by Kuli Roberts
‘I’m really glad you’re both here,’ she said, snaking an arm around each of them. ‘My parents, at my wedding.’
A surreal moment on perhaps the most important day of her life.
It was as if Sipho had always been a part of her existence, and there were times when she could not remember how she’d ever managed to be without him. He was her lover, he was her best friend, and there was nothing they did not share. At times it was as if they lived in their own separate world, insulated from everything by an invisible cloak. For the first time in Siren’s life, there was something more important than herself; there was a whole new world to nurture and protect.
Working together could have been problematic, but it only served to deepen their affection, and there was something challenging about playing characters at odds with each other while maintaining a mutual attraction. As a couple, they were invited to countless parties, but often they’d attend only to leave early, desiring the company of each other far more than the constant stream of people on the social scene.
The all-encompassing fireworks of that first night of passion were not repeated. At first it was as if the love they shared inhibited her in the bedroom. For Siren everything was invested in the relationship; with so much at stake, she wanted it to be perfect. When finally she began to relax into their lovemaking, it was sensual without being frantic, enveloping all of her senses. Having sex with her husband was a means of communication that deepened their love in ways that surprised her. She never felt she was missing out: after all, she had a man she loved, and a lifetime to work everything out.
‘Let’s get pregnant,’ Sipho had said to her on their wedding night, but it took more than a year of regular practice before wishes became reality. Not that the practising wasn’t fun … Still, when they finally received the news of her pregnancy it was with relief, particularly in light of her previous termination, the bare outline of which she had revealed to him. Her condition was incorporated into the storyline of The Trigger (a gardener and a city councillor being among the potential fathers).
And then came that memorable day when the programme fulfilled its destiny. Selinah Gumede once more reigned supreme at Heritage, but once The Trigger gained momentum with viewers, it seemed only natural when it assumed its place at the top of the ratings. With Heritage now languishing in second place, there was no stopping The Trigger, and a lot of that was down to the popularity of its leading players. On both a personal and professional level, the Siren-Sipho show was flying high.
After a relatively easy pregnancy she went into labour. With Sipho at Siren’s side, Bongani Dumisa entered the world at two on a Wednesday morning, the fifth of August, shielded from the eyes of the media by his protective parents.
Siren had six weeks at home to bond with Bongani, to be the mother she’d always known she would be. Mabel would have completely taken over if Siren had allowed it, but even loving grandparents needed to be reined in once in a while. Richard came over, ostensibly to check on one of the stars of The Trigger, in reality to spend time with his grandson. Siren had heard on the rumour mill that Florence was leaving him, although she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
She’d been home for almost a month the day Sipho came back from work looking grumpy. ‘Bad day?’ she asked, trying to lighten the mood.
‘You could say that,’ he said, flinging his car keys on the kitchen table. That was not at all like him – he usually hung them up by the door along with the other keys. ‘I just found out something a little disturbing.’
‘Disturbing how?’ She jumped up from the sofa. ‘Come on, babe. Out with it.’
Approaching her, he seemed a little tentative. ‘Vusi let it slip. He didn’t think I got it, but I did.’
‘Got what?’
Now he just stood there in the living room, as if unable to advance or retreat. ‘Did you know that you earn more than me?’
This caught her by surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘More money, my darling. That’s what I mean. Money, you earn more of it. Your rate per call, for a start – it’s more than my rate. Plus all your endorsements. It comes to more, much more.’
Now she moved towards him. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, it’s true.’
‘But so what? Why does it matter?’
It was as if Sipho didn’t know where to look, which way to turn. ‘I know it shouldn’t, but somehow it does.’
‘But why? It’s all ours, it all comes to this family.’
‘I know that.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ she moved to him, touching his arm. ‘Are you really saying you want me to earn less money because your ego can’t handle it?’
‘This has nothing to do with my ego!’ he shouted.
‘Keep your voice down. I’ve just put Bongani down.’
‘I’m sorry. But that’s not it, really. My ego is fine.’
‘Then what is it?’ she asked, feeling his pain but not really understanding it. ‘So I earn more money. Who really cares? That’s how it is today, but tomorrow it could be completely different.’ She put her arms around a waist that had expanded a few inches since their wedding. The joys and drawbacks of a comfortable life. ‘All that matters is you and me.’
‘And Bongani.’
‘Of course Bongani. Nothing comes before him.’ She looked up at her husband. ‘You think he cares who makes more money?’
‘Of course not,’ Sipho said almost reluctantly.
‘So there you are then.’ She kissed him, tasting the barest hint of alcohol. Whisky, she thought. ‘Now, let’s go upstairs and try to make another baby.’ The change was so gradual that at first she refused to believe anything was different.
He bought her a Ferrari for her birthday. It was fire red, her favourite colour for a car. ‘Babe, it’s wonderful. More than wonderful, in fact.’
Sipho beamed, but when she kissed him, there was that whisky taste again. ‘It wasn’t that easy to find. You know, Ferraris aren’t exactly two a penny in Jozi.’
‘But can we afford it? I know they don’t come cheap.’
He seemed almost offended by the question. ‘Of course we can. Anything for my girl.’
