Читать книгу Praise Routine No. 4 - Michael Rands - Страница 3

It was the end of another long evening and I was on my final cigarette. The smell of ass sweat that hangs about the change room was making me feel ill, so I took a stroll outside along the wooden boardwalk that surrounds the sandy area in the centre of the restaurant. The last fires had been extinguished and there was a smell of wet ash and disinfectant.

I happened to pass the entrance to Vusi’s office, just as Charlie was saying ‘For the second time.’ I stood dead still, afraid even of exhaling the smoke in my lungs.

‘In as many weeks,’ I heard Vusi say.

‘Ai, Byron,’ said Charlie. ‘I like him. But eish, sometimes.’

Of course I knew what they were referring to. I’d forgotten praise routine number four.

I waited for Charlie in the staff parking lot. Like the change room it’s rundown and stinks of garbage. I sat waiting for so long that the motion detector light had gone off when Charlie finally emerged. He was visibly shocked to see me sitting there on the sand still dressed in my skins.

‘What was that about?’ I asked him.

‘You have to stop smoking that shit,’ he said to me. ‘When you don’t smoke, you clever. But when you smoke it, wena Byron. You become stupid!’

‘I need it to get into character. I’ve told you before.’

‘We give you the skins, Byron. Wena. Come on now! Pull yourself together. Vusi will fire you.’

I wanted to make a good impression. And so the following week I smoked my last joint four hours before work started. I went through early to impress the management, but got there before anyone else arrived. I spent the first half-hour walking up and down the parking lot, kicking around a flat Coke can and smoking cigarettes. Then I remembered that in my cubbyhole I had half a bankie of weed and a box of Rizzla. I tried not to smoke it. But I was starting to sober up and the boredom was intense. So an hour later me and the head chef’s fourteen year old son, Faizel, were stoned and playing a game of soccer in the dusty parking lot, using the flat can as a ball and our shoes as goalposts. Young Faizel made no mention of the fact that my shoes were different sizes, and so I relaxed and enjoyed the game. But when Vusi arrived he asked me why my eyes were red.

‘It’s from the dust,’ I said. ‘Very dusty.’

He shook his head and started laughing. Not knowing how to respond, I too burst into laughter. He raised his large hand and stuck his index finger into my chest. He was wearing a black suit and a pink shirt, I could smell his aftershave.

‘It’s not funny,’ he said, and walked away.

And so, there I was, sitting on the bench in the staff change room half an hour before the first guests arrived. There was a constant drip noise coming from the shower and the room smelt like fish. I’d tied the skins around my ankles and finished tightening the leather skirt around my waist. I stood up and clicked my back, then stuck my hand into my underwear and shifted my balls to the spot that Charlie and I have jokingly named the praise poet’s position, or the triple P. We have to wear tight briefs and pull the entire package right to the front to ensure that our balls don’t get squashed during the more athletic manoeuvres. I stood up and started stretching my legs and arms, then washed my hands to remove the musty smell of balls.

‘You ready, my friend?’ Charlie came into the change room. He’s always better dressed than I am. His entire outfit is genuine, made by a brother of his who lives in the Eastern Cape. Mine on the other hand was bought from Xhosa World, a wholly-owned subsidiary of Bhakhuba, the restaurant at which I work. Apparently it was set up for tax purposes, and supplies the restaurant with everything it has, from the artwork in the chief’s hut, to the skins worn by the guests.

‘Nearly ready. Just stretching,’ I said to him.

He has a perfectly cut body, an eight-pack, perhaps a ten-pack; wiry, but well-defined arms. He’s the real thing. He comes from a long line of praise poets. When I first took the job he explained to me that praise poets have a similar licence to that held by jesters in times gone by. They can say what others cannot. But Charlie overstepped the mark and offended a corrupt local leader in the rural Eastern Cape. It was during the early nineties, and fearing for his life, he fled to Cape Town and changed his name.

I’ve learnt a lot from Charlie but the privileged position held by praise poets was not handed down to me. I only have good things to say about our guests.

