It was much darker in the next room and my eyes took a few seconds to adjust. It was as large as the hallway but red drapes drawn over the windows left the room in a deep, pink gloom. I felt carpet underfoot. There was a low round table in the centre of the room on which stood two silver candlesticks with tall white candles burning in each. I also saw a thin line of smoke rising from an incense stick in a dark wooden holder.
One wall held shelves packed with expensively bound books, their gilt titles glittering in the candlelight, while the adjacent walls were lined with polished wooden chests and old fashioned writing desks on which dozens of jewellery boxes of all shapes and sizes were scattered. There were two unoccupied chairs at the table and I looked around for any sign of life.
“Hart is a wonderful name!” sang a low, theatrical voice from behind me. I jumped and whirled around. A tall wooden lattice screen stood in the corner of the room. I guessed that was where the voice had come from.
“Yes, it’s one I’m quite fond of,” I began uncertainly, trying in vain to discern a shape behind the screen.
A tall woman dressed in a long red velvet dress emerged slowly from behind the screen. She had long black hair falling over her shoulders and wore a large hat in the same coloured velvet, adorned with a fabric protea flower in red and gold – a ‘fascinator’ I think the ladies call it. A veil hung from the hat, obscuring her face. All I could discern through the material were two dark eyes and heavy red lips.
“Then I am fond of it too!” she declared. Her accent was mangled somewhere between French and Afrikaans and had a rather sexy, throaty quality. She glided over to me and I saw the high-necked dress bulged where it restrained a generous bosom. A fern-like design of silver sequins ran across the upper part of the dress, no doubt to draw attention to her ample breasts. I was momentarily distracted and didn’t spot the rising hand until it was poised right before my face.
“Madame Joubert!” she announced.
I gave a chaste kiss to the fingers and caught a scent of lavender skin cream but she whisked her hand away before I could grasp it. She wafted past, leaving a trail of floral perfume and I eyed up her shapely backside through the thick velvet. I wondered how old she was. From the voice at least forty, possibly fifty or even older. But I’ve never been one to tolerate ageism and, with the low light and that magnificent pair of devil’s pillows, she looked quite a treat.
“Enchanté,” I replied in my best French accent which, I do declare, is rather fine.
“Ah, so you speak French, how wonderful! It is so long since I visited Pair-ee. I had my heart broken there, you see.”
“Oh I’m so sorry Madame, that’s terrible. Some men are such beasts.”
“They are!” she agreed vehemently. “A despicable species!”
I wondered for a moment whether it had been good old Mr du Plessis who had done the dirty on Madame J.
“Not all, though – I see you are not.” She dipped her head and looked at me coquettishly through the veil.
Steady on, first things first, I thought. How do we broach the subject of the Medisyne Trommel? There’s no point in leaping on the old girl before she’s unlocked the bathroom cabinet.
“I understand you are a talented pharmacist?”
“Oh, you are too generous,” tittered Madame. “I learnt a few tricks from my old Ouma.”
I bet you did, I thought.
“Would you like me to show you?” She sashayed to the door and turned the key in the lock.
If you’re talking about your skill at manufacturing the world’s greatest hangover cure, fatigue dispeller and all round pick-me-up, I thought, the answer’s yes. If it’s a finger up the arse, probably not. Not yet, anyway.
“Tell me, Felix darling, have you ever trodden the boards? You strike me as a thespian.”
“I once played the Major-General in the school production of Pirates of Penzance. Does that count?”
“It certainly does Felix. And you are the very model of a modern Major-General! Pray, sing me a line!” She held her hand to her ear.
Bugger. Why didn’t I just say I’d been sheep number three in the school nativity play? “Madame Joubert,” I pleaded, “I have travelled many thousands of miles to meet you. Ever since my dear old teacher, Mr du Plessis, gave me a sample of your magnificent medicine on his deathbed, I have made it my life’s mission to seek you out.”
