Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  The door on the far side of the room opened. A woman swaddled in a white towelling robe walked towards the raised dais in the middle of the room. She was barefoot and had long hair reaching to her shoulders. Long red hair.

  He stared. He could actually feel his jaw dropping. She turned round, her back to the class, and let the robe fall to the floor. She was naked. Quite wide shoulders, a lovely long back and, at the base of her spine, a delicate tattoo. It was with a sense of inevitability that he recognised the design. What looked like the sign for female sexuality superimposed on a rose. The Monas. Of course. What else?

  Facing the class once more, she gracefully lowered herself and settled among the clutch of pillows piled up on the dais, her long limbs sprawling. There was no attempt at modesty. One leg was slightly raised, the other in a flat triangle, her foot resting on the inner thigh. The pose left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

  Heavy breasts with dusky pink aureoles. Rounded hips and arms. She was far from being overweight but there was a softness, a lusciousness, about her that was almost old-fashioned in this age in which a more angular kind of beauty was prized. She had long, deeply elegant legs and thin ankles. What struck him was how relaxed she was. There wasn’t a hint of tension in her body. Her face was serene and she had that unfocused look in her eyes he recognised from the photographs he had studied in Monk House. As though she was just waking up from a particularly potent dream. And to think that behind those limpid eyes lay a PhD mind.

  But her mind was not exactly what he was most interested in right this minute. Prepare to be wowed, Isidore had said. Well, he was certainly wowed all right. He could hardly swallow, his mouth was so dry.

  But he couldn’t just sit here, stunned. Clutching the charcoal in one sweaty fist, he hesitantly drew a few whisper-thin lines. But how to reproduce glorious flesh and blood on the flat emptiness of an unforgiving piece of paper, that was the question. More to the point, how to ignore such glorious flesh and blood and concentrate solely on technique? He sneaked a surreptitious look around him. The other men in the class didn’t seem to have a problem shoving their baser instincts back into the cave. There was no leering or lip-smacking, that was for sure. They were sketching with vigour and, he couldn’t help but notice, surprising skill. At the easel to the left of him was a man who was a dead ringer for Vin Diesel—checked shirt, bulging biceps, shaved skull. He was holding the stick of charcoal with great delicacy, drawing with enviable confidence. And what at first had looked like random strokes were starting to take on the form of something beautiful. And recognisable. His own attempt—if not quite in the stick figure category—looked like a rather pathetic attempt at primitive art.

  All those eyes on her, but she seemed hardly aware of their presence. She was looking at a spot somewhere in the middle distance but there was nothing studied about her detached attitude. Every now and then she would blink—almost in slow motion—and her eyes would make a leisurely sweep of the room. They met his twice. The sensation was strange. The first eye contact lasted only a second, but he felt a tiny shock run through him. The second time, her eyes lingered on him for longer and the touch of her gaze stayed with him even after she had looked away.

  He was surprised when she stood up and slid the robe back on. He looked at his watch. Difficult to believe, but a full hour had passed since she had walked into the room. Around him the men were stretching and packing up their equipment. The atmosphere of studious calm that had prevailed was disappearing. Someone said something under his breath, and it was met with a few loud guffaws.

  He was bent over, rummaging inside his backpack for the keys to his car, when he became aware of two bare feet standing next to him. The toes were small with the nails painted a soft pink. He had just been staring at them for an hour. They really were quite lovely.

  ‘So my bum looks that big?’

  He straightened. Minnaloushe Monk was smiling quizzically, amused.

  ‘Uh…’ He stared at the canvas and his miserable attempt at artistry. This was truly embarrassing. Thank goodness she had a sense of humour.

  He turned back to her ruefully. ‘Please don’t be offended. It is the skill of the artist, not the beauty of the sitter, that is at fault.’