‘Come now my friend!’ He was getting agitated. ‘The people they will be here now.’

‘Who’s coming?’

‘The German people. One full bus. Maybe two busses. From the Waterfront. They want to wear the skin.’

‘Lots of them?’

‘Sure. We won’t use routine four tonight.’

‘Charlie. You sure?’

‘Sure, Byron.’

‘Thanks man. Thanks a lot.’

‘Just one two three five.’

‘OK.’

We waited for the guests to hand in their day-to-day clothes at the exchange counter and get changed into the skins. Unfortunately, the female clientele get to wear leather straps around their breasts. The dresses of both sexes come down to the knees, and for the most part the guests look more like pale Polynesian islanders than Xhosas.

I stood close behind Charlie; I could feel my heart beating in my neck. I still get terrible nerves. And although they’ll never accept it, the weed helps me transform.

‘OK, they ready. Come!’

Charlie had been keeping watch, and the first guests had come out of the change room. I stepped outside, keeping myself close to Charlie. The air was warm and the fires freshly lit. As always we moved slowly at first, past the rural Xhosa scenes painted along the walls, keeping our heads down and our footsteps light. I imagined myself to be in a far-off land, my name is Byronkhulu and my people respect me. So long as I keep this image in my head, and my right foot slightly back when standing still, I will be safe. No one will know my real name.

Charlie held two fingers in the air, raised his knees and started sprinting along the boardwalk. I stayed just behind him. Although it’s not in his job description, I suspect he enjoys frightening the shit out of Europeans. He’d chosen his man: the shorter of the two, a balding fellow with thin-rimmed glasses perched on his Germanic nose, tufts of hair sprouting out of his deep navel. The man was waiting for his wife, silently admiring a mural of a topless black woman when Charlie started screaming.

‘Amandla akho agqithisile! Akekho umntu onokugqitha! Bazakubuya gxengxeze kuwe!’

The German stepped sideways, then backwards, tried to gain his composure but was clearly rattled. This was my cue. I took a deep breath and jumped out from behind Charlie, my right leg raised high in the air. In the triple P I place my faith.

‘Your strength is legendary!’ I shouted as I came crashing to the floor, the skins slapping against my legs. ‘No man should ever wish to cross your path!’ I raised my hands in the air. ‘For they will surely come to know of your might!’

Charlie held up one finger, and moved in on the other man: a tall fellow with a fat nose and an aura of ignorance.

‘Uyindoda esisityebi ehlabathini lonke wonke umntu uyakwazi ubutyebi bakho bobanaphakade.’

‘And you!’ I screamed. ‘You are the richest man around. All the people know you, for your wealth is legendary!’

The men gave us silly bows as they backed off and made their way across the soft sand in the inkundla. They took their seats on the raised platform, at tables that are really glorified bar benches covered by decorative cloths. Besides the outside seating, there’s a large indoor area, and several private rooms fashioned on African huts. At capacity the place holds three hundred. It wasn’t going to be full tonight, but there’d be plenty of work.

Other guests were handing in their clothes to Lindi who works behind the exchange counter. The dancers had just arrived. They greeted Charlie in Xhosa and gave me a nod, then made their way into the change room. The two of us stood underneath the palm tree overhangs that decorate the bar. They’d been hung with colourful lights in late October the previous year. Now it was May and they showed no sign of leaving. I sometimes wondered what the European guests would tell their children about Xhosas. Anyway, I wasn’t a cultural educator. I’d taken the job out of desperation. Ironically, it was the one place where my skin colour had counted in my favour. I was an amusing little add-on to a themed restaurant. Their reasoning, I guess, was simple. If tourists arrived and saw only black faces they might think they were walking into an ambush and leave. My pink skin softened the blow.

‘Not bad, Byron,’ Charlie said to me.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

Then we stood in silence and waited for the next customers to emerge from the guest change room, which, unlike ours, is a five-star joint. If I know Charlie, we’d be moving on to routine three, maybe followed up by a five. I poured myself a glass of water. My throat was sore from the screaming.

