“Is that a proposal?”
“Just a minute. I’ll tell you.” Gat leaned over and kissed her tenderly. Her lips tasted sweet. She pulled away before he wanted her to.
WHEN THEY left the smells of coffee and cigarette smoke and got outside, the air was fresh. It was just beginning to lose the warmth of the day. “How do I get you home?” Gat asked. “Are there taxis around here?”
“You could walk me home,” Petra suggested.
“Is it that close?”
“Half an hour.”
They walked through the quiet streets, the air fresh and cool on their arms, their hands not touching but longing to touch. Gat knew he should feel at peace. Instead he wondered: What was he doing in this strange city? With this teenage girl? He was looking for a woman. But he was moving through the quiet night beside the overprotected daughter of a senior police official who was inexperienced and undoubtedly a virgin.
Yet as their footsteps clicked through the darkness, illumined now and then by streetlights, he felt again the presence following him: Katanga and what he’d done there. As they passed beneath the leafy overhang of a tree, he took the girl’s arm and turned her toward him. They kissed, tentatively, his hands clasping her shoulders, her hands at her sides. The kiss was so sweet that Gat felt the presence retreat. Now he held her body close to his and kissed her more forcefully. The presence retreated even farther away. He and the girl looked at one another and started walking again, his arm around her waist.
They reached her parents’ house. He walked her to the stoep. They looked at one another and kissed again. Gat felt partly outside himself and looked at the two of them with amusement. He was being as virginal as the girl, holding her hands in his, gazing into her uncertain eyes. He knew that she wondered what came next. And did he? “Is this good-bye?” he heard himself ask. “Are you going to Stellenbosch tomorrow?”
“Would you like to come in?” she asked.
He entered the house with her and felt Katanga shut away outside. In the darkness of the entry he kissed her. Then again slowly. She opened her mouth to his and in the quiet of the house, its night sounds like contented breathing, he tasted her sweetness. “We’re alone here,” Petra said. Gat kissed her again, deeply, and held her, clung to her, feeling safe with her body against his. They embraced tightly in the dark. She asked, “Why are you really here?”
“To be with you.”
“You’re holding on to me as if—”
“As if my life depended on it?” He kissed her forehead.
“Do you have to be so corny?” Still he held on. “But why are you?”
“Things in Katanga are so— Ghastly. I’ve known I couldn’t go back until—”
Petra snickered lightly in the dark. “I didn’t think you really wanted to marry me. Do you?” They laughed and he continued to cling to her.
Gat whispered, “I need you to save my life.”
“I thought I’d seen too many movies,” Petra told him. “But you’re the one.” She broke from his arms and walked through the dark parlor with its antiques and forebears’ portraits, on into the parlor that overlooked the garden. She turned on a light. “Is there nothing to do in Katanga but watch movies?”
Gat followed her, thinking that her ancestors, those Netherlands burghers, would certainly not approve of their being alone together in the house, yet feeling the presence of Katanga waiting just beyond the door. He wanted to hold her again. He checked himself—like an eighteen-year-old. Play it at her age level, he counseled himself.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “Not coffee.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“I’d offer you my father’s Scotch or vodka,” she explained. “That’s probably what you’d like, but he keeps it locked up because otherwise he’s sure Elsie gets into it.” She smiled. “He can’t allow himself to think that I would.”
“Do you?”
She gave him a crooked smile, then looked at the ceiling, her mind trying to visualize the contents of the refrigerator. “I think there’s Appletizer.”
“Whatever that is, fine.” He paced while she was gone.
She returned with two tall glasses of golden liquid, beads of condensation sweating on the glasses the way Gat felt himself sweating inside, wanting her. They clicked glasses a little awkwardly and drank. Gat smelled the aroma of apple juice and felt the coolness move into his body, calming him. Petra went to the tall radio-phonograph, turned on the radio, and dialed to a music station. She gestured Gat to a couch and sat on an overstuffed chair beside it, uncertain of what would happen if she sat beside him on the couch. She gazed at him a long moment, then repeated what he had said, “ ‘I need you to save my life.’ Why do you tell me that?”
