Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

She whirled around, her hand uplifted as if to ward off danger. But there was no one there. It was only the wind.

  She turned her attention to the window. Inside the opening to the window hung five, swaying wind chimes. The wind pushed through again. The chimes responded with an icy tremor.

  She tugged the window closed and the billowing lace curtain collapsed against her hand. Bunching the chimes together, she fastened them with the thin, silver restraining chain. How had the chain come undone? More to the point, how did this window come to be open?

  Perhaps she could persuade herself that the chain had slipped off by itself. She peered at it closely. An enlarged link at the end of the chain fitted firmly around a small hook at the other end. She brushed her hand against it. The chain held fast. Still, it wasn’t impossible. Maybe link and hook hadn’t connected properly. Yes. Definitely possible. As for the window—well, she must have opened it herself.

  But earlier tonight, when she had been in the kitchen, she had not been aware of a draught. Considering, though, that she had been scared out of her wits at the time, and intent only on silencing the phone, her memory was probably not reliable.

  She looked at the window again. There was no way for an intruder to get in through those burglar bars.

  In the hallway she tested the front door. It was locked solid and, even more reassuring: the keys were in the tray on top of the console table.

  Her confidence returned and stayed with her as she walked up the stairs and paused inside the wide doors of the living room. She switched on the lights and the room seemed cosy now. No more chilly shadows.

  But then she looked at the mantelpiece.

  A flawless smile. The hair swept back in a mass of curls. Alette’s amused eyes looking straight at her.

  The photograph was back in its frame.

  SIXTEEN

  … our very sorrowes weepe,

  That joyes so ripe, so little keepe.

  To Amarantha, That she would dishevell her haire

  Richard Lovelace (1618–1657)

  TRAFALGAR SQUARE WAS PACKED with tourists enjoying the gift of a mild evening in January. It was surprisingly warm and the sky was a deep, soft midnight blue. The road was busy: cars and buses congealing into a seemingly never-ending stream of traffic.

  Justin swore lightly under his breath and glanced at Isa. ‘Sorry about this, I should have taken a different route.’

  ‘Are we in a hurry?’

  ‘I made a reservation—’

  He swore again and stepped on the brakes as a girl with a pom-pom hat and a black miniskirt crossed the road directly in front of the car. Justin jabbed his hand at the horn. Without missing a stride, the girl flashed an impudent smile and blew him a kiss. Isa watched her as she disappeared into the crowd, the red pom-pom a brave splash of colour moving farther and farther away.

  She looked back at Justin. ‘I’m sure they’ll keep the table for us.’

  He sighed. ‘If not, we’ll have to settle for McDonald’s. All the restaurants will be booked solid by now.’

  It was another thirty-five minutes before they arrived at the restaurant, but their table had indeed been kept for them. It was the kind of place Justin liked: small and intimate, with pretty tablecloths, soft lighting, and attentive waiters. A serious menu with serious prices. The gloss of wealth without the vulgarity of excess.

  He had ordered a bottle of champagne and she smiled and nodded at this attempt at festivity. He was making it easy for her. He was behaving as though nothing was wrong, as though last night’s aborted embrace had never happened. He was keeping up a light flow of conversation: safely banal, amusing at times. But underneath the quiet tone of his voice lurked something that had not been there before.

  She wasn’t feeling particularly well. After her broken night she had spent most of the day sleeping—or rather, oversleeping. She had woken up late in the afternoon with her mind clogged and sluggish, a faint headache nagging behind her eyes. As for wind chimes, open windows and missing photographs—maybe she had imagined most of it. She had, after all, been half-asleep at the time. There was a rational explanation, she was sure. And if she repeated this to herself often enough, she might even start to believe it.

  The waiter had poured too much champagne into their glasses and some of the liquid splashed over the rim. Isa watched a tiny translucent drop travel down the side of Justin’s glass; down, down until it reached the tablecloth, where it spread into an ever-widening stain, much too large for such a tiny drop of moisture.

  ‘What are we drinking to?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, this is a bit late in the day, but maybe we should toast our New Year’s resolutions.’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘You should. It’s expected.’

  She looked at him and thought silently: if only I could make things right again.

  ‘Come on,’ he quizzed. ‘Surely you can come up with something.’

  ‘I don’t have high aspirations. To be happy, that’s enough for me. I know it sounds trite—’

  ‘It’s not trite. It’s hugely ambitious. I’m not even sure it’s not verging on hubris.’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘But I’ll second it. Be brave and challenge the gods—why not?’

  ‘And yours?’

  ‘Oh,’—he paused—‘not to take anything for granted. That’ll do.’ His voice held the same detached inflection she remembered from the previous evening. At least I know where I stand now. How quickly things had changed. Only yesterday there had been a connection between them that felt true; now he was a friendly stranger.

  The food was excellent and on the surface everything seemed fine. They made pleasant conversation, but it grated on her. Too much between them remained unsaid and the weight of those unspoken words was almost palpable. ‘Don’t you understand,’ she felt like saying. ‘I did not turn from you. I did not reject you. But Alette was there with us. Surely you felt her presence?’

