The Celebrity

It’s the second lockdown of the pandemic and here I am all alone just staring out of a window hoping to catch the blood moon that everyone’s been talking about on social media today.

As luck would have it I am surrounded by buildings and people in small apartments going about their daily business. A couple work out on their terrace at dusk. Some teenagers gather together in another building to smoke. An old man sits in his hammock till midnight, and then heads to sleep. I stay awake later than that most nights.

I used to have a job that has put my body clock on night time mode. Now I have no job but it’s difficult to go back to normal hours.

Right across my building is a tall tower that’s called Belvedere. A celebrity comedian stays there. Let’s just call him Belvie. He’d lost a lot of weight in the last year and his social media was filled with his transformation. But physical transformation doesn’t really mean you’ve transformed mentally.

According to the media, a new woman came into his life between lockdowns. Thin, pretty, young. Sara something. The type where you’d look at her and say, “What are you doing with this a-hole? You got so much going for you. You don’t need him.” But who really knows what love is about anyway? But now they’re in lockdown in different houses.

But it hasn’t stopped Belvie from meeting other women. Just not Sara.

Belvie puts on the lights at his penthouse every evening at seven. He keeps them on till almost dawn. He has those large, beautiful windows that the rich can afford. Presumably, he spent all his money on doing up the house and forgot to get curtains.  

Tonight, my insomnia keeps me half tired and fully awake. I make myself a chamomile tea.

I try to pick up a book to read. I just can’t concentrate. I scroll through my social media. So many deaths that it is depressing.

I just look out of the window. It has started to drizzle. There’s a car that comes outside Belvedere. A woman gets out. She looks around and enters the Belvedere building.

I see that Belvie opens the door for her. It’s Sara. Belvie seems a bit shocked. He tries to hug her. Sara pushes him off, waves her phone as if to accuse him of something. I quickly take my phone and hashtag celebrity and his name. It pops up. There’s a photo of him in bed sleeping while a woman takes a selfie. Must have happened a few nights ago.

I laugh. This is going to be fun. Finally, something exciting.

She is screaming at him and he’s trying to calm her down. She’s crying and behaving hysterically. Belvie seems to get what he deserves. I really hope she’ll leave him and learn a lesson. And I hope she finds a good man.

Suddenly Belvie slaps her across the face. He punches her and she’s knocked down. I see he kicks her. I run across to another window to get a better look but a tree blocks my view. I feel helpless. I cannot see Sara anymore. Is she hurt? Has she died?

I see Belvie look down at her. He’s rubbing his beard, wondering what to do.

I pick up the phone and call a friend. It keeps ringing. I don’t have too many friends in this city. A few I’ve lost to the pandemic. Literally and figuratively. I decide to call the police.

“What is your complaint?” The female officer asks me.

“There’s a man who’s hit a woman….I…I don’t know…if she’s ..dead…”I stammer.

“Your name?”

I freeze. I don’t want to give my name and be involved with a police case and be in the media. Not with my issues. Not with my background.

“Alicia,” I lie.

“Address?”

“My address?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you need my address? Shouldn’t you be going to the place where the woman has been killed?”

“We get hoax calls Madam. We need to check if this is real. We are under a lot of pressure nowadays,” the officer says.

All I can think is she’s wasting time. Sara is dead and God knows what Belvie will be up to.

“Madam my address is…. Penthouse. Top floor. Belvedere building…” And I give Belvie’s address.

I hang up as I wait for the police to come. I watch Belvie drag Sara to another room. They seem out of view. He comes back into the drawing room where he picks up the phone and calls someone. He sits and waits.

The chamomile tea has not worked. My nerves are jangled, and I am most certainly not calm.

Belvie’s friend arrives. Where are the police? And how are people moving around in the lockdown? I haven’t even been able to get out of my house in the daytime without a cop catching me. Who are these people who have access to roam so freely? Being rich really does have its privileges.

I see Belvie explain what has happened to his male friend. They both go into another room. They emerge with Sara between them. They drag her unconscious body into her car. The friend takes her keys.

I desperately try to call the police again.

“What is your complaint?” I hear at the other end from a male officer this time.

“I just complained. About a murder. In my opposite building. Belvedere. Please hurry. They’re taking the body out.”

“Murder?” He takes a long pause. “What is your name?”

I hang up. I decide to shoot the scene on my phone instead to show it to the police. Tag them on a social media platform. I start the recording, but I need to zoom in. My hand shakes and I try to be steady. Everything happens in a matter of minutes.

I can see the friend go back upstairs because they forgot something. Both Belvie and he search everywhere in the penthouse. They spot her purse. Belvie gives his friend a hug. The friend comes downstairs with Sara’s purse. He drops the keys. He picks it up. He drives away.

I look at my footage. It’s so grainy. And dark. With the light rain on the lens. It’s useless.

“Let it go,” a voice inside me says. “It’s not your business.”

But it is.

I put on a jacket, wear my shoes and head over to Belvedere. I know I’m taking a risk. No one knows I’m going there.

I walk across my lane. All the watchmen seem to be sleeping. Useless night watchmen. No one really does their job anymore even if they have one. A dog barks down the road. I’m startled. I can see the drizzle in the street lamp that illuminates my path. I put the jacket over my head and enter Belvedere building. I don’t see my phone slip out of my pocket.

I get into the lift. I press the top floor button and take a deep breath. I have no idea what I’m going to say. What if he does the same thing to me that he did to Sara? Too late. The doors open into the penthouse.

Belvie has apparently cleaned everything up and is sitting in front of his large TV on his extra large blue sofa watching a rerun of a show. He wasn’t expecting me. So when the doors open he turns around, puzzled. He sees me stand in front of the elevator. I should try to pick up an object to defend myself. I am paralysed. He slowly gets up and walks towards me.

“Wait, who let you in?” he asks.

“The watchman was sleeping,” I say justifying myself. What a stupid answer I think.  

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” He says in a stern voice trying to intimidate me.

“I know what you did. I saw it.” I look around his house for something. Some sort of evidence that could help my case.

“What the hell! Who the…” He takes a step towards me. He probably doesn’t realise he isn’t large anymore. He’s lost one hundred kilos. He used to use his weight to break their arms. “Wait. I know you.” He says.

I freeze in my tracks. I try to touch my phone in my jacket and can’t find it. For a moment, my brain freezes. How will I call anyone if he tries to hurt me? Where the hell did I leave it?

“You’re that crazy lady who started throwing things at me on stage. That feminist bitch.”

I don’t give my name.

“You hit that woman. And you made a joke about it on stage,” I say with deep anger that has never gone away.

“And people laughed. And forgot!” He says and walks another step as I take a few steps back hitting a wall. I look back and see a large Buddha. The irony isn’t lost on me.

“You’re that woman. Who went after me… and lost.” He remembers. It was all over the papers. How I tried to teach him a lesson by talking to the media about his sexist jokes and the way he treated women. He wasn’t a changed man. Just a thinner one.

He continues, “What the fuck are you doing here? Get the fuck out of my house!”

“What did you do to Sara?” I ask with some courage.

Suddenly the blood drains from his face. I know I’ve made an impact. But then he has a flash of anger that rages in his eye. “What do you know about Sara?”

“I saw you,” I say my voice trembling. “From my house. I have it on video.” I know the video won’t stand in a court of law or with the media.

“Oh really? Show me,” he taunts.

“I…I …don’t have it…”I say as fear rises from deep within. Really, I should have thought this through.

He laughs, mocking me. “Look…Lady….Sara is not going to say anything. And no one is going to believe you. Everyone knows you like the publicity…”

“I don’t like…”

He cuts me off, “Attention? YOU were labelled as a publicity seeking troll. People said it… no women who you were defending said you were wrong. And people will believe me all over again. Not you.”

The past spilled out. My humiliation. He had bought off all those women he had punched. I didn’t get a job for a long time. It had been stupid of me to go against a celebrity.

But I gulped back my tears now. “And Sara? Her bruises? Who was that man who took her from here? Where have you taken her?” I say with a last ounce of bravery inside me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says casually. “I was in my apartment the whole night. I was watching this show.” He waves at the TV where there is fake laughter emerging.

I feel like laughing too. I’ve lost. There is nothing more to say. I turn to leave.

He watches me get into the elevator. “Never come back here bitch. Or I’ll call the police and they’ll put you in a mental asylum forever."

I press the button a few times.

He stops the lift door from closing as he smiles wickedly and continues, "Oh and Sara is never going to say anything against me. I pay her every month to keep her mouth shut and her lifestyle rich.”

I watch him as he smiles as the lift doors shut in front of me. I take a deep breath and head back to my apartment.

As I exit, I see there’s a camera at the entrance. It must have recorded them taking Sara to her car.

I have an idea.

I get out on the street and see my phone lying in front of the sleeping watchman who is snoring loudly. I pick it up and say a thankful prayer. I’ve been working on my daily gratitude journal. I know it works now because my phone is still here. Life is about to change. I can feel it suddenly.

I send a Direct Message to a journalist to check the security footage of Belvedere building. I tell her that Belvie’s friend and he were carrying Sara out because Belvie had assaulted her. And they are covering it up together.

I see the sun rising across the buildings. I didn’t see the moon, but I know this new dawn will transform me.

When I wake up almost ten hours later, I check my social media feed and see that Belvie was taken into questioning. I put on the news channel on my TV. A male anchor is vouching for Belvie. He shouts on screen - An honest man, a good man, who has transformed himself. And all these women who are still out to get him. When will women stop harassing good men? Has MeToo been taken into extreme harassment for men now?

Belvie’s lawyer comes on screen. “There is no evidence against my client. His friend said they were all drinking, and Sara fell in the bathroom. He rushed to take her to the hospital. There is no case of violence.”

I feel numb. There really is no point in helping women. They choose to stay in their state of abusive relationships, I think.

I find Sara’s Instagram page. She’s so beautiful. I see her old images with Belvie. How much money does he pay her, I wonder. I try one last time. Maybe it won’t work. Maybe nothing will change. I send her a message on her social media.

“Do the right thing. Not just for yourself but for all the women he will hurt. For all those who have been hurt. For those who don’t have as many followers, and no voice. For someone who stood by you last night and confronted him. But it’s up to you now. Just know you are not alone.”

He had hit my sister when she was dating him ten years ago. She told me much later. After she had run away from the city. No one believed her then. No one believed me when I went to the media as well. Maybe it needed a different woman.

I make a cup of coffee. And wait for things to change. My nerves don’t need chamomile anymore.