Eileen-the-Understudy watched as Derek-Francis drew Janet and Frank van Zyl out of the ambit of voices and took them back to the hall.
Janet shivered. This was their scene. For an hour they exchanged enthusiastic dialogue whilst Derek-Francis fussed round the frills of their words and expertly trimmed and adjusted their movements, their expressions, their dialogue. Each inflection was tried on for size and pulled straight. Janet was overwhelmed by Derek-Francis’s dedication. She and Frank fell into their parts, their initial awkwardness briskly dispelled by Derek-Francis.
As Janet confided to Eileen-the-Understudy in the car on the way home, Derek-Francis had started off their private rehearsal with a command. Kiss her, he had instructed Frank. She and Frank had stared helplessly at each other. I didn’t know what to do, Janet said as Eileen-the-Understudy tried to find the ignition in the dark. Eileen-the-Understudy jabbed at the far side of the steering wheel whilst Janet tried to find the right words. I didn’t know what to do. Derek-Francis wants intimacy, he said. He wants it to be real.
What did you do, Eileen-the-Understudy flicked on the little overhead light.
I stood there, Janet said. So did Frank.
Aha, said Eileen-the-Understudy peering at the keys.
Think of someone you love, Derek-Francis said. He was quite forceful. Someone you really love. And it does not have to be your husband or wife.
Sorry, said Eileen-the-Understudy as she picked the keys up from between her legs. Clumsy me.
You don’t mind my telling you, Janet said.
Lord, no, said Eileen-the-Understudy. It’s fascinating to hear what you principals get up to in those private rehearsals. She started the car. So what did you do. I mean, who did you think of.
Janet waited as Eileen-the-Understudy reversed.
I, Janet said, then stopped. I stood there, and I was sure that one of us was suddenly going to laugh.
Laugh, said Eileen-the-Understudy as the little car skidded forward.
But no one laughed. Our director was quite serious. Frank got quite serious too.
No wonder, said Eileen-the-Understudy as the car slowed at the turn into Nestadt Street that would take them straight down to Davidson Street and then to home. She turned cautiously, drove a little way down the road and then pulled against the kerb and stopped.
It doesn’t seem right, Eileen-the-Understudy said. I need to give this my full attention. She jerked the handbrake and turned to Janet. No doubt you were thinking of your husband as groovy Frank got closer.
Eileen-the-Understudy turned the key and the car shuddered to silence. The road stretched out before them, tree-lined, straight and broad.
I tried, Janet said looking through the windscreen at the road. I was still trying when he kissed me.
He kissed you, Eileen-the-Understudy said.
He kissed me, said Janet.
There was a pause.
He kissed you, Eileen-the-Understudy said.
Like he meant it, said Janet. I mean, our director was saying Go on, go on, this isn’t a sin for Christ’s sake, this is drama, for Christ’s sake – he said Christ quite a lot – and we need to cement your relationship. He actually said cement and that’s all I could think about then – was grey cement and someone stirring cement with strong arms and a sweating back.
The kiss, said Eileen-the-Understudy. What was the kiss like.
It was long, said Janet. Very long. And complicated.
Long, said Eileen-the-Understudy as she held on to the steering wheel. And I suppose he had luscious lips.
Janet’s voice came after a pause. Derek, she said. Derek kept saying, Like you mean it. Kiss her like you mean it for Christ’s sake.
And I think both of us just got fed up and so we kissed like we meant it, closed lips then open lips and my tongue and his hands –
My God, his hands – and you were thinking of cement, said Eileen-the-Understudy.
It was shocking, said Janet. Then she turned to her tall friend and her voice shook. And it was – delicious. But I feel sick.
Eileen-the-Understudy was very still in her seat. Cement, she said. Cement.
Exactly, said Janet. And then I was kissing him. Then it was my tongue in his mouth and our director was saying, Yes, yes, that’s better. That’s much more like it and he clapped his hands.
Janet put a hand to her head. The trees were dark sentinels down both sides of the road. Driveways led to gates and to gardens and houses and lots of lives on both sides of the road. Janet turned to Eileen-the-Understudy.
