Her figure is slender in the dark dress. With tendrils that escaped her ponytail, she looks feminine and vulnerable. I want her next to me, in my arms, not at a distance acceptable for a servant, not with a barrier between us that lets me enjoy the sunshine while she’s standing there in her black garb, sweating in the sun.
There’s not a stitch of resentment in the brilliant smile she gives me. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Lemonade.” I turn to Sonny and Lance, who are looking anywhere but at Valentina. “Beer?”
“Please,” they say in unison.
“Anything else?”
I’m suddenly bothered that she has to serve men not worthy of kissing her feet. “No.”
Her smile is genuine and pure, a ray of beautiful that doesn’t fit in the filth of my world. “Just shout if you need me.”
As she walks back to the kitchen, I can’t help but stare after the frail set of her narrow shoulders with an emotion that, this time, isn’t foreign to me.
Longing.
I’m consumed by longing.
* * *
Valentina
Nothing is worse than the helplessness I felt at the hands of men who bullied and assaulted me. Tiny lifted the tightly sealed lid on those emotions. What Diogo tried to do made me relive those feelings. Those forbidden sentiments, the ones I banished to the depths of my mind, make me shaky with shame and anger. I hate not being able to defend myself. Then there’s Gabriel. The things I feel when I’m with him are too complicated to examine, and I’m too scared of what I’ll find. What I need is not to analyze what’s happening between me and my keeper––I can’t change it, anyway––but to learn to protect myself from people stronger than me. Maybe I could get a weapon and learn how to use it.
I’m sweeping up the leaves on the pavement, fantasizing about my options, when Magda walks up.
“I want all the leather sofas treated with beeswax and polished to a shine today. Carly is complaining her cupboards are full of dust. Unpack everything and wipe down the shelves. Her closet can do with a good reorganization.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want dinner to be served an hour earlier, tonight. I have an appointment after.”
“I’ll make sure it’s ready.”
“Tomorrow you need to start taking down the curtains and wash them. Start with the bedrooms. You can do one room every day.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She checks her watch. “Don’t wait for the afternoon to sweep the pavement. It has to be done every morning at eight. The neighbors must think we’re pigs living in a pigsty.”
“I’ll do it at eight.”
“Are you any good with a sewing machine?”
“I’ve never used one.”
“Better learn. You can adjust the hems of the new curtains I bought for the lounge.”
The delivery van pulls up, thankfully saving me from more tasks she can think up, as I have to check and sign for the produce.
For the rest of the day, I race through my chores, skipping lunch and teatime. It’s hard not to stress over screwing up a task or failing to execute it when your life’s in the balance. I haven’t slept enough in weeks, and I haven’t studied in days. I missed deadlines for two assignments and only got extensions because of my good grades, but no matter how fast I work, there’s always more work and too little time. My mentor warned me if I miss another deadline, I’d get a zero for the assignment. She can’t keep on making exceptions for me.
* * *
During the next two weeks, Gabriel is hardly home. When he comes to me at night, there are lines of strain on his face. I don’t ask about his business, but from the way he takes me, hard and relentless, I know in his own way, he’s as stressed as I am, so I don’t complain. When I’m at Kris’ house, I cook, clean, help in the clinic, and spend as much time with Charlie as I can. At night, I try to catch up with my outstanding projects, but I’m several weeks behind. I sleep between four and five hours per night, returning to my studies when Gabriel leaves me to go back to his own room. I don’t dare confess to him in the fear that he’ll take it away from me, and I can’t lose my dream. Despite the explosive sex, I’m still property. Nothing but an amusing toy. Gabriel takes care of me like one would maintain an expensive car or look after a cute pet. Copious amounts of coffee keep me awake and jittery during the day. It’s only by sheer willpower that I finish the tasks Magda doles out. The harder she pushes me, the harder I try. The more she demands, the more I deliver.
It’s a bright December morning when half a kudu carcass is dropped off in the kitchen.