  She smiled again. Her eyes were pale green with fugitive yellow flecks, and they tilted just slightly at the corners, conveying an impression of quite delicious cat-like femininity. ‘Very gallant.’ Her voice was just the tiniest bit breathy. She lifted an eyebrow. ‘I may be wrong, but I get the impression that you are… new to drawing?’

  ‘I think it’s a question of enthusiasm outstripping talent. But let me introduce myself. Gabriel Blackstone, artist manqué.’

  ‘Hm.’ After a few moments she held out her hand. ‘I’m Minnaloushe Monk.’ Her grip was soft but far from flaccid. ‘So what is it you do, Gabriel Blackstone? When you’re not in pursuit of the muse, that is.’

  She was still smiling but he had the impression that her attention was not quite with him any longer, that for some reason she was losing interest in the conversation. She had turned slightly sideways as though about to move away.

  He took a deep breath. ‘I’m a thief.’

  ‘A jewel thief, no doubt.’ She was playing along, but she was humouring him. She probably thought this was a rather lame pick-up line.

  ‘Oh, no. Nothing as romantic as that. I steal information.’

  For the first time she looked at him fully. Her pupils swelled. He got the feeling that only now was she truly focusing on him, seeing him as a person.

  ‘Information?’

  ‘Data.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Mostly off the computers of big companies.’

  If she was shocked she certainly did not show it. She was staring at him avidly and her voice was tinged with excitement. ‘It must be an amazing sensation, having all that information at your fingertips.’

  He grinned. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Do you make the information your own?’

  He paused. He wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘I sell it. Like thieves do.’

  ‘Of course.’ She continued staring at him. Her gaze had changed from soft focus to laser-sharp intensity. He was starting to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘And you? Is this a well-paid gig? Modelling?’

  She laughed. ‘Hardly. This is just something I do on the side. I sell masks. Mostly African. Some Polynesian.’

  ‘It sounds fascinating. I’d love to see your shop.’

  ‘I work from home.’ She was still staring at him. ‘If you’re interested, why don’t you come with me and take a look? Maybe you’ll see something that strikes your fancy.’

  ‘You mean, now?’

  ‘No time like the present. I just need a minute to get dressed.’ She looked at the keys in his hand. ‘You have your car here? Good. I live close by but you can give me a lift.’

  He couldn’t believe it was going to be as easy as this. He had meant to pique her interest by confessing to being a thief, but he had somehow managed to say the magic word and the door to Monk House was to be opened to him. If only he knew what the magic word was. But maybe she was simply turned on by the fact that he was breaking the law. Bored little rich girl looking for a vicarious thrill.

  When she reappeared, she was wearing a long summery dress with thin spaghetti straps. She looked younger, less sophisticated. But what made him feel suddenly short of breath was the thin silver chain round her neck. A chain from which dangled a charm in the shape of the letter M.

  ‘Are you OK?’ She was looking at him enquiringly.

  ‘Sure.’ He dragged his eyes away from her neck. If he kept staring at her throat he was sure to creep her out. Furthermore, it was not yet the time to jump to any conclusions, pendant or no pendant. But it was difficult to keep his excitement in check. There was no doubt in his mind. The chain round her neck was the same as the one worn by the woman at the pool.

  They had stopped next to the Jag. As he unl
ocked the door for her, he moved closer. If he could get a whiff of her perfume, and if it matched the scent worn by the masked woman… But in this he was disappointed. She smelled of soap and shampoo. Clean, fresh.

  He closed the door and got in on the driver’s side. As he turned the key in the ignition, she ran her forefinger along the dashboard. ‘Walnut?’

  ‘Yes. Non-standard, though. I was lucky to get it.’

  ‘The XK150 is my favourite model. It has the best bones. And great torque.’

  He took his eyes off the road for a second and glanced over at her. ‘You’re into cars?’

  ‘I like cars. But the petrolhead is my sister. She could get a job as a mechanic. So where did you find this lady?’ She patted the dashboard again.