What have you got me into, Janet said. One moment I am reading Enid Blyton and putting my children to bed and the next I am kissing someone called Frank van Zyl. I have never kissed anyone but my husband like that. My tongue –
Eileen-the-Understudy seemed to be practising a range of dramatic expressions. Her face widened with surprise. Look, she said, look here. I wasn’t the one who made you throw yourself into the part. I wasn’t the one who grabbed that audition and attacked it like that, was I.
Eileen-the-Understudy’s voice took a theatrical turn. Her hands also came alive.
But Janet turned even further towards her and held out her hands. My hands, she said to her pale neighbour. Are my hands shaking. Are they steady.
I wasn’t the one who grabbed that audition, was I. Eileen-the-Understudy clapped her own hands over Janet’s. They were much bigger and stronger than Janet’s hands. Was I.
My hands, Janet almost cried, but she swallowed instead. She breathed. Then she tore her eyes away from her unsteady hands hidden beneath her friend’s and answered Eileen-the-Understudy.
No, Janet agreed. And she breathed again and her hands finally broke free and rubbed her face.
What will you do, asked Eileen-the-Understudy.
Janet held out her hands again. She could not help it. His hands are strong, she said as she stared at her own. He loves me. He comes home to me. The new job – it is a demanding job. He holds me so tightly. Her voice shook and so did her outstretched hands. What does Phil –
Phil, Eileen-the-Understudy quickly said as though she were still auditioning.
When Phil comes home, said Janet, trying to make her voice nice and steady.
He flies in, said Eileen-the-Understudy. She made a face and looked significantly at Janet. He brings me perfume. She laughed. He does not realise it, but he comes home to me smelling of perfume.
Janet lowered her hands. She looked at her friend.
I don’t wear that kind of perfume, Eileen-the-Understudy whispered.
There was a slight pause.
What does Hektor-Jan smell like when he comes home.
Hektor-Jan, said Janet. Her hands were now on her lap. They were cold and still, quite dead. She wrinkled her nose. She inhaled and there was only the sickly stench of rhododendron flowers, in bold sprays like toilet brushes. How could she describe the stink of rhododendrons after the sweet warmth of the school hall and Brigadoon.
Hektor-Jan, Janet said again.
Phil, countered Eileen-the-Understudy. Perfume.
They sat in the car for a long time. Then Eileen-the-Understudy drove them home.
Despite the deep shower at the police station, Hektor-Jan looked forward to the beating water of his shower at home. He longed to step into that glass cubicle and to fill his ears with thundering water and his lungs with purging steam. After an aggressive lathering and scrubbing, he would stand there. The water would beat down on his thinning scalp and his lips could move. He could whisper and curse and call out in that confessional of streaming water. His wife did not have to know. His children did not have to run crying from him. The steam understood. It swirled as opaquely as forgiveness. It flowed as gently as absolution. If he raised his tired arms and adjusted his pose, he felt the water run like hot blood from the holes in his hands, and gush from his side and well up from his torn feet. Christ, he needed to shower.
He was home earlier than usual. It had been a trying night. His patience
had been tested to the limit and his body ached. His knuckles were skinned on his right hand. If he flexed it, the plasma oozed to the surface. He closed the car door quietly. Then he stood for a moment. He leaned against the car, facing the house. His home grew lighter and more solid out of the surrounding black then indigo heaven. It was close to dawn.
Something else took shape.
There came the whisper of conscience.
Hektor-Jan frowned.
Higher, came the voice and there was a whine.
Hektor-Jan turned slowly and looked over the car, at the wall behind him. There were two cypress trees on his neighbour’s side. They stood very tall and he could make out their darker blackness, deeper than the surrounding darkness. From between them came the voice and the panting. His neighbour and his ridiculous dog.
Higher, said the voice.
Ja, said Hektor-Jan.
And then he could see the paler blur of Douglas van Deventer.
You are up early, said Hektor-Jan.
You are home early, said Doug.
