"Beats paying rent, "he agreed. "What remains to be done?" "Not much- engine, winches, rigging, sails, only about twenty thousand dollars" worth. However, I have just soaked Bawu for almost half of that." He lit the gas refrigerator and then selected a tape and put it on the player.
Janine listened to the liquid purling piano for a few moments and then said, "Ludwig van B of course?" "Of course, who else?" Then with slightly less assurance, she said, "The Path& tique Sonata?" "Oh, very good." He grinned as he found a bottle of Zonnebloem Riesling in one of the cupboards, "and the artiste?" "Oh, come on!" "Give it a shot."
"Kentner?" "Not bad, but it's Pressler." She pulled a face to show her mortification, and he drew the cork and half filled the glasses with pale golden wine.
"Here's looking at you, kid." She sipped and murmured, "Mmm!
That's good." "Dinner!" Craig dived back into the cupboard. "Rice and canned stuff. The potatoes and onions are three months old, growing sprouts already." "Macrobiotic" she said. "Good for you. Can I help?"
They worked happily shoulder to shoulder in the tiny galley, and every time they moved they brushed against each other. She smelled of scented soap, and when he looked down on top of her head, her curly hair was so dense and lustrous that he had an almost uncontrollable urge to bury his face in it. Instead he went to look for another bottle of wine.
He emptied four assorted cans into the pot, chopped onions and potatoes over the mixture and spooned in curry powder. He served it on a bed of rice.
"Delicious,"Janine declared. "What do you call it?" "Don't ask embarrassing questions." "When you launch her, where will you sail her?" Craig reached over her head and brought down a chart and an Indian Ocean Pilot from the bookshelves.
"All right." He pointed out a position on the chart. "Here we are anchored in a secluded little cove on an island in the Seychelles. If you look out the porthole you will see the palm trees and the beaches whiter than sugar. Under us the water is so clear that we seem to be floating in air.".
Janine looked out of the porthole. "You know what you are right! There are the palm trees and I can hear guitars." When they finished eating they pushed the dishes aside, and pored over the books and charts.
"Where next? How about the Greek islands?" "Too touristy." She shook her head. "Australia and the Barrier Reef?" "Beauty!" She mimicked an Aussie accent. "Can I go topless, sport?" "Bottomless too, if you want." "Rude boy." The wine had flushed her cheeks, and put a sparkle in her eyes. She slapped his cheek lightly, and he knew he could kiss her then but before he moved, she said, "Roland told me you were a dreamer."
The name stopped him dead. He felt the coldness in his chest, and suddenly he was angry with her for spoiling the mood of the moment. He wanted to hurt her as she had just hurt him.
"Are you sleeping with him?" he asked, and she swayed back and stared at him with shock. Then her eyes slanted like those of a cat, and the rims of her nostrils turned bone white with fury.
"What did you say?" His own perversity would not let him turn back from the precipice, and he stepped out over it.
"I asked if you were sleeping with him." "Are you sure you want to know?" "Yes." "All right, the answer is "yes", and it's bloody marvelous. Okay?" "Okay,"he said miserably.
"Now you can take me home, please." They drove in complete silence except for her terse directions, and when he parked outside the three-storey block of apartments, he noticed that they were called Beau Vallon, the same as the Seychelles beach over which they had fantasized.
She climbed out of the Land-Rover. "I'm grateful for the lift," she said, and walked up the paved path towards the entrance of the building.
Before she reached it, she turned and came back. "Do you know that you are a spoilt little boy?" she asked. "And that you give up on everything, just like you did on the tennis court." This time she disappeared into the entrance of the building without looking back.
When he got back to the yacht, Craig put the charts and books away, then he cleaned the dishes, dried them, and stacked them in their racks. He thought he had left a bottle of gin in one of the cupboards, but he couldn't find it. There wasn't even any of the wine left. He sat in the saloon with the gaslight hissing softly over his head, and he felt numb and empty. There was no point in going to his bunk. He knew he would not sleep.
He unlaced the kit bag the leather-bound journal that Jonathan had loaned him was on top. He opened it and began to read. It had been written in 1860. The writer was Zouga Ballantyne, Craig's great-great-grandfather.
After a while, Craig no longer felt numb and empty, for he was on the quarterdeck of a tall ship, running southwards down the green Atlantic towards a savage enchanted continent.
Samson Kumalo stood in the centre of the dusty track and watched Craig's beaten-up old Land-Rover growl away up the avenue of spathodea trees. When it took the turn past the old cemetery and disappeared, he picked up his bag and opened the garden gate of the staff cottage. He walked around the side of the building, and stopped below the back porch.
His grandfather, Gideon Kumalo, sat on a straight-backed kitchen chair. The walking-stick, carved like a twisted serpent, was propped between his feet and both his hands rested on the head. He was asleep, sitting upright in the uncomfortable chair in the blaze of the white sunlight.
"It is the only way I can get warm, "he had told Samson. His hair was white and fluffy as cotton wool, the little goatee beard on the tip of his chin trembled with each gentle snore of his breathing. His skin seemed so thin and delicate, that it might tear like ancient parchment, and it was the same very dark amber colour. The network of wrinkles that covered it was cruelly exposed by the direct glare of the sun.
Careful not to block the old man's sunlight, Samson climbed the steps, set his bag aside and sat on the half-wall in front of him. He studied his face, and felt again that gentle suffocating feeling of love. it was more than the duty that any Matabele boy was taught to show to his elders, it went beyond the conventions of parental affection, for between the two of them was an almost mystical bond.
For almost sixty years Gideon Kumalo had been the assistant headmaster at Khami Mission School. Thousands of young Matabele boys and girls had grown up under his guidance, but none had been as special to him as his own grandson.
Suddenly the old man started and opened his eyes. They were milky-blue and sightless as those of a newborn puppy. He tilted his head at a blind listening angle. Samson held his breath and sat motionless, fearful that Gideon might have at last lost the sense of perception which was almost miraculous. The old man turned his head slowly the other way, and listened again. Samson saw his nostrils flare slightly as he sniffed the air.