Madame Joubert released her dress and it fell to the floor. In the same movement she stepped close and pushed her chest against me and I felt a strange furry sensation.
“Shave me Felix,” she said in a husky voice. “Shave me like a woman.”
I glanced down to see that Madame Joubert’s superb breasts were coated by a thick mat of hair. Furthermore, at the point where her legs met, there was what looked suspiciously like a todger, bobbing around like an orphaned sausage and fixing me angrily with its single eye.
Well, I do count myself a liberated chap but this was pushing things a little far. “Madame, things have taken a somewhat unexpected turn,” I began, edging away.
“I said shave me, you strumpet!” Madame’s order, barked from behind the veil, was a little closer to my baritone than her original soprano. It crossed my mind that she could have done both parts of the Major-General’s Song perfectly well without me.
I took a couple more steps backwards and felt the table nudge into my bare behind. Madame, if that was still the correct form of address, was now standing on my clothes, and I was in something of a fix.
“This is your third test, Felix. Are you up to it or not?”
“Not really. I think the deal’s off.”
I was leaning back against the table as Madame advanced, her furry pom-poms and sausage bobbing menacingly. My hand bumped into the candlestick holder and I grasped it. I couldn’t very well bludgeon poor Madame Joubert with the candlestick, could I? I’d be arrested for grievous bodily harm or possibly murder. If I hit the good Madame softly, would it count as that most despicable of crimes, hitting a woman? And what the hell was behind that veil anyway, a grizzly bear? I brought the candlestick between us, the flame wavering in the breeze. Then, in a flash, I had a plan!
“How about a Turkish flame shave, Madame?” I suggested. I held the tip of the candle against her magnificent hirsute chest and the forest went up like a wildfire. Madame Joubert screamed and patted her blazing baps frantically, while I dived to the floor and fast-crawled around her on hands and knees. I made it to the edge of the room and felt for the cabinet. Luckily, there was just enough light cast by Madame’s flaming breasts as she rushed around the room slapping herself like an enraged gorilla for me to find the cupboard doors I wanted.
There was a squeal and a hissing noise as Madame poured the brandy over her incandescent butter cups. I glanced round just as the brandy ignited, to see her entire torso erupt in a soft blue flame. She whooped in panic as the fire spread to her pubes, beating around her bush like a rabid gamekeeper. I winced in sympathy but I had no time to spare. God knows where the key had ended up, but I still had the razor. I unfolded it and slid the blade into the crack between the doors and pushed up, hard. As I’d hoped, it was a simple catch and it yielded with a snap, the door swinging open to reveal my boxes of medicine. I gathered them under my arm and looked back to locate my trousers.
Madame Joubert was back in the middle of the room looking down at me, standing on top of my clothes once more, her stupendous breasts no longer aflame but still smouldering. She held the remaining candle high in the air, her veil and hat still in place. There was enough shadow to conceal whatever was going on down below, thank God, but there was a strong smell of burnt hair, brandy and roast sausage.
I winced again. “I suppose another sing-song is out of the question?”
Madame remained silent. She looked rather dangerous holding that candlestick and I considered making a starkers run for the door, then I remembered it was locked.
“Did I pass the third test then?” I asked, weakly.
“As a matter of fact, you did,” she said after a further pause, her soprano voice back. “A Turkish flame shave you say? Most invigorating.” Perhaps it was the combination of three beakers of brandy and a good dose of the Lekker Medisyne Trommel, but Madame appeared to have recovered from her ordeal rather well.
“Well, if you’re ever in London, there’s an excellent barber on Green Lanes who can do a more professional job.”
“You are a most cosmopolitan man, Mr Felix Hart. Take these and I shall send my bill to Mr van Blerk – you can settle up with him.”
She kicked my clothes towards me and, in her high heels, strode to the door. She took the key from a shelf and unlocked it, then walked back to the screen behind which she had been hidden when I arrived. “Goodbye Mr Hart. Good luck with your travels.”
“And good luck with yours, Madame. I hope you reach your chosen destination.”