“Because it’s true.”
“How can it be true?” Gat shrugged. “I don’t know what that means,” she said. “Boys don’t talk to me that way.”
“I’m not a boy.”
“Is that a Belgian officer’s way of getting a girl to—” She shrugged.
“No.” Gat told himself to proceed carefully; the girl obviously felt out of her depth. “I’m sick of what my country has done in the Congo,” he explained. “I’m ashamed. It’s not pleasant to be ashamed of your country when your job is to defend it.” Gat left the couch to sit on the end of the coffee table. He slid his hands beneath Petra’s skirt, lodged them behind her knees, felt the weave of her hose. She looked uncertain. “I want to be with someone who has no taint of the Congo on her. Or Katanga.” She shifted her legs, crossed them. Gat withdrew his hands. He stood and paced. “Katanga is right outside that door.” He pointed toward the door into the garden. “I want it to stay there. And that’s how you save my life.”
Petra said nothing. She stared into her drink.
“I’ve frightened you, haven’t I?” He looked at the girl. She refused to look at him. “Would you like me to go?”
She nodded, still staring at her drink. He stopped pacing, stood looking at her with his hands in his pockets. He started toward the door. She stood, put her drink down. He watched her a moment, then moved through the formal parlor into the entry hall. He heard her trailing after him. At the entry door he turned toward her. She watched him from the formal parlor. “I’m sorry I’m so young,” she said.
“I’m sorry I frightened you.”
“Did something happen in Katanga?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And being with me keeps you from—”
He nodded.
This man might need her for solace; that idea had never occurred to her. “I dreamed about you last night,” she said. “Thought about you all day.”
“I did some thinking about you.”
They smiled at each other.
“I feel like such a child,” Petra said. “That’s how my father treats me. And Kobus. How old are you?”
“I’m thirty.” Gat smiled gently. “Does that seem older than time itself?”
“I don’t want to feel like a child anymore.” They looked at one another without moving. “As soon as my parents left this morning, I called Kobus. I told him I was sick, couldn’t go to Stellenbosch. Because I hoped you’d be at the coffeehouse tonight.”
He moved back toward her. He did not touch her because he knew that this was what she hoped he’d do and it was too early yet. “You knew I’d be there, didn’t you?”
“I worried all day about working this out,” she admitted. “Called Hazel. Wondered what I should wear. I even went to a library and read up about the Congo so you wouldn’t think me a ninny.”
“You’re not a ninny. You’re lovely. When you walked into the coffeehouse, my heart jumped into my throat.”
“I hoped you’d walk me home. I daydreamed about it. I wasn’t sure what I’d want to happen if you did. Not this, you about to go.” She looked forlorn. He smiled at her, loving the child in her that was trying to become a woman. “Why don’t you kiss me or something?”
&nb
sp; He smiled at her, wanting her to want him. The music from the radio swirled into the room. “Dance with me.”
She moved to him in the entry hall. He took her in his arms, held her close. She trembled as they moved to the music, her body against his, he feeling the pressure of her breasts against his chest, she pleased by the warmth of his cheek against hers, by the swelling in his groin as he pushed against her. She tasted the apple juice sweetness on his lips. He smelled her hair, the perfume of her mother’s soap. They clung together as the music wrapped about them.
When the music ended, he gently pulled the beret from her head. She shook out her hair. He ran his fingers through it. He kissed her deeply, slid a hand to her breast. “I want to sleep with you,” he whispered. “You must have known that when you first saw me look at you.”
“My mother knew before I did.”
“Let’s leave her out of this.” She smiled and watched his hands begin to unfasten the buttons of her blouse. She let it fall to the floor, allowed him to unfasten her bra and pull it off. He cupped her breasts, bent her backward to kiss them. She felt a quiver surge through her body as his lips lightly bit a nipple.
