted nearer and nearer, a floating log in the muck, and then in a flash it was all over for a baby kudu. Its mother watched helplessly from the banks as it was dragged into the murky brown waters. He remembered Boethius. He dressed, left his flat, took the lift and walked out of the security doors into the night, where he found the book on the pavement, unscathed.
The Magistrate
The Magistrate prepared supper. He made a simple pasta bolognaise with a generous sprinkling of cheese. Another recipe from the TV. Chenai walked in, wearing faded jeans and a Biffy Clyro T-shirt. She kissed the bald patch on his head and rubbed it.
“Careful, one day you’re going to be as bald as me,” the Magistrate said.
“Eew.”
“It’s hereditary, remember your tete, Mai Munashe?” he laughed. “I’m going out to work tonight. You’re a big girl, I’m sure you can look after yourself. You’ve got your mum’s number and mine in case anything happens. Is that okay?”
“You got a J.O.B. Wicked.” She jumped up and down, and hugged him as if she wanted to squeeze the breath out of him.
“It’s only temporary, agency work, until something better comes up. Food’s ready, help yourself.”
He left before Mai Chenai was up, took the 21 on Niddrie Mains and paid for a single. The neighbourhood fell behind, the derelicts to his left and the new-builds that came after. He went past Alfonso’s place near the Jack Kane Centre, an angular block of concrete that stood amidst open fields. He felt nervous; his entire life had been dedicated to the law, now he found himself taking the first tentative steps to a new profession.
When he thought about it, he found his life was coming full circle. Falling out of the middle class was harder on him than he could have imagined. The Magistrate grew up in the open spaces of Gutu, at his maternal grandfather’s kumusha. His grandfather, a kind, hardworking man, had been a farmer. It was only through chance, the once in a generation aligning of stars, that the Magistrate had broken free from the soil. He came of age at a time when the right education meant open doors and limitless opportunities.
The 21 rolled on, stopping at many stops, people getting off and others getting on. A man fumbled through his pockets, looking for the correct change. He threw his money down the fares box and off they went. They passed through Portobello, past the shops, the police station and the dog salon, the smell of salt in the air, over the robots and on to Seafield Road.
Travelling on the bus, he did not feel quite the same intensity traversing the city as he did while walking. It altered his perception of space at a mental and physical level. On his morning walks, he felt tiredness in his muscles, the full topographical awareness of how he was oriented on a gradient, a connectedness not possible at the same level of consciousness on the bus. He wondered what he was missing along the way. The bus depot was across the road. A few double-deckers were parked there. The sea lay in the distance, grey and still. A sailboat sailed towards the horizon. A feeling of internal dislocation swept over him, which way was South? Car dealerships and commercial spaces swept by. I have got to walk on my way home, he thought, even though he knew it was a long way. Unless he actually felt it in his limbs, he could not live it, make it a part of himself, a felt experience.
The bus took him deep into Restalrig, blanketed by the reek of the sewer works near the coast. The Magistrate clasped his hands together, his palms were sweaty. He went through Leith, past the Links, past the small QMUC campus and onto Great Junction Street. The streets were packed with young people going up town to the nightspots. He was close to his destination. Alfonso had given him an address on Ferry Road.
He got off after the BP garage and began to walk. Thank goodness it was Alfonso who told him how to get here. The natives gave directions using street names as if they were reading off maps, but how does one orient oneself without reference to a landmark in the environment? He checked his watch and saw there was only fifteen minutes before the start of his shift. He picked up pace, walking past a pub, checking the addresses. The pub was 183 and he needed to get to 205. His mobile rang.
“Where are you? Chenai told me you’d got a job. Why didn’t you tell me?” Mai Chenai asked.
“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Inga, makorokoto, what job is it?”
“I went to see Alfonso this afternoon and he arranged something straightaway.” He hoped she wouldn’t remind him that this is what she’d told him to do months ago.
“I’ll have to thank him the next time I see him.”
“I’m about to start my shift, how about we talk in the morning when we get home.”
“Okay, but I don’t like the idea of leaving Chenai at home alone. Perhaps it would be better if you