Crime Beat

NEW VISITORS TO CRIME BEAT HAVE REQUESTED CATCH-UP ON CHAMELEON, THE CRIME BEAT BLOOK, SO WE’VE RE-PUBLISHED INSTALLMENTS ONE TO NINE IN BLOCK FORM HERE.

Chameleon is a story about insider trading on the JSE and was inspired by the much publicized conviction of Greg Blank, the Joburg high-flier who spent time in prison after his front running defrauded the Old Mutual in the early nineties. Why would a man who had everything gamble his reputation for money he didn’t need? That’s the question raised in Chameleon when the senior partner in respected firm of stockbrokers is tried and jailed for insider trading.His glamorous wife wins the admiration of all as she supports him through the crisis but she has a hidden agenda very different from the colours she displays in public…

CHAMELEON

Children take their world with them
To the bath to bed to public places
Umbrellas of emotions always sheltering them
Tough and snug as the shell of a tortoise
But these tortoises grow up into chameleons
Who are much cleverer
But not so happy

David Friedland, After Image

PROLOGUE

It seemed like fate when they pulled up beside her at the traffic lights. Divine intervention. Statistically, the chances of it happening were close to zero. She recognized them immediately. Dread seeped in through the sealed windows. She could scarcely breathe. Her stomach churned and knotted. Her hands grew clammy as they tightened around the wheel. The car felt claustrophobic.

She knew it would be different in their car.

It was a white BMW. The 5 Series. Naturally. Inevitably. She knew they’d drive a car like that. She couldn’t see the face of the woman in the passenger seat. Her hair was thick and blonde – sleek and styled like the women in the brochures you page through at the hairdresser’s. She knew there would be labels on all the clothes she wore – brand names from Rome and Paris and the fashion capitals of the world. She watched as the woman leaned over and touched the driver’s cheek. The woman in the back reached forward and squeezed her outstretched hand.

She willed herself to look away. She thought the lights would never change – Cape Town must have the slowest robots in the world. But when they turned to green, she slid into the lane behind and followed them.

She couldn’t stop herself.

It proved surprisingly easy to keep them in her sights. More divine intervention. On a normal day, the lights on Main Road aren’t noted for synchronicity. She expected to be trapped by a red or orange light. She anticipated watching helplessly as her quarry sped off without her. But it didn’t happen. At each intersection, the robots slotted exactly into the time-frame she needed. The car turned left at the Kenilworth intersection. She felt surprise when she realised that they were heading for the factory shops at Access Park. Even yuppies like a bargain…

Her stomach tied itself in knots again when she saw their destination. There were SALE notices in all the windows. The shop was crowded and parking was at a premium. She had to watch from a sideline as they parked and headed across street to the entrance. She could read their body language, even with a stretch of tarmac to divide them. She knew they were excited. Her radar picked them up when she slid into the shop behind them. She tried to make her way unobtrusively towards them. Her hands sifted aimlessly through random products on a nearby shelf. She forced herself to look.

The shop stocked products she never knew existed.

Enormous feeding bras – tailor-made to fit a woolly mammoth. Nipple caps. A steam humidifier promising to banish air-pollution. Giant bottles of Purity. A device with an audible signal to monitor room temperature. Another one which rang an alarm if it detected babies crying. Educational playpens. A baby in the new millennium appeared to require more strategy planning than the D-day invasions on the beaches of Normandy.

She was close enough to be in earshot. They were standing by the prams. Up-market prams – they wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Grand Prix circuit. The younger woman seemed to share her views.

‘But Mom! Look at the price! I can’t pay this for a pram! How long will a baby need a pram? It’s hardly a long term investment!’

‘It’s far too much!’ her husband nodded, examining the price-tag. ‘We’re going to have to buy a container to get all this back home!’ His voice had strong European inflection.

Not French or Italian. Something unfamiliar. Maybe Spanish?

The older woman swept aside their protests.

‘But I want you to have it. I insist. It’s got all the safety features. I want it to be special….’

‘You’re getting totally carried away! We can’t justify it!’

The younger woman laughed and shook her head as she argued with her mother. “This range is cheaper,’ she gestured.

As she turned to show her mother the alternative, she caught a glimpse of the woman watching. Recognition sparked like a current across the crowded aisle. Her face froze. The intake of her breath was audible. She clutched her husband’s arm and he turned to look to look in the direction she was pointing.

But there was no-one there.

The woman left the shop as silently as she’d entered.

*

CHAPTER ONE

Eric and I travelled extensively so I’m very familiar with forms at airports. I churn out the answers like an automaton. I know my passport number off by heart but I’m aware of a tiny pen-pause when I reach the block that asks for occupation. It’s like an involuntary stutter. I can’t seem to get my pen around the initial letter. It only lasts a moment. Then I write down Housewife in my strong slanted script and move on to less contentious issues like destination and currency reserves.

I should stutter more over destination than I do over occupation. It feels as if I’ve always been a housewife. My destiny is still a subject for debate.

I certainly qualify for the housewife appellation if you consider the syllables in isolation. I have a magnificent house. It’s even in my name. Eric has always been in the big league when it comes to high-risk ventures – he’d never take the chance of the house disappearing off his list of assets should a deal go sour. And as for the wife bit – well, I’m a legend in Cape Town. Everyone envies Eric his wife – everyone who matters, that is. They probably don’t hold me in high esteem in the Cape Flats townships – unless they’re addicted to the society pages of the Argus. Then they’ll know my face. They probably expect to see me in a movie. They’ll see us at the Met. At the opening of the new Convention Centre, smiling graciously as we hand over yet another cheque to the current charity that’s caught our attention.

We‘re a high profile couple. That’s why I stammer over Housewife. The housewife package implies potato peeling and yellow dusters. Washing machines and tumble driers. Tidying up and fetching kids. Well, I certainly did the latter. Admittedly not the plural version. We only have one daughter. But I was always there to fetch her from her multiple activities. I never sent the driver.

I’m also the perfect mother.