He raised her skirt and half-slip to her waist, felt the garter belt and hose, the panties and girdle. “So much stuff between me and you!” he said. She retrieved her blouse and bra, led him back into the small parlor, extinguished the light. “Don’t look at me,” she said.
“Of course, I’m going to look at you.”
In the darkness she removed her clothes. He admired her, crouched beside her to kiss and caress her body. She felt dizzy as his hands moved over her. Finally she stopped those hands. She said, “I don’t know what a man looks like.”
He put her hands on his groin. “That’s what he feels like,” he said. “I’ll take off my clothes upstairs.” He lifted her in his arms and climbed the stairs, carrying her. She thought, I’m becoming a woman. Two different men have carried me up to my room today.
When they reached the top of the stairs, she whispered, “I’m a virgin,” looking shame-faced. “It’s a nuisance, isn’t it?”
“Do you want to stay one?”
She shook her head and pointed to her room. He entered it with her still in his arms, the smell of Kobus’s roses perfuming the room. He kissed her and let her down. “If you want to stay a virgin, there are things we can do, things that—”
“But you won’t enjoy it, will you?”
“I don’t want to take anything from you that you—” He shrugged. “You may not be ready for this. It could hurt a little at first.”
“Can you make sure I won’t get pregnant?”
He nodded. She looked uncertain. “I’ll show you when the time comes.” He looked at the bed. “That’s awfully narrow.”
“There’s a double bed in the guest room.” She led him there. He smiled, watching her move with her arms held before her breasts. While she opened the bed, he eased off his loafers and began to undress. She took the tunic of his safari suit and draped it on the gentleman’s stand that her English grandfather had used. He removed his trousers and handed them to her. As she folded them over the stand, a thought occurred to her. “Will I bleed?” she asked.
“Some probably.”
She hurried to the bathroom and returned, carrying the guest towels. She spread them across the center of the bed. “Do you mind if I do this?” She turned to receive his permission for the towels and found that he was naked. He let her look at him. “You’re so big,” she whispered.
“That’s why a virgin bleeds.” She looked into his eyes, a little fearfully, then back at his groin. It fascinated her. He took her hand and guided it to him.
“It’s so hard.”
“It doesn’t work unless it’s hard.” She looked up at him, still holding him, and he wrapped his arms about her. She put her arms about his firm soldier’s body, loving the feel of his skin against hers. “You’re so warm,” she said.
PETRA CRIED when Gat entered her. But he kissed her so tenderly, kissing the tears away from her eyes, that she endured the pain, even enjoyed it. And it did not grow worse, but eased as he moved against her and away and against her again. She clung to him and he to her and it was like a rocket blast that shot both of them somewhere neither of them had ever been. Afterward they clung to each other wrapped about one another and Gat felt safe.
CHAPTER FIVE
CAPE TOWN
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 1961
As Gat left the bed, he was aware of the rise and fall of Petra’s breathing. He washed quietly in the bathroom. Since all towels were spread across the bed, he used a washcloth to dry himself. Now, returning to the bedroom, he heard no sound at all. She was awake. He tiptoed to the bed, settled onto it, and gazed over at her. She had pulled the sheet and summer blanket up to her chin.
“Are you all right? You cried.”
“It hurt.” She sat up. “But I liked it.”
He reached out, touched her face. “I should go.”
“Why?”
“It’s the chivalrous thing to do.”
“Is it? I’d think the chivalrous thing would be to stay.” He stroked her face. “Are you going to leave me all alone in this house, thinking I’ve given my virginity to a man I’ll never see again?”
He moved to her, slid his legs about her body and his arms about her head. “I can’t leave,” he whispered, “because I don’t know where the hell I am.” She rearranged herself so that she could embrace him. “Do I just walk downhill?” They kissed for a time. “If I leave, when can I see you again?”
