stacks and stacks of papers and books and diaries he wished he could read. To hear her voice.
He lay on the bed, a stinkwood four-poster, firm and high, covered in a quilt a dozen shades of blue. Their first bed. They’d put it in storage, traded it in for a queen-sized, more comfortable and modern; she’d taken it out again, at what point he wasn’t sure. The pillows, though bright white, smelled musty; he found a golden hair on one, hers. He resisted the temptation to search the other pillow for different hairs, telltale. Nothing visible at a glance. The room, white-walled with white muslin curtains, closed, held him like a hermit crab’s shell.
As he rose from the bed, stiff from the damp, he saw there were only three photos in the room, and none of him. On the Greek blue dresser: one of Margo seated on the khaki sofa with Eli, maybe three, tucked between her knees, laughing; in the other frame, two photos of Margo, a larger one of her on the beach at Knysna, on their honeymoon, peaceful and golden; a smaller one of her, six years old, grinning proudly with her first bicycle, wearing a blue-striped dress and pinafore and patent leather shoes, like Alice in Wonderland. On her grandparents’ wide green lawn in New England. Margo had given him the photos and decorated theframe herself with red paint and gold leaf, on an anniversary.
This is who I was, and am
. Both photos signalling a beginning, something new to learn. Riding a bike. Loving another, unconditionally.
It’s like riding a bicycle
… Was it? Learning to love again if you’ve forgotten how?
When he recalled what had brought them together, what they had shared, it was too much. He had to shut it out. In the beginning, great sex, or at least he’d thought so – he always felt he couldn’t please her enough. The bigger passion was for their work together, fighting the struggle in the media, mainly, shoulder to shoulder with their black comrades who now barely spoke to them. Activists who had made it big in business, hauling in obscene salaries, taking their turn. Stepping on and over the whiteys and most of the people in this country, millions of poor Africans.
There’s no place for me here now
. He’d told this to Margo, before he left to sort out the rest of the world, and guessed he still believed it.
He needed air. He went to the window, pulled the gauzy curtains back and unlocked the sash window, raised it. A chill, kelp-laden breeze rushed in, and the squawk of gulls. The sun was near the horizon, just before dusk.
The music had stopped. He heard footsteps in the lounge and then ‘Hello?’ A girl’s voice.
They met in the kitchen. A slender girl with a long blonde ponytail, hoody, jeans and a pair of riding boots. Twenty-something. Glazed look. He could have sworn she was stoned.
‘Sorry. I thought the house was empty …’
‘Anton de Villiers. And you are?’ Anton tried to recall meeting her.
‘Karin – the house-sitter, the dog-sitter. I left a rucksack in the guest room … I’ll get it?’
Anton followed her to the room at the back of the house, where he had sometimes slept in exile. ‘Where’s the dog?’
‘I’ve got him,’ Karin said, shouldering her bag and walking towards the front door. ‘Do you want him back? When are they coming home?’
They stood facing each other, he and this stranger who had taken the family dog. ‘I don’t know,’ Anton said, wondering how much she knew, reticent to say much. Deciding to lie. ‘Soon, a week or so … can you check on the house? Keep the dog a while longer?’ He reached in his pocket for some bills but she waved them away.
‘No problem, Mr de Villiers. Just let me know what’s happening. Say hi to Eli and Margo for me.’
Nodding, waving half-heartedly from the front steps, he watched herwalk down the path as darkness folded over the house. With the lights on inside it almost looked as if people lived there. He walked around the house, looking in the windows,
He lay on the bed, a stinkwood four-poster, firm and high, covered in a quilt a dozen shades of blue. Their first bed. They’d put it in storage, traded it in for a queen-sized, more comfortable and modern; she’d taken it out again, at what point he wasn’t sure. The pillows, though bright white, smelled musty; he found a golden hair on one, hers. He resisted the temptation to search the other pillow for different hairs, telltale. Nothing visible at a glance. The room, white-walled with white muslin curtains, closed, held him like a hermit crab’s shell.
As he rose from the bed, stiff from the damp, he saw there were only three photos in the room, and none of him. On the Greek blue dresser: one of Margo seated on the khaki sofa with Eli, maybe three, tucked between her knees, laughing; in the other frame, two photos of Margo, a larger one of her on the beach at Knysna, on their honeymoon, peaceful and golden; a smaller one of her, six years old, grinning proudly with her first bicycle, wearing a blue-striped dress and pinafore and patent leather shoes, like Alice in Wonderland. On her grandparents’ wide green lawn in New England. Margo had given him the photos and decorated theframe herself with red paint and gold leaf, on an anniversary.
This is who I was, and am
. Both photos signalling a beginning, something new to learn. Riding a bike. Loving another, unconditionally.
It’s like riding a bicycle
… Was it? Learning to love again if you’ve forgotten how?
When he recalled what had brought them together, what they had shared, it was too much. He had to shut it out. In the beginning, great sex, or at least he’d thought so – he always felt he couldn’t please her enough. The bigger passion was for their work together, fighting the struggle in the media, mainly, shoulder to shoulder with their black comrades who now barely spoke to them. Activists who had made it big in business, hauling in obscene salaries, taking their turn. Stepping on and over the whiteys and most of the people in this country, millions of poor Africans.
There’s no place for me here now
. He’d told this to Margo, before he left to sort out the rest of the world, and guessed he still believed it.
He needed air. He went to the window, pulled the gauzy curtains back and unlocked the sash window, raised it. A chill, kelp-laden breeze rushed in, and the squawk of gulls. The sun was near the horizon, just before dusk.
The music had stopped. He heard footsteps in the lounge and then ‘Hello?’ A girl’s voice.
They met in the kitchen. A slender girl with a long blonde ponytail, hoody, jeans and a pair of riding boots. Twenty-something. Glazed look. He could have sworn she was stoned.
‘Sorry. I thought the house was empty …’
‘Anton de Villiers. And you are?’ Anton tried to recall meeting her.
‘Karin – the house-sitter, the dog-sitter. I left a rucksack in the guest room … I’ll get it?’
Anton followed her to the room at the back of the house, where he had sometimes slept in exile. ‘Where’s the dog?’
‘I’ve got him,’ Karin said, shouldering her bag and walking towards the front door. ‘Do you want him back? When are they coming home?’
They stood facing each other, he and this stranger who had taken the family dog. ‘I don’t know,’ Anton said, wondering how much she knew, reticent to say much. Deciding to lie. ‘Soon, a week or so … can you check on the house? Keep the dog a while longer?’ He reached in his pocket for some bills but she waved them away.
‘No problem, Mr de Villiers. Just let me know what’s happening. Say hi to Eli and Margo for me.’
Nodding, waving half-heartedly from the front steps, he watched herwalk down the path as darkness folded over the house. With the lights on inside it almost looked as if people lived there. He walked around the house, looking in the windows,
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