Perfect is a complicated word in terms of Latin grammar. I had unexpected exposure to this during my daughter’s delinquent adolescence. She opted to study Latin simply because I advised her not to. The alternative was accounting but Lisa made a point of avoiding anything with a practical application. She didn’t prove to be a dedicated Latin scholar either but I learned quite a lot while trying to coax her through her homework. There are multiple variations of perfect in Latin. Imperfect. Pluperfect. Future perfect. Perfect passive. My grasp of Latin tenses has become rather tenuous since Lisa left school but as far as I remember, imperfect is always linked to an action in the past. It certainly is in my case. Future perfect doesn’t seem to be an option once you’ve added past imperfect to your portfolio.

Perhaps I should fill in Hostess instead of Housewife in the occupation section but it makes me sound like some kind of hooker on the prowl. It felt very inaccessible, up on my pedestal as the boss’ wife. That’s the only reservation I have about the term. Other than that, I have all the qualifications a hostess could aspire to.

Everyone was eager to make the guest list for one of Eric’s functions. They were gala affairs on Cape Town’s social calendar. I’ve a master’s degree in small talk. I can make idle chatter about topics ranging from gardening to the share price and political trends in foreign places. I never really listen to a word I’m saying. Or to a word that they reply. I have to keep my eye on the staff. Are the snacks circulating as they should? Does anyone need a drink replenished? Is that an isolated guest I’ve spotted, lingering awkwardly on the fringe? I can extricate myself seamlessly from any conversation and be beside the loner in an instant. It only takes a moment to log into a topic demanding a response. A function is stress-free for Eric with me on duty. I never overlook a single detail.

I really am the perfect wife.

I find these expectations daunting in my secret private world. My underworld. The world that’s dense and overgrown with tangled weeds – quite unlike the ordered roses which line the pavements leading to my public door. A female edition of Doctor Jeckyll. No-one suspects that there’s a Mrs Hyde lurking in the undergrowth. I try to forget about her myself.

But I never will.

I never considered suicide, even on that first despairing night without him. I know they say someone commits suicide about every fifty seconds or something equally alarming – but how on earth do they do it? I suppose you could jump under a bus – but you have to spare the luckless driver at least a thought or two. I’m sure he’d feel responsible. He might start thinking of jumping under a bus himself before the month was up. And what if it escalated? One assumes he’d screech to a halt as his wheels went over you. There could be a major pile up of people just driving slowly home from work, trying to make up their minds between bangers and mash or chicken casserole for supper.

It hardly seems fair. I’d have to be pretty desperate to go the bus route.

There’s always pills I suppose. But where do you suddenly get enough lethal pills to kill you? I’m sure you can’t do it on asprin. An entire crate of asprin would probably reduce you to a minor doze. Pharmacists won’t dish out a six month supply of sleeping pills. You’d have to store them up. Imagine not sleeping for six entire months as you waited for the next prescription.

I won’t choose suicide to escape the thoughts that plague me but I can’t help imagining the reaction if I did. Everyone would be completely shattered. No-one would believe it. No, they’d say. Not Leigh. Never. She’s the least likely person on the planet to kill herself. They’d probably arrest some luckless passerby for murder. They’d tell the lawyers that I had no motive; no inclination for self-destruction. She’s such a positive person, they’d continue. So accomplished. So thoughtful. Look how she stood by Eric. And imagine the effect on Lisa. It would destroy Lisa. They’re so close. More like sisters than mother and daughter. There’s no reason on earth that Leigh would want to die.

But they’ve never met Mrs Hyde. No-one has, apart from Eric and Lisa. All families have their secrets.

I’m restless. As usual. I’m always restless. I get up and walk over to the sound system. Flick on the switch. It’s a mistake. That’s the problem with high- tech equipment; it promises surround-sound and that’s what it delivers. The music invades every corner of the room. It’s on the same number as it was yesterday when I turned it off. The volume’s far too loud. The beat’s insistent. The empty cover’s lying on the table where I left it. Cher’s sculptured face looks back at me.

If I could turn back time
If I could find a way…

I can’t bear to listen. It makes me feel so hopeless.

Because I know I never can.

I press eject. There’s silence as the CD slides obediently into sight. I pick it up and turn it over in my hand. I snap it in half. It breaks cleanly into two. I open the cover and slip in the fragments. I close it and walk towards the kitchen – to throw it away forever. I push it down among the freshly peeled potato skins. Under the newspaper. Out of sight. I close the bin. I’ll never see it again.

Regret is a completely useless emotion. I rinse my manicured hands at the basin and carry on with my day.

*

It’s dark.

Not literally of course. If I look out of the window from where I’m standing in front of the bathroom basin, the sky is indelibly blue. It’s one of those summer days that only happen in Cape Town. The colours seem brighter than anywhere else on the planet. The lawns rolling down to the fringe of trees look newly painted. Even the bathroom has a view in my house. It’s inconceivable that the world can look this bleak to someone as fortunate as me.

That’s what I told Tom when I went to get a new prescription for my pills. I can’t get through the day without them. They don’t dissolve the problems but they take the edge off. I can cope with everything when I take them. Well, almost everything.

I relate well to Tom. I feel he understands. I’ve been coming to him for years. Long before the Eric crisis. He saw Lisa through all the common childhood ailments. We’re on first name terms. I play bridge with his wife. Or at least I used to. I’m not playing much bridge at the moment. I make excuses every time she calls. I can’t concentrate. I haven’t the faintest idea how many trumps are out. I can hardly remember what contract we’re playing. I’m not in high demand as a bridge partner at the moment.

Tom looked up from the magic formula he was filling in on the letterhead that lay on my file which was open on the desk in front of him. He took off his glasses and folded his hands in front of him. It was a characteristic pose. I knew what was coming.

‘You don’t have to justify how you’re feeling Leigh,’ he started gently.

‘But it seems so unreasonable,’ I replied. My usual script. I say it every time. ‘I’m so lucky. I’ve got everything I could possibly want. My family. My home. My lifestyle. The… the business with Eric – it’s over now. Life’s back to normal. Everything’s on track. It should be full steam ahead. I tell myself that every morning but I can’t seem to pull myself together. I struggle to get out of bed, no matter how much is scheduled for the morning ahead. And I can’t face going to bed at night because I know I’ll never sleep – even if I’m exhausted.’

Tom shook his head.