“Stop talking about leaving. I don’t want you to leave!” She said, “I’m a mess. I did bleed.” She slid off the bed, leaned down to stare at the towels, and began to pull them off the bed. Gat got up beside her. They collected the towels and started toward the bathroom. “Don’t come in here with me,” she said.
“I got you dirty. Let me wash you.”
“You’re a pest!” She stood in the bathroom doorway and took the towels from him. “There’s a linen closet in the hall. Go get a couple of towels.”
He walked naked into the hallway, found the closet and fetched the towels. When he returned, she had left the bathroom door open, was running water into the tub. Gat crouched beside the tub and flicked droplets at her. “You are a pest!” she said again.
He helped her into the tub, then followed and gently poured water over her from the cup he made of his hands. She stood and let him wash her. She washed him. Then they lay down together, her back to his chest. They refilled the water to keep it warm and finally left the tub, each rubbing the other dry, and returned to the bedroom. Petra lay down on the bed. Gat put on his shorts.
“Why are you doing that?”
“My friend here is going to swim into you again unless we keep him under wraps.”
“I want him to swim into me again.”
“But not unless he wears a raincoat.”
“Do you have another one?”
Gat lay beside her and whispered that he did. He pulled the sheet and summer blanket over them and they held each other. After a while Petra reached down and pulled open Gat’s shorts. They caressed one another. They made love again, Petra putting Gat’s raincoat on him. They slept, wound about each other, and Gat felt again at peace.
AT HIS hotel in Pretoria, while dressing, Colonel Rousseau received an early morning phone call. “Sorry to bother you, Colonel,” said the duty officer in Cape Town, “but you’re to be informed about serious crimes committed by non-whites against whites.”
“What’s happened?” asked the colonel.
“A Belgian tourist—probably a tourist—was killed outside a brothel in District Six. Gates of Heaven. You know that place?”
“Know it. Never patronized it, though.” Rousseau smiled at that comment.
“Heard the girls are so-so, but never tried them out.” There was a crackle of static over the line from Cape Town. “We’ve got the victim’s wallet so it doesn’t look
like he was killed resisting a robbery. More likely a knife fight. Apparently the victim was an officer—lieutenant—of the Congo’s Force Publique.”
Another officer from the Congo, Rousseau thought. He wondered if the victim knew— Gautier. Wasn’t that the name? Had they come to the Union together? Gone whoring together? “Name?” asked the colonel.
“Gabriel Michels, age 28.”
“Got a suspect?”
“Not yet. Michels was known at the brothel. Obstreperous, a braggart. Refused to pay. They threw him out. According to the madam, that was before the body was found on the street. It’s likely that perp’s run off. We’re betting he was cut up pretty bad.”
“Anything else?”
“Victim was carrying eighty American dollars in a money belt. We’d sure like to know where he got American.”
Yes, thought Rousseau. Those boys weren’t paid that well. And never in dollars. Must have been up to some mischief. He wondered if Gautier was involved. “Close down the brothel,” the colonel instructed. “Until I get back, hold the madam, her bouncer if you can find him, and every girl Michels patronized.” “Anything else?”
“Check with immigration. Find when he entered the country. And see if another Belgian officer—Gautier—entered with him.” Rousseau spelled Gautier’s name. “That’s it,” the colonel said. “Thanks for calling.”
“Yes, sir. Have a good day.”
The colonel hung up the phone, finished buttoning his shirt, and reached for his tie. He threaded it under his collar and began to knot it before a mirror. His wife watched him. She knew better than to inquire about phone calls. But she had heard her husband mention Gautier and wondered what the connection might be.
Brushing her hair at the vanity, Margaret Rousseau observed, “Petra was quite taken with Captain Gautier.”
“I noticed,” replied the Colonel. “Good thing she’s gone to Stellenbosch.”
WHEN PETRA woke Gat, light filled the room. He went to use the bathroom and returned to the bed. They lay against one another, enjoying the feel of each other’s skin. They listened to the sounds of early morning, a rooster crowing far off, the first cars in the streets.
Love in the Time of Apartheid Page 8