  ‘I found her on the Internet, actually. I was smitten and bought her before I even saw her in the flesh. Admittedly, she wasn’t in good shape when I finally got my hands on her. It took a lot of work and she’s high-maintenance. But then, one has to remember she’s all of forty-seven years old.’

  ‘A man who can appreciate a mature woman is rare. And anything worthwhile is high-maintenance, anyway.’

  ‘Amen to that.’ He suddenly realised he was involuntarily pointing the car in the direction of Monk House. As he wasn’t supposed to know where she lived, it was a rather stupid move.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked quickly. ‘Am I going the right way?’

  ‘Hm? Oh. Yes, actually. Just another two blocks. Then turn right. It’s the house on the corner.’

  There was a non-residential parking space right in front of the house. While she was busy unlocking the front door, Gabriel fed some pound coins into the meter. Sixty minutes. He doubted he would be asked to stay that long, but you never knew.

  As he stepped into the entrance hall, he again registered the strange potpourri of fragrances he had noticed the night before. An unusual combination of scents. That acrid bitter smell of alkaline ash overlaid by the sweeter smell of roses and tangerines. But no one could ever doubt that there were women living in this house.

  ‘Morrighan?’ Minnaloushe stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. ‘Are you here?’

  There was no answer. After a moment or two, she turned away. ‘I was hoping my sister was in. I’d like you to meet her.’

  Flattering. And baffling. He was not an unduly modest guy, but he still couldn’t figure out why this woman had not only brought him to her house, but now wanted to introduce him to the relatives as well. He doubted it was because she was bowled over by his sex appeal. She was watching him with that speculative look he had noticed earlier. As though she were an entomologist and he was some kind of interesting lepidopteron. It made him feel slightly embarrassed. She, on the other hand, was completely relaxed. It still amazed him that it didn’t bother her in the slightest to be in the presence of a man she didn’t know who had been staring at her in the altogether for a good part of the morning.

  He looked around him. ‘This is a lovely staircase.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ She nodded emphatically, the red hair swinging silkily against one bare shoulder. ‘It’s my favourite thing in the house. I love staircases. I wouldn’t be able to live in a place without one. I believe they’re essential to anyone wanting to live an interesting life. There are so many wonderful stories of houses with staircases: Gone with the Wind, War and Peace…’

  ‘Bluebeard?’

  ‘Of course. I had forgotten that one.’ She smiled. ‘Through here.’ She gestured to the door leading to the living room.

  The room looked even larger than it had the night before. He noticed the computers were switched off, the screensavers of the woman holding an exploding sun replaced by blackness. It reminded him of another problem. The diary. And the other password-protected file: The Promethean Key. How to access them?

  The tarantula was still inside its glass box. Hairy, mean-looking, at least in daylight it seemed real and less like something from an insane hallucination.

  Minnaloushe saw him looking at it and smiled. ‘Why do I get the impression you don’t really care for spiders?’

  ‘I can’t say that I do.’

  ‘This one is from South America. He’s quite harmless, you know.’

  ‘He’s still ugly.’

  ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’ Without warning, she pushed the lid off the glass case and reached inside. When she extracted her hand, the spider was sitting on the inside of her hand, the hairy body almost filling her palm, the long legs balanced on her splayed fingers.

  He took an involuntary step backwards. ‘What makes you keep it? Is it a pet?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m fascinated by it. As I am by all things magical.’

  ‘Magical?’

  ‘Well, think of it this way. Goliath here moves so delicately, he leaves no prints. Can you imagine that? A creature leaving no trace of its passing. Like a ghost. As my sister always says, if that’s not magical, what is?’

  She brought her other hand close to the first. He noticed that the insides of her palms were pale pink and the lines ran deep and true. With a lifeline like that she was going to live to be a hundred. After a moment’s hesitation, the tarantula stepped gingerly from one hand to the other.