‘You wouldn’t feel unreasonable if you came to me with measles,’ he continued. ‘You wouldn’t be ashamed to tell me about your symptoms. You probably wouldn’t be able to explain your rash or your high temperature. You’d just accept that you were ill and those were the symptoms.’ Tom tries to vary his examples. Last time it was TB and coughing. But the message is always the same. I understand it. I just don’t believe that it applies to me.

He proceeded with paragraph three which always covers treatment.

‘If you had measles you’d expect me to give you a prescription to make you feel better, to make the symptoms go away. Depression’s also an illness. It’s not your fault you feel depressed. You’d never criticize anybody for having diabetes. You can’t help the genes that you were given. It’s perfectly safe to stay on these pills for as long as you feel they’re helping.’

Tom makes the same speech with minor variations every time I go there. I could make it myself if you put me in a pulpit and asked me to address an entire congregation of depressives. It’s probably true for them but I know it isn’t true for me. My depression isn’t related to a chemical imbalance in my genes. I’ve earned it. I manipulated the most important people in my life to reset the family stage exactly the way I wanted it to look. Everything dates back to Angela. She’ll never know that she was the catalyst for all my moves on the family chessboard.

I force myself to lean across the basin and put toothpaste on my brush. I’ve worked up quite a praiseworthy lather when the phone rings. I don’t want to answer it. I carry on brushing, hoping it will stop. But it doesn’t. It’s insistent. It rings and rings. My feet walk over to it of their own volition. They’ve been programmed never to ignore a ringing phone.

‘Hello? Yes! How are you? I’m very well thanks. Rushing around as usual. How was the holiday? Provence’s marvellous isn’t it? I think it’s my favourite European destination…
Wednesday evening? That’d be wonderful! Don’t forget that I expect a wad of photographic evidence…’

I gush on and on. Exclaiming over details. Wishing she’d hang up. Wishing I’d never answered. Wishing I hadn’t said we’d go on Wednesday. It’ll be an ordeal but I’m a survivor. Vivacity is as programmed into my responses as my phone-answering feet. We have to get back into the swing of things. For Eric’s sake. Our friends are eager to encourage our return to the social circuit. Not that they ever made me feel excluded; everyone applauded the way I carried on regardless, even while he was away.

I always say while he was away.

I can’t bring myself to mention jail. Facing the facts has never been my strongest point.

*
CHAPTER TWO

I can’t remember my parents ever being young. People often mistook them for my grandparents when they pitched up to clap at Speech Day.

My mother’s pregnancy was a miracle. They’d been told there was no chance of children – a low sperm count twinned with blocked fallopian tubes is not a winning combination. My mother was five months pregnant before her expanding waistline was medically diagnosed. She’d never been thin so a few more inches wasn’t an extraordinary occurrence. They were beside themselves with joy and disbelief when they heard. My father treated her like priceless china as she swelled with her precious cargo.

I was a holy icon from the day that I arrived.They re-arranged their lives to cater to my every whim. I grew up with the dangerous perception that I was the centre of the universe. I had time to do a lot of damage before I learned that I was wrong. I expected a miniature version of me when Lisa was born – as if being me was the finest prize a child could win. But Lisa isn’t at all like me; she’s cast in a different mould entirely. All mothers have dreams for their children but in my case, the dreams I wanted her to fulfill were mine rather than hers. I can understand why she’s so close to Eric. She didn’t have to do anything to fulfill his expectations. He was happy to accept whatever choices she made. It was a re-run of my own childhood scenario.

I was also closer to my father than to my mother. Perhaps the reason was that he was the one who stayed at home to look after me. In a way, my aged parents were more modern than Eric and I. Stay-at-home fathers are quite in vogue today but Eric’s career automatically took precedence over mine. There was no debate about who would give up work to care for Lisa.

My parents were trendsetters. Gender roles were cast in stone in their generation. They’d both been working before my unexpected arrival. They couldn’t bring themselves to put a holy icon in a daycare centre – she could be dropped or smacked or treated like an ordinary child. There are no pedestals in play school. I think they’d prayed they’d win the lotto so both of them could take up a full time position at the cot-side. But no-one ever really wins the lotto so they had to scratch that option out. They got out their pens and calculators and did their pension sums.

My father had been with the bank since leaving university. My mother earned a higher salary in her job but she hadn’t been there as long. It made more sense to take his pension and let her supplement it for as long as she could. She agreed to leave her precious charge with him and keep the coffers turning. They had to ensure my future – the best private education that Cape Town had to offer. They couldn’t risk the government school down the road. She made a sacrifice. Well, I suppose they both made a sacrifice. My father gave up his career and the chance of any morale-boosting promotions that might have been lurking off-stage in the wings. He was the only man in the lunch-time lift scheme when I was at school. My mother had to drag herself away from my protesting fingers. She felt like a traitor every time she left the house.

The only winner was me. I had my father’s full time focus every day. My mother lugged maternal guilt around all day and spent the evenings trying to make it up to me. I had someone’s full-time attention every single minute I was awake. My mother insisted on the night-time shift if I was restless. She needed to feel that she’d done her bit. She’d go to work exhausted on occasion. I didn’t follow her example. I’ve never experienced the difficulties of juggling the conflicting demands of home and office. I never worked again after Lisa was born. Not officially that is.

With my particular skills, you can function very effectively from a home computer.

*
I’ve always known that people aren’t necessarily the same on the inside.

When I was little, I thought I might be a princess – underneath my outer, middle-class, suburban skin. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find my blood was blue when I fell down and skinned my knees. I dreamed that I’d been plundered from a royal crib – a malignant goblin with a long term grudge against my regal father. I adored my father. I felt certain that my royal roots must have come from his side of the family tree.

Perhaps I was over-exposed to fairy tales. I grew up listening to stories. It was an intrinsic part of going to bed, as much of a ritual as brushing my teeth. My mother would plump up my pillows and smooth the duvet around my growing limbs. She’d sit down on the chair beside my night-light and open the glossy pages, alive with mermaids and dragons and disguise. When my father did the bedtime shift, he made the stories up himself. They were my favourite stories. I was always the heroine. I could bank on a happy ending, regardless of the perils I might face along the way. I was invincible. I grew up with the certainty that I could rearrange every situation to my own advantage.

