Blood Safari

18

Late that afternoon, Emma spent more than an hour in the bathroom. When she came out she said, ‘Shall we eat?’ You couldn’t see that she’d been crying. It was the first time I’d seen her in a dress. It was white, with tiny red flowers, and it left her shoulders bare. She had white sandals on her feet. She looked younger, but her eyes were old.

We walked through the dusk in silence. The sun slipped away behind dramatic towers of thundercloud in the west. Lightning flickered in the snow-white cumulus. The humidity was unbearable and the heat incredible. Even the birds and insects were still. Nature seemed to be holding its breath.

Susan from reception, the Afrikaner blonde who would speak only English, intercepted us on our way to dinner. ‘Oh, Miss le Roux, how are you? I heard about the mamba, we are all so sorry. Is your suite OK now?’

‘It’s fine, thank you very much.’ Muted, clearly still depressed.

‘Wonderful. Enjoy your dinner.’

As we sat down, Emma said, ‘I really should speak to her in Afrikaans.’

‘Yes,’ I said without thinking.

‘Are you a language fanatic, Lemmer, a taalbul? She asked without much real interest, as if she already knew that I would avoid the question. Or it might have been part of the new depression.

‘Sort of …’

She nodded absently, and reached for the wine list. She stared at it for a while and then looked up at me. ‘I’m so silly, sometimes,’ she said softly.

I saw that there were shadows under her eyes that the light makeup couldn’t disguise. She tried to smile, but struggled. ‘If I spoke Afrikaans to her, there would be this moment. She would say, “Oh, are you Afrikaans?” and pretend to be surprised, but we would all know that she had known all along and it would be this moment of … discomfort.’ She attempted to smile, but didn’t succeed. ‘And that’s typical Afrikaner. We always avoid discomfort.’

Before I could think of a response, she turned back to the wine list and said with determination, ‘Tonight we are going to drink wine. What would you like?’

‘I’m on duty, thank you.’

‘No, not tonight. White or red?’

‘I’m not really a wine drinker.’

‘A beer?’

‘A red Grapetiser would be nice.’

‘Do you drink at all?’

‘Not alcohol.’ I depended on her not to ask more. As with the Afrikaans question, there was enough probability of an uncomfortable answer. I was wrong, as I had been in most of my predictions of Emma.

‘Is it a matter of principle?’ she asked carefully.

‘Not really.’

Emma shook her head.

‘What?’ I said.

She waited before answering, as if she needed to gather energy. ‘You are an enigma, Lemmer. I always used to wonder what it meant when I read about someone who was an enigma, but now I know.’

Maybe it was because she had referred to me as ‘stupid and silent’, or perhaps it was because I wanted to cheer her up, that I said, ‘Explain to me what’s so great about alcohol, because I don’t get it.’

‘Don’t tell me that’s an invitation to a real, actual conversation?’

‘You said I’m “off duty” tonight.’

‘Aah.’ She put the wine list down. ‘Very well.’ She looked up at the candle sconce above us, drew a deep breath and spoke, slowly at first, trying to find the right words. ‘I like red wine. I like the names. Shiraz. Cabernet. Merlot. Pinotage. They roll beautifully off the tongue, they sound so secretive. And I love the complex aromas. There is a mystique to the flavours.’

Then more quickly, freeing herself: ‘It’s like sailing on a trade route past islands of fruit and spices. You can never see the islands, but from the aromas that waft over the water, you can guess what they look like. Exotic, bright colours, dense forests, beautiful people dancing by firelight. I love the colours and the way they look different in sunlight or candlelight. And I love the flavour, because it forces me to taste, to concentrate, to roll it around my tongue and look for the goodness. And I like all the things it stands for – the bonhomie, the company of friends. It’s a social symbol that says we’re comfortable enough with each other to enjoy a glass of wine together. It makes me feel civilised and grateful that I have the privilege to enjoy something that has been made with so much care and knowledge and art. So, tell me what’s not good about that.’