Hektor-Jan’s right hand felt tight. His body ached for the shower. He did not wish to chit-chat with his neighbour at this ridiculous time. He was exhausted. He leaned on the bonnet of the car, and looked at his hurt hand in the dark. It was invisible.
I heard the car, said Doug.
Hektor-Jan felt the metal, warm in the cold dawn.
I always hear your car – and, especially, Janet’s car.
Hektor-Jan balanced two weights on his shoulders: his home and his neighbour. He was caught in the middle.
You came home dead on time yesterday morning, Doug’s voice came softly through the cypresses. Then Janet took the tribe to school, spot on time. But then she went out again after that. I heard her. There was a lot of coming and going yesterday. You, then her with the children, and then with the garden boy. You must have been sleeping, boet.
Hektor-Jan took a while to extract the salient fact. Unusually, for he had been interrogating suspects all night, he let the crucial clue slip through his skinned fingers at first. Doug was silent. He waited. He was rewarded.
The garden boy, said Hektor-Jan.
There was a perfectly calibrated pause.
In her car, said Doug.
Hektor-Jan leaned more heavily on the car. He said something in Afrikaans. Then he stood up. Is jy seker, he said. Are you sure.
It was nothing, said Doug. Probably nothing at all. I saw them.
You saw them.
In passing. I was busy in the front garden. I looked over the wall. The way she held the door open for the black boy. How she bent down and adjusted his seat. He watched her. He watched her bending down. Then they got into the car together and drove off together.
Hektor-Jan looked up at the wall. It grew grey, born out of the blackness. It came to light.
I am sure it was nothing, said Doug. His voice was kind. Hopeful. It was a glass-is-half-full voice. Your-white-wife-and-the-black-garden-boy-were-separated-by-a-handbrake-and-a-gear-stick kind of voice.
They were only gone for an hour at most.
I heard the car return – it backfired again – and they got out together.
She laughed.
She put the seat back the way it was. She bent down again to readjust the seat. No one would ever have known. He watched her bend down by his knees. I think he tried to help her. Lent over her. Man, they struggled with that seat.
You must have been sleeping, boet.
She laughed.
The garden boy was silent.
They took things out of the boot. Together. She helped him.
They went to the back garden.
I watched them. I thought of you, boet. I almost called the police. Then I thought, hell, man, you are the police. I thought, maybe you knew. Maybe you were okay with all this. I didn’t want to interfere, man.
I hope you don’t mind.
I would want to know, you know.
Man.
Jesus.
Whilst you were sleeping.
Jesus.
Hektor-Jan felt the plasma seep from his hand. He held up his hand to his chest. So often, the truth was difficult to extract. It came slowly. A bit like a tooth. You had to wiggle it this way and that. Tease it a bit. Pretend to do something else. Chaff the bloody liars that you had given up meanwhile you were looping a length of fishing line around the tooth, the truth, before fixing it to the open door. Then you kicked it closed. Out shot the tooth. It was a lengthy process. Here, now, in the stillness of the dawn, Hektor-Jan shook his head as the fishing lines twanged all about him. It was raining teeth. He raised his hand. He did not want it to get bitten.
Doug was speaking. His voice came through the scent of the cypresses. Hektor-Jan had to concentrate to discern meaning from murmur.
Promise me that you won’t do anything silly, man, Doug was mumbling. He leaned out between the trees, pressing out of the violet sky, holding on to the wall.
There is probably no need to get jealous.
No need to get angry.
Keep calm. I find a shot of brandy helps. Takes the burning away by burning your guts. Fights fire with fire. Brandewijn. Fancy a drop.
Hektor-Jan stood there. His teeth were on edge and if he took a step, he knew that he would tread on the teeth that had fallen all around him. He shook his head – this was ridiculous.
I’ve got a bottle; I’ll get two glasses, said Doug. Come on, Higher. Like the old days.
Hektor-Jan stood there.
Don’t move, said Doug and he disappeared.
Hektor-Jan stood in the gathering dawn. The world pulled itself together, took a deep breath and stood up straight – and there it was. A new day. Out of the darkness, there came forth light. The heavens were newly created and there was the dewy scent of newborn earth.