Until Eric went to jail. Solutions never seemed so accessible after that.

I was very emotional as a little girl. I wept and laughed with equal ease. It took me years to realize that there are risks attached to public tears. The returns on public laughter are far higher. It’s like a share portfolio. You have to keep the ratio between risk and return in strict proportion if you want to prosper. Everyone likes to laugh. You can be sure of applause if you’re the one who livens up the dinner party with a comic turn of phrase. Tears are a riskier proposition – though there are blue chip tears of course. They’re almost obligatory in certain situations. Weddings. Funerals. Tears won’t raise an eye-brow at either of those occasions. Movies and plays are also free of risk. There’s no personal involvement – it’s almost laudable to be moved to tears on the strength of other people’s emotions. Prize-givings are riskier. It’s kosher to cry if you win. But definitely not if you lose…

My talent for manipulation surfaced early. I don’t think I’m unique. Children seem to be born with a natural aptitude to play their parents to their own advantage. I’m sure I’m not the only one who went along with the Father Christmas myth to ensure a healthy haul on Christmas morning. From an early age, we knew who really ate the mince pies we set out underneath our empty stockings on Christmas Eve. We knew the snowy footprints on the lounge floor next morning were really made of flour. I only learned about the futures market at university but I’d already had years of practice in buying into a project in order to offset risk. I have a pre-school memory of an incident involving the tooth mouse. Perhaps it gave me my first insight into how to make a quick profit from a short sale.

I believed in the tooth mouse as assiduously as I did in Father Christmas. I’d had a loose tooth for days. I wriggled and probed it with my tongue but I couldn’t dislodge it. Eventually I took my courage in my hands and attacked it with my fingers. I held my breath and yanked. A tiny stab of pain and it came loose in my hand. A few drops of blood – they weren’t blue but my father assured me that my tooth was purest ivory. I knew I could count him to assume his tooth mouse role as soon as I fell asleep. I wondered how much he’d leave. Last time it had gone up a rand. How much did I dare to hope for this time round? I expected a good return on investments, even then.

I remember my sick sense of disappointment when I woke at dawn and pounced upon my slipper to retrieve the spoils. The tooth was still there. My ivory offering had been forgotten. I carried my disbelieving slipper through to my parents’ bedroom. Even at five years old, I think I knew that I could turn their oversight into a cash bonanza. And sure enough, my father pulled me into bed to convert my disappointment into expectation.

‘There’s been a problem with the tooth mouse,’ he began tentatively. My father was a master story teller. He had a hot-line to the world of make-believe. He always knew what was happening in fairyland. He spun a gory tale. He introduced a mugging long before it became standard fare in the South African newspapers. The tooth mouse didn’t stand a chance. He was surrounded. by a squad of hostile goblins. They beat him with their cudgels until he fell senseless to the ground, stunned and bleeding. His blood really was blue. All the good guys in my father’s stories had blue blood. His characters were often in disguise. You only knew if they were good or bad once they started bleeding. A fairytale version of DNA. It was standard procedure in my father’s stories for me to come to the rescue. I flew through the air in my pink pyjamas and landed fearlessly among the hostile goblins. I drew my secret sword and cut them down like flies. I knelt beside the motionless mouse. I stroked him gently, my hands blue with his royal blood. I felt his body shudder as his heart started beating…

He made a remarkable recovery. Next morning when I woke, the tooth was gone and there two coins instead of one inside my slipper. I didn’t miss my ivory tooth at all. Another one soon grew to take its place.

I wish it had been as easy to replace a baby.

*
I didn’t study drama at school or university but I seem to have a natural ability to present an impressive public image, regardless of what goes on once the curtains are drawn and I remove my make-up. If a theatre critic was to assess my credibility in each performance, I’d probably get a five star rating. You have to believe in the part you’re playing if you’re going to be convincing and I’m sincerely committed to the activities that fill almost my whole day. A wife and mother. A member of the school board with a reputation for efficiency and innovation. One of the girls, sipping coffee after movies, bewailing teenage vagaries or the choice of lounge suites. Book club and competition bridge. A gracious hostess and a creative cook.

Anything but a trader…

Perhaps it was Grizelda’s influence. Grizelda was my chameleon. I was the only girl in the class with a chameleon as a pet. I can’t claim that she made me the envy of all my friends. She didn’t seem to have the same appeal for others as she did for me. Fortunately, I had more standard pets as well. A fluffy kitten. An animated puppy with upright ears and a pink and panting tongue. They went down better with visitors than my silent, anti-social Grizelda. I was the only one who liked her.

I was introduced to the species on a school outing to the local zoo. I glimpsed one basking on a branch among the other reptiles in the section. I stopped listening to the speech about the python. My chameleon was absolutely motionless, striped in bands of gold and green and blue. He looked almost pre-historic with his pointed helmet on his head – as if he was waiting for a command to sally forth and vanquish an enemy. His gaze swept past me as his monstrous eyes swung around in a ceaseless circle. How could he look in every direction? He had to be magic. Or an alien. I was startled by the sinister lightning flash of his tongue. I pressed my face against the fence in silent fascination. I didn’t notice that my classmates had moved on towards the lions. I had to run to catch up with them.

I told my father all about my new addiction when he picked me up that day. That night, at bedtime, he told me an ancient African legend about chameleons. Many centuries ago, a great fire swept across the plains of Africa consuming everything in its path. All animals caught unaware were consumed by hungry yellow flames. I felt the heat. I heard the crackling flames. I smelt burning flesh as he spun his magic tale. A solitary man remained, fleeing for his life as the flames approached him – and yet he took the time to pause and pluck the last chameleon from its blackening branch and carry it to safety across the mighty river. As a reward, the chameleon offered him an animal of his own to keep and use for all his future needs. Man chose the wild herds of cattle – to use for milk and meat. Lobola for the brides of future days.

But the black cattle weren’t part of the deal. They were the blue-blood segment of the herd. The chameleon gave them their freedom. They would roam the plains forever as Nyani – the buffalo. But the man grew greedy. He wanted the Nyani too. He started to hunt them down. And he has never stopped, despite the chameleon’s strict injunction. The chameleon felt betrayed and shamed that his promise to the Nyani had been broken. Forever after, he has attempted to hide from all animals, buffalo and man alike.