  It was still early by the time they left. As they walked to the car, she felt a sense of bleakness stealing over her. All she wanted to do now was to get to bed and sleep for a hundred years.

  He opened the door of the car for her and said, ‘Are you in a hurry to get home? There’s something I’d like to show you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A special place. I’ll take you there.’ He did not say any more, and they did not speak during the lengthy drive. She was starting to feel apprehensive. When he finally parked the car in an almost empty park, she did not exactly know where they were. It was dark here, and deserted. But in front of her was the Thames and on the other side a panorama of cool, glamorous light. She recognized the tower at Canary Wharf, an immensely tall finger of glittering glass. And there, looking like a toy, was the Docklands Light Railway.

  They carefully negotiated a series of steps leading downward. Around them the darkness was soaked through with the smell of the river. An intense smell: a smell of rotting leaves and the tang of salt. The water seemed black as pitch; the smears of light streaking across its dark surface transitory and ephemeral.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ He was staring at the water as if mesmerized.

  She didn’t answer. As children, she and Alette had often slipped out after their bedtime. Sometimes they had visited the river that curled through the farm like an enormous brown snake. Alette loved the water, but Isa had sensed something ancient and primal and not very friendly lurking in its warm, loamy depths. During the day the river awed and overwhelmed. At night it became something that defied comprehension. Something beyond imagining. She had the same sense of disquiet now as the cold wavelets of the Thames slopped against the pebbles at her feet.

  She hugged herself and looked around her. They were alone. There was no one else on this stretch of pebbled embankment and no light shone from the few barges moored close by.

  Justin was standing with his back towards her, his shoulders hunched slightly forward. His eyes were fixed on the huge column of the Canary Whar
f tower.

  ‘Did you know,’ he said suddenly, ‘that migrating birds run the risk of smashing themselves to death against skyscrapers?’

  The remark was so inexplicable, she had no idea how to respond.

  He nodded as if to himself. ‘It always happens at night. And then the next day you find these dead and dying birds at the foot of tall buildings. Most of the birds die from the force of the impact. Those who survive are usually horribly maimed, with broken beaks and bloody feathers. I lived in Toronto for a while and during the migration season there would be volunteers searching the streets every morning for mangled birds.’

  Another long pause. ‘But you know what’s the most amazing thing about it? The birds never fly into dark, unlit buildings. Never. You’d think that would be the reason, right? That somehow they can’t see these structures at night? Not so. It’s the tall, lit buildings that are hazardous. The birds fly straight at them, smashing themselves to pieces against those brightly lit yellow windows.’

  ‘Like moths burning up in a flame.’ Her voice sounded strange to her ears.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Like that.’

  ‘Justin.’

  He kept his eyes on the far side of the stretch of water.

  ‘Look at me.’

  He turned on his heels, facing her now, but in the darkness she saw only the whites of his eyes, not the expression.

  ‘Tell me about Alette.’

  Just saying Alette’s name out loud felt daring, as though she was tempting fate.

  For a few moments it was silent between them. Then he said simply, ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell me what went wrong.’

  She thought at first he wasn’t going to answer her. The silence ran on and on.

  ‘Do you know what first attracted me to Alette?’ He sounded almost surprised. ‘Her walk. She had this way of walking as though she didn’t give a damn. She looked so free, so unfettered …’ He paused and it was quiet again.

  He balled his hands and pushed them into his pockets. ‘It went wrong between us because the pact didn’t work out.’

  ‘What pact?’

  ‘The pact you make when you fall in love. You know how when you’re first attracted to someone, you always present only a certain side of yourself? The best part of you, your most attractive qualities? It’s like this game we all play.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, inevitably things move on, and you’re getting ready to hand over your trust as well as your heart. Point of no return. The time for complete honesty. At this stage you have to put everything on the table and show who you really are. All the flaws, the insecurities. If you don’t … if you persist in faking it, you violate the pact.’

  ‘But if you love someone, you love them regardless.’

  He turned away from her and stretched out his hand as though he might actually be able to touch that distant column of glass and light.

  ‘I thought so, too,’ he said, ‘but I was wrong.’

  His voice was filled with such sadness, it tore at her heart. She walked over to him and placed her arms around him from behind, hugging him close.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about her anymore,’ he said, his voice muffled.

  ‘Then we won’t,’ she said. ‘We won’t talk about her.’

  They stood like that for a long time. It seemed to her as though the darkness around them had deepened. The heavy smell of the river was in her nose and inside the narrow confines of her ribs she felt the sad beating of bruised and bloodied wings.

  When he finally turned around to face her, she placed her hand on his cheek and found it wet with tears.

  ‘Come home with me,’ he said.

  SEVENTEEN

  Love is of a birth as rare …

  It was begotten by despair

  Upon Impossibility.

  The Definition of Love

  Andrew Marvell (1621–1678)

  HE STOPPED THE CAR at the garden square opposite his apartment and turned the key. For a while they didn’t say anything: just sat there listening to the cooling engine.

  He turned to face her. ‘If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll understand.’