“A gift from business colleagues who went hunting,” she says, regarding the piece of meat with her hands on her hips.
It’s not hunting season. “Where does it come from?”
“A friend did some culling on a game farm up north.”
“What shall I do with it, ma’am?”
“Marie used to process the meat. The leg is good for biltong. You can use the offcuts for sausage.”
I’ve never chopped up half an antelope, but I’m not going to admit it. When she’s gone, I do an internet search and come up with page that gives detailed illustrations on how to process a carcass. It’s too heavy for me to handle alone, so when Quincy walks past the kitchen with Bruno, I ask him to help. Together, we use the meat axe to chop the meat into smaller, more manageable pieces. He helps me to set up the electric meat saw and grinder on the island counter. While he’s cleaning the blades for me, I order the intestines for the sausage from a local butcher.
“All ready,” he says. “Need some help with the grinding?”
“I’m good, thank you.” I’m proud that I figured it out.
“Just shout.” With a wave, he’s off.
For the next hour, I cut the bigger pieces into smaller parts, keeping the strips for the biltong aside, while soaking the offcuts in a solution of vinegar and salt for the sausage. It’s a long and time-consuming process. I’m stressed about preparing dinner, but I can’t cook in the dirty kitchen. I’ll have to disinfect the countertops, first.
My phone beeps while I’m pushing the meat through the blades to make sirloin steaks. Normally, I won’t interrupt my work to check my messages, but the beep tone tells me it’s from my mentor, Aletta. I flick the switch on the saw and gingerly fish the phone from my apron pocket between my thumb and forefinger. The message hits me like a hammer between the eyes.
Come see me. You failed your cell biology test.
My hand trembles as I leave the phone on the counter, reading the text over and over. The repercussions are enormous. The test scores are taken into consideration at the end of the year. If I fail one subject, my partial bursary will be revoked. I’d have to drop out. Devastation crashes over me. I want to remain positive, but the realistic side of me brings my mind to a standstill to evaluate the facts and face the truth.
I’m not going to make it.
There’s a terrible finality in the notion. It’s as if an anchor has been cut from my life, and now that I’m no longer grounded to a dream, I’m floating meaninglessly in a life which only purpose is to keep Charlie alive. Swatting at the moisture building in my eyes, I try to let my pride keep me strong. I won’t cry over this, but my heart is not on par with my mind. Fresh tears blur my vision as I switch the saw back on and start feeding the meat through the blades. I work on autopilot, letting the rhythm of my hands and the noise of the machine dull me to a state of unfeeling, automated movements. It liberates my mind to think. Not making my dream come true will hurt my heart, but failing my brother will destroy me, so I make peace with giving up the dream.
The very moment I make the decision, a hot sensation explodes in my right hand and travels up my arm. I look at the slicer and the meat I clutch in my hands, but I don’t make immediate sense of the scene. My brain registers the blood squirting from my thumb long before it does the pain.
13
Valentina
The first
digit of my thumb is gone. I cut it just above the metacarpal bone. My mind switches down, and my body goes into automatic functioning mode. I open the cold-water tap and hold my hand under the stream. Water-diluted blood swirls down the drain. The first thing in reach is a clean drying cloth. I turn off the tap and wrap the cloth tightly around my hand to stop the bleeding. I switch off the slicer by the wall and, careful of the blades, go through the reservoir until I find my severed thumb. I feel sick and dizzy, like I’m about to vomit and pass out, but adrenalin keeps me going. After putting the top of my thumb in the mini icebox, I retrieve an icepack from the freezer for my right hand. I grab my purse with my identity card and walk through the house, looking for someone, but only Carly is in her room.
“My dad’s out,” she says without looking up from her book.
I can’t afford an ambulance, and I don’t have medical insurance. Private insurance costs a fortune in this country. I’ll take my chances with the public hospital, but I need a ride.
I go out the front and find Rhett by the door. “I need a lift to the hospital. Can you please drive me?”