I loved my father’s explanation for this anti-social behaviour. I’ve learned a few things about betrayal and shame since then so it still seems a credible explanation despite the scientific facts I picked up in the classroom. Our biology teacher explained that chameleons aren’t aiming at camouflage when they change colour. They don’t aim to blend in with the environment and keep out of public view. They turn into their rainbow spectrum in response to temperature, light or mood – the contraction and expansion of layered cells which let in or block out certain colours. They’re actually trying to say something when they change from green to yellow. They’re angry. Maybe they don’t want the biology teachers to invade their territory with cameras, taking photos for the pupils waiting in the classroom. They don’t want to be a biological curiosity. Secrets are secrets, after all. My father’s version of their motive appeals to me far more.

I’ve always liked chameleons with their undercover ways to hide the truth.

I wanted one of my own.

*

‘You can’t have a chameleon darling,’ my mother said firmly. ‘No-one has a chameleon as a pet. Even a goldfish is more fun than a chameleon. At least you can watch them swimming around. Chameleons keep out of sight. There’s no point in a pet that sits under a bush all day. And anyway, pet-shops don’t sell them. They’re probably an endangered species. You can’t have a chameleon.’

I claimed to have set my heart on a chameleon to ensure my father would track one down for me. He always gave me everything I wanted – within reason of course. I knew there was no point in asking for Mount Everest or the Pacific Ocean but I thought something as small as a chameleon was not beyond the bounds of possibility. And sure enough he pulled me onto his warm, safe lap and told me that he would see what he could do.

‘You are being ridiculous Barry!’ my mother protested. ‘Where are you proposing to house this chameleon? And what’s it going to eat? I’ve never noticed a fridge at Pick’n Pay that stocks dead insects. Or are the two of you planning to get up at dawn with your butterfly nets and catch them yourselves before school?’

My eyes lit up at the prospect.

‘Yes!’ I assured her. ‘I’ll set the alarm and we’ll go every morning. Beth’s got a net. I know she’ll let me use it!’ Beth’s my best friend. For as long as I can remember, she’s been there to help me through one crisis after the next. I love Beth almost as much as I love my father. I also love my mother but she’s quick see the downside of my dreams. She’s too practical for someone as starry-eyed as me. She made a few cynical queries about how committed I might prove to be when it came to getting out of bed to harvest sleeping insects. She predicted that my interest in chameleons would wane the minute one arrived.

My father and I exchanged a secret glance as she ranted from her anti-chameleon soap-box. We knew we’d go on with our plans, regardless of how valid the points she made might seem to be. Her point about the inaccessibility of chameleons proved to have some substance although she was wrong to dismiss them as non-desirable pets. The pet trade in chameleons is thriving. My father looked it up at the library. He found an article that claimed that nearly half a million wild chameleons had been exported from Africa and Madagascar over the last five years. I don’t know how he tracked one down, I’m sure they aren’t advertised in yellow pages

The supplier was an old Jewish man with a waist-coat and a yamulka and a strong Yiddish accent. He peddled a variety of reptiles in a dark and dusty shop in Long Street. I can’t imagine how it provided him with an income but it had somehow managed to survive for decades. His shop was full of caged reptiles, coiled and sinister in the poorly lit interior. He reminded me of a garden gnome. He gave an extra dimension to the fairytale quality of our shopping expedition. It would have been much less exciting if our quarry had been housed beside the dog-biscuits in a more up-market pet shop.

He claimed to be an authority on reptiles in general and showed a proprietary attitude towards the chameleons clinging precariously to their branches in the cage he had built for them by hand. He led me round to their large meshed enclosure. He opened the door. ‘Look,’ he said, taking my hand. He stretched it out towards a small pastel green chameleon, clinging with fused fingers to a slender branch. ‘She’s also a girl,’ he told me. ‘Just like you. Let her walk on your hand,’ he instructed. I felt a frisson of delight and fear as I saw her move towards me, her slight body rocking from side to side like a leaf in a gentle breeze. She looked like a leaf with legs as I felt her grasp my finger. The garden gnome took my other hand and placed it gently on top of the chameleon. I drew back in fear as she gaped and hissed her protest. My gnome laughed and placed her back on her perch.

‘You see!’ he told us. ‘That tells you she is well. If she was sick, she would just lie in your hand with her eyes closed. Her eyes must be open. Looking round. See how they bulge outwards! A chameleon with eyes sunken in his head is dehydrated or stressed. A chameleon who keeps his eyes closed must be sick!’ He proceeded to point out the various charms of the chameleon – his sales technique was not too shabby. ‘Look at her colour!’ he enthused. ‘Nice light green! Dark chameleons are too cold. Look at her straight legs! Did you feel how strongly she held your finger? This is a good chameleon. She was only hatched a month ago. You can watch her grow – it only takes her about six months to reach her full size.’

I was entranced. This chameleon was destined to be mine. I knew what we had in common from the outset. She was also a princess. Just like me. A secret, wrinkled princess imprisoned in a foreign body. Maybe I could dream up a spell to free us both.

We placed an order on the spot and agreed to collect her as soon as we’d established an enclosure suitable for a chameleon of her rank and stature. My father suggested that Grizelda would be a suitable name. It appealed to me immediately. I thought it sounded wrinkled and exotic.

My luckless father left the shop with a ten gallon aquarium and file of notes on the features we would need to make Grizelda feel at home. A comprehensive list of chameleon preferences was part of the sales service. We had contacts for crickets and instructions to buy a pothos plant from the nursery on our way home. Neither of us had ever heard of a pothos plant before but apparently its leaves are a chameleon favourite. My father bought me a little watering can and I watered it religiously every day. I even washed the leaves. We couldn’t have Grizelda exposed to anything as toxic as an insecticide.

My mother was soon won over to our new enterprise. She took me down to the craft shop at the local vineyard where she’d seen a grapevine wreath of plaited branches – narrow enough for Grizelda’s patrician fingers. We opened up the plaits and scrubbed them down with dilute bleach. My father rigged them up in the aquarium, beside the green and growing pothos plant. We made provision for sleeping spots. Eating perches. We installed a reflector lamp to ensure that our Grizelda had somewhere warm enough to bask. She was a very lucky chameleon. No wonder she thrived.

