She made him scrambled eggs and she ordered him to sleep in the large circular bed. He awoke in the late afternoon with the soft grey light in the room and found her above him, straddling him, naked. Her hand on his chest pinned him on the bed.
‘Stay. Don’t go on.’
Stay where? What did she mean? Sleepily he asked for an explanation but she drew him up into her and then fell to work from above, deftly rolling him from side to side and so their love-making began. Or not love-making really, but a struggle of sorts, without words, hot and desperate. She darting her head down to kiss him, his temple, foot, hand, sharp stinging kisses and he responding, no not responding but retaliating, giving little nips to lobes and elbows so that she squealed when she came, her hands gripping his buttocks and ramming herself home again and again, long after it was over. And still she would not release him and it was to be done again, their pubic bones jarred like shunting engines. He was bruised now. How hard she was down there, how rough! But she forced him over and over until he came at last, briefly, again, hopelessly, quite exhausted now, lying with his face in her neck and beginning to feel the pain in his back. She must have scratched him, the sweat ran into the score marks her nails had made and stung, but still she did not let up and since he was now past any sort of movement, slid from him, came out sideways, sliding, lubricated with sweat and turned him over now, mounted, reared up, placing precisely the lip of her vagina against his coccyx, rubbed herself there, scouring, grinding herself until she came to her climax, her breath hoarse in his ear.
He did not hear her leave. Perhaps he slept, briefly, or even passed out, but when he at last left the bed to look for her she’d gone.
He sat in the bathroom, his penis still achingly firm, throbbing to his heartbeat. The cool porcelain of the bath edge cooled him and he tried to relax, to clear his mind, to will the thing to fall and droop, an old seminary trick this. It had been an attack, a series of attacks. But why should she attack him? She had always had rough and ready ways, he remembered this from as far back as their first love-making. But this was an attack. Mounted attack, yes. There had been something angry, desperate, despairing in their encounter. And there was the speed with which it had happened. Almost a rush.
He tried to clear his mind. In the seminary there were tricks taught by the Monitor for Moral Instruction, Father Pauw. He had yellow teeth and green eyes and what he called a prodigious working knowledge of the fleshly ills. His lecture ‘The young priest and the early morning erection — some observations’, was a classic of its kind. ‘You will find it,’ he said, ‘a common complaint amongst young men, particularly in the early days of their ministry, that the member has a mind of its own. You rise in the morning to find it’s risen before you, a curse, a weapon which it cannot use against others and so often seeks to stab its owner. To treat this, first evacuate the bladder, then pray. If unsuccessful, reach for the paddle, the purity paddle.’ This instrument was a piece of polished wood, rather like a miniature ping-pong bat. It was to be used often. It was indispensable. Seven sharp slaps put the flesh in its place, disarmed the enemy within.
He sat on the bath and took his red and angry throbbing weapon in his hand; his heart thumped in unison. Damn Magdalena! What the hell was she playing at?
He ran the bath and lay in the warm water. Threads of blood drifted by, fine ribbons and spirals floated in the water. The blood was real enough. How had she known he was coming? Why had she fallen on him so savagely? Where was she now?
When darkness fell and she had still not returned he dressed and went downstairs and across the road to the fishmongers where the two men in raincoats stared up at the building, waiting for him.
CHAPTER 12
Now I saw in my dream the truth of the supposition widespread in émigré circles amongst the refugees who have fled from the Regime, though this continues to be officially denied, that there are paid agents abroad who shadow, observe, report on, harass, hinder and even silence those individuals they fear.
Across the road from Magdalena’s flat, outside the now empty, Arctic spaces of the fishmonger’s window, the two men, one tall, one tiny, stood in the shadows. As he crossed the road towards them Blanchaille knew as soon as he set eyes on their raincoats, on their stiff and unyielding moustaches and heard their flat accents, that here were countrymen.
They stepped close to him and pressing him on either side said: ‘Theodore Blanchaille, if you know what’s good for you, go back.’
‘Who are you?’ Blanchaille asked.
‘We are unwilling agents of the Regime,’ came the prompt reply. ‘Poor men who a long time ago booked on what was then known as a Pink Pussycat Tour of the Fun Capitals of Europe, and we looked forward to enjoying ourselves in Montparnasse and on the fabulous Reeperbahn. We were promised the time of our lives in the strip joints of Soho and the canalside brothels of Amsterdam. Here, look —’ and he took from his pocket an old, creased, much thumbed and garish brochure showing a naked girl straddling a large pink cat which had orange whiskers and wore a monocle: ‘Hiya fellas! Get out on the tiles! Just wear your smile…!’ The naked girl pictured wore a tight, strained smile. Blanchaille looked at the ridiculous cat, blushed at the noisy old-fashioned dated enthusiasm of the invitation. It was all tremendously sad.
The large one folded the tissue-thin brochure with reverence and returned it gently to his pocket.
‘We were ordinary blokes,’ said the little one. ‘Out for a good time. I was a butcher.’
‘And I was a school inspector,’ said the large one. ‘And we saved long and hard, I can tell you. I mean, hell, it’s no small thing, getting at our stage of life the promise of a really good time. We were in a button-popping hurry to inseminate the entire continent of Europe. Well, would you do otherwise? We planned for months, we scrimped, we bought Hawaiian shirts with orange suns and canary yellow sweaters to wear, just like Minister Kuiker who set the tone around that time, being the only person of note to venture outside the country publicly.’
‘We dreamt of Dutch vrouws and silk beds. We saved every cent and when the big day came we kissed our wives goodbye and stepped onto the Boeing with hope in our hearts.’
‘And stiffening pricks.’
The little one looked up at Blanchaille, unabashed, shrugged his shoulders and gave a bitter smile. ‘Off to sleep with coloured girls.’
‘Off to smoke dagga.’
‘To go fishing on Sundays.’
‘Get drunk on religious holidays.’
‘Watch dirty movies and gamble into the small hours.’
The big one sighed wearily. ‘But what we got was duty. We’re stuck here, in the shadows.’
‘This is hell,’ said the little one. ‘I thought a Free State Sunday was hell, but this is hell.’
‘Who are you?’ Blanchaille demanded.
‘We’re called Apple Two,’ the big one explained, looking embarrassed, ‘so-called because it stands for both of us.’ He raised two fingers.
‘But who is Apple One?’
The watchers shrugged. ‘Don’t ask us.’
‘What sort of a name is that?’
‘It’s a code name. We can’t give you our real names. Our orders were to stand out here and watch the flat until further notice.’ The little one looked apologetic.
‘Who gave the order?’
‘Apple One. We were to watch the flat until you left,’ said the big man.
‘And then we were to tell you to go to the Embassy. Don’t be hard on us, we don’t like this job. We didn’t ask for it,’ said the little one, clutching Blanchaille’s sleeve. ‘We stepped off the plane in London and the Embassy car was waiting. We thought, Christ but this is odd! Why should our Government come and meet us? Anyway we took it as a gesture. We told ourselves they were just being hospitable. Little did we know. We were driven into town, chatting happily like any group of tourists in London the first time, lightheaded with that sense of freedom that comes to all South Africans who discover that the outside world really does exist, and we pulled up in Trafalgar Square at the sign of the golden springbuck and I remember turning before we were hustled through the swing doors, I remember seeing the fountains, the pigeons, the tourists mooning about, Nelson up on his column… my last glimpse of freedom.’