I shook my head, partly because I disagreed with her, partly because I couldn’t believe I was doing this. ‘Wine doesn’t taste nice. Period. It’s not as bad as whisky, but it’s worse than beer. It’s not nearly as nice as grape juice. But grape juice isn’t sophisticated, even though it looks different in sunlight and candlelight. Sweet wine is the exception. But nobody drinks that in cultivated company, not even a good late harvest. Why not? Because it simply does not enjoy the same status. And there’s the whole answer. Status. It’s an old thing. Our civilisation originated in Mesopotamia, but grapes didn’t thrive there. The Mesopotamians made beer out of grain and everyone drank it. But the rich don’t want to drink what everyone drinks. So they imported wine from the highlands of Iran. And because it cost more, because the common people could not afford it, it gained status, regardless of how it tasted. So they created the myth – wine is for the cultivated tongue, for the well-to-do taste. Eight thousand years later, we still believe it.’

I liked the way she looked at me while I spoke. When I’d finished, she laughed, a short happy sound, like someone who has unwrapped a present. She was about to say something, but the wine waiter arrived and she turned her attention to him and said, ‘I would like this bottle of Merlot and I want the best red grape juice that you have and bring us two extra glasses please.’

The waiter jotted his notes and when he had left she leaned back in her chair and said, ‘Where have you been hiding, Lemmer?’ She held her tiny hand up and said, ‘Never mind, I’m just glad you’re here. Are you a reader? How do you know these things?’

Four years in jail, Emma le Roux, is a lot of time on your hands.

‘I’ve read a bit.’

‘A bit? What do you read?’

‘Non-fiction.’

‘Such as?’

‘Anything.’

‘Come on. Tell me about something you’ve read recently.’

I thought for a while. ‘Did you know that the history of South Africa was determined by grass seed?’

She raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitched. ‘No.’

‘It’s true. Two thousand years ago there were only Khoi and San people here. They were nomads, not farmers. Then the Bantu people came down from East Africa with cattle and sorghum and they pushed out the Khoi and the San people to the western half of South Africa. Why there? Because the sorghum seed was a summer crop and the western parts are winter rainfall areas. That’s why the Xhosa never settled farther than the Fish River. They needed summer rain. Four hundred years ago the Europeans arrived at the Cape with winter cereals. The Khoi couldn’t stop them; the difference in technology was too great. Think about it: if the Xhosa and Zulu had winter grains, how different the history would have been, how difficult it would have been for the Dutch to establish a halfway station at the Cape.’

‘Astonishing.’

‘It is.’

‘Where did you read that?’

‘A book. Popular science.’

‘And the language thing?’

‘What about it?’

‘You said you were a taalbul?’

‘Yes. Sort of.’

‘And?’

‘Well, take Susan, for instance. She knew we were Afrikaans. She could tell from your name and surname. She could hear your accent. But she speaks English to us. Why?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Because she works with foreigners mostly and she doesn’t want them to know she’s an Afrikaans girl. There’s too much baggage. She wants the tourists to like her, to think she’s cute. She doesn’t want to be judged and labelled by her language and its history.’

‘She doesn’t like the positioning of Afrikaans as a brand.’

‘That’s it, exactly. What I don’t understand is why she … why we all don’t do something about that position. The solution is not to hide away. The solution is to change the perception of the brand.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Isn’t that what you do?’

‘It is, but a language is a little more complex than ketchup.’

‘The difference is that everyone who cares about the ketchup will work together to change the perception. The boere simply won’t do that.’

Emma laughed. ‘That’s true.’

The waiter brought the bottle of Merlot, a bottle of grape juice and two extra glasses. He started to pour, but Emma said thank you, she would do it herself. She slid an extra wineglass over to me. ‘Just try one mouthful,’ she said. ‘A tiny bit, then tell me truthfully that it doesn’t taste good.’

She poured for me. I took the glass.

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘First breathe it in.’ She poured herself half a glass, turned it in her hand and held it under her nose. I did the same. There were pleasant aromas, but there was also something else.

‘What do you smell?’ she asked.

How could I tell her? That my past was locked away in the smell of wine, memories of where I came from, who I am.

I shrugged.

‘Come on, Lemmer, be objective. Can you smell the cloves? The berries? It’s subtle, I know, but it’s there.’

‘It’s there,’ I lied.