Siren had a few more ‘yes, buts’ ready to go, but held back. After all, it was her birthday and she’d always loved Italian sports cars, ever since she’d first driven in one. So what if it cost a fortune? They were both earning well. Since returning to work, she’d signed a deal with a major perfume brand to develop her own fragrance, and a local fashion designer had expressed interest in creating a line of summer clothes bearing her name. She was hot, and now was the time to strike.
No way could she drive her Ferrari to work, preferring her battered Hyundai Accent. Far less ostentatious. And the work was going well. Both Vusi and Richard were more than happy, striving to maintain that number-one spot. With Heritage snapping at their heels, every day was a renewed struggle.
It was the drinking she noticed first. At the end of a long day, Sipho would pour himself a single whisky before going off to spend time with his son if he was still awake, but then it was two whiskies, and before long four or five. And then there were those days when he would not come home until the early hours. Business meetings, he claimed. And despite their healthy relationship, Siren began to suspect another woman. They hardly had sex anymore, and she knew him well enough to know that he was not prodigious enough in that department to keep two women on the go. But why would he want anybody else, anyway? To her it made no sense.
When one of the assistant directors told her he’d been seen at Montecasino playing the tables, at first she refused to believe it, but when his old friend Barney let slip that they used to spend hours playing roulette and blackjack in their bachelor days, she couldn’t help but wonder. That was one little titbit of truth he’d held back.
When confronted, he admitted that yes, he’d enjoyed a flutter on the roulette tables occasionally after a business meeting, but that was all. �
�Don’t worry, my darling, we can afford it,’ he said, almost smothering her with his alcohol breath.
That was when she began to notice large amounts of money disappearing from their joint bank account. Ten thousand here, twenty thousand there – all withdrawn from ATMs within casino precincts. ‘This has to stop,’ she told him one night when he returned home well after midnight. Despite her early call time, she’d stayed up to wait for him. ‘The money is going out fast. This gambling, it has to stop.’
The level of desperation in her voice seemed to give him pause. ‘So sorry, my darling. It is only a harmless bit of fun.’ He waved a drunken hand. ‘But there are no women, I promise you. You are the only one for me.’
‘OK, no women, but so what? Soon we’ll have no money, and then what will we do? I guess we could always sell the Ferrari.’
‘Never,’ he said, shaking a finger in protest. ‘I bought that car for you. Promise me you will never sell it.’ He tried to hug her but she pushed him away.
‘And this drinking – it has to stop.’
‘What do you mean?’ he said, just standing there in the middle of the living room, looking like a complete innocent. ‘I don’t drink that much,’ he said, slurring the words as they tumbled out of his mouth.
‘No more drinking, no more gambling, or Bongani and I are out of here. You might want to piss your life away, but you’re not taking us with you.’
And then Sipho did something she hoped she would never see him do again, not like that.
He began to cry.
It began with an involuntary shaking of the body that travelled upwards until it transformed his face into a pathetic mask. His legs seemed to give way and he fell to his knees.
Feeling a swell of emotion, Siren moved forward quickly, holding her husband’s body as his arms came round to clutch her legs. ‘Sweet Siren, please don’t leave me,’ he said through the tears. ‘I will give it up, I will do anything you say. Just don’t leave me, please.’
For the family, Bongani’s birthday was a major event. Siren was so proud of her son and all he’d achieved in his young life. Not yet walking, but pulling himself up onto his feet. Not yet talking, but ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada’ had already emerged from his lips, in primitive form. Every sound that came out of his mouth was a revelation, every movement. Although he’d emerged from the womb looking rather pale, in imitation of his mother’s complexion, in the intervening months his skin had darkened to a few shades lighter than his father’s.
Being a mother was for Siren the culmination of everything she’d achieved. It fulfilled her in ways she could not describe, and made her appreciate her own mother all the more. She thanked God every day for the blessing that was her family. And a big part of that family was Sipho, her husband, the love of her life.
After the emotional trauma of that night, he showed some real signs of getting his act together. Most nights he was home at a reasonable hour, and there was no more whisky breath, but it was almost as if the drinking and the gambling had taken away his very essence. Gone was that mischievous glint in the eye, the effervescence of his personality, his love of life, replaced by something quieter, almost subdued. He was respectful and perfectly amenable, but in so many ways he was not Sipho, not really.
Only when he was playing with Bongani would flashes of his old self emerge. If only he could be more like that with me, she mused. If only I could have the old Sipho back.
On the day of Bongani’s birthday party, she really thought he had returned. As he conversed with the guests in the garden, cooking up a storm on the braai, there were the sly smiles, the clever remarks, the eloquent banter, and no whisky breath as she kissed him.
Bongani was being a typical one-year-old, showing scant interest in the proceedings. Siren’s reliable nanny Nokwanda was on hand to keep him happy while Mabel helped her deal with the concerns of the day: the food, the serving of drinks to the guests.
Sipho appeared to be holding his own, but as the afternoon wore on Siren began to notice the voice getting louder, and there was some slurring. When he walked, he seemed unsteady on his feet. Many of the guests seemed to shrug it off as another one of his quirks, but Siren’s gut tightened as she looked over at her husband and knew that all was far from well.
