by Wilbur Smith
The champion jumped up into the ring. Ian Rushmore was an inch shorter than Manfred, but broader and deeper in the chest, with long simian arms heavily muscled, and a neck so short and thick that his head seemed to ride directly on his shoulders. Thick, coarse black hair curled out of the top of his vest and he looked powerful and dangerous as a wild boar.
The bell rang and in the blood roar of the crowd the two fighters came together in the middle of the ring. Centaine gasped involuntarily at the thud of gloved fist on flesh and bone. Compared to the flickering blows of the lighter smaller men in the preceding bouts, this was like the meeting of gladiators.
She could not see any advantage between the two men as they wheeled and came together and their fists struck those terrible blows that bounced off solid guards of arms and gloves. Then they weaved and ducked and joined again while the crowd around her bellowed in a mindless frenzy.
As abruptly as it had begun, it ended, and the fighters separated and went back to the little groups of white-clad seconds who hovered over them, tending them lovingly, sponging and kneading their flesh, fanning and massaging and whispering to them.
Manfred took a mouthful from the bottle that his big black bearded coach held to his mouth. He sluiced it around his teeth and then turned and looked at Centaine again, sinmou gling her out of the crowd with those pale eyes, and deliberately spat the mouthful of water into the bucket at his feet without breaking his gaze. She knew that it was for her, he was spitting his anger at her. She quailed before his rage and she barely heard Blaine murmur beside her.
I scored that round as a draw. De La Rey gave nothing away, and Rushmore is wary of him., Then the boxers were on their feet again, circling and jabbing and pumping leather-clad fists, grunting like labouring bulls at punches thrown and received, their bodies shining with the running sweat of their exertions and bright red patches glowing on their bodies where blows landed. It went on and on, and Centaine felt a sickness rising in her at the primeval savagery of it, at the sounds and smell and spectacle of violence and pain.
Rushmore took that one, Blaine said quietly, as the round ended, and she actually hated him for his calmness. She felt a clammy sweat break out on her face and her nausea threatened to overwhelm her as Blaine went on, De La Rey will have to end it in the next two rounds. If he doesn't, Rushmore is going to grind him down. He's getting more confident all the time. She wanted to jump to her feet and hurry out of the hall, but her legs would not function. Then the bell rang and the two men were out there again in the glare of floodlights, and she tried to look away but could not, so she stared in sick fascination and saw it happen, saw every vivid detail of it, and knew she would never forget it.
She saw the red leather glove blur as it tore through a tiny gap in the defending circle of arms, and she saw the other man's head snap as though it had reached the limit of the hangman's noose as his body fell through the trap. She saw each individual droplet of sweat burst from his sodden locks, as though a heavy stone had been flung into a deep pool, and the features below twisted grotesquely out of shape by the impact into a carnival mask of agony.
She heard the blow, and the snap of something breaking, teeth or bone or sinew, and she screamed, but her scream was lost and swallowed up in the high surf of sound that burst from a thousand throats around her, and she thrust
her fingers into her own mouth as the blows kept coming, so fast that they dissolved before her eyes, so fast that the shocking thuds of impact blended like the sound of an egg-baeter in thick cream, and flesh turned to red ruin beneath them. She went on screaming as she watched the terrible killing yellow rage in the eyes of the son she had borne, watched him become a ravening murderous beast, and the man before him wilted and broke, and reeled away on boneless legs, and went down twisting as he fell and rolled onto his back staring up at the overhead lights with blind eyes, snoring in the thick bright flood that throbbed from his crushed nose into his open mouth. Manfred De La Rey danced over him, still possessed by the killing rage, so that Centaine expected him to throw back his head and howl like a wolf, or throw himself upon the broken thing at his feet and rip the bleeding scalp from its head and brandish it high in obscene triumph.
Take me away, Blaine, she sobbed. Get me out of this place, and his arms lifted her to her feet and carried her out into the night.
Behind her the blood roar faded, and she gulped down the cold sweet highveld air as though she had been rescued at the very point of drowning.