* * *

It was on a night like this that Victoria found me; she was doing freelance photography for a magazine at the time. Or at least, this is what she was paid to do. As far as I could tell, she spent the best part of the evening spying on me, following me around, peering around corners, trying to catch me with her lens. She had an intensely nervous energy about her. Her camera swayed around her neck, bouncing off her chest. A lock of curly brown hair kept popping out from behind her right ear; she’d tuck it back, only to have it pop out a second later. She’d scratch her forearms, the back of her neck; clumsily make some adjustment to her camera. On her hands she wore purple gloves.

As she followed me around, I felt like an endangered animal trying to hide from a tracker. Something about her scared me and I really wasn’t in the mood for talking to a stranger. I’d take all my smoke breaks down the dark alleyway that runs behind the toilets; drop my butts in the drain. During the praise routines I’d try not to make eye contact, and when the end of the evening came, I changed fast, snuck out the back past the garbage in the chained-up courtyard and into the parking lot. Assuming that she’d gone home, and feeling overwhelmed with relief, I rolled myself a fat joint in my car. I shared it with one of the chefs, behind a metal dumpster out of eyeshot.

‘I’m going to lock up,’ he said to me after squashing the roach.

‘OK.’

‘I’m going back in though. So you off into the parking lot?’

‘Ja.’

I stepped into the dusty lot, alone. I was so stoned that my head was vibrating and my eyes stung. I really wanted to go home.

But then there she was, standing alone in the centre of the lot, lit up by the motion detector light. She had her hands behind her back, her hair tucked behind her ears. She looked like a big child.

‘Hey,’ she said.

She raised one of her hands and stepped toward me, then interlaced her fingers and took a step back. Then she held her hands against her chest. Her movements were graceful, I was fascinated by her, but for some reason still wanted to escape. I raised my hand, then looked down at my feet.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and started coming closer. She paused five metres away. I looked behind me. The back entrance was locked and there was nowhere for me to go. I was so stoned.

‘I just wanted to. You know. I’m sorry. I just – ’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Can I speak to you for a moment?’

‘OK.’

She walked right up to me and stopped an inch short of my private space. The parking lot was empty, the sky was dark and there was no moon. I looked back down at her and decided that I’d just walk away, but then froze and looked up again. She held her hips to the side, her right foot twirled in the sand. Her body had some strange tension in it, like an elastic twirled around itself. A green blouse, which exposed her upper chest and shoulders, clung sensuously and obediently to her body, revealing an inch of transparent bra strap on her left shoulder. She was fiddling with her fingers again. Her nerves were making me nervous. Or maybe I was making her nervous. All I knew was that the sooner the whole thing ended, the better. Just as I was about to burst past her, she stuck out her hand, and took the final step that closed the gap between us. I looked down at her takkies: black with white toes. Then she stuck out her purple gloved hand, and the material felt smooth on my fingertips and I calmed down for a moment as I held it.

‘Victoria,’ she said.

‘Byron.’

‘Nice to meet you, Byron.’

‘Ja.’

As she started speaking I became transfixed by her wide mouth, home to her wide teeth. Her teeth looked unnaturally white, and her lips unnaturally thin. All her features were angular and chiselled.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked me.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said.

I realised I was zoning out.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Umm. Well, I’m a photographer, as you can see. But I also am doing art photography. I’m working on a project at the moment. And you would be perfect.’

‘For what?’

‘It’s all about people out of. Well. I can explain another time. Would you mind me photographing you wearing the skins?’

‘When?’

‘You can come to my house. I have a room there. I’ll call you. Can I have your number?’

I couldn’t think of anything to say, and so I gave it to her. Sure enough, the next morning I was awoken by the sound of my phone vibrating on the floor. At first I didn’t know what it was and lay staring at the ceiling for several seconds. I’ve never stuck anything on my walls and so the whiteness of the room shocks me each morning as I wake up, especially if I forget to close the curtains. I leant over and watched my phone move across the chipped floor as it vibrated. I was still hung over and hazy and she wanted me there later that afternoon. More from an inability to think of an excuse than through genuine desire, I agreed to go.