I gathered my clothes and made my escape, following the lights back to the village.
***
Well, my trip so far had been a rather patchy success, at best. I had little to show for my efforts in South Africa beyond maulings from vicious animals and one of South Africa’s more muscular womenfolk. True, I had enough Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel to last me a couple of years, at least.
The problem was that I was guaranteed a very thorough beating at the hands of the Head of Margin if I returned to Head Office without an exciting and profitable new wine or two. And a single barrel of van Blerk’s Shiraz, delicious though it was, would barely fill three hundred bottles – hardly a market-changing piece of procurement. I needed a bit of luck.
As fortune would have it, my luck was about to change very much for the better.
3.5
Meet The Press
I don’t know how long van Blerk had been banging on the door before he kicked it open. “By God, that’s enough sleep for any man! We’re late for the braai!”
I was stretched out on the hotel bed, fully clothed, still clutching the five packets of Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel. The sun was streaming through the window and it was already warm.
“So, you got your medicine. Madame Joubert is quite a woman, is she not?”
“She is indeed an exceptional… lady.”
Van Blerk grunted. “You were lucky that she agreed to produce some medicine for you at all. I did not think she would. In fact, you are the first new customer that I know of who has successfully negotiated a sale. She must have liked you. She is a very shy woman, with very particular tastes, as you probably found.”
“Yes, she was quite the shrinking violet.”
“Anyway, kom. We must go and see Mr Hudson and his family. He always puts on a good feast.”
He threw my kit bag at me, told me to bring my swimming trunks, and left the room. I showered and changed then, carefully wiping the boxes clean of fingerprints, wrapped up my medicine in a clean T-shirt. With the help of the nice lady at reception, the bundle was taped securely into an empty wine box and, pleading poor handwriting, I persuaded her to address it to ‘Wine Department, South Africa section’ at Gatesave’s head office, taking care to omit my name. Leaving a fistful of Rand for the postage, I joined the two men in the pickup.
Mr Hudson, explained Wikus, was a big cheese in the luxury eco-safari business. He owned a chain of lodges throughout Southern Africa, all of which charged thousands of US dollars per night. One could only access his lodges by private plane, putting a visit out of the reach of all but the best-heeled. His wealth was matched only by his devotion to the environment.
All his lodges were built from recycled wood, held together by metal salvaged from derelict oil tankers and powered by solar panels. The bed linen was woven from organic hemp and dyed with the extracts of indigenous plants. All food served in his restaurants was organic, the beer was brewed using leftover crusts from artisanal bakers, and all the wine was from biodynamic vineyards – including van Blerk’s.
Hudson was a titan of sustainability, a man passionately in love with the soil and the air, which is why van Blerk sold three quarters of his wine to him, leaving sweet sod all, bar the odd token barrel, for the likes of yours truly.
We pulled up at Hudson’s family home, an ultra-modern building constructed from wood harvested from invasive tree species – a riot of slender pine beams topped by pale thatch. We approa
ched the house under an archway of solar panels intertwined with native honeybush. Van Blerk kept up a running commentary on the harmony of the building with nature, explaining that Hudson always marinated his organic lamb in honey harvested from his own hives. I was on the verge of breaking out in hives myself, such was the relentless barrage of eco-worthiness.
We were shown into the house, where Njongo pointed out that the furniture was fashioned from earthen mounds over which organic wool rugs had been thrown. The housekeeper offered us drinks, and I opted for a glass of van Blerk’s biodynamic Chardonnay.
Hudson turned out to be a tall, earnest man in immaculately ironed linen, presumably organic fibres pressed by the feet of rescued circus elephants. “Welcome to this patch of earth, which mother Africa has seen fit to allow me to dwell upon, for this moment at least,” he orated.
“And a very smart patch of earth it is too, Mr Hudson,” I replied, shaking his limp organic hand.
“Everything you see has been formed by nature. I am merely the transient curator.”
Well, you can curate me another glass of this rather fine Chardonnay then, I thought, waving my empty glass at the housekeeper.
