“Something like that,” Stoker says, then steps outside into hostile territory. Strategically he holds the poster in front of him and sneaks past the crowd, joining in on an anti–dik-dik chant. He pumps his poster occasionally and whoops and hollers until he’s close enough to make a final sprint for his car. Then he peels out of there with a glance at the dashboard clock, relieved he has just enough time to fetch his clothes from the dry cleaner’s. After that, he’s gunning his little Renault as fast as it will go down the highway, top down, blue sky stretched as far as he can see and the worries of his work life a distant memory.
Don’t get him wrong. It’s not like he doesn’t like making a difference in people’s lives. He prides himself on meeting people within the bounds of their reality and does his best to engage in the narratives of their life stories, even if only for the length of a handshake. There’s no better feeling in the world than knowing he’s brought hope to those in despair, and knowledge to those who’ve thirsted for it. He likes to perform minor miracles for the people.
But he likes to truly perform for people even more.
Because Stoker’s heart is in the entertainment industry, music specifically, and he’d give this all up in a second if he could use his voice and lyrics to turn the hearts of his fellow South Africans instead of referendums and policies. In some rare instances, his passions collide, like how recently he’d conceived a motion to get several megastar artists to use local talent to open up for their concerts. Pop starlet Riya Natrajan had jumped all over the opportunity and is holding auditions in three major cities, and Stoker couldn’t be more excited to be one of those chosen to try out.
He can’t believe he’d nearly forgotten about it. He’s been so busy lately, and with an average of seven meetings a day, he’s not sure how he can keep anything straight. Fortunately, Stoker had left his black-and-gray-striped seersucker suit hanging in the front of his closet, which had reminded him of Riya Natrajan’s newest hit, “Midnight Seersucker,” which had reminded him this morning of the audition, and now here he is, ready and eager to give the performance of a lifetime.
Brake lights blare, and traffic grinds to a halt. Emergency vehicles howl in the distance. In the five minutes it takes Stoker to boot up his alpha bot, he’s gone less than half a kilometer. With a few clicks of the keyboard, he’s got access to satellite pictures of a wreck. Two jackknifed freight trucks and half a dozen smoking cars make up the bulk of the carnage, but when Stoker zooms in, he sees what is most likely the cause of the crash: a dazed little dik-dik who, other than a slight limp, looks no worse for wear. Stoker grits his teeth.
Now it’s personal.
These dik-diks are nothing but a nuisance, littering the streets with their droppings, harassing tourists for scraps, and clogging important expressways that stop business from getting done in a timely manner, and since he oversees the Department for Economic Affairs, Environment, and Tourism, Councilman Stoker supposes that these dik-diks actually are his problem. First thing Monday morning, he’s going to call a meeting to solve this issue once and for all, and, oh, if he’s late for his audition, there’s going to be real hell to pay.
But right now, in the privacy of his car, Stoker unzips one of his garment bags to reveal the perfectly pressed double-breasted suit that he’ll be wearing to this evening’s fund-raiser. He pushes it aside with a shrug and opens the other, revealing a gold-sequined gown in all its splendor, maybe a little shorter and clingier than he remembered it. Still, it dazzles and he’ll need all the help he can get at the auditions. Riya Natrajan herself is going to be there during the selection process, and once she sees his act, he knows he’ll be in the running to open for her for sure. Not only does he have a voice, but dance moves for days, and calves that kill in a pair of stilettos.
As his car idles, he makes himself a promise then and there. If he gets this gig, he’ll take a stab at the premier’s seat and be the best leader the Eastern Cape has seen in decades, and for a brief shining moment in his life, he’ll have the best of both worlds. It’ll be a sacrifice, sure. As premier, all eyes will be on him, and it’ll be impossible to sneak away to do sets in small cities where nobody knows his face. But in his heart he’ll always know he was good enough, and no one, not even his mother, could ever take that away.
Stoker sighs as he gives the dress another once-over, praying it won’t be too revealing. Even he can only be expected to handle so many huge dik-dik problems in one day.
Chapter 7
Riya Natrajan
“You’ve got talent, kid,” Riya Natrajan says to the billionth auditioner to cross the stage today. Okay, maybe it’s only been a few dozen, but, oh, does time drag when you need a fix. The auditioner’s eyes light up bright, a young little thing with gracious Indian features, too smooth skin, a gorgeous mop of black hair, and stage presence up to here. Her heart dangles on a string. She reminds Riya Natrajan of herself when she was a young teen, craving even the slightest validation or encouragement from anyone and everyone. “Now clearly, that talent isn’t in singing or dancing,” she continues, “but I’ve got a good feeling about you. I’m thinking accounting or finance. There’s good money to be had there.”
The girl’s lip quivers, but she keeps herself together pretty well despite the huge bomb exploding in her chest. “Thank you, Ms. Natrajan,” the girl says in a voice so small and pitiful that Riya can’t believe it came out of the same mouth that had belted those notes half a minute earlier. Then the girl pads off, stage left.
“She was good,” Adam Patel says, her manager of six long years.
“Yes—too good. Too pretty.”
“She could have been the next you.”
“Nobody will be the next Riya,” Riya Natrajan snarls. She lets her head loll back to give her eyes a break from the thousand lights that make up the riya! sign that serves as a backdrop to the stage, all glimmering in a repetitive sequence that’s making her nauseated. “Put me out of my misery! How many more?”
“Let’s just get these last few done, and then we can take a break, okay?” Adam slips her a flask from his breast pocket. She tosses the water from her glass, then pours herself a double shot of whatever. She’s not picky, and Adam has good taste. Riya Natrajan pays him too much not to.
The next two auditioners she dismisses without hearing a note. Too much chest hair, she’d screamed at one. And the other one, dressed in a neon paisley ensemble, she’d accused of flagrant misuse of the color palette.
“Stop right there,” she says to the third, a twentysomething brooder with jet-black hair and tattoos of dragon scales all over her body. The brooder lets the audition drop off midnote and stands erect, hands on her hips, like a smidgeon of confidence had crawled up her ass and then birthed a million babies in her lower intestines.
Adam leans over to confer, eyebrows pitched. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Most definitely,” Riya Natrajan says with a sigh of relief. “Could you please move a little to your left?” she asks the brooder, who quickly complies. “A little more. Perfect.”
“Riya . . .”