She lived on High Level Road in Sea Point in an old double-storey building. The property was surrounded by a green security fence and I couldn’t remember what number she’d told me to buzz. But someone had left the security gate ajar and so I walked straight up the short path to the lower balcony. She lived on the lower level, I remembered her telling me that. The floor beneath my feet was painted red and was stained dark from all the feet that had passed over it. A thick fern in a pot was thriving like a pubic bush in frigid panties. I got the feeling the sun seldom shone where I stood.

I tried to peer through the stained glass panes in the centre of the first door. But they were grooved and dented and I could see nothing. So I plucked up some courage and rang the bell, hoping it would be her who answered. It was. Her eyes were big, her hair was tied back. I felt like a child who’d stumbled across a strange house in the middle of the woods.

‘Come in,’ she said, and opened the door.

There was a brief one-two, should we, shouldn’t we, a step forward, a step back. She broke the situation by kissing me on the cheek. The entrance way was painted yellow and there was hardly enough space for us both to stand comfortably. Above my head was a stained glass light, and the whole house smelt of clean linen.

‘We’ll be using that one.’ She pointed at a closed door to my immediate left. ‘Just go change quick.’

‘OK.’

I walked through her yellow, shoebox-shaped lounge and into her bathroom. I shut the door behind me and sat down on the toilet. I got undressed and changed into the skins. I’d decided to wear the tight briefs and pulled my balls into the triple P. When I was changed I stuck my legs out in front of me and stared at my stupid feet. The big right and the baby left. I suddenly thought of a way to hide them from her.

Her bathtub was an antique, separate from the wall. It was raised a few inches off the ground by golden eagles’ feet, and the taps were antiqued brass. I turned the hot tap on and the whole house began to shake and scream as the water made its way through the piping. I waited for steam to rise from the bath then quickly held my left foot under the hot water hoping it would cause it to swell a little. But I just burnt it.

‘Are you all right in there?’ she called from outside the bathroom door.

‘Yes!’ I said.

I went to the room near the entrance and closed the door behind me. Through the large windows I could see my car parked on the street. There was a blue-grey backdrop stuck on the wall behind me, a stool in the centre of the room. Her floors, like mine, were made of wood, but they were much wider, yellow and recently polished. I sat down on the stool and watched my feet hanging there stupidly at the bottom of my legs. Now, thanks to my ingenious plan, the left foot was not only visibly smaller, but also red instead of white.

Suddenly the door burst open and she came walking in, a gust of wind following her.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I forgot to close the front door properly. It’s windy today, hey?’

‘Yeah.’

She fiddled with her camera. Her fingers were fidgety, but she didn’t seem nervous. She looked like a possessed person, totally focused on what she was doing.

‘OK, Byron, I want you to just push that aside. The stool. And then stand. OK?’

I tried to hide my left foot behind my right, then swapped it around and tried to hide the right behind the left. Then I tried to stand on the floor, and nearly tripped over myself.

‘Oopsy,’ I said, and tried to laugh.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing.’

I stood up straight and moved my right heel backwards so that the toes of my right foot were level with those of the left. She had the camera to her eye and was focusing it on me. My fingers nervously picked at the leather skins. Moving my right foot back causes my body to go slightly out of line, and my right knee to look unnaturally straight.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You really don’t need to do that.’

She dropped the camera from her face and looked at me with her eyes. She smiled, and shook her head.

‘You really don’t need to do that.’

And so I didn’t.

I smiled at her, and suddenly felt completely relaxed. It was as if we had discussed the issue at length. As if lawyers representing both parties had met and drawn up a prenuptial understanding, that the feet were fucked up, but that it was fine.

She laughed some more, and shrugged her shoulders.

Then she raised the camera to her eyes again and focused it, while directing my body into the right position. Then she paused for a moment and again dropped the camera from her eyes.

