Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  His lips close to her ears whispered, ‘I love you forever.’

  • • •

  HE HAD OPENED a locked door. Memories, ideas, secret wishes—she now offered them to Adam unedited. She had never stripped herself bare like this for anyone—not for Barry, not even for Jonathan when he was still alive. Some of her confidences were valentines, tokens of love, others came from a dark and edgy place and she’d give voice to them as though she were doing penance. Time and again she’d find herself saying, ