The Satanic Mechanic by Sally Andrew Page A

anger in his eyes.
    I knew the anger was for Fanie, but I took it for myself and felt ashamed.
    Henk gestured towards the couch.
    â€˜Did he . . . rape you?’
    I didn’t answer him. There was just one toad now, making a strange croaking sound, not a happy mating song.
    â€˜I shouldn’t have told you,’ I said. ‘I feel so . . .’
    But I couldn’t tell him what I felt. Dirty. Ugly. Scared. Guilty. I didn’t have words for all the feelings. All the feelings I wanted to keep out of my relationship with Henk. The toad was quiet now. And the wind was still. The silence was hurting my chest. I was holding my breath.
    â€˜Maria,’ he said. I still wouldn’t look at him, and I still wasn’t breathing. ‘Maria.’ He leant forward and tilted my face towards him and looked me in the eyes. ‘It’s not your fault.’
    Then my breath escaped from me with a big sob.
    We slept together in my bed. Well, he slept, and I lay in his arms, not sleeping much. Me in my nighty, and him in his white boxer underpants. I did not have nightmares, but my mind was thick with bad memories, and my heart full of difficult feelings. There was still some of that citrus liqueur pudding, Henk’s Favourite, in my freezer, and I knew it was just what I needed. But when I moved to get up, his arm tightened around me, held me closer to him. So I stayed there, tasting this new kind of comfort: a warm body, strong arms, furry chest, the soft sound of hissnoring. I let him hold me while the muddy pool of feelings was churned up by that long-ago storm. Outside my window, the wind was blowing, rustling the leaves. A warm breeze pushed through the gap in the sash window: the kind of wind that brings rain. I lay in Henk’s arms until the early birds started to sing. I waited for the churned pool to settle, to get clear and calm, but it did not.

    Henk had to leave early, no time even for coffee.
    As soon as he was gone, I dressed and prepared my breakfast, which I ate at the stoep table. I hardly noticed the soft falling rain, and the way the veld and the gwarrie tree disappeared in the grey drizzle, because my attention was on my food. I didn’t take my diet pills, because I wanted to eat up it all up: a big plate of warm Henk’s Favourite.
    When I had finished, I sat there for some time, feeling a little sick but at the same time much better. The fear and the shame were gone, buried by sweet citrus pudding. The smell of the wet earth was wonderful. I was grateful to the rain for falling. I didn’t need to cry any more, the sky would do it for me. After a while, the rain cleared and the veld looked bright. The gwarrie tree was a fresh dark green, and birds were flying around in its branches. With the air washed clean, I could see far into the distance. Past the big red slopes of the Rooiberg, to the long blue line of the Langeberge.
    When I was ready to stand up, I went to my chicken hok. My hens were fluffing their wings and scratching at the ground, and they came rushing out as I opened the hok door. I threw a handful of crushed mielies onto the lawn for them. Then I went inside and fished in my handbag until I found a little piece of paper with a number on it.
    I sat down beside the phone table in my lounge and dialled the satanic mechanic.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
    His voice was heavy and warm, like coffee with thick grounds at the bottom of the cup. Moerkoffie.
    â€˜Goeiemôre. Ricus.’ Good morning. His Afrikaans accent gave a soft hiss to the ‘s’ in Ricus.
    â€˜Um . . .’ I said.
    â€˜Hello?’
    I nearly put down the phone, but instead I said, ‘It needs fixing. My car. Is this the mechanic?’
    â€˜It’s him, ja.’
    â€˜I got your number from my friend, Annemarie, in Oudtshoorn.’
    â€˜Annemarie,’ he said. I could hear he was smiling. ‘How is she?’
    â€˜Fine. Happy.’
    â€˜Good. Good.