The Lion of the Kalahari writes his own ticket to Berlin, the headlines crowed, and Centaine shuddered with the memory, and dropped the newspaper over the edge of the bed and reached for the telephone.
Shasa, how soon can we leave for home? she demanded, as soon as his voice, blurred with sleep, sounded in her earpiece, and Blaine came through from the bathroom of the hotel suite with shaving lather on his cheeks.
You have decided? he asked as soon as she hung up.
There is no point in even trying to speak to him, she replied. 'You saw how he looked at me. Perhaps there will be another time, he tried to comfort her. But he saw the despair in her eyes and he went to hold her.
David Abrahams improved his best time for the 200-metre sprint by almost a second on the first day of the Olympic trials. However, in reaction he did not do as well as expected on the second day when he could only just win his final heat in the 400 by half a metre. Still, his name was high on the list that was read out at the banquet and ball that closed the five days of the track and field trials, and Shasa, who was sitting beside him, was the first to shake his hand and pound him between the shoulder blades. David was going to Berlin.
Two weeks later the polo trials were held at the Inanda Club in Johannesburg and Shasa was selected for the T team of possibles against Blaine's W team of probables for the last match of the final day.
Sitting high in the grandstand, Centaine watched Shasa play one of the most inspired games of his career, but with despair in her heart knew that it was still not good enough.
Shasa never missed an interception, nor mis-hit a stroke during the first five chukkas, and once even took the ball out from under the nose of Blaine's pony with a display of audacious riding that brought every person in the grandstand to their feet. Still it was not good enough, she knew.
Clive Ramsay, Shasa's rival for the position of number two in the team that would go to Berlin, had played well all week. He was a man of forty-two years, with a record of solid achievement behind him, and he had seconded Blaine Malcomess in almost thirty international matches. His polo career was just reaching its peak, and Centaine knew that the selectors could not afford to drop him in favour of the younger, more dashing, probably more gifted, but certainly less experienced and therefore less reliable rider.
She could almost see them nodding their heads sagely,
puffing their cigars and agreeing. Young Courtney will get his chance next time, and she was hating them for it in advance,, Blaine Malcomess included, when suddenly there was a howl from the crowd around her and she jumped to her feet with them.
Shasa, thank God, was out of it, galloping wide down the sideline ready to take the cross as his own number one, another thrusting young player, challenged Clive Ramsay in centre field.
It was probably not deliberate, more likely the consequence of a reckless urge to shine, but Shasa's team-mate fouled Clive Ramsay murderously on the interception, knocking his pony onto its knees and sending Clive somersaulting from the saddle onto the iron-hard ground. Later that afternoon X-ray examination confirmed a multiple fracture of Ramsay's femur which the orthopaedic surgeon was subsequently forced to open up and wire.
No polo for at least a year, he ordered, when Clive Ramsay came out of the anaesthetic.
So when the selectors went into conclave, Centaine waited anxiously, allowing herself renewed hope. As he had warned Centaine he would, Blaine Malcomess excused himself from the selectors room when Shasa's name came up.
But when he was
called back in, the chairman grunted.
Very well, young Courtney gets the ride in Clive's place. And despite himself he felt a lift of elation and pride, Shasa JA Courtney was the closest he would ever get to having a son of his own.
As soon as he could, Blaine telephoned Centaine with the news. 'It won't be announced until Friday, but Shasa has got his ticket. Centaine was beside herself . Oh Blaine, darling, how will I contain myself until Friday? she cried. Oh won't it be fun going to Berlin together, the three of us! We can take the Daimler and drive across Europe. Shasa has never visited Mort Homme. We can spend a few days in Paris, and you can take me to dinner at Laserre There is so much to arrange, but we can talk about it when I see you on Saturday. 'Saturday? He had forgotten, she could hear it in his voice.
Sir Garry's birthday, the picnic on the mountain! She sighed with exasperation. Oh Blaine, it's one of the few times in the year we can be together, legitimately! Is it Sir Garry's birthday again so soon? What happened to the year? he hedged.