‘There’s something,’ she said. ‘It’s not uniform thinking. Well what is, I suppose? But I think it’s important. Things must be accurate. Even where the lens can’t see.’

‘All right,’ I said. I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

‘It’s just that well. Here’s the thing. Real tribesmen. And Scots too. You know. With their kilts. They don’t. Ug. OK. Please would you take your underwear off?’

Now that we were past the feet, the request felt suspiciously normal.

She raised her shoulders and laughed some more. But now her laugh was more like a little girl’s giggle. She held her purple-gloved hand over her right eye, and said ‘Am I being rude? I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

‘No.’ I shook my head.

‘It’s weird I know. But, it’s important.’

‘OK.’

‘I’ll cover my eyes if you want.’ She raised both hands over her eyes, and made an obvious show of peeping through them.

‘No peeking,’ she said, and started laughing again.

‘OK,’ I said.

She dropped her hands from her face. I leant against the blue grey backdrop and pulled up the back of my skirt. I felt like one of the dirtier hobos I’ve seen in my neighbourhood, pooing against the wall of a house. I blocked the thought out of my mind, and slipped my fingers around the elastic and pulled the underwear down my legs, making sure never to lift the front of the dress up too high. Victoria kept covering her eyes with the front of her hands, then dropping them again.

‘Sorry,’ she said, and started laughing. ‘It’s just a bit funny.’ Then she raised her hands to her face, covered her eyes again and said, ‘No it’s not. I’m only joking. I feel so awkward now. Should I feel awkward?’

‘No.’

When I’d taken them right off, I sent them skidding across the floor towards where she was standing.

‘Those look quite um, sorry. But they look quite uncomfortable.’

‘We need them to protect ourselves.’

‘I see. OK. I’ve just had an idea. I’ll be back. Wait. Just wait.’

She ran out of the room and returned a moment later with an extension chord and a fan. She left again and came back with a collection of boxes under her arm. There were clearly more than she could manage and so she had to stand at an awkward angle, and keep shifting them about to stop them from falling. I made no attempt to help her, I felt like my feet had sunk into concrete.

She made a little pile out of the boxes, constantly shifting them and rearranging the order in which they were placed. She was muttering under her breath, and seemed oblivious of my existence. When the boxes were ordered she placed the fan on top of them .

‘Come stand above it,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Yes, above it. And hold your dress down. Like Marilyn Monroe.’

‘OK,’ I said, and did as she asked.

She leant down and turned the fan on, adjusting it to its strongest output. It blew straight up my skirt and the cold air caused the sensitive skin on my balls to harden and the penis to curl up a little.

‘Yes, yes!’ she kept saying as she moved around the room. As I got used to it, I started enjoying the freedom of wearing no underwear, I even began to fancy the tickle of air against my scrotum. All the little hairs on my balls stood up and an involuntary smile made its way across my face. Yes, I do believe I was the happiest I’d been in ages.

But after we’d finished taking the pictures and I had changed back into my clothes I started getting nervous again.

‘I have dinner,’ I said.

‘Oh. I was going to. But you must come again. To see the pictures. Alright.’

‘Sure. Yeah. I’ll come.’

* * *

There was something about the way I’d felt standing above the fan, my feet had melted away, my balls felt free and I couldn’t help associating this freedom with her. I wanted more. And so, when she called me again and invited me back, I agreed, honestly.

Her property was quite high up the mountain, and because her flat was on the corner of the block from where I parked, I was able to see right down the steep road to the ocean. It was early evening, a Friday, and the sounds of the bustling Sea Point centre below came drifting up the valley. The sky was almost black but still had traces of blue and I was feeling a little cold, but in high spirits. On the inside of her security gate someone had stuck a note written in large black permanent letters: MAKE SURE GATE IS PROPERLY CLOSED. And below that: FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION.

Below the notice a newspaper article had been fastened to the fence. The caption read: SEAPOINT WOMAN MURDERED IN FLAT. I skimmed the article, but didn’t pay much attention to the details. Such sensationalist bullshit had long since lost its effect on me.