A sleepy Bongani had just woken up when it came time to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and cut the cake. All the guests gathered round, with Siren holding Bongani, who stared blankly at all who had gathered to celebrate, not too impressed by anything.
‘Where’s Sipho?’ somebody asked, and everyone looked around. He was nowhere to be seen.
And then suddenly there he was, emerging from the house, staggering rather than walking, in his hand an open bottle of vodka. ‘Here I am!’ he shouted, waving the bottle as if it were a grenade. ‘Who the fuck wants me?’
Seeing the horrified faces of the guests, he seemed to come to his senses, placing the bottle carefully on one of the tables. ‘Happy birthday to my boy!’ His voice was loud, raucous. ‘Happy birthday Bongani!’
The crowd parted to allow him access to the cake, but Siren had already given Bongani to Nokwanda and was moving towards her husband. ‘No, babe, no,’ she was saying, but he was in no mood to listen.
‘Ah, my darling wife. Let us celebrate our baby’s birthday. Dance with me.’ And suddenly he had hold of her and they were swirling round and round, backwards, forwards, she couldn’t be sure. And then he was stumbling and she was stumbling along with him, and they were falling, hitting something, and he was on the ground, she was on top of him, and they were both smeared with cake.
Birthday cake. Their darling Bongani’s birthday cake. In pieces, all over them.
He was trying to get up, and in his drunken state trying to help her up also, but she didn’t want to know. Raging, she wanted nothing to do with him. Yet still he persisted, and as he pulled at her skirt and blouse, wet with icing and marzipan, she flapped her hands to get away from him – and then he exploded:
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m only trying to help you, you stupid woman!’
And there they stood, in the ruins of their son’s birthday party, surrounded by their friends and by the shards of their troubled marriage.
Chapter 21
SIX WEEKS LATER, she welcomed him home. Six weeks since she’d last seen him.
After a certain time the rehab centre allowed visitors, even welcomed them, but she could not bring herself to go. She couldn’t really say why. Maybe she was afraid of what she might find, of all she had lost.
If he blamed her for not coming, he never mentioned it in their occasional phone calls. There were others who visited, like his friend Barney, like Vusi and Richard, who needed to rewrite The Trigger scripts to account for his absence and needed his input.
The tabloids may have known something about Sipho being in rehab, but never enough to commit to print. Caution was not always the way with them, but on this occasion it served everybody well.
Perhaps feeling a flush of guilt for not visiting, Siren wanted to drive down and collect him, but Barney offered to go. ‘It will be better,’ he said. ‘It will give you time to prepare things at home.’ Why didn’t he say what he was really thinking, that Sipho still harboured resentment towards her?
She refused to accept it. Certainly she was not going to apologise for her success, for that was at least a part of their initial attraction. And ruining her son’s birthday party? That she could never forgive him for, that they could never get back. And how devious he’d been, switching from whisky to vodka so she could not smell it on his breath! Such were the ways of the alcoholic, completely selfish, oblivious to the consequences of their actions.
He arrived just after two in the afternoon, and she was there to greet him. Her whole body tingled with the most curious anticipation, a whirl of emotions coursing through her. Yes, she wanted her husband back, but she wanted the kind, vibrant and loving Sipho, not the vacant, callous, reckless Sipho.
And there he was, thinner,
drawn and tired. Barney didn’t get out of the car, just dropped him off and left. She supposed Sipho had asked him to do that, to somehow make his homecoming easier. He stood there with his bag, as if unable to move another step. Was he having second thoughts about returning to her? Was this not what he wanted anymore? Seeing him there, looking so helpless, Siren knew what she wanted, and she was willing to wait no longer.
Moving quickly to him, she slipped her arms around his neck and brought him close, as close as she possibly could. And his arms were around her, and they were holding her, which was what she wanted more than anything else.
‘Welcome home,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘And I you,’ she heard him say. ‘So very much.’
If she’d worried how he would be with Bongani, she needn’t have. It was almost as if father and son had never been apart. In the time he’d been away, Bongani had learnt to walk, and Sipho marvelled at the changes a few weeks had wrought in his son. Watching them play together, Siren hoped that his love for Bongani would fuel his new-found sobriety.
That night in bed they held each other, Siren’s head on his chest. Not a lot was said, it was all in the movement, the caresses. A part of Siren worried about the lack of verbal communication, but reasoned that it was all strange to him, that in time it would all come right.
A few nights later, she tried to initiate sex. If she was honest with herself, it was a part of their relationship she’d missed with a primal hunger. She caressed his body, trying to kiss him as she moved a hand down towards his groin, but his own hand stopped her. ‘Not yet, my darling,’ he said in a thin, reedy voice that did not sound like him. ‘I’m not ready.’
‘Alright,’ she managed to say. ‘No problem. You tell me when.’
Life, or at least a version of it, went on.
Sipho was eased back into The Trigger with a light workload, no more than one or two scenes a day. If he was in any way angry about being mollycoddled, he kept his opinions to himself. Almost everyone in the cast and crew remarked how this was a quieter, more serious version of Sipho, and the jury was out on whether this was a good or a bad thing for the production.