He takes one look at the bloodstained cloth around my hand, and takes the car keys from his pocket. He opens the door for me and helps me into the Mercedes.
“Joburg Gen is the nearest,” I say.
He nods and steers the car down the road with a speed that will most likely get us killed before we arrive at the hospital. On the way, he dials Gabriel on voice commands via the hands-free kit and is directed to his voicemail.
“It’s Rhett. I’m driving Valentina to the Joburg Gen. She…” He looks at me.
“Cut my finger,” I fill in for him.
“I’ll keep you posted.” He disconnects and dials another number to instruct a guard to take up his post by the Louw residence front door.
When he hangs up, he shoots me a sidelong glance. “You okay?”
“Yes.” As if on cue, the pain intensifies. I lean back and purse my lips. My hand is throbbing like a giant heart.
The emergency entrance drive is blocked with vehicles, so we go to the underground parking. The state of the place comes as a shock. Garbage litters the surface up to my ankles. We take the lift to the emergency floor, and when we exit, I’m halted by the rows of people sitting on the floor in the hallway, all looking ten times worse than me. Some of them have gaping wounds, and others have invisible ailments that seem no less fatal judging by the lifeless shine of their eyes. The corridor stinks of vomit and urine. I haven’t seen the inside of a hospital since the age of ten when I fell and needed stitches on my head. This makes me never want to come back. We walk past a man with a fracture, the bone sticking through his skin. Another one has a gush in his arm so deep, I can see the tendons. The woman next to him has a broken beer bottle still lodged in her cheek. Violence screams at us as far as we go.
I feel for Rhett’s hand with my good one, clutching his fingers as we make our way through misery and despair to a front desk where a bored-looking nurse looks up.
“What’s your problem, love?”
When I sway, Rhett catches me. “I cut my finger.”
She pushes a clipboard with a form across the counter. “Fill that out.” She scratches her head with a pencil and points at an area at the far back. “Waiting area’s over there.”
We pass an examination room. A naked man lies on a bare mattress. He’s handcuffed to the iron bedpost. A nurse is washing blood from his legs. The floors are dirty, and the walls are stained. There are no pillows, sheets, or dividers. Our eyes connect. I avert mine quickly, but feel his follow me until we’re out of sight.
All the seats are taken, but I don’t want to risk sitting on the germ-infected floor. Rhett takes the pencil from me and calls out the questions while I tell him what to write.
From the way the cloth is soaking up the blood, the bleeding hasn’t stopped. I’m starting to feel the effect of the blood loss, or maybe it’s delayed shock that’s making me feel like fainting.
“Come on,” Rhett says gently, taking my arm to lead me back to the reception desk when the questionnaire is completed.
The nurse takes the form, but is in conversation with a colleague and doesn’t look up to acknowledge us.
“How long does she have to wait?” Rhett asks tightly.
“What’s that, love?”
He jerks his head toward the long line of people. “How long?”
She chuckles. “See that man over there?” She points at the one with the gash in his arm. “He’s been waiting for twelve hours.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but there’s no point. These people are in as much need, if not more, than me.
I touch his arm and say softly, “I think we should do it at home.” I won’t be able to hold the severed piece in place and stitch. “Can you help me?”
The nurse’s attention is already on her colleague again. They’re laughing together, sharing a joke.
He nods at my hand. “Show me.”
I unwrap the cloth slowly to reveal my thumb. Blood pumps from the digit as if bubbling from an underground fountain.
Rhett blanches. “Jesus Christ.” He sweeps me up in his arms and starts walking with long strides back in the direction from where we came.
“Rhett! What are you doing?”
“There’s a private clinic in Brixton. It’s only seven kilometers from here.”
“I don’t have medical aid. I can’t afford a private clinic.”
“I’ll pay.” He shifts my weight in his arms. “Don’t worry about the money, okay? I’m not leaving you in this dump for one second longer.”
“We can do it at home,” I insist.
He doesn’t say anything, but the hard set of his jaw tells me he disagrees.
