her hand, denying, denying that someone could have been laughing at them, that they could ever be something to laugh at.
After a safe interval she dressed and they went outside. The bougainvillaea would give foothold up to the small window, but was cruelly thorny. She began to be able to believe that what she had heard was some sort of suppressed exclamation of pain – and serve the bastard right. Then they searched the ground for shoe prints but found nothing. The red earth crumbled with worm-shredded leaves would have packed down under the soles of shoes, but, as he pointed out to her, might not show the print of bare feet. Would some dirty Peeping Tom of a private detective take off his shoes and tear his clothes in the cause of his disgusting profession? She a little behind him – but she wouldn’t let him go alone – they walked in every direction away from the cottage, and through the deserted stables where there were obvious hiding-places. But there was no one, one could feel there was no one, and on the paved paths over which rains had washed sand, no footprints but their own. On the way to their cars, they passed the granadilla vine they had remarked to one another on their way in, that had spread its glossy coat-of-mail over weakening shrubs and was baubled with unripe fruit. Now the ground was scattered with green eggs of granadil-las, bitten into and then half-eaten or thrown away. He and she broke from one another, gathering them, examining them. Only a hungry fruit-eating animal would plunder so indiscriminately. He was the first to give spoken credence. ‘I didn’t want to tell you, but I thought I heard something, too. Not a laugh, a sort of bark or cough.’
Suddenly she had him by the waist, her head against his chest, they were laughing and giddy together. ‘Poor monkey. Poor, poor old lonely monkey. Well, he’s lucky; he can rest assured we won’t tell anyone where to find him.’
When she was in her car, he lingered at her face, as always, turned to him through the window. There was curiosity mingled with tenderness in his. ‘You don’t mind a monkey watching us making love?’
She looked back at him with the honesty that she industriously shored up against illusions of any kind, preparing herself for – some day – their last afternoon. ‘No, I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.’
While Charles drove about the country fetching what was needed – sometimes away several days, covering long distances – Vusi and Eddie bricked up the fourth wall of the shed. The girl insisted on helping although she knew nothing about the type of work. ‘Just show me.’ That was her humble yet obstinate plea. She learnt how to mix cement in a puddle of the right consistency. Her long skinny arms with the blue vein running down the inside of the elbows were stronger than they looked; she steadied timber for the door-frame. The only thing was, she didn’t seem to want to cook. They would rather have had her cook better meals for them than help with what they could have managed for themselves. She seemed to expect everyone in the house to prepare his own meals when he might feel hungry. The white man, Charles, did so, or cooked with her; this must be some special arrangement decided between them, a black woman would always cook every night for her lover, indeed for all the men in the house. She went to town once a week, when the combi was available, to buy food, but the kind of thing she bought was not what they wanted, what they felt like eating for these few weeks when they were sure there would be food available. Yoghurt, cheese, brown rice, nuts and fruit – the fruit was nice (Vusi had not seen apricots for so long, he ate a whole bagful at a sitting) but the frozen pork sausages she brought for them (she and Charles were vegetarian) weren’t real meat. Eddie didn’t want to complain but Vusi insisted, talking in their room at night, it was their right. ‘That’s what she’s here for, isn’t it, what they’re both here for. We each do our job.’ He asked her next day. ‘Joy, man, bring some meat from town, man, not sausages.’
Eddie was emboldened, frowned agreement, but giggling. ‘And some mealie-meal. Not always rice.’
‘Oh Charles and I like mealie-pap too. But