I spent a lot of time watching my motionless Grizelda. She’s one of my clearest childhood memories. I marvelled as her colours changed from day to day, from hour to hour. I dreamed of the day she’d turn into a princess. But I wasn’t as good as at casting spells as Harry Potter.

Grizelda never turned into a princess. I was the one who changed.

I turned into a chameleon.

*
CHAPTER THREE

I think the global population of chameleons is far higher than statistics show. Some people say they’ve never seen a chameleon other than in a zoo but I don’t think they’re looking carefully. We’re everywhere. Becoming a chameleon is simply part of growing up.

I’ve probably given chameleons more thought than others do because of my childhood intimacy with Grizelda. Most people would dismiss the species in a single sentence. They’d tell you they change colour – to blend in with the environment they’d add, by way of explanation. So that you can’t see them anymore. They look like a leaf or a twig. Something different from what they really are. Most conversations on chameleons never get much further than that. People generally won’t point out that society would disintegrate entirely without adherence to a chameleon code of ethics. There’d be total chaos if people lost the ability to hide what they’re really thinking.

Everyone has at least a smattering of chameleon skills. Protocol demands it. You can’t just announce to someone that they’ve put on an enormous amount of weight, even if that’s going through your mind as you stand there shaking hands. It’s unethical to confess that you find a conversation boring. No-one looks the hostess in the eye and says her party was a dreadful failure. We’re all programmed for deception. It makes for plainer sailing if you keep your raw emotions out of sight. You’re vulnerable once they’re in the public eye.

No-one‘s born with chameleon skills. Babies aren’t furtive about displaying their feelings. They smile when they’re happy and cry when they’re sad. They’re in the same category as dogs with wagging tails. Dogs don’t put on a show and nor do babies. Maybe they don’t have real feelings. Happy and sad are synonyms for wet and dry when you’re in the cradle. Or so I thought at the time. That’s why I was able to give Angela away. How could it matter to such a new arrival in the world, I reasoned. How would she know who was feeding her? Why would she care? I made certain she’d be dry and fed. Smile and happy are the words that balance that equation.

It seemed the right solution at the time.

But perceptions change. It was a short-term decision. With my stock-market background, you might have expected me to foresee the long term implications. Decision making theory dates back to Pascal, as early as the seventeenth century. His theory makes the point that decisions involve utilizing available information to make the best of any given situation. That’s what I tried to do. But he also points out that all choices carry risk. I’m an authority on fluctuating markets but on that occasion, I underplayed the risk factor when I made my decision. I’ve certainly paid for it since then. More than I could ever have anticipated at the time.

I can’t wish that I could rewrite the past entirely because that would blot out Angela. I certainly wish that Eric hadn’t gone to jail – and not only because jail in South Africa is so bleak. If he hadn’t gone to jail it would mean that he’d got away with it. I would have got the money I needed. Perhaps I wouldn’t have had to watch Angela drifting out of reach.

*

I once went to a lecture on infant perceptions at Summer School. I had to leave half way through. Everyone was muttering their discontent as I disrupted the proceedings and fought my way along the aisle, stumbling over feet and rucksacks. But I had to go. I couldn’t bear to hear another word. He was saying the opposite of everything I wanted to believe was true. He said that babies have a relationship with their mothers from long before the time when they are born. There are high levels of attachment from the moment that the baby quickens in the womb and makes its presence felt. He said they’ve done experiments which show that babies recognize a mother’s voice. It travels down her spine through the amniotic fluid. It’s a powerful influence during pregnancy. Even her smell is special. And a baby’s stare has purpose and direction. It looks at the mother preferentially within an hour of birth.

These are not the sort of things I want to hear. I’d rather be back in the dark ages when
handing a baby over to a wet nurse was standard procedure. I’m not programmed to hear the answers modern medicine provides.

I’ve read all the books that I can find on adoption. Most of them focus on the fortunes of the adopted child or on the problems experienced by the newly acquired parents. Very few of them pay much attention to the birth mother. The relinquishing mother is a term they sometimes use. They seem to brush over her situation. After all, it’s not as if her child was kidnapped from the cradle. It was a choice she made.

Sometimes. Not always. Not even often.

There’s a lot of pressure surrounding an unplanned pregnancy.. Mothers are the worst offenders, even though they’re filled with good intentions. Perhaps it’s because they know just how disruptive babies are. Nothing about your life is ever the same once you’ve had a baby. Most men don’t know that. Nothing fundamental changes for them. They just carry on with their ordinary lives. Eric wanted to keep Angela. So did my father, despite his perspective as a full-time, stay-at-home father. He didn’t think careers were as important as babies.

It was my mother and I who were concerned. We made the decision.

The most helpful article I read was by a woman named Rosemary Mander. God knows who she is or if she’s an authority on the subject. I remember her name because I made a photostat of the feature when I found it on the library shelf. I’ve read it so many times that I think I could recite it, word for word. My heart still ties itself in knots when I read it, despite the familiarity of the pages.

The worst bit is what she calls the rugger pass approach to adoption. Eric’s a rugby fanatic. I must have watched a million scrums from the sidelines. I’ve seen the ball come out. I’ve watched the scrum-half grab it and pass it on. It’s over in a moment. And that’s that. End of story. The ball never comes back to the scrum where it started its journey. It goes wherever play takes it. Neither the scrum nor the ball has any say in what happens next. Play passes to different players altogether. Mander says the old approach to adoption has much in common with the rugby scrum. Neither the baby nor the birth mother has any control over their mutual futures. There’s no further contact. Sometimes things work out well for the ball in question. Maybe it goes on to score a try. But the scrum disintegrates entirely. It has no future at all. Circumstances are entirely different the next time it occurs.

Mander says that relinquishment has a lot in common with a miscarriage or a still born birth. But it’s even harder because you’re not allowed to grieve. Or even mention it. It’s like a conspiracy of silence. No-one talks about it. It’s as if it never happened. There’s no rite of passage like a funeral to bring some sort of closure. It’s the open-ended nature of adoption that makes it hard to contemplate. Your grief is suspended. You have to push it to the back of your mind and get on with your life.