‘Good. Now taste it.’ Then she took a sip, rolled the wine around in her mouth, looked at me in expectation. I swigged some wine. It had a dark flavour, like the smoke of a smouldering fire. She swallowed. ‘Now tell me it tastes bad.’

I swallowed. ‘It tastes bad.’

She laughed again. ‘Truly, Lemmer? Truly?’

‘Taste the grape juice. Objectively and honestly.’ I poured into the spare glasses. ‘You don’t even have to smell it. Just taste.’

‘OK,’ she said with an amused smile, and we drank.

‘Crisp,’ I said. ‘Taste the subtle fruit flavour, unmistakably grape. Young, refreshing, pure joie de vivre.’

She laughed. I liked that.

‘Feel the way the bubbles dance on your tongue, tiny explosions of ecstatic, undisguised honesty, stripped of all pretension. This noble liquid need not pretend, need not ride on the back of eight thousand years of brand positioning. It is here, unadulterated juice, immediately delicious, pure drinking pleasure.’

She laughed loudly, nearly choking, her eyes shut and her pretty mouth open. The other diners’ heads turned towards the happy notes, and they couldn’t resist smiling. Lightning flashed outside the windows, thunder crashed close by, rumbling and rolling from north to south like a runaway locomotive.

Just before we ordered dessert, I inexplicably said on the spur of the moment, ‘My friend who phoned, at the airport …’

‘Antjie,’ Emma replied with a mischievous twinkle. Her memory surprised me.

‘She’s nearly seventy years old.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Emma. I wished I knew what she meant by that.

* * *

She was tipsy when we left the restaurant. She held on to my arm. It was raining outside, a thick curtain of fat storm drops. I hovered on the threshold. She pulled off her sandals and took my arm again. ‘Let’s go.’ We went outside and were immediately drenched. The rain was warm and the air not cool yet. Her hand held me back so we didn’t walk fast. I watched her. She had turned her face up to the rain, eyes shut, and the running water turned her mascara into black tears. She let me lead her like a blind person. The white dress clung. I saw the curves of her body. Water streamed over my face, over my eyes. The rain rattled on the path, in the trees, and on the thatched roofs. It was the only sound in the night.

At the Bateleur suite she dropped my arm, threw her sandals in an arc on to the veranda and stayed out in the rain. I went under the roof, unlocked the door, sat down on one of the chairs and pulled off my socks and shoes. She stood out there with her face upturned and arms stretched to the sky. Accepting the invitation, the rain increased in intensity, and the streams of water shone in the light of the veranda.

Then lightning flashed brilliantly and thunder crashed deaf-eningly close. She shouted something and with a bright laugh dashed up the steps past me and through the door.

I pulled off my shirt, draped it over the arm of a chair. Turned my shoes over so the water could drain and hung up my socks beside the shirt.

I walked in through the sliding door, pulled it shut behind me and locked it. The sitting room was dark, lit only by a beam of light from her room. I thought of a shower, took one step forward, and saw the reflection in the glass of the picture on the wall.

Emma.

She had undressed. She stood beside the double bed, leaning forward with the white towel in her hair.

I stopped. I didn’t breathe. I conspired in the treachery of reflective glass, perfect angles and the half-open door to her room. I looked at the golden body. Her flat stomach, feminine hips, slim legs, and dark, thick bush of pubic hair. Her breasts bobbed with every brisk movement of the towel, nipples tight and pointed. An eternity, yet too short – too soon she finished and turned half away to throw the towel over something. I saw the curve of her creamy buttocks and then she walked as unconsciously and gracefully as a lioness or a steenbok out of the picture and into her bathroom.

I was lying in my bed in the dark when she came in. The rain had stopped, the quiet was deafening. I lay there with my eyes shut, and forced my breathing to be slow and deep.

I heard her soft footsteps stop right beside me. I could feel her closeness, the heat radiating from her body, and I wondered what she was wearing.

All I needed to do was pull the sheet up so she could lie down beside me.

She was standing right next to me. Right there. I couldn’t, I shouldn’t, but I must. When my hand reached out, she’d already turned away and moments later the other bed creaked, linen rustled and she sighed. I will never know what it meant.