Madame’s head picked up when I mentioned my old teacher’s name. “You knew Meneer du Plessis! He was a good friend of my Oupa! I heard he had travelled to England after the problems at his hotel, what with the police and everything. I don’t know why they had to close him down – it was very popular, and all those poor girls out of work…”
Well, the old devil. No wonder Mr du Plessis had been so accomplished at running the school’s Young Entrepreneurs Club. He was clearly a businessman of rare talents.
“You come with impeccable credentials. I shall therefore prepare for you some of my family’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel, for a small consideration. Sit please, darling Felix. Sit.”
I sank into one of the antique chairs and Madame Joubert sprang into action. She strode to one of the writing desks and picked up several large jewellery boxes, placing them in a row on the table. Then she returned to the side of the room and lifted the tops of two deep wooden chests, hinged at the back, in which sat several cloth sacks with drawstring tops. I could hear her high heels striking the floor beneath the long dress as she strode back and forth. Opening a deep sliding drawer in another unit, Madame selected a huge stainless steel mixing bowl, a plastic measuring scoop and a handful of cook’s spoons, depositing them with a clatter on the table.
“This recipe was created by my great-great-grandmother. It has been handed down, mother to daughter, ever since. Each generation has added their own little twist, just to keep the formulation up to date.”
“You have done a magnificent job, Madame. Your Lekker Medisyne Trommel has been my faithful companion for a number of years.”
“It is kind of you to say so. How many kilos would you like?”
“Five should do nicely, thank you.”
She peeled five transparent zip-lock bags from a pile in a drawer and deposited them on the table. I wondered how much it would cost. I didn’t want to spoil the moment with haggling, and risk her changing her mind.
“So, we begin!” Madame clapped her hands together and picked up the bowl and scoop. She danced over to the open wooden chests and loosened the drawstrings holding the sacks closed.
“Now then! Onse poeiers…” Holding the bowl under her arm, she drove her scoop into one of the bags. It emerged heaped with a white powder.
“We start our recipe with koeksoda and versiersuiker…” She deposited the scoop into the bowl and returned for several more. Then she moved to the next sack, taking a half-scoop.
“…boegoe… for the areas down below…” Another sack, another measure.
“…miangolie… for the areas up the top…” She danced between the chests, taking various amounts, sometimes a heaped trowel, other times just a partial one. In the half-light it was difficult to distinguish between the powders. Most were white – others had a slightly darker shade.
“…rooilavental… improves the mind… rabarberpoeier… this will help your flow…” she tittered. I wondered what flow she had in mind. Drawers were opened containing smaller drawstring bags. The scoop dived in, deposited its load into the bowl, only to be plunged into yet another bag.
“…krokuspoeier… to calm your fever… bok ingewande… for strength…” She danced back and forth, singing the names as she scooped.
“…sekelbos, kameeldoring, rosyntjiebos, tsama…” There must have been thirty different ingredients in the mix before she returned to the table and clunked the now-heavy bowl down.
“And now, the very special ingredients.” She took a metal measuring spoon and opened the jewellery boxes. Each was partitioned and every little section contained a small plastic bag.
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“Some dans van die soldate…” she dipped the spoon into a bag and carefully extracted a measure, the powder level with rim of the spoon, and tipped it into the mixing bowl.
“Die ritme van die slang…” She took a level spoon from another bag, deposited it in the bowl and looked at me. With a wink she extracted another half-measure. “For a big boy like you, a little more!”
“A little fluister van die bosse…” She dipped in and out of the little bags, carefully sealing each one after use. I wondered what in God’s name was going in – it could have been essence of ostrich foreskin for all I knew.
“And lastly, a little gees van die wonderdoener.” She selected an even smaller spoon and added a heaped measure to the bowl. Then she took the wooden paddle and stirred the powders together for a couple of minutes, singing the names of African herbs under her breath all the while. She grasped the big scoop once more and filled five bags with the powder, sealing the tops with a small iron that had been warming over a tea light.
