Candles in two tall holders lit the table. There was a vase with flowers, two slender crystal glasses that reflected the candlelight, gleaming silver on the table, a silver ice bucket from which the neck of a bottle protruded.
She sat at the other end of the table. Her hair was piled high on her head. Large gold hoops dangled from her ears. Her scarlet mouth wore a small smile. Her slender neck, her shoulders, her arms, and most of her breasts glowed rosily in the circle of light. The black dress glistened and clung. She rose with grace. He saw that her dress hung down to her ankles. She wore two thin gold bangles around her wrist. She walked to a chair at the top of the table and pulled it back. Her hip angled. A leg, the color of ivory, slid out of the black.
Please sit down, Mat. She and the table were a picture out of a womens magazine. It took his breath away.
It . . . You look beautiful.
Thank you.
He walked slowly to the chair. Had the beer caused the light-headedness? Before he could sit down she helped him take off his jacket.
You can open the champagne. She leaned back, pressed a button on her cassette player. Soft music filled the room.
He reached for the bottle, pulled off the foil, unwound the wire, and wiggled the cork.
Youve got big hands. Strong.
The cork shot out. He poured sparkling wine into her glass. His hand shook and the foam overflowed the rim, spilling onto the white tablecloth.
Sorry. She giggled.
To our first evening, Mat. The glasses sang a high note as they touched. They drank.
Theres more champagne in the fridge. Have some more. She emptied her glass and held it out to him to be refilled. He obeyed. They drank again. She dished up. Leg of lamb, rice, a rich brown gravy, baked potatoes, green beans with mushrooms and cream, cauliflower with cheese.
It looks . . . I didnt know you liked to cook.
Ag, its just from a recipe book. I hope you like everything.
Everything, he said. Tonight would be a farewell to all the wrong kinds of food. Tomorrow hed speak to Yvonne about his diet.
What did you think of my poem?
I . . . liked it very much.
Mr. Venter said I should do more writing. He was my English teacher last year. I showed him all my poems.
This one as well?
No, silly, of course not. Pour me some more champagne.
They ate. Silence.
Then: Ive been in love with you for more than a year, Mat.
He swallowed some champagne.
But I want you to know its not because of being sorry about your wife.
He took another swallow.
There were a few guys in my class who were interested. Ginger Pretorius already has a job . . . His bike is very sexy and all that, but hes so adolescent.
She looked at him, unfocused. Didnt you suspect? Every time my parents invited you, I was there as well. I felt as if you didnt see me. I had to do something. Didnt you see?
No.
They say the time is over for women to simply sit around waiting. If I hadnt done something, we would still have been secretly in love. Are you pleased that I did something?
Yes. There was a befogged window between Mat Joubert and reality.
Tell me how you felt, that evening. Was I too aggressive? They say some men like it. Did you like it, Mat, hey, did you?
Yes. He looked at her, at the teeth so white in the candlelight, at her red lips, at the deep valley between her breasts where the black dress had shifted.
For me it was a fucking rave. She looked at him, saw his eyes on her breasts. Does it bother you if I swear, Mat?
No.
Do you like it?
He listened to a single beat of his heart.
Yes.
She pushed her plate away, leaned toward him. The top of the black dress unfolded like a petal. He could see the pink circle of one of her nipples.
What else would you like, Mat?
He slid his eyes away from the nipple, over her creamy neck up to her mouth, now half open. Her teeth shone. He wanted to tell her what he would like. His courage failed him. He swallowed more champagne, also pushed his plate away.
A Winston. He smiled ruefully.
She smiled back as if shed heard the words but hadnt caught their meaning. She leaned over and found the packet behind the radio. He lit cigarettes for both of them. She blew the smoke at the candles, which flickered. He saw the nipple was now completely bare. Was she aware of it?
Do you remember that I said everything was going to be a surprise? He heard the faint slurring of some of her words and realized that she was drunk. For some reason or other this made his stomach muscles contract.
Yes. Youre not completely sober either, Mat Joubert.
Well, this evening youre getting the first course after the main course, Mat Joubert. She got up slowly and moved toward him. She sank down on his lap, her hands around his neck, the cigarette burning between her fingers. He put his cigarette in the plate on the table and placed the palms of his hands against her back, searching for the firm muscles of youth.
She kissed him in slow motion. Her mouth and tongue slid slowly over and into his mouth, like honey. His hand moved inch by inch toward her breast. His thumb and forefinger searched for the nipple. He felt it harden. He pressed his palm more strongly against the fullness. It was softer than he had expected.
She groaned. Her hand dropped, pressed against his abdomen, moved up, unloosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. Her tongue licked a line of fire across his chest, her teeth danced across his nipple. Suddenly he had an overwhelming need. He forced her throat back and dropped his lips to her breast. He sucked it into his mouth until it filled him from tongue to palate, the skin smooth and supple. He teased her with his tongue and she grew again, moaned, her hand between his legs again. He pushed his own hand to her leg, felt the strength of her muscles and visualized the pleasure that was waiting. He sighed shudderingly and moved his hand slowly to the center of his interest. Her legs opened, her mouth on his again. He expected panties there but found none, only wetness. His fingers slid inside. She groaned and sucked his tongue.