This is good, Doug said. He reached over the wall and passed a small glass of sunrise to Hektor-Jan. Are you sure you won’t come around.
Hektor-Jan looked at the glass in his hand.
Cheers, said Doug on his ladder and he leaned over the wall. Hektor-Jan turned away from him, to face the lightening sky. The glass glowed in his hand. Still he did not drink.
To the old days, said the voice at his shoulder, just above his head, straight from heaven.
Hektor-Jan’s hand tightened painfully around the glass. In a sudden motion, he drained it.
Sun-risers, came Doug’s voice with rising humour. We are drinking sun-risers. Another one.
Hektor-Jan raised his glass. He did not have to turn around. The liquid came gurgling and filled his glass.
Doug toasted the sky, Hektor-Jan swallowed and raised his glass again.
That’s more like it. Doug reached down and patted him on the shoulder.
After the fourth shot, Doug spoke again.
Anything, he whispered. Anything you need, just let me know. You’re the expert, but if you need any help, I’m right here, boet. I am right – fucking – here. His voice shook with the brandy.
Hektor-Jan sipped the fifth shot.
I admire your control, Doug said pouring the sixth. I would not have such control. Man, I would be right in there. My wife, for fuck’s sake. My fucking wife. I couldn’t handle that.
Hektor-Jan grunted.
Sorry, said Doug. I don’t mean to jump the gun. Fuck. You wouldn’t even have to use a gun. Just give it to the kaffir straight. But I suppose there has to be evidence. You cops like evidence.
Doug’s voice came fast like the booze. We need evidence. Got to make sure before we pile in. Fuck. Can’t just sommer pile in, can we.
They stopped after the seventh shot. The world was ablaze with light. It was a changed sky, a new dawn. Doug saw that it was good.
Hektor-Jan went inside.
Supper was not good.
Janet was waiting for him. The spaghetti bolognaise looked tired. Janet looked like she had not slept all night. Talking to her was like pulling teeth. Hektor-Jan found that the brandy had loosened
his tongue. It seemed also to have dislodged his eyes. He saw differently. In segments.
How was your rehearsal, he said.
Janet winced. She put down the plate. It clattered on the hard table.
Sorry, she said. Don’t want to wake the children. Her hands reached out uncertainly, then she folded her hands over her lovely chest. Then she hid them behind her back. She did not seem to know what to do with her hands.
Hektor-Jan found his own hands waving her concern aside. He repeated his question. How was your rehearsal.
Janet closed the kitchen door. She sat down opposite him. Fine, she said.
She inhaled deeply. She seemed to wrinkle her nose as she took a deep breath.
He watched her hand wander up to her earlobe and tug it once. Twice. A dead giveaway. She kept holding her ear. Her other hand was under the table. Absolutely fine, thanks, Janet said. She stared at him. She smiled at him. She inhaled deeply again.
The spaghetti was road-kill. It was maggots. It looked at him and lied to his face. Could he eat those twisted falsehoods that lay coiled like worms in a bed of bloody tomato and sweaty minced lamb. Did she expect him to consume them.
Doug’s brandewijn gave him krag, strength. He picked up the fork. It was heavy. It had a trinity of tines. He could use it to stab, twist and eat lies, lies and damned lies. He hefted it. It was small but heavy in his hand. He wielded it.
What else did you get up to, he said. Whilst I was fast asleep.
Janet looked at him. She looked at the waiting fork and the neglected knife and the untouched food.
It was a busy day, she said to the spaghetti and rubbed her nose, once, twice, thrice.
Did she jump when he suddenly speared a loop of tomato-stained string. He teased it out of the plate. Looped around the fork, it kept coming. It was very long. Quite serpentine. He could be in the Garden of Eden. Was his wife not Eve to his Adam. Was she not Eve to this snake. Did not Doug’s holy spirit call to him. Had his wife not eaten the forbidden fruit. Hektor-Jan tried to pull his eyes away from the strands of spaghetti. Liewe hemel, seven shots of brandy and three times she rubbed her nose.
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