Finally, she assembled five flat-packed cardboard boxes and placed a bag in each. I recognised the sketch of the orange mountains and the desert. It was the Swartberg, the very range we had driven through to get here. And there was the village of Prince Albert. I’d come to the right place.
Madame Joubert had judged her measurements well – there was only a small amount of powder left in the bottom of the great metal bowl. “And now you must taste.” She walked to a bookshelf and took down a bottle of brandy and two ornate tumblers of orange stained glass. She returned to the table and poured a huge measure into each glass, nearly to the top.
“You’re not a big fan of soda water then, Madame?”
She took the small measuring spoon and scooped a portion into each glass. The powder foamed vigorously and a rich brandy aroma filled the air. Madame stirred each with a wooden spatula and lifted her glass. “Down in one, to get the full benefit. Gesondheid!”
Now, I’m all for a round of shots when the occasion calls, but the old girl had poured out half a bottle of brandy. “I may have to drive later, I’m not sure…”
“Are you a homosexual, Mr Hart?” she asked sharply, staring down at me through the veil.
“I am not, Madame, but I am here on business. I fear my professional standards might slip if I were to drink so much.”
“And is it such a problem if your standards slip, good sir?”
Steady on, old girl, I thought. Still, at least she’d mixed the medicine. If the worst came to the worst I could grab the bags and do a runner. I just had to avoid getting drugged, robbed or poisoned. I glanced over at the five boxes.
She followed my gaze, then quick as a flash banged down her glass, strode over to the boxes, scooped them off the cabinet and placed them in a cupboard below. She turned a key in the cupboard door, pulled the top of her dress away from her neck and dropped the key into her enormous bosom. “If you won’t drink with me, there is no merchandise!”
Oh Christ. What was it van Blerk had said about not getting drunk with Madame? Still, it was only a tumbler of brandy, though I wondered how many I might have to drink before that key came out. “Very well, Madame. Gesondheid!” I raised my glass.
“Good! Gesondheid!” Madame Joubert delicately clinked her glass against mine, lifted it under her veil and turned away demurely. Then she necked the entire glass. I did the same. It was a good brandy and the dissolved medicine gave it a slightly fruitier kick.
Madame banged the tumbler onto the table and lifted the bottle. “Again!”
“Now, Madame…”
“And I want to hear the Major-General’s song!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Major-General’s song. I want to hear it!” She poured two more tumblers of brandy, emptying the bottle. I eyed the large glass of spirit warily.
“Don’t worry, I have another bottle. Now, I knew you were a thespian the moment I saw you. I want to hear your stage voice.”
“I’m not sure I can remember the words really, Madame. I’m terribly sorry…”
“Nonsense! Nobody forgets Gilbert and Sullivan! If you want your medicine, you will have to sing!”
Fortunately, or not, I could remember the words. I’d cut quite a dash in the school play, having grown a handsome moustache especially for the part. It was a joint production with St Hilda’s next door, and by the first night all of General Stanley’s daughters and the entire complement of female pirates had felt a tickle of the Major-General’s whiskers, I can tell you. “Well, I can try, Madame.” I could feel the brandy pooling in my stomach but I also felt strangely alert. I’ll give the old girl her due, the medicine was amazing.
“Good. Now then, follow my lead.” Madame Joubert took another swig of brandy and a deep breath, inflating her already substantial chest. She raised her hand and, in a rather good soprano, burst into song, addressing an audience somewhere to my left.
“Yes, yes, he is a Major-General!” She paused and looked back at me. “Come on! You have to sing ‘Yes, yes, I am a Major-General!’”
I took a breath, and in my best baritone sang, “Yes, yes, I am a Major-General…” The words came out far richer than I expected. Madame’s medicine clearly had a performance-enhancing effect on the vocal chords.