And suddenly he was ready, a machine rescued from rust. The swelling in his groin changed to a rock-hard erection, a fiery soldier on parade.
She pulled his hand away from her heat. This, she said, and the hoarseness was real, is dessert. She gave him a quick kiss and moved to her own chair with difficulty. She held her glass for more champagne. Her hair had come loose. She dragged deeply on the cigarette.
Ive never met anyone like you, Mat. Her breast was still bare. And he speculated about her experience, the fact that this wasnt her first time. About the fact that she excited him. About the fact that he was a vehicle for the achievement of a fantasy. But he didnt want to speculate any longer. His heart leaped at the pressure in his trousers. The bottle was empty. He got up, walked unsteadily to the kitchen, and fetched another one. When he came back she was still sitting in the same position, elbows on the table, cigarette between her fingers, the nipple almost touching the tablecloth. He poured for them both.
Were you shocked because I wasnt wearing anything? Down there?
No.
I had nothing on below the mini this afternoon. It made me so randy . . .
She took a last puff of her cigarette, killed it. Does it make you randy too? Her hand dropped to her breast. Her fingers quietly stroked the nipple.
No one has ever made me so randy in my life, he said and knew that just for that moment it was true.
She put her hand on his and suddenly said softly: Im so pleased.
She remembered: You must take the candles to the living room. Thats where youre getting your dessert. She put Jouberts finger in her mouth, sucked it gently. Two kinds, she said and smiled seductively, but the alcohol undermined the effectiveness. He didnt notice it.
He sat.
Get up. Ill come in a second. There was a momentary silence, then she giggled at the play on words. Take the champagne, too.
He got up.
First fill my glass. He obeyed, then took his own glass, the bottle of champagne, and the packet of Winstons to the living room. When he came back for the candlesticks, she wasnt there. He carried the candles and saw that his shirt was unbuttoned down to his navel. He sat down on the carpet. He was filled with satisfaction, anticipation. In his imagination his finger slid into her again.
He heard someone knocking at the front door.
He couldnt believe it. The knock came again, more softly. A feeling of unreality came over him, as if it was all part of a strange dream. He got up, uncertainly, and unlocked the front door, turned the handle, opened it.
Benny Griessel was leaning against the wall, chin on his breast, his clothes crumpled, his hair wildly untidy.
Mat? The voice was barely audible. I have to . . . talk.
Griessel stumbled forward. For a moment Joubert wanted to stop him, but then he opened the door wider so that the man could come in.
Benny, this is a bad time.
Must talk.
Griessel staggered to the living room, a road he knew. Joubert closed the door. His head struggled to find a solution. Quickly he walked to Griessel, turned him around, put his hands on his shoulders.
Benny, listen to me. He whispered, shook the shoulders.
I want to die, Mat.
Benny.
Rather die.
Jesus, Benny, youre as pissed as a newt.
Griessel started crying.
Joubert stared ahead, his hands still on the mans shoulders with not the vaguest idea of what to do. The sobs tore through the body of the figure in front of him. Joubert turned Griessel around, walked to the living room. Hed make the man sit down, then warn Yvonne. He helped Griessel as far as the couch. The sobs stopped when Griessel saw the candlelight. He looked at Joubert, frowned in an effort to understand.
Is that you, Mat? he asked, his voice barely audible. Joubert wondered what demons were dancing in Griessels skull. He pitied him.
Yvonne appeared in the door.
Dessert, she said, the word an announcement.
Her breasts and the dark love triangle of pubic hair were only too evident under the wisp of transparent nightgown. She was wearing high heels. In each hand she held a bowl of pudding. Her arms were stretched out, an invitation to the other dessert.
She saw Griessel.
Griessel saw her.
Mat? Griessel repeated softly, and then his head fell on his chest in an alcoholic and sensory stupor. Jouberts head swung back to Yvonne. His thoughts were formless and panicky.
She looked down at the way she had exhibited herself, saw herself the way they saw her. Her mouth thinned.
Bonnie, he said, but he knew it wasnt going to work. She threw the bowl of pudding in her right hand at him. It hit his left shoulder, the smell of baked pudding and ice cream rising in his nostrils. It ran down his shirt and his bare chest. She swung round and walked down the passage, staggering on the high heels.
Bonnie.
Fuck you! she screamed and then a bedroom door slammed.
13.
D
rew Wilson was driving home in his CitiGolf. The radio was tuned to a late-night talk show but he wasnt listening to it. He was tired. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes and his back was stiff and sore from the long hours of sitting.
He didnt mind the tiredness because it was so good to be busy again. Even if you werent working for yourself. It was good to be creative every day, to use your ingenuity and craftsmanship to mold the gold metal into something that would enchant a woman so that she, with true feminine charm, could persuade the man in her life to buy it for her.
He fantasized about each one of his creations, about what kind of woman or man sometimes would wear it. With which outfit. To what occasion. Now and then, there were foreign tourists in the showroom but he tried to ignore them. They were never as beautiful or as stylish as in his dreams.
He lived in the Bellville suburb of Boston in an old house with big rooms and high ceilings which he had restored. The driveway to the single garage was short but, as usual, he stopped to open the gate, got into the car again, and drove to the garage doors.
