29 March 1988
Westville
In the news: –- Something about an ANC rep being assassinated in Paris. Not sure, just heard something about it on the radio.
After staying in bed for three (?) days, P showered me (washed my hair, tenderly), dressed me, and hauled me off to a shrink. After an hour or so of talking she explained to P & I that it looks like I have something called Post Partum Depression - PPD. I knew about Baby Blues – most women feel some kind of down after giving birth (hormone crash, exhaustion, disillusionment, etc.) but this is different.
Just admitting the terrible thoughts I have been having (only when P was out of the room) helped me. Judy (the shrink) asked me lots of questions and we went through a checklist of symptoms. Just knowing the symptoms exist on a piece of paper made me feel slightly better – definitely less guilty. Other mothers also feel this way? It was like a huge raven that had been sitting on my shoulder shook his feathers and flew away.
She gave me some pills and I need to go back to see her a few times a week until I’m better. Before the session I had so little energy that I felt like I didn’t even care about getting better anymore. Now I feel like I would do anything to feel better. P kept glancing over at me on the way home, not sure if it was because he was worried or relieved.
HELLO, PRETTIES
17
Johannesburg, 2021
Fiona jumps out of the communal taxi with a skip in her step. She had ordered lingerie online and the nondescript parcel had been delivered to her at work. It had seemed to burn a hole in her desk drawer the whole afternoon. She hadn’t been this excited to open a package since she won a stationery extravaganza basket a few years ago. At five o’clock she grabbed it and ran to catch a lift home.
She opens the door to her flat and her three cats rush to trip her.
‘Hello, pretties,’ she says, and they meow back at her. She stumbles in, looking for a place to put her parcel down and trying not to step on any of the cats. She forgets to lock the door.
In her bedroom she opens the box and spends time admiring the silk and satin. She can feel the excitement build in her pelvis. A hum, a zing. She strips down in front of her full-length mirror. The sun is setting and the light coming through the window bronzes her body. She touches her nipples. She takes the first set, an ivory satin push-up bra ribbed with black lace, and very small matching panties, and puts them on. In her mind, the bra makes her cleavage look like a swimsuit model’s.
She stands and admires her reflection, moves to see the different angles. She runs her fingers over the softness of the material, over the bra and then over the panties. Her fingers trace her buttocks and the triangle of her front. She feels swollen from the afternoon of anticipation. She touches herself, hesitantly at first, but as she feels the pleasure build she lies down on her bed and lets her hand take over.
Afterwards, she lies in the light of dusk, listening to her pounding heart and enjoying the full body tingle that she had before only associated with sex with Seth. It’s dark when she hears a noise in the front of the house. She grips the bed. It must be one of the cats, she thinks, but hurries to put her dressing gown on. She would investigate, to put her mind at rest. Chide the cats for giving her a heart attack. But then she hears something else, something like slow footsteps, and knows that there is a stranger in her house.
SUB ROSA
18
Johannesburg, 2021
KL> I found it.
Kirsten bumps Keke.
KK>> God? Jesus? Yourself? The Meaning/Life?
KL> No, asshole. Doomsday.
KK>> Intriguing. Let’s say our final g-byes & go.
KL> Too far to drive on your bike. Limpopo. Comm taxi? I can get away by 1.
KK>> Sure. Meet u at Malema rank/town? Can lock up there.
Seth is busy with a taste diagram of CinnaCola. Each taste has a very specific shape, made up of how each of its flavours hits certain zones on your palate and nose. CinnaCola, for instance, has a complex, multi-layered flavour repertoire, so the diagram is very much 3D, with spikes on certain levels and rounded notes on others.
It isn’t dissimilar to the grind he did at Pharmax. There he would map out the delivery system of the drugs he created, making sure that the hits and the mellows were in the right place, conveying the best possible high and softest downer he could. Fizzy drinks aren’t all that different. Apart from the aromas you also have to map the fizz, the refreshment factor, and the sugar-and-caffeine buzz.
He was almost finished, and it was looking good, if he didn’t say so himself. It would make a good abstract artwork for the red boardroom. Tomorrow he would work on variations, ideas of how to ‘up the feel-good factor’, and ‘maximise the full-palate experience’ in CinnaCola-speak. It was only 2pm but he felt like he had done enough grind for the day. He stands up, ready to head home. Bracing himself for Wesley’s disappointed look, he’s surprised to see that he’s not in.
He looks both ways down the passage, as if to cross the road, then enters his manager’s office, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He swoops behind the desk, smacks a few keys, looks at the projection. Checks the desk drawers. They are clean, tidy, disturbingly organised, apart from one item of contraband: a rogue packet of Bilchen BlackSalt. Nothing how an office desk drawer should look. No expired snack bars, Scotch hipflasks or decade-old packets of cigarettes. Also, nothing to help his mission.
The computer asks for a password. Seth tries the Weasel’s wife’s name, the kids, the pet dachshund. Their birthdays. The date of their wedding anniversary. Access denied. Out of frustration he tries ‘fauxburger’. Denied. It was worth a try. He walks down to the Waters section, where Fiona now works. He circumvents her office and gets to the elevator, presses the button for the labs. Stepping inside the silver room, he takes off his red lanyard and stuffs it in his pocket. Puts Fiona’s new blue one on. Tries to not look suspicious as he exits the lift and holds Fiona’s access card up to the Lab entrance.
The Laboratory is a huge glass-walled warehouse filled with an army of white-coated nerds. Transparent doors lead to the adjacent factory, giving the impression that it is one huge – busy – hall of glass. He has his own lab coat on, so blends in to a certain degree, but still feels like there is a brightly lit, candy-coloured Las Vegas-style arrow hanging above his head, pointing out his intruder status.
He grabs a mask and sprays on some insta-gloves. He puts his head down and walks towards the back of the hall, taking mental notes as he goes. There are floating graphs in the air: 3D liquid displays, animated spinning cheese-wheel pie charts, shivering towers of calcium versus magnesium. Infographic heaven.
The other activities surrounding him are UV sterilisation, water ozonation, deionization, reverse osmosis, water softening, and blow moulding of the superglass bottles. A ticking banner overhead informs him that this plant produces a hundred thousand litres of water per hour. He needs to get a sample, which means he needs to get into the factory. He doesn’t know if Fiona’s access card is authorised but he knows he may not get another opportunity to try it. He holds the card up to the glass door -
Suddenly the building’s alarm goes off, high volume, as if it’s right in his head. Fuck! He swings around, expecting to see security guards with handcuffs, ready to cart him to the Red Jail. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had cheerful, colour-coded cells in the bowels of this building.