Oh, Blaine, you did forget, she accused. You can't let me down. It will be a double celebration this year, the birthday, and Shasa's selection for the Games. Promise you will be there, Blaine. He hesitated an instant longer. He had already promised to take Isabella and the girls to her mother's home at Franschoek for the weekend.
I promise, my sweeting, I'll be there. She would never know what that promise would cost him, for Isabella would make him pay with exquisite refinements of cruelty for the broken pledge.
it was the drug which had wrought this change in Isabella, he kept assuring himself. Beneath it she was still the same sweet and gentle person he had married. It was the unremitting pain and the drug which had ravaged her so, and he tried to maintain his respect and affection for her.
He tried to remember her loveliness, as delicate and ethereal as the bloom on the petals of a new-blown rose, but that loveliness had long since disappeared and the petals of the rose had withered, and the smell of corruption was upon her. The sweet sickly smell of the drug exuded from every pore of her skin and the deep never-healing abscesses in her buttocks and at the base of her spine gave off an odour, faint but penetrating, that he had come to abhor. It made it difficult for him to be near her. The smell and the sight of her offended him but at the same time filled him with helpless pity and corrosive guilt at his infidelity to her.
She had wasted to a skeleton. There was no flesh on the bones of those frail legs, they looked like the legs of one of the wading water birds, perfectly straight and shapeless, distorted only by the lumpy knots of her knees and the useless disproportionately large feet at their extremities.
Her arms were just as thin, and the flesh had receded from the bones of her skull. Her lips had drawn back so that her teeth were prominent and exposed, and looked like those of a skull when she tried to smile or more often grimaced with anger, and her gums were pale, almost white.
Her skin also was pale as rice-paper, and as dry and lifeless, so thin and translucent that the veins of her hands and forehead showed through it in a blue tracery and her eyes were the only living things in her face. They had a malicious glitter in them now, as though she resented him for his healthy lusty body when her own was destroyed and useless.
How can you, Blaine? she asked the question with the same accusing high-pitched whine that she had used countless times before. 'You promised me, Blaine. God knows, I see little enough of you as it is. I've been looking forward to this weekend since,, It went on and on, and he tried to shut it out, but he found himself thinking of her body again.
He had not seen her unclothed in almost seven years, then only a month previously he had walked into her dressing-room believing that she was in the gazebo in the garden where she spent most of her day, but she was laid out naked on the white sheet of the massage table with her uniformed day nurse working over her and the shock must have shown clearly on his face as the two women looked up at him, startled.
Every rib stood out of Isabella's narrow chest and her breasts were empty pouches of skin that drooped under her armpits. The dark bush of her pubic hair was incongruous and obscene in the bony basin of her pelvis below which those sticklike legs protruded at a disjointed angle, so shrunken that the gap between her thighs was wider than the span of his hands.
Get out! she had screamed at him, and he had torn his eyes from her and hurried from the room. Get out! Don't ever come in here again! Now her voice had the same ring to it. Go to your picnic then, if you must. I know what a burden I am to you. I know you can't bear to spend more than a few minutes in my presence, He could not stand it any longer, and he held up a hand to quieten her. You are right, my dear. It was selfish of me to even mention it. We won't speak of it again. Of course I will go with you. He saw the vindictive sparkle of triumph in her eyes, and suddenly for the very first time he hated her, and before he could prevent himself, he thought, Why doesn't she die? It would be better for her and everybody about her if she were dead. instantly he was appalled at himself and guilt washed over him so that he went to her quickly and stooped over the wheelchair, took that cold bony hand in both of his and squeezed it gently as he kissed her on the lips.
Forgive me, please, he whispered, but unbidden the image of her in her coffin appeared to him. She lay there, beautiful and serene as she had once been, her hair once again thick and lustrous auburn spread on the white satin pillow. He shut his eyes tightly to try and drive the image away, but it persisted even when she clung to his hand.