“Felix, I have some business to discuss with Wikus and Njongo. Please join my family and friends in the garden and help yourself to wine. You are also welcome to take a swim. The pool has been filled with water distilled from household sewage using solar stills.”
“Wonderful. I can’t wait.”
I left the three men in the house and stepped into the large garden, which was covered in white sand and dotted with small bushes. A large round swimming pool dominated the area and I was pleased to see the water looked crystal clear. A couple of dozen people were chatting to one another as they partook of Hudson’s generous supply of wine. I was offered another glass and was soon hob-nobbing and flirting with the upper classes of Prince Albert.
A well-tanned and rather wrinkled woman in a one-piece bathing suit floated around the pool on a large airbed, a glass in her hand. She winked and called to me, “You must be Wikus’s friend. Why don’t you change into your swimming trunks and join me?”
“Leave him alone, Diana, he’s young enough to be your grandson,” called another woman, to peals of laughter.
“Thank you madam, I think I shall.”
There were several rather attractive women in the group so I saw no harm in showing off a bit of the old Felix Hart physique. You can’t catch fish without baiting the hook, as they say. Besides, it was stinking hot and I fancied doing a few lengths. I took cover behind a suitably sized bush and removed my shirt. I had just wriggled out of my trousers when Hudson, van Blerk and Njongo emerged from the house.
“I hope you’re all having a wonderful time in my re-purposed piece of desert,” sermonised Hudson to the crowd, who repaid him with a ripple of sycophantic laughter. “After a few glasses of Wikus’s exquisite wines I’m sure you’ve all worked up quite an appetite!” The approving buzz from the crowd suggested they had.
“Which gives me the opportunity to use my new toy!” Hudson walked around the pool to a waist-high object a few yards from where I was changing. It was about the size of a table and covered with a tarpaulin. “Now, I must warn you, Wikus, you probably won’t like this! But there comes a time in every man’s life when he just can’t be bothered with lighting bits of kindling and waiting for the logs and charcoal to catch.”
The audience laughed again but, looking across the swimming pool, I could see van Blerk was frowning. I kicked off my underpants and rummaged through my discarded trouser pockets, locating my trunks.
“Hey presto!” Hudson pulled off the tarpaulin to reveal a gleaming, top-of-the-range gas-fired barbeque. It had three separate grill areas and a dozen shiny hooks on which hung various sizes of tongs, pokers and spatulas. A large, bright orange gas canister sat underneath. There was a chorus of ‘Ooooh!’ from the crowd, but not from Wikus or Njongo.
“What is this?” growled Wikus loudly, his face like thunder.
The crowd quietened suddenly and Hudson’s face fell. “Now, I knew you wouldn’t like it Wikus,” he called across the pool, “but please don’t judge me. The steel frame of this unit has been forged from scrapped cars. The gas itself is methane, gleaned from the exhaust pipes atop landfill refuse dumps. It reaches optimum cooking temperature immediately, without all that waiting, and it’s so much easier to clean. When you get to a certain age, your back starts telling you to stop shovelling ash into fire buckets…” He laughed nervously. “Besides, real fires are just so smoky and dirty, the particulate count is off the scale…”
“No! I will not tolerate this!” roared van Blerk.
“L-l-look Wikus… I promise you, I’ve conducted a thorough CO2 audit on the energy signature of this unit’s manufacture… I’ve made a donation to offset the carbon footprint by 150 percent… There’s a school in Mozambique with thirty years’ worth of energy-saving light bulbs in their storeroom…”
“Gas? What kind of man cooks using gas? The fart of the earth! The flatulent arse-cough of the hydrocarbon industry! THE BELCH OF SATAN!” I was getting the impression that van Blerk wasn’t a fan of gas barbeques.
“This is the DEVIL’S WORK!” He was shaking now – I’d not seen him really angry. Hudson looked mortified, and the crowd were all studying their wine glasses. Van Blerk lowered his voice and turned to Njongo. “Njongo. You know what to do. This outrage must be wiped from the face of the Karoo!” Njongo nodded and strode back into the house.