It works better when you’re busy. It comes back to haunt you when you’re not. I had far too much time on my hands when Eric was in jail. I learned that grief’s not a short term phenomenon. There’s a poem which says that only one thing is certain; time is no healer. I think that’s true. You don’t heal. You just learn to hide it better.

*

Eric and I will always have one thing in common, in spite of everything that’s conspired to drive us apart. We’re both born-again – although it would have been more constructive if our conversions were of similar dimensions. Eric became a Christian while he was in jail. Thank God. Or whoever. Someone is definitely deserving of thanks. I don’t believe he would have survived without his faith. But I’ve found it difficult to live with a born-again Christian. And Eric seems to have reservations about a born-again chameleon like me.

I can actually put a date and time to my moment of revelation. The 12th of December. 8.43pm. I can be precise about the time because I remember looking at my watch after it happened. I didn’t know where else to look. I looked at it in desperation – to see how much longer I would have to sit there until I could get home to my safe warm duvet and hide away forever.

I imply that I had a split second conversion but I suppose it had been creeping up on me insidiously since my early teens. It dates back to the time when my interest in the male species began to extend further than my father. There’d been no need for chameleon tactics with him. I cried whenever I felt like it when I was a little girl. I could be absolutely certain that my tears would make him rearrange any situation exactly to my liking. It was disconcerting to learn that everyone else just carried on with their lives, regardless of my protests.

I took my pretty face for granted until I was about twelve years old. I didn’t register that my hair was darker and more luxuriant than Beth’s. That her face was covered in freckles. That she wore glasses. It didn’t seem important that I could sing and dance and pass classroom tests with flying colours. I knew I was a princess. Things come easily to those with royal blood.

I got the first inkling that we were different at Suzie Duncan’s birthday party. Birthday parties were big events at the junior school I went to. Protocol demanded that the entire class should feature on the guest list. My ageing parents were thrilled to have the opportunity to throw a children’s party. They’d never expected to have a house alive with children and balloons and chocolates. They celebrated each of my birthdays like a precious, special landmark. My parties were always a cut above the others before I got to Standard Five.

That year, they organized a treasure hunt. I was banished from the garden for days while my father hid the clues. We were all given Treasure Island patches for our eyes and a skull and crossbones bandana to wind around our heads. We scoured the garden and ran shrieking to Long John Silver when we found a buried flag. He and Mrs. Long John Silver dished out prizes from a treasure chest brimming with sweets and toys and fireworks. It was a huge success. Everyone went home tired and dirty and laden with spoils. I hugged my lovely parents. I thought they were really cool.

Until Suzie Duncan’s party. It was there I started to realize they weren’t cool at all. They were old.

Suzie Duncan’s mother updated cool as a concept in my pre-adolescent eyes. She was at least twenty years younger than my parents. She was a single mother and she came gift-wrapped with blonde highlights, designer jeans and a circle of male admirers. She obviously decided that Suzie had been a child for long enough. Suzie didn’t have to wait for thirteen years before she reached her teens. Her party was a milestone for my class. It was at night. Well, semi-night. It said six to ten on the invitation. They’d organized a disco with a proper teenage disc-jockey. He was gift-wrapped with gel in his hair and flashing lights and all the latest music.

The whole class was there as usual. The boys looked like themselves in jeans and T-shirts. They didn’t age for the occasion. But some of the girls looked like strangers. They had make-up and new outfits. There was an entire squad of Lolitas lurking under the standard tunics that they wore to school. Beth and I looked like children with our pony-tails. We were dressed like the boys in jeans and T-shirts. I love to dance so I was delighted with the lights and music. I grabbed Beth’s hand and we had a blast, just like we always did when the hit parade was playing on the radio at home.

But after the first couple of numbers, I never danced with Beth again that evening. I didn’t get a chance. The boys were lining up to dance with me, despite the jeans and T-shirt. I’m a very good dancer but in retrospect, I realize that it wasn’t my dancing that was the draw-card. It was what was underneath my T-shirt. I was by far the tallest in my class. I towered over Beth. I’d noticed that my breasts were growing as I lay in the bath at night. I hadn’t paid them much attention. In fact, they annoyed me. They got in the way. I wished I was as streamlined as Beth with her flat chest and skinny legs.

The standard five boys couldn’t take their eyes off them. I refused to wear the bra my mother bought me because I wanted to be the same as Beth. I can’t imagine how my parents let me out in public in that T-shirt. I don’t think they considered it was possible that their princess could be growing up. I remember my father looking a bit disconcerted the day I paraded in my first bikini. It was a very small bikini. He said he thought I might get cold. He suggested that maybe I should wear a jersey. My parents definitely weren’t as cool as Suzie Duncan’s mother.

I liked the social limelight. I was worried about Beth sitting in bespectacled solitude on the side lines – but only for a moment. I forgot all about her as the music swept me up in the glamour of the evening. Even the disc-jockey danced with me. The standard five boys must have talked about me in the playground for days. I probably fulfilled their wildest fantasies as I danced up close when the music dimmed and the lights went low. I was always putting my arms around my parents. Giving them a kiss. It seemed the natural thing to do.

I didn’t want to leave when my father came to fetch us. I talked non-stop the whole way home. That night marked the start of Beth’s career as a listener. She evolved into a teenage sponge, soaking up the details of my various achievements. She’s listened to me all my life. Offered advice. Beth played a major part in my chameleon evolution. She had an awful time at Suzie’s party. Life’s harder if you have red hair and glasses and nothing mobile under your T-shirt. Beth soon became a master in pretending that she didn’t care.

I learned a lot from Beth on how to handle a downturn in my fortunes. And Beth’s learned a lot from me now that she’s become successful. We’re a team. Maybe Eric’s right when he says God has a plan for everyone. I overshadowed Beth for decades but it’s her turn now. Beth’s daughter has achieved everything I dreamed about for Lisa. Lisa’s nothing like I thought she’d be and nor is Eric. And nor am I. I hope Eric understands God’s plans better than I do.