  She hesitated. This, after all, was not the way it was supposed to be. Where was the joy, the breathlessness? The heart-racing excitement? Melancholy and passion were mean bedfellows.

  ‘At least come up for a drink. Please. I just want to be close.’

  Still she hesitated, she was feeling apprehensive now. But then she looked into his eyes. Last night she had squandered the moment. She shouldn’t do so again.

  Inside his living room, he took her coat, his fingers brushing against her neck. ‘Sherry, right?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  The light winked off the rims of the glasses: drew sparks from the diamond facets of the cut-glass decanter. The sherry dripped into the glass with an oily whisper.

  She said, suddenly desperate, ‘Justin, maybe I should go after all.’

  ‘I want you to stay with me.’ His voice was almost a sigh.

  Her hand hung limply by her side. He picked it up and brought it to his cheek, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he turned his head sideways and his hot breath was on her wrist. He moved his lips against the palm of her hand, pressed his mouth on the swell of the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb.

  ‘Stay with me.’

  Softly his finger pressed against her lower lip, forcing her to slacken her mouth. He brought his face close to hers. His eyelashes were dark and long.

  He kissed her. His tongue was exploring her mouth gently: a self-assured intruder prying, probing, insisting she give way.

  She felt her lips soften.

  His breathing became sharp and shallow. Then her hand was in his and he was pulling her towards a closed door. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, she felt herself holding back.

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’ He pushed her gently into the room ahead of him.

  She had a confused impression of a low, wide bed; a room decorated in shades of flannel grey. But her eyes were held by the reflection in the long, full-length mirror facing her. A reflection of a woman with tangled hair and a bruised mouth. A woman with irresolute eyes.

  She tucked her hands behind her back. The woman in the reflection ducked her head and her hands moved behind her back in a timorous gesture. Now she was moving backward, as though trying to escape.

  He was standing a few paces behind her, his face unreadable. He made no move to touch her. The message was clear: if she wanted to leave, he was not going to stop her.

  She gave a last look at the woman with the uncertain eyes and turned her back on that diffident figure. She walked up to him and pressed her body against his. Reaching up to take his face in her hands, she pulled it strongly and deliberately towards her.

  • • •

  THROUGH HER MIND raced wisps of a dream, a memory of another life. She was back on the farm and it was dark. Black night and bright stars. She was swimming in the murky water of the dam by the steel windmill. She was naked and the cold water lapped at her thighs and breasts and caused her nerve endings to crackle and leap. She dipped her head underneath the water and forced her body down, down until her feet touched the bottom and she recoiled at the slippery feel of slime. Her hands and arms started rowing upward again, she was blinded by water and her chest hurt, but as her head broke the surface she laughed exultantly with panic and exhilaration.

  He was drawing his finger down her body, down the inside of her arm, her armpit. It hovered at her breast, the curve of her hip. He lowered his head and flicked his tongue all the way down the length of her, starting at the hollow at her throat, lingering at the back of her knees, the soft arch of her foot.

  She started trembling and the shiver that gripped her made her tighten her hands, made her pull her shoulders forward as though she felt a chill. His mouth pressed against her stomach, lingered in the damp fold of her thigh. And the chill turned to heat and every vei
n inside her was touched by fire; every sinew in her body burned.

  The crushing pressure of his weight. His lips hot against her mouth. His hips rocking against hers: waves, water, drowning. Her skin dewed by his sweat. She placed her hands on the small of his back and pressed him against her. She wanted him close, she wanted to feel the sharp, knobbly angles of his hip bones, the muscles moving like thin snakes underneath his skin.

  She opened her eyes. His face loomed above her; he was watching her. Then his eyelids closed painfully as though he was shielding himself from her gaze. His head drooped. He placed the palm of his hand over her eyes and it became dark.

  • • •

  THE SCENT woke her up. A heavy, intensely sweet scent. The powerful perfume of crushed roses.

  For a moment she lay completely still, but even as her brain recognized the fragrance, it was already dissipating, evading her.

  From somewhere far away came the scream of a siren. Light from the street lamp outside filtered into the room and caused shadows to curdle in the corners of the ceiling.

  She turned her head. Justin was sleeping soundly, his breath slow and even. He was lying on his stomach, his pillow gathered against him in a flaccid embrace.

  She edged out of bed and walked noiselessly through the door and down the passage until she reached the living room. The embers of the fire were still alive: a sullen, dark, orange glow. Her eyes fell on the oil painting above the mantelpiece, on that figure dressed in purple velvet and lace; on the arrogant, proud face with the narrow nose and dark eyes.

  It was stifling in here. She needed fresh air. Opening the window, she breathed in deeply.

  She suddenly noticed the cardboard box with Alette’s things, which was still on the walnut table in the window, just as it had been on that night almost three weeks ago when she had visited him here for the first time.

  Three weeks. A lifetime ago.

  She pulled the box towards her. Everything was still in there just as she remembered. Her hand touched the front of the table, the sharp edge of the metal knob of the drawer. Instinctively, without thinking, she pulled at the knob and the drawer slid open in her hand.