I walked up the steps and rang Victoria’s doorbell.

She opened and hugged me. I put my arms around her body and could feel her ribs through the thin T-shirt, her thin flesh. I could smell the soapy clean deodorant scent. She seemed to favour subtle perfumes to scent her body. As she stepped away from me, she kept her hands extended: they were still wrapped in the purple gloves and felt smooth between my fingers. She smiled.

‘Why is that article on the gate?’ I asked her.

‘It’s just so – well you should be anyway, all the time – but it’s just so that people are careful, and lock, and that sort of thing,’ she said while closing the door and pulling the security latch into place.

‘Would you like?’ She pointed toward the green leather couch in the corner of her shoebox-shaped yellow lounge. I was feeling much more relaxed than on my first visit. The first time I’d been so preoccupied with hiding my feet that I’d barely taken in the surroundings. I noticed now that there were a number of large, framed pictures hanging on her walls. One of a naked black man, solid build, leaning against a stripper’s pole, another of a young girl in a business suit, holding a cellphone in her hand.

I sat down.

There was incense burning in the room, I saw the packet resting on the windowsill, it was opium-scented, and so I guessed – although I did not know for certain – the room now smelt like an opium den. I stood up and looked out the window, and was able to see the narrow side road where I’d parked my car. Some workers were making their way down the street, dressed in blue overalls and shouting loudly in a language I didn’t understand.

I sat down again, and she came in with a large brown envelope in her hands and a bottle of wine tucked under her armpit.

‘I’ll just quickly get the glasses,’ she said, then scampered out the room after dumping the contents of her hands next to a fruit bowl in the centre of the glass table in the centre of her lounge.

‘Would you like to see them – the photos, that is?’ she asked as she came back in with a glass in either hand.

‘Yes,’ I said.

She poured us each a glass of red wine, then sat down next to me on the couch, not close though, perhaps half a metre. I couldn’t smell her.

She took them out of the envelope and handed them to me.

‘They are small, well smaller than they will be when I blow the nice ones up. We can decide together.’

I flipped through them. There was Byron, holding his leather skins down against his legs as the wind blew up his skirt, and there was Byron running his fingers through his hair. But of course what I looked for was not Byron’s skins or his hair or his hands. Of course what I looked for was his feet. They were there, of course. I could not say that the size difference wasn’t noticeable, it was. But it was pleasing to the eye. The right was larger, the left smaller, but it looked somehow as if the feet belonged to two separate stages of development, as if the right belonged to the present, and the left to the past: to Byron the child. It looked as if the size difference was a deliberate artistic decision, instead of a subject deformity. She hadn’t violated the sacred, prenuptial understanding: the foot was there, and fine, and normal.

So we spoke, and she told me about the project, and how her father owned an art gallery, and how she was going to have her own exhibition with a collection of photographs, some of me, and some of the subjects on the wall – she pointed with her hand – and some that she had yet to take.

‘Do you like them?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

She shifted her weight slightly on the couch, and for the first time, I could see, beneath the thin material of her white T-shirt, that she wasn’t wearing a bra. To be sure, her breasts were not large, but now from the angle at which she was sitting, and something that the light was doing, I was able to see her pink nipples against the pale top. I felt as if I were being rude to watch, to stare, when I had not been invited; but then I noticed that she was turning herself toward me, inflating her chest slightly, directing my attention to the exact spot that I wished my attention to be directed toward. She was wriggling her butt cheeks slowly on the couch as she spoke, and she laughed a little, and one of the strands of brown hair fell forward, and she tucked it back with her purple-gloved hands.

‘I need the bathroom,’ she said, and left the room. It was obvious where this rendezvous of ours was headed. I wondered at which point she’d decided that I was to be her lover. Or perhaps she hadn’t decided this yet. Perhaps she never would. Maybe I’d gotten the wrong end of the stick. I considered leaving to save myself any embarrassment. But when she returned she sat an inch closer to me, and as her body sank into the couch I could smell the soap and water rising off her skin. And my heart sped up as her knees clapped together and she rested her hands on the end of her legs.

