‘You’re not allowed to swear,’ she says.
‘Who says so?’
She takes another step forward. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
Blouse
It takes a while for her to find an appropriate blouse. She’s not looking for an appropriate blouse at all. She shakes her head, but that doesn’t help get rid of the Negro and the word ‘rape’. She has to stretch out on the bed for a moment, closing the bedroom door first to keep Benno out on the landing. Her bra straps are pinching, that thing has to come off, and while she’s removing it, both hands accidentally touch her breasts. She does her best to think about the baker with the chapped face — it’s Saturday, they’ll be seeing each other this evening — but fails. He has a name, just like everyone else, but she thinks: baker. There’s an open window but the warm air isn’t stirring.
The Negro climbs in through the open window like some kind of big African cat. Her skirt and girdle are pinching too, they need pushing down. Why is it so hot? It’s June but it feels like an oppressive day much later in the summer, as if there are already brown leaves littering her front garden. He’s wearing a kind of apron, a loincloth but otherwise naked. Naked and gleaming with sweat or oil, some magical African lotion. Benno barks. The Negro’s lips part, revealing teeth and an astonishingly pale, pink tongue. Dinie Grint opens her mouth too and lays her hands by her sides. After stretching out beside her on the bed, the Negro tears off his loincloth and she feels his penis pressing against her thigh. ‘I don’t want this,’ she mumbles. ‘No, no.’ The Negro shuts her up and she grabs at his penis, which, in contrast to the rest of his body, is matt, not gleaming. Her mouth fills with saliva that tastes of bitter leaves, her fingertips glide over veins that… Benno barks. ‘Quiet!’ she shouts. The Negro was gone for a moment, but now he’s back again, bigger and harder than ever. Swelling, pumping male blood under her fingers, yes. It’s as if she’s offering her throat to this African feline, her throat, her lower body, pushing up and forward, she wants him inside her, she wants to grab and pull and guide, but instead she grips the side of her double bed with one hand and he’s in her anyway, he can manage that fine by himself. She’s happy for him to go very deep and fast, or slow, whatever he likes, and he doesn’t need to be told twice — God, he’s so big — and now she wants him to get out of her and stick it in her mouth. He does that too, of course. But not right away. Slowly he crawls up on all fours. ‘No, don’t,’ she murmurs. ‘Stop it, now.’ The Negro has become his penis, a penis with heavy balls dragging over her nipples. The head already pushing against her lips. The baker, she thinks. The baker.
Not the baker, her son. He’s lying on his back, his underpants down around his ankles, one knee raised, the other on the floor, the jeans with the leather knee patches in a heap next to him, black pubic hair that comes as a shock to her, and the Kaan boy, the redhead, and her own head, of course, sticking up through the trapdoor in the floor of the garage attic, thinking, I don’t want this, look away, go back down the ladder; and not reacting to that, continuing to stare at her son, that beautiful black-haired boy with an erect penis amongst that unexpected pubic hair, and that red-headed Kaan, naked, with his head on her son’s beautiful belly and his hand on his own crotch, and still her own head sticking up through that hatch, and the thought of that bloke of hers, the hopeless drip who never paid her any attention but preferred to go out and play pool or spend the whole evening slumped on the sofa staring at a conveyor belt with prizes on it, and a strange longing for her very own son, so young still, so unspoilt, but that longing comes up in her so intensely and so suddenly that she blushes and when that cheeky red-headed Kaan stares back at her — but probably doesn’t even notice her because her son’s penis is between them, the penis she doesn’t want to see, but can’t avoid seeing — the thought: get out of here.
She sits up much too quickly, the blood rushes to her head, making her dizzy. The Negro dissolves in the hot air, but his tongue and penis have left their mark. She doesn’t want to think about her son when the Negro’s here. That’s not right. It’s not allowed. She suddenly feels sick. Not bitter leaves — bile. She no longer grabs at heavy balls, but at her bra, lying on the carpet next to the bed. She puts it on quickly and pulls her girdle and skirt on even faster. Despite the dizziness, she jumps up off the bed, pulls open the wardrobe door and grabs a blouse without even looking. Benno barks. She opens the door, pushes the big dog out of the way with one knee and goes into the bathroom. The first thing she sees is her raven hair in the mirror. The second is the wild look in her eyes. On the shelf under the mirror is a pot of Wella Dark Brown. Not Wella Black, that makes her look ridiculous. She bends forward and turns on the cold tap.
Straw
She’s heard him all right. Maybe he took off his clogs and is now standing on the concrete in dusty socks. He must have been there at least five minutes; is he staring the bull down to keep it quiet? She might as well say something for a change. ‘You never think of Mother’s Day.’
Silence.
‘Do you even know when it is, Mother’s Day?’
‘December?’
‘The second Sunday in May!’
Silence.
A daughter knows things like that. A daughter would visit in May with presents, or at least ring. She would have come. She scratches her stomach again. Is it the straw that’s making her itchy? Her stomach’s never itchy otherwise. Or is it the heat? ‘What time is it?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Ten thirty.’
She can’t help it, she has to laugh. To herself. She pictures him standing there with his head back. ‘Where is everyone? Have they all gone to the churchyard?’
‘The cemetery.’
‘Huh?’
‘Is there a church there?’
She’s still smiling. ‘You know that better than anyone.’
‘Yes.’
Ten thirty. Way too soon to come down off the straw. ‘Have you been stirring them up?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Don’t lie.’
‘I never lie. And who exactly do you mean by “them”?’
‘Jan, of course. And Johan.’
‘Johan?’
‘Why does everyone down there keep shouting out “Johan” as if they’re so surprised?’
‘He’s not even here.’
‘No, not yet. But soon enough.’ She drinks some water. The bottle is starting to get quite empty. ‘So, where’s Klaas?’
‘I don’t know.’
Swallows flying in and out. Spiderwebs, very old ones, like grey wool. And then suddenly the sound of concentrate sliding in the wooden silo that forms one pillar-like corner of the straw loft, even though it’s been a very long time since there was any feed in it at all.
‘And another thing, you’re not my mother.’
‘I’m your children’s mother.’
‘You’re not my mother.’
‘Ah, man, go back to your Christmas trees.’
That’s shut him up. For a moment.
‘You coming down?’
‘No.’
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Of course I’m hungry!’
‘Come down then.’
‘No.’