Oh, it will be such fun to be alone together for a while. She prevented him pulling away. We have so few opportunities to talk any more. You spend so much time in Parhament, and when you aren't about your cabinet duties you are out on the polo field. I see you every day, morning and evening. Oh, I know, but we never talk. We haven't even discussed Berlin yet, and the time is running out. Is there much we should discuss, my dear? he asked carefully as he disengaged her grip and returned to his own chair on the opposite side of the gazebo.
Of course there is, Blaine. She smiled at him, exposing those pale gums behind shrunken lips. It gave her a cunning, almost ferrety, expression which he found disturbing. There are so many arrangements to make. When is the team leaving? I may not travel with the team, he told her carefully. I may leave a few weeks earlier and stop off in London and Paris for discussions with the British and French Governments before going on to Berlin. Oh Blaine, we must still make the arrangements for me to go with you, she said and he had to control his expression for she was watching him carefully.
Yes, he said. It will need careful planning. The idea was insupportable. How he longed to be with Centaine, to be able to get away from all pretence and fear of discovery. We shall have to be very certain, my dear, that travelling will not seriously impair your health further. You don't want me with you, do you? Her voice rose sharply.
Of course It's a wonderful chance for you to get away from me, to escape from me. Isabella, please calm yourself. You will do yourself Don't pretend you care about me, I've been a burden on you for nine years. I'm sure you wish me dead. Isabella, He was shaken by the accuracy of the accusation.
Oh, don't play the saint with me, Blaine Malcomess. I may be locked into this chair, but I see things and I hear things. I don't wish to continue like this. He stood up. We'll talk again once you have control Sit down! she screeched at him. I won't have you running off to your French whore as you always do! He flinched as though she had struck him in the face, and she went on gloatingly, There, I've said it at last. Oh God, you'll never know how close I've been to saying it so many times. You'll never know how good it feels to say it, whore! Doxy! If you continue, I will leave, he warned.
Harlot, she said with relish. Slut! Jade! He turned on his heel and went down the steps of the gazebo two at a time.
Blaine, she screamed after him. Come back! He continued walking up towards the house, and her tone changed.
Blaine, I'm sorry. I apologize. Please come back. Please! and he could not refuse
her. Reluctantly he turned back, and found that his hands were shaking with shock and anger.
He thrust them into his pockets and stopped at the top of the steps.
All right, he said softly. It's true about Centaine Courtney. I love her. But it is also true that we have done everything in our power to prevent you being hurt or humiliated.
So don't ever talk like that about her again. If she had allowed it, I would have gone to her years ago, and left you.
May God forgive me, but I would have walked out on you!
Only she kept me here, only she still keeps me here. She was chastened and shaken as he was, or so he thought, until she raised her eyes again and he saw that she had feigned repentance merely to lure him back within range of her tongue. I know I cannot go to Berlin with you, Blaine.
I have already asked Dr Joseph and he has forbidden it. He says the journey would kill me. However, I know what you are planning, you and that woman. I know you have used all your influence to get Shasa Courtney into the team merely to give her an excuse to be there. I know you are planning a wonderful illicit interlude, and I can't stop you going, He spread his hands in angry resignation. It was useless to protest and her voice rose again into that harrowing shrillness.
Well, let me tell you this, it isn't going to be the honeymoon that the two of you think it is. I've told the girls, both Tara and Mathilda Janine, that they are going with you.
I've told them already, and they are beside themselves with excitement. it will be up to you. Either you are heartless enough to disappoint your own daughters, or you will be playing baby-sitter and not Romeo in Berlin. Her voice rose even higher, and the glitter of her eyes was vindictive. And I warn you! if you refuse to take them with you, Blaine Malcomess, I will tell them why. I call on God as my witness, I will tell them that their beloved daddy is a cheat and a liar, a libertine and a whoremaster! Although everybody, from the most knowledgeable sports writers to the lowliest fight fan, had confidently expected Manfred De La Rey to be on the boxing squad to go to Berlin, when the official announcement of the team was made and he was indeed the light heavyweight selection, but in addition Roelf Stander was the heavyweight choice and the Reverend Tromp Bierman was given the duties of official team coach, the entire town and university body of Stellenbosch erupted in spontaneous expressions of pride and delight.