*

Our phone started ringing more frequently after Suzie Duncan’s party. It became a bone of contention between my mother and me. If I wasn’t talking to a boy, I was talking to Beth. Telling her exactly what he’d said and what I’d said. My unexpected success went straight to my head. I’d made no effort at all at the party and it had turned into a triumph. Imagine what I could achieve if I made a conscious effort at flirtation? Suzie Duncan told an awe-struck audience in the playground that she’d met a boy at movies. They’d held hands and kissed and everything. ‘Everything’ was a pretty vague concept even to someone as sophisticated as Suzie. I don’t think even she knew what she meant. I immediately developed social aspirations. Ambition has always been stamped on my psyche. I didn’t think the boys in our class were suitable quarry. They were friends of mine. I couldn’t see them as potential boyfriends. I thought I’d set my sights on a genuine teenager. I decided I would phone the disc-jockey with his hair gel and his funky leather jacket.

Beth advised against it.

‘He won’t be interested in us,’ she warned me. ‘I think he’s in Standard 9 or something. You don’t even know if he’s got a girlfriend. Maybe he won’t remember who you are…’

‘Of course he’ll remember me!’ I said, offended. ‘He danced with me for ages!’

‘I don’t think it was such ages,’ Beth said dubiously. ‘I was watching. He danced with just about everyone.’ Except for her. I knew we were both thinking that although we shied away from saying it. Boys are like magicians in a way. They turn girls into chameleons overnight.

I discussed my pending phone-call plans with my parents. My mother agreed with Beth. She was quite strident about the issue.

‘Of course you mustn’t phone him!’ she insisted. ‘You’re just a little girl. He won’t want to speak to you. This whole disco idea is absolutely ridiculous for children your age. Believe me Leigh, you won’t be going to movies with anyone but Beth for the foreseeable future!’

My father didn’t say anything. He was obviously torn between the validity of my mother’s reservations and his desire to stop me from bursting into tears. I shed a few strategic tears as I flounced away in as teenage a fashion as I could muster. I shed a whole lot more after I made the phone-call. My quarry had absolutely no idea who I was. And even less interest in finding out. My father was delighted to resume his customary role as comforter as I sank sadly into his lap and wept on the shoulder that had been reliably there since the day that I was born. He said this was obviously a very stupid boy. He said I was the prettiest girl at the party. Only a really stupid boy wouldn’t be able to remember my name. I sniffed and blew my nose and felt better.

Beth told me not to tell Suzie Duncan and her friends. Beth was wise far beyond the twelve years she’d been alive. I think her bloodline must trace back to Solomon. She was always there to stop me when I lost my cool in public. She advised me not to show how much I cared. I could never have survived my teenage years without Beth – or any of the decades that followed. That’s how I knew I’d really messed things up on the 12th of October. At 8.43. Beth never mentioned what I’d done and nor did my father. Even my mother never referred to it and she’s nowhere near as careful of my feelings as they are. It was unmentionable. The other kids stopped talking when I walked in the day after it happened. Then they all started talking, all at once. As if I didn’t know what they’d been saying about me.

It was the same when Eric and I walked into a restaurant while he was out on bail awaiting trial. Everyone loves a scandal.

*

The 12th of October was Speech Night in my final year at school.

I’d had a glowing school career. I was tipped as the girl most likely to succeed in future days. I was in the hockey team. The swimming team. The choir. I was the chairperson for Interact and a possible contender for Dux. I’m surprised my father didn’t ignite into a flame of pride when my school reports arrived. It’s fortunate they didn’t give out grades for humility. I would have scored a double F on that. As a teenager, my sense of entitlement was completely out of proportion to the facts. I’ve learned some sobering things about myself since then.

Beth and my parents were certain that I’d win the most coveted prize of all on Speech Night. The Hofmeyer Award. This polished trophy was the ultimate accolade at Milton College. It was given to the girl who’d made the most outstanding contribution to every aspect of school life at Milton College over the year. There was only a tiny pool of candidates. Nominations were handed in from pupils as well as staff because they didn’t want the teacher’s pet to win. She had to have excelled from everyone’s perspective. A short list of five names was published in the November issue of the Milton Newsletter. The headmistress made the final decision. It was the final trophy handed out on Speech Night. The winning girl usually got a standing ovation as she walked up to the podium to receive the spoils.

I looked at the other names on the short list and dared to hope that I stood a chance. In the safe darkness of my bedroom when all the lights were out, I dreamed that I might win I didn’t say so to anyone. I scoffed at my parents when they sounded optimistic; I’d mastered some undercover tactics from Beth during my school career. But my fellow prefects all thought it would be me. My mother rashly told her book-club and everyone at the bowling club knew all about it. My mother bought a new outfit for the occasion and they arrived early to ensure a prime position. The camera was loaded in my father’s pocket.

Speech Night at Milton College follows a time-honoured procedure.

The kids sit in their classes in the theatre, with the parents all lined up behind them. Everyone stands up as Gaudeamus Igitur starts playing and the staff files in, a flock of crows in academic gowns with degrees in a variety of hues draped across their shoulders. They take up one half of the stage. The matrics take up the other with the prefects in the front row, wearing blazers weighed down with all the braid and badges that they’ve earned during their years at Milton. There were the usual speeches. The main speaker was the head of the Johannesburg Stock Exchange. She was a Milton College old girl and a past winner of the Hofmeyer Award. She spoke about the changing role of women in society.

Beth and I got a special mention – we’d won the JSE/Liberty Life Investment Challenge for our portfolio in Equity Growth. We had to stand and listen to a round of warm applause. My name was called three times as the prizewinners made their illustrious way to the podium for the regulation handshake and the presentation. I had a trio of glossy books in a pile under my chair. My confidence was growing by the moment. I felt my stomach knot as the head picked up the final trophy and started the preamble that always preceded the announcement.

‘And finally,’ she began, ‘we get to the major award of the evening. The Hofmeyer Award is part of a proud tradition at Milton College and is not awarded lightly. It is always keenly contested and the nominated candidates are chosen from the perspective of both girls and staff. Many of our past winners have gone on to make a mark in the careers they choose to follow.’ And so on. And so on. I thought she’d never e