“Er… now steady on Wikus. It’s only a gas barbeque. We can make a traditional fire if you prefer. I’m sure I have some pine off-cuts from when we built the children’s eco-treehouse…”
Njongo re-emerged from the house carrying his Kalashnikov. The crowd screamed and scattered in all directions.
“Fully automatic Njongo! TAKE THAT FUCKER OUT!”
Njongo raised the gun to his shoulder and aimed at the barbeque, just a few paces from my hiding place. With a flash of terror, I realised the danger I was in. I vaulted the bush and sprinted for the swimming pool, just as the gun roared into life. The world slowed down. I heard the crack-crack-crack of the assault rifle and was vaguely aware of sparks flying from the barbeque as bullets ricocheted off the metal frame.
In three bounds I was near enough to the pool to dive the last couple of yards. While I was still in the air, one of Njongo’s bullets found the gas canister. I felt the heat on my back first, like a hairdryer close to the skin. As the searing blast shrivelled the little hairs between my buttocks I felt a flash of sympathy for Madame Joubert and her involuntary Turkish flame-shave. Despite the bright sunshine, the entire garden glowed yellow for an instant. Other guests were hurling themselves into the swimming pool, fully clothed.
Then I heard the roaring tear of the explosion, and felt a great shove from the force of the blast, causing me to somersault in the air. I landed in a squatting position on the airbed occupied by Mr Hudson’s mother – not on top of her, thank God, but at the other end of the inflatable. I registered her mouth, open with surprise at the airborne approach of a large naked man surrounded by fire, and her wig flying from her head with astonishing velocity.
My weight and speed of impact submerged me and my end of the airbed for a moment, probably saving my back, sack and crack from the worst effects of the impromptu flame-shave. When the inflatable jerked me to the surface a second later there was no sign of Mrs Hudson – until she fell from the sky, having been catapulted into the air by the force of my landing. She returned to earth face down, in the middle of the airbed, her face slapping into my groin at some speed.
“Jesus fucking wept!” I screamed.
Mrs Hudson didn’t reply, on account of her mouth overflowing with my meat and two veg. Small pieces of the gas barbeque were splashing and hissing into the water around us, and the rest of the party had either dived into the pool or been blown flat.
“Would you mind if I lifted your head from my lap, madam,”
I squeaked, raising the unfortunate Mrs Hudson’s face from my groin. She looked at me, mouth agape, a haunted stare in her eyes. She seemed different somehow. It wasn’t just the lack of hair – her mouth looked strange too, somewhat looser… We both looked down at my manhood. There was a pair of false teeth clamped to my flagpole, at about half-mast.
I won’t lie, it was an awkward moment.
After checking for damage, I gingerly removed the dentures from my bald butler and handed them back to Mrs Hudson. I considered popping them back in her mouth myself, but I reasoned there might be a special technique and I didn’t want to make a bad situation worse.
I spotted van Blerk and Njongo crouching in front of the house, nodding to each other as they discussed a job well done. I eased myself off the inflatable, wishing Mrs Hudson all the best for the future. She remained motionless on her front, dentures in hand, only her hollow eyes following me as I paddled to the side of the pool.
The wreckage of the barbeque was burning quite fiercely, as were a couple of nearby bushes, including the one I had changed behind. I retrieved my smouldering clothes and wrapped a towel around my waist before heading over to where my companions were sitting.
“Sorry the party didn’t turn out so well, Felix. I had no idea Hudson had become such a sell-out.”
“Don’t worry about me, Wikus. It’s always a disappointment when you find someone you trust has compromised their beliefs.”
Given what a poor host Hudson had been we departed without saying goodbye. Then, on the long journey home through the Karoo, fortune swung decisively in my favour.
“I need a new customer for my wine, Felix. You are a true son of Africa. You have proved it with your love of the soil, with your fearlessness in the face of danger, and with your empathy for the produce of this great continent. I would be honoured if you would sell my wines.”
“The honour would be all mine, Wikus.”
***
Just six days after my departure, I returned to Gatesave’s wine department a hero.
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