“Excellent Felix. Now, down your brandywine!” She slipped the glass under her veil once more and drained it. I did the same. It would have been rude not to. “Ready?” She burst into song once more. “He is! Hurrah for the Major-General!”
And I replied, in my new-found opera voice. “And it is, it is a glorious thing, to be a Major-General!”
“It is! Hurrah for the Major-General!” sang back Madame Joubert.
And so I recited the entire lyrics of the Major-General’s Song from the Pirates of Penzance, a piece well known to you, no doubt, with Madame Joubert enthusiastically intervening with the ensemble parts.
As I raced through ‘I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies, I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!’ the good Madame hurried over to the bookshelf and procured another bottle of brandy from which she refilled my glass.
When I finished the final line, “I am the very model of a modern Major-General,” Madame Joubert shouted “Bravo!” and lifted the beaker of brandy beneath her veil. And blow me if she didn’t neck the entire lot again. “And you! Down in one!” she ordered in her soprano voice.
I obeyed and down the hatch it flowed. I was feeling in very good shape indeed, my limbs were tingling. I also had a warm, energising glow from my head to my feet, although I had a strange feeling that I was not in control of my body but it was in control of me. “Well Madame, you’ve had your song. I think I may have to take my medicine and depart. Mr van Blerk is waiting.”
“You will do no such thing,” she declared. “We have only just begun!” She strode over and sloshed more brandy into my glass.
I was starting to feel quite warm – I could feel my shirt sticking to my back. “I should probably tell my companions…”
“Your friends have gone. You will have to stay the night.”
The sun had set behind the curtains and the room was now in a very deep gloom, the only light coming from the stuttering candles on the table. Madame Joubert’s silhouette looked more alluring than ever, her flowing curves exaggerated by the half-light. “I think you are feeling very hot, no?”
“Well, it is rather cosy. Have you turned the heating up?”
“In a way, yes, I have.”
I undid another button on my shirt. It really was extremely warm.
“All new customers who arrive at my workshop and wish to purchase my Lekker Medisyne Trommel are required to pass three tests.”
“I assume one of them is drinking industrial quantities of brandy?”
“No it is not. The first is a musical test. You have passed that, Felix, with flying colours!”
“Jolly good.”
“The second is a physical test.”
r /> That sounded good. I felt like Hercules after those brandies.
“Would you like me to lift an item of furniture and hurl it across the room?”
“No. I would like you to lift off your clothes and throw them at my feet.”
Well, there’s nothing like saying what you mean. And I was feeling uncomfortably hot and sweaty. To be honest, I was feeling pretty randy too – I couldn’t take my eyes off Madame’s fabulous bomb shells. I had a man’s intuition as to what the third test might be, and I was feeling pretty damn confident about that one too. I looked around the room to see if there was a convenient rug for a bit of horizontal traction.
“Only if you do the same, Madame.”
“You first, Felix. I want to see if you are the right calibre of man for me.”
She took a step closer. I could smell perfume and her hour-glass figure was mesmerising. I lifted off my shirt and kicked off my shoes and trousers. I was suddenly conscious of having a gigantic hard-on. Must have been the brandy. I whipped my smalls off and sprang to attention, feeling more Greek god than man, muscles rippling and nostrils flaring.
“You are a magnificent young man, Felix. How could any woman resist?”
“To be honest, Madame, they generally can’t.”
“You are a liberated man, are you not, Felix?”
“I certainly am.”
She turned round, presenting the back of her dress. “Then unzip me, Felix.”
I felt for the tiny zip at the top of her dress, grasping it between finger and thumb and drawing it all the way down, slowly, to the top of her fine behind. The velvet dress peeled apart, revealing her back and shapely shoulders. There was no bra strap. She turned back, holding the front of her dress up against her neck with one hand.
With the other she handed me an object. I thought it was her brandy glass for a second but I looked down and saw in the dim light that it was a gentleman’s razor. That didn’t seem right.
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