I don't know what the book was called. But one of the other girls used to read it to us in the container."
"Container?"
"They shipped us over. Packed like tuna fish." She strokes the Stork's throat and it rucks its head in appreciation. "Some of the tuna fish died. I started a different life."
"I could try to figure out what the book is. If you wanted. You could get another copy."
"What if it is not as good as I remember? Some things are better left lost."
"I hope you're not talking about my girl!" Mr Huron, I presume, emerges onto the balcony with a flourish. He's not so much a barrel of a man as a bagpipe, all his weight loaded in front, straining a t-shirt that bears the legend Depeche Mode Rose Bowl Pasadena 1987. He's balding on top, but he's grown the rest of his hair and pulled it into a thin scraggly ponytail. The genuinely powerful, unlike the Vuyos of this world, don't give a fuck about making an impression.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Amira. You're looking lovely. Botox working for you? Maybe you should try some on the bird. And you, you must be the new help," he says, engulfing my hand in his giant paws, like Mickey Mouse gloves. "Only kidding," he winks. "Mostly."
With a little moan, Sloth clambers off the table and into my lap. He's seeing what I'm seeing, belying the bigshot producer image – a black tumour of lost things hanging over the man. A tumour that's eaten an octopus, but the fat black tentacles have been amputated, so all that's left are stumps. Dozens of them, squirming obscenely.
It's one of the worst hack jobs I've seen. There are ways to cut the threads. A good sangoma can do it. But they'll eventually grow back thicker and coarser than ever. In the shadow of his black halo, his skin looks sallow, his jowls sunken, his eyes bright and flat.
"What's wrong with your animal?" Huron says, collapsing into one of the chairs and fingering a hole in his t-shirt.
"He's just shy around strangers," I say, stroking Sloth's head to calm him down.
"Amira and Mark brief you already?"
I have to force myself to look at his face rather than the writhing black stubs around his head. I concentrate on his fleshy lips, the large nose, slightly skew, as if he once broke it in a rugby game or a bar fight. "Actually, Mr Huron, I'm still waiting to hear what this is about. Before I make up my mind as to whether I even want to be briefed."
"Call me Odi, please. Short for Odysseus."
"Sure. Odi."
We're interrupted by Carmen holding a red plastic tray that looks like it was moulded out of the same material as her shoes. She sets down a clipboard and a pot of evilsmelling tea.
"Don't worry, it's non-alcoholic." Huron pours a cup and hands it to me with a smirk.
"You've done your research."
"Yes, I've heard all about your nasty habit. But it's not just you. Moja Records has a policy. No drink. No drugs. No neural spells."
"No interference." I take a sip gingerly. It tastes as foul and pungent as it smells.
"Buchu and mustard seed. Good for detoxing."
"Lovely." I smile and heap in five spoons of sugar. It makes the brew only marginally more tolerable. What does it take to get a decent cup of tea? "I'm not sure I can even help you, Mr Huron."
"Call me Odi. Really." He puts an envelope on the table. "Open it."
I do. Sloth cranes his head to see. It contains a cluster of crisp blue R100 notes. I put it back on the table.
"What's this?"
"Two large, just to hear me out. If you like what I have to say, you take the job and consider this an advance. If you don't, you take the money, you don't repeat any of what I told you, we're all friends."
"This all seems very serious. Are you sure you have the right girl here?"
"Mark and Amira think so."
"Just in case I'm getting the wrong end of the microphone here – you do know I can't sing?"
"Like that ever got in the way of a pretty girl getting a record deal. Autotune is a beautiful thing." He laughs, but his eyes are cold. "Let me assure you, you are here for your other skills." He watches me closely. I take the envelope and slip it into my bag, ignoring Sloth scratching at my arm, the halo of black stumps waving around