We can call him Jacques. He did not recognise me from Pietermaritzburg days, when I was in Chris Roering’s band, doing a residency for some months in the Imperial Hotel. This same little “hotel manager” guy, then fresh out of Mauritius, adroitly and by being silent in the right moments when questioned on it, succeeded in spreading the notion that he was Parisian, and thus rather special in the humble Natal colonial ambience of the day. The bigger reputation he gained with the band itself was that he was a mean skinflint, reluctant to pay, jealous of talent (possibly of everyone, really) and brusque. His stance was that we were humble minstrels, he was Mr Big. He made us wait for our money, after every gig, Because He Could.
I expected no less from him in the Wanderer’s Club. Dapper in his tux, he waved dismissively and minced, pigeon toed, into his office, George hard on his patent leather heels. A long wait ensued. George emerged from the office looking resigned and downcast, saying “Fellas, sorry, but it’s a cheque. He hasn’t got cash. I will have to pay you when the cheque is cleared”.
In those days, even though bank clearing houses had long cleared cheques overnight, that meant ten days. Banks held onto your money for every hour they could eke out, to earn their little Silas Marner micro-percentages of interest.
As always, we were miffed about this. Many venue managers are like this. They are wide boys to the last man and woman. They have a week to ready the (agreed upon) cash, but cry poverty on the night. “Disappointing turnout” they mumble, even when the joint has heaved, packed with shoulder to shoulder revellers. “Last week was better” they say, as if our short term memories do not stretch that far back (actually, in fairness, they may have a point there: certain substances favoured by musicians do tend to green out memory), and other such lameness, as if these are our problems too.
We shuffled around in the elegant, wood panelled Wanderers hall, reached for our instrument cases, but our trumpeter-trombonist side-man Charlie did not. Instead, he said in his urgent, contralto-tinged East Rand accent, “George, do you mind if I have a word with him?”. George said “Ok, Charlie, try your luck”.
Charlie caught Jacques leaving his office, blocked his exit, and the two vanished into the office.
Caan eat CHEX!
we heard Charlie shout, in flat, near-falsetto Benoni-speak. Don't satisfy my HUNGER!
.
He sounded like drum fills ended with rim shots, and the sharper, more intese words echoed through the wood panels.
Minutes later, Jacques emerged from his office, backing Charlie away from the door. “You have been PAID. That’s it”. Faster than the blink of komodo dragon’s eye, Charlie’s balled fist found its target, the twin knuckles of his right index and middle finger in precise ballistic trajectory finding the perfect pressure nexus on the point of Jacques’s chin, and his little Mauritian knees evaporated. He was a small enough man that landing on the boards made an unsatisfying sound seismically, but Charlie was satisfied.
Jacques was soon erect. Wordlessly, he turned on his heels, returned to his desk, and produced a large steel cash box. He scooped his hand in, a slapped a wad of bills secured in a rubber band into Charlie’s palm. Charlie, standing his ground, counted. It was the exact fee, so the man had indeed planned, and was indeed ready, to pay us in cash. He had simply opted rather to be, as someone put it, “a sumbitch”. Charlie strode over to George, and handed over the cash.
We encircled George. He counted buffaloes into our hands as he circled. We pocketed, stooped for our cases, and turned toward the door. Charlie nudged George gently as he passed. Both paused.
“You see, George", he said, his voice still edged with a contralto hint of adrenaline, “its not what you say. It’s how you say it”.Many rears later, I found Jacques again in Randburg. He was running a junk shop, selling bric-a- brac, odds and ends, cast-offs. I thought: "En kyk hoe lyk hy nou”. He, by now looking nothing like the asseriive little pigeon-breasted penguin figure we were at the mecry of in the "Imp" in Maritzburg, still did not remember me. I occupied an hour of his time, fingering things, asking question after question about them, putting them back and moving onto another thing. He became increasingly tense and restive, eyeing other customers, but remained terrified that I would pilfer. Once my vengeance was satisfied, I left without buying.
I am not too proud of that. Anybody can be a sumbitch.