Twenty minutes later, we’re going through the same procedure at the Garden Clinic, but the change is remarkable. The building is clean and sterile. A nurse takes charge of me the minute we enter, and no less than ten minutes after Rhett put down the cash for my treatment—which was required upfront—I’m wearing a hospital robe, lying on a gurney outside the operating room. Rhett is pacing the hallway, his figure passing from left to right and back in front of the door window, his phone stuck to his ear. The doctor who introduces himself as the surgeon tells me the good news is that he can try to save my thumb, thanks to my foresight to recover and bring the missing piece. As they start pushing me toward the operating room, the door slams into the wall, and Gabriel rushes into the corridor, his limp heavy and his short hair messy.
“Excuse me,” the doctor exclaims. “You can’t barge in here.”
He doesn’t look at the doctor. He finds my eyes and holds them. “She’s with me.”
“I don’t care if she’s with the queen of England.”
Gabriel’s blue eyes grow hard. His face sets into a frightening mask, and when he turns it on the doctor he says in a cold voice, “I’m staying with her.”
Gabriel reaches for my uninjured hand, but the doctor cuts him short.
“Get out or I’ll have you removed.”
His gaze fixes on my covered wound, and like Rhett, he pales.
“Good thing you’re not squeamish, huh?” I smile at him, feeling a little high from whatever they injected me with to kill the pain.
“Call security,” the doctor tells the nurse.
Gabriel lifts his palms. “Calm the fuck down. I’m leaving.”
“I guess no one is eating meat tonight.” The thought sends a sudden rush of hysteria through me. “Oh, my God, Gabriel. The dinner.” I trip over my own words, trying to get them out. “It was a stupid accident. I didn’t pay attention. I’m so sorry. Please don’t let Magda kill me.”
“Forget about the goddamn dinner,” he says harshly. When the doctor shoots him a warning look, he continues in a softer tone, “I’m taking care of everything.”
He holds my gaze as the medical staff rush me toward the swinging doors. As I look back at him, standing there by himself, I have thi
s weird notion that he’s alone in the world. Suddenly, I long for him, inexplicably and completely. In this scary moment, it’s him I want by my side. I reach for him, recognizing the helpless expression on his face, and then the doors shut out his image. Coldness washes over my body and invades my soul as the doctor pushes a mask on my face and tells me to count to ten. I get to three before the memory of Gabriel’s face fades.
* * *
The doctor keeps me overnight and discharges me the following day at noon. He tells me the operation went well, and that he gave me a tetanus shot. A tense and tired-looking Gabriel enters my room with a huge bunch of white lilies when the doctor leaves after examining me.
“Hey, beautiful.” He kisses my lips. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Come on.” He helps me to get dressed, and even if I protest when a nurse pushes a wheelchair into the room, he lowers me into the chair. “It’s the chair or my arms.” He gives me a smile, but it’s weak. The expression in his eyes is shuttered, making it hard for me to read him.
“I have your prescription from the doctor,” he says. “We’ll stop at the pharmacy before we go.”
We leave armed with antibiotics and painkillers from the hospital pharmacy. On the way home, Gabriel clutches my fingers, and when he shifts gears, he places my bandaged hand on his thigh.
It’s only when we take the off-ramp to Parktown that he speaks. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
His anger sparks annoyance in me. It’s with difficulty that I keep my temper in check. “It was an accident.”
“You have no idea what you put me through.”
“I can guess. You were worried about your investment.”
He swerves and brings the car to such a quick stop on the shoulder of the road that my body is thrown forward, and the seatbelt cuts into my chest. I utter a shocked cry, but it’s lost in his mouth when he grabs my shoulders and presses our lips together. His kiss is frantic and brutal. His teeth cut my tongue, and the force of his caress bruises my lips. My jaw aches when he finally lets me go. We’re both breathing hard, our chests rising and falling rapidly. I can only stare at him, both turned on and frightened.
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