  ‘But you’re not interested in Goliath.’ She inserted her hand back inside the glass box and deposited the spider gently onto the granite pebbles. ‘You want to look at my masks. Let me show you.’ Turning towards him, she touched his arm lightly and pointed at the wall. ‘Here they are. You like?’

  Not really, he thought. They were rather sinister-looking. ‘Where do you find them?’

  ‘I have a number of scouts I buy from. And once a year I travel to Africa myself.’

  He let his eyes travel over the rows of stylised faces. Enigmatic. Brooding. Unknowable.

  ‘How did you become interested in masks?’

  ‘I’m interested in identity. And transformation.’

  Transformation. OK, this rang a bell. Isidore said that alchemists were really involved in transforming the soul. And there was that passage in the book in the bedroom. He wasn’t able to remember the exact words, but it was something about transforming yourself into divine man, or something equally kooky.

  She spoke again. ‘Most African masking has to do with representing spirits, especially ancestral spirits. In some cultures—for example, the Mende of Sierra Leone—a mask is a tool for moving on to a higher plane. By donning the mask the masker actually becomes the spirit. So the process is not representation but transformation.’

  ‘I’ve always thought masks had to do with concealment.’

  ‘Concealment is a vital part, of course. Hiding your identity. Or adopting a false one.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘You should understand that.’

  His heart missed a beat. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you live in cyberspace. And in cyberspace one can so easily adopt an alias. That’s when pinpointing someone’s true identity becomes the real prize, don’t you think? One’s true name is the ultimate secret.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ His heart was still racing. In order to hide his confusion, he pointed to a sloe-eyed mask with a wide nose and fastidious sneer. It also had teeth.

  ‘I rather like this one.’

  ‘You have a good eye. That is a very rare mask indeed. It is from central Africa—one of the Makishi masks. They are used during the male circumcision ceremony. Usually, after the ceremony, the masks are burned. So I’m very lucky that this one got rescued before it was destroyed.’

  He reached out his hand but before he could touch the mask she said, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  He stopped, hand arrested in mid-air. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It is believed that Makishi masks like this one are so powerful and potent that non-initiates touching the mask will become diseased.’

  ‘Diseased?’

  ‘The body may contract a horrible illness. Or the mind could break down.’

  H
e lowered his arm. ‘Nice. Do you believe in that stuff?’

  She lifted an eyebrow. ‘If you play safe, you don’t get hurt.’

  ‘If you play safe, you don’t have fun.’

  ‘How true.’ She gave him that appraising look once again, her green eyes considering. As though she were weighing him up, he thought. Wondering if he would make the grade.

  ‘This may be more your style.’ She lifted a roughly hewn, heart-shaped mask from the wall. ‘From the Kwele tribe, Gabon.’

  He took it from her rather gingerly. ‘What is its purpose?’

  ‘To fight witchcraft.’

  He glanced over at her, surprised. She was smiling gently, the expression in her eyes hard to read.

  He looked back at the face in his hands. The features were quite delicate, unlike the Makishi mask with its aggressive teeth.

  ‘Well, that could come in handy, I suppose. How much for this one?’

  ‘Why don’t you live with it first? See if you like it? I encourage all my clients to try out their masks first. Find out if they can share a room with it.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you. Thanks.’ And it would give him a pretext to come back. A reason to contact her again.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Would you like some tea? I usually make a pot of my own home-brewed ginkgo and alfalfa leaf tea at this time.’

  Alfalfa leaf tea didn’t sound particularly appetising but he nodded. ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘Let’s go through to the kitchen.’

  As they entered the kitchen he stiffened. On top of one of the chairs was his nemesis of the night before. The devil cat. And the animosity was still mutual. He had hardly spotted the cat before it got to its feet, tail swishing, eyes fixed on him with unwavering intensity.

  ‘Hey, Bruno.’ Minnaloushe stooped and picked it up. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Gabriel eyed the cat with trepidation. It was tense as a coil and seemed ready to jump out of her arms and launch itself at him. ‘I don’t think it likes me.’