‘What is it that you do, at your work, that is?’

‘I translate Charlie’s poetry. From Xhosa to English. The guests are all foreigners. Ninety per cent.’

‘So they want to know what’s being said?’

‘Charlie is a praise poet. And I tell them, yes. What’s being said about them.’

‘Are they English people?’

‘Some. Germans. Lots of Germans. Also some French. Even Japanese sometimes. All sorts.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ she said, the way someone says, that’s nice if you tell them you’re a nursery school teacher. And as she spoke she pointed her right leg slightly toward me, causing the gap between her legs to widen ever so slightly. I imagined what I would be able to see if she weren’t wearing anything over her legs, if I were lying on my back, on the floor, and she made the same movement. I imagined what I would be able to see, and then I said, ‘I will be getting a promotion though. Sometime.’

‘Oh really?’ she said, with a hint of enthusiasm.

‘Deputy Manager, perhaps,’ I said, and went on to list the perks I’d receive. I’d be able to change out of the skins and into a suit, maybe get my own office, a phone contract paid for by Bhakhuba, a company car was in the pipelines, medical aid, insurance, retirement funds, UIF, bursaries to study further.

She shifted her buttocks a little closer now as I spoke, and kept the angle of her legs open to the same degree; there was a long and deliberate tear from the top of her jeans down to the knees, and the first part of it had been covered by a patch, and she wasn’t wearing any shoes, and her toenails weren’t painted, and she smiled now, and her teeth were slightly stained from the red wine, and there were traces of spittle on the corner of her lips, and these too were stained red, or mauve, or perhaps purple like her gloves, and then she opened her leg a little more, and moved her bare foot across the wooden floor toward the rug, and held my hand in hers and raised it to her face.

‘I like hands,’ she said ‘Hands are interesting.’

All the while I had not moved. But now it was my turn, and I placed my hand on the sewn-on patch on her jeans. It was perfectly positioned, as if placed as a guidance tool for first-time hands: any lower could have been platonic, any higher, overly familiar. So I placed my hand on the patch, and moved my head toward hers, and closed my eyes as my tongue slipped into her mouth and I tasted the red wine on her breath. Then she stood up, and stumbled slightly, and offered me her hand, and led me toward her bedroom, and with her free hand gave me a ‘come here’ wag with her purple finger, then smiled and giggled, and when in the room pulled herself toward me, held her breasts against my chest for a second, and said ‘Whisper Xhosa in my ear.’

My mind ran over routines, trying to remember what I said when the guests came and Charlie rattled off the poetry. The smell of fresh sheets and incense was strong in her room, and I placed my hand on her hip and tried to think of something to say, but in the end all I got was some guttural groans and hopelessly inaccurate clicks. I kept on going as she guided me toward her small bed in the corner of the room, where she pushed some pillows aside and drew me toward her as we both fell down. I ran my hand up the inside of her top and took her small breasts in my hands, and ran the fingers along the flesh from top to bottom, touching the nipples, then retracting. But she was wasting no time trying to get my jeans undone, and I didn’t want to stop her, and kept mumbling half-baked Xhosa into her ear, then shifting my own hand down toward her jeans, and struggling with the buttons, and then a zip, and then a clip, and I found the underwear, and tried to pull the jeans down, but for some reason couldn’t get them past her buttocks, and now she’d managed to get her hand into my pants and taken hold of my penis, but kept grabbing my pubic hairs, it was too sore for me to relax and enjoy it. My hand kept going, I felt pubes, then went further down, and fingered her pubic bone, and managed to get my fingers, finally, to the entrance of her private hole, and played with the flesh as romantically as I could, while still trying to remember some Xhosa phrases. Her pants were stuck and she was unable to open her legs any further, unable to do what I’d imagined her doing, unable; and she kept tugging at me, hurting me, and in the end we both sort of gave up, and sat up, and I carried on telling her about the potential benefits of my fabricated promotion.