The Maestro, the Magistrate and the Mathematician. Tendai Huchu
from the brain, and there’s way too much testosterone in the body wreaking havoc in the amygdala. You carry on like this, mate, and you’re a danger not only to yourself, but to society at large.’
A loud, very human cry comes from one of the bedrooms. Brian moves quickly to see what’s up. Farai shrugs and flips the channel to Al Jazeera where he is met with even more distraught Arabs. He decides it’s all too depressing and logs on to hi5 to see if he’s got any new messages. As the page is loading, he flicks to a half-finished chess game against his laptop. It bores him, he’s playing at level 10, the highest level, and the AI can’t keep up with him. Its gigabytes of processing power don’t match up to his integrated organic circuitry.
‘Farai, can you come and give me a hand here?’ Brian calls out.
‘I’m busy,’ he replies.
‘Come on, man, this is serious.’
Farai gets up, tightens the towel round his waist, and walks down the dim corridor to the last bedroom on the right. The pong of stale man-sweat hits him. Brian’s standing at the door. A naked, skeletal figure lies on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. At intervals he moans. This is their friend, Scott. Farai opens the window. Fresh air rushes in from outside.
‘Dude, what the hell do you think you’re doing? We’ve got neighbors. This is a respectable area, they’ll skeem we’re killing a goat in here or something.’
‘She didn’t text me back,’ Scott groans.
‘Would you like something to drink, tea, coffee, water, anything?’ asks Brian.
‘My life’s over. She hates me.’
They stand awkwardly around their naked friend, not quite knowing what to do. Brian fetches a glass of orange juice and gives it to Scott. Farai can’t begin to understand why someone would go crazy like this over some piece of ass. He paces around the room, picking up dirty clothes and putting them into the laundry bag, an activity that hardly makes a dent on the mess.
‘She totally hates me.’
‘That’s chicks, man. They promise you the moon and all you get is a tiny little star, like this.” Farai indicates a tiny little gap between his index finger and thumb.
‘Everything’s fucked.’
‘Do you mind putting something on, coz, no offense, but your naked ass and his stiffy are kinda freaking me out here.’ Farai laughs at his own joke.
Scott lies there, immobile. His eyes bother Farai, pupils dilated, the whites, red and bloody. He knows the story though, Scott has spent the last week psychotexting his ex, C, trying to win her back with romantic declarations, freaky poems, and not-so-subtle emotional blackmail about how life isn’t worth living without her. The chick was hot, no doubt. Farai remembers her – great tits, curvy ass, cliché Coca-Cola bottle body, smart, funny, and quick as a whip. A classy tsvarakadenga. He knew it would never last with his mate Scott. The chick had standards, yo.
‘You’re calling her too often. You’re giving her too much power over you, bro. You gotta hang back and wait until she wants you. Guaranteed she’s gonna come crawling back. Straight-up homies like us are hard to come by in this city.’
‘You think so?’
‘Would I be saying it, if I didn’t think it?’ Farai feigns offense. ‘Now get up your rasclut, you’ve got work this morning, haven’t you?’
‘I’m calling in sick.’
‘You can’t. You owe me, like, 2 months’ rent already.’
‘The wealth of the sinner is stored up for the righteous.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘Proverbs 13 verse 22,’ says Scott, and covers his head with a pillow.
Brian and Farai return to the living room, to the soft monotone sound of traffic picking up on Commercial Street. Through the window, Farai can see the river and a bit of the docks in the distance. He likes living in Sandport, by the water, especially at this point where the Water of Leith empties into the sea. There are great pubs and restaurants a short walking distance away. Everything a student could want.
‘We need to find, like, some serious mental help for Scott. I don’t dig this vibe he’s got going on,’ says Brian.
‘Well, Florence–’
‘I’ve told you before, don’t call me that.’ Brian raises his voice.
‘Aren’t we touchy this morning? See what I told you about all that testosterone in your bloodstream.’
‘Look, Farai, this dude’s acting all mental and we need to get it sorted, otherwise who knows what he might do?’
‘Weren’t you telling us just last week that some of the psychiatric models they use have no relevance to African people? Or have you changed your mind now and you want to see our friend’s brilliant brain warped by mind altering chemical concoctions your quacks are always so quick to prescribe?’
‘You’re twisting my words like you always do. You saw him. This guy’s having some sort of breakdown. He needs professional help.’
‘All he needs is a couple of shots of Sambuca to get his head straight. Can you do that for him?’
‘That’s the last thing he needs.’
‘You’re the nurse and I’m the doctor, comprende?’
‘You’re doing a PhD in economics, that doesn’t make you a physician.’ Brian frowns.
‘Just give him the damn Sambuca and give Mr Majeika a hit too. He likes that on a Monday morning, fires him up for the week ahead,’ Farai says, turns impatiently and goes to his room to get dressed. He’s already wasted too many of his precious morning minutes on this palaver. He wears a pair of Cavallis jeans, a cheap pair of Internationals (Bata) and a white cotton stretch dress shirt (M&S), on top of which he wears his black deconstructed overcoat (Religion). He slips on the Patek Philippe his father bought him when he turned 17. Then, he collects his keys and leaves the flat, but not before grabbing the handmade woollen scarf on the coat hanger, a gift from grandma.
* * *
Farai’s caught up in what passes for congestion in Edinburgh, seat laid back so his arms have to stretch to reach the steering wheel, gangster style, listening to Radio 4 – Thought for the Day. His car, a black PT Cruiser, which he bought because it looks like a monster, is fully equipped with a custom Kenwood KDC-X993 complete with subwoofer that gives the voice on the radio extra kick. The 22 cruises by in the bus lane. A woman in the green Corsa in front chats on her cell phone and uses the rear-view mirror to check her lipstick.
‘They don’t have congestion in Saudi Arabia,’ he mutters to himself.
The vicar talks in a flat voice, pondering the mystery of God’s will and the war. Using tortuous logic, he explains how war may be the ultimate proof that God wants us to have everlasting peace. The lights turn green and Farai begins to move again, slowly creeping up towards North Bridge.
The Scotsman, a red sandstone Edwardian building, looms up ahead. His wipers squeak against the windscreen because it is raining ever so lightly. The fuel gauge flashes red. He can never seem to remember to top up. The last time he ran out was on the M8 to Glasgow and the RAC hit him a £90 charge.
Traffic is clogged up on Nicolson Street and he has to navigate his way through an obstacle course of orange traffic cones. There aren’t any workmen on the closed-up section of the road, that’s just the way it is. Black soot covers the grey walls of the old buildings. He turns right after Surgeons’ Hall to find parking at the mosque.
‘Asalaam Alaykum,’ the bearded dude/car park attendant says, as Farai lowers his window.
‘Wa ’Alaykum Asalaam, to you. And no, Salman, I’m not converting