Chapter Twelve

Ethnicity Studios had been hailed as the best movie production studio in Nigeria. It had been founded in 1993 by one American man, Anthony St. Claire, and two Nigerian businessmen who had subsequently sold their share of the business to the white man and split their own separate ways in 1997 and 1999 respectively, with the resultant effect that Anthony St. Claire controlled the studio now. It had four addresses, one in Abuja, the other in the city of Aba, one in the notorious Onitsha, and with its headquarters located in Lagos.

The studio was an awe-inspiring sight, soaring twelve stories high into the Lagos skyline, dwarfing the surrounding architecture where it was located at Victoria Island. There was a very spacious parking lot where the most expensive cars lined up and glistened in the hot sun, and there were huge dogs and security guys patrolling the grounds. When Phoenix entered into the foyer, he felt the wealth of the place hit him in the face like a physical blow. There were movie stars milling around and talking to each other; there were A-list directors who looked bored out of their skins, and there were the upcoming and struggling writers, all waiting to see the king and showcase their talents.

Phoenix showed the fashionably thin, elegant receptionist the script, telling her that he had a meeting with the Big Man, that he was to be announced the moment he arrived at the complex－ of course there was the signature of the Big Man signed at the back of the thing with a flourish. That should be enough to dispel whatever notion she may have that he was some kind of imposter, trying to wangle his way past her on some false premise. She directed him to take the elevator up to the tenth floor and then present himself to St. Claire’s personal assistant. Oh wow. How the rich and mighty live. Different assistants on different floors to keep the riffraff out.

Phoenix did as he was told, emerging on a floor with sepia-toned expensive tiles on the floors, expensive art paintings hanging on the walls and plush leather chairs on which reclined three slim, stunning women in their thirties, wearing snug-fitting Prada and Chanel gowns and real jewels that flashed in the fluorescent lights; they looked totally bored. Phoenix recognized one of them as the first runner-up in the 1996 Miss Intercontinental Beauty Pageant. The other two looked like the two immediate past Most Beautiful Girl in Nigeria for the last two years.

The same formality of showing the script and explaining his mission was replicated here. He gave the bulky manuscript to the gorgeous secretary with the high-piled dyed brown hair and red-lacquered nails and then he waited patiently while she thumbed down the intercom and announced his presence. Looking up at him with a small smile on her lips which bore the red stamp of Indian Summer lipstick, she waved him into a plush office that was heavily and elaborately furnished more as a living room than as an office. A large, glass-topped desk filled one corner of the room and behind it, wearing a perfectly tailored blue suit, was the Big Man.

The man had steely grey eyes that were as blank as it was piercing, widely set eyes that sat above a small thin nose, and small thin lips that were pursed as if in annoyance or contemplation as he regarded Phoenix. He appeared broad-shouldered and muscular, even though he’d turned fifty-six, and his jet-black hair which had a few streaks of grey in it was still generously spread on his head. He was good-looking, and Phoenix couldn’t help thinking to himself that the man must think him to be some piece of shit that was begging for favors, for leftovers.

‘T. O. Phoenix,’ the man said in a crisp American accent that had old world courtliness in it. ‘My friend had told me all about you, and I must say that you weren’t what I had expected. However, I must tell you that in this business, there is no room for people like you.’

‘In this world, there is no room for anybody; all you have to do is to make enough room and then squeeze yourself into it. And it doesn’t matter that you’re not wanted there; you just do it.’

‘And you think you can just walk up here with your beautiful face and your big words and lovely accent and think you think you can impress me. Is that right?’

Phoenix laughed, but it was not from amusement because he was using the sound to cloak the anger he felt at this man. ‘I am not here to impress you, Mr. St. Claire. If I were, then I would be dressed in a short skirt and makeup. I’m here to get myself a job, that you can help me with a role if I was able to prove myself. But how can I prove myself to you when you’re just laughing at me?’

The Big Man leaned back in his chair, his steely eyes dilating at the sheer audacity of the guy who stood there, and instead of groveling at his feet like so many people did, this one proved to be very proud and very stubborn, with a smart mouth on him. ‘I thought that letting you stand there on your feet will make this interview very short as possible. As you can see, I’m a very busy man.’

‘So you’re saying that our conversation is over? That you won’t give me a chance because there is no room in this business for people like me?’

Instead of answering him directly, Anthony St. Claire asked wryly, ‘Did you notice that the manuscript I had sent to you bore no title? Can you tell me why you think that’s so?’

Phoenix frowned. ‘Well, that’s because either you or the writer of the work could not find a title that was good enough to describe the plot and the underlying theme behind it in just one or two words that will hook an audience immediately, draw them in, make them to ask questions about whether one can be desperate enough to go and sell their souls to the devil, and all for what? Children that were meant to be a curse to the world? That’s what you’re looking for, Mr. St. Claire, the perfect title.’

‘Since you’re so smart, why don’t you suggest one?’ the man snapped rudely.

But Phoenix merely smiled inwardly, thinking in his mind: oh you think you’re so wonderful and full of yourself, with the entire people in the movie world in this country floating around you like your loyal subjects. But I will show you a thing or two.

‘Title the movie Desperate Mission. That captures the entire work perfectly. I know you must be asking yourself whether you should listen to me, this lowlife idiot who’s here at your door, bugging you for favors, but I will have you know that during my high school days, I was a straight-A student and the best Literature student in my set.’

Anthony St. Claire’s lips lifted in a small thin smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes; it could have been a sneer. ‘And yet you were unable to continue with your education with all your big mouth and smart brains. That defies logic.’

Phoenix was now angry, and he tilted his chin up proudly, refusing to quail before the devil he could see in the eyes of this man. ‘Maybe to you, it does defy logic, but if you’ve had to live in poverty for the better part of your life, asking yourself where your next meal will come from, then you won’t be saying that. You will then understand why I’m no longer in school, why I’m here asking for this. What’s it going to be, Mr. Big Man: do you ask me to leave, or are you going to call in your cast directors for them to make me prove myself to them and to you?’

‘I’ll do neither.’ The man leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his fingers linked together, showing off a huge diamond ring that glittered on the third finger of his right hand. ‘You will do something for me, young man. I want you to seduce me, and I want you to really do it, not pretend that you’re trying to do something. Show me what you’re made of.’

Phoenix kept his expression shuttered, and it seemed that Anthony St. Claire had pressed a hidden button, for the curtains slid close, giving the room a dim look. A slow, sensual music filled the room, and Phoenix slipped into the role of the wanton seducer, the enigmatic dancer that had set many a person aflame with desire for him.

He moved to the man’s table slowly, with a slow languid fluidity, and then he swiveled the chair round so that the great man was now facing him, and then he unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor. He was now the smooth, bare-chested guy of the clubs, and he turned to the beat of the music, his eyes watching the reaction of his sole audience. But Anthony St. Claire kept his face blank and was staring at him intently, and he slipped out of his trousers, revealing the blue-and-black checkered underwear he wore underneath.

‘I like what I see,’ Anthony St. Claire told him.

Phoenix smiled, and then he was sinking down slightly, and his hands drew the man’s knees apart. He slid his fingers along the long lean thighs, moving upwards to the crotch, all the while his eyes fixed on the face of his audience. He could see the beginning of an erection stirring in the pants, but he did not stop because he was past the point of no return. Then he was unbuckling the belt, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Anthony’s face, and he had the feeling that the man was not expecting him to continue past that point. But what the man failed to understand was that he was a little wild and a little crazy, and unless he received a sure command to stop, then he would continue with what he was doing and even suck the bastard off.

He was now really crazy, going to the point that he had perfected in the club. He was too desperate here, too in need of the job to do anything but do all he could to get the role he wanted. And there was nothing to stop him from getting that role.

He turned down the zipper of the trouser, and he was working on the elastic band of the underwear, pulling at them to get them down. When he freed the man’s now throbbing cock, he felt the man shove forward as if he’d been doused with a gallon of petrol, but Phoenix gently pushed him back.

‘You wanted me to seduce you,’ he said, and then he stroked the cock gently, making the great man to emit an involuntary moan from his lips. ‘That’s what I am doing, seducing you . . .’

‘But . . .’

‘And you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

Before the utterly stunned man could answer, Phoenix was already searching for sores in the organ, the sure signs of disease. He had learnt to protect himself during the time of his life in the club, and there was no better way to check for the existence of disease other than to look the organ over first. Then he lowered his head to it, and his lips connected with it, wrapping around the head of the tumescent organ. And he pulled his head further in, the large cock moving further and further into his throat. He sucked on it without fear, for he knew what he wanted, and he could feel the thing growing fuller in his mouth, and he felt the fingers of the man become entwined in his hair.

Suddenly, Phoenix stood up, and there was a hard cold look on his face, etched into his features. Hurriedly, he began pulling his clothes back on again. ‘You wanted me to seduce you, and now I have,’ he said coldly. ‘You will have to make up your mind about whether or not to hire me, with no pleas from me. Oh, and besides, the job I just did on you is on the house. I have to go.’

Anthony was still looking at him, and he was still hard as ever, but there was nothing to be done about the hardness. The man had a very stunned expression on his face. ‘That ring you’re wearing . . . it looks very familiar,’ he managed to say, though his voice was husky. ‘Are you related to the Johnson family?’

Phoenix shook his head, and then he was out of the office, off to go and await his fate. He felt a crushing weight on his chest, that instead of snagging the role, he had been a flop, made a piss-poor job of really impressing the man that was the one with the power to either make or break his career, and now he would be booted out the door even though he’d not even stepped in it.

And what the man had said about the ring he was wearing got him thinking. For several months, he’d had the feeling that the ring he had taken from that guy Henry was the real deal, and he’d even dared to go to Yaba and had the thing valued. Now, this Big Man had wanted to know if he was related to the Johnson family, and he knew that he’d heard of that family many times, that they must be one of the old families of Lagos, with all the money and juice to burn.

Days after the interview in the office of Anthony St. Claire which he believed was now gone down the drain, Phoenix set about riffling through the bundles of old glossy magazines that Lawrence had in the apartment, and that was when he came across the face of Rosalie Johnson. It was the beauty of the woman that had leaped out at him at that moment; the way she was smiling into the camera as she stepped into the driving seat of a sleek BMW car, and there was her slim figure. That made Phoenix pause. There was something about this woman, something that nagged at him, something that seemed there but he was unable to find. What was it?

He carried the magazine to the kitchen; he fixed a cup of cool milk from the stocked fridge, and then he started to read the article. And that was when a statement leaped out at him, and a flash of memory swept through his mind. It was the golden moment when they had mentioned her son and he also remembered the very beautiful face of the lover that had given him a diamond ring.

Rosalie had one son; Henry Johnson.

And Phoenix felt the magazine slip through his fingers to the floor as a gasp escaped from his lips. The shock was too great, for, not so long ago; he had slept with the son of one of the most influential female figures in the Nigerian screens.

That was why he felt that there was something about the woman that had been nagging at him from the moment he saw her picture. She and her son looked really alike; it was from her that Henry had gotten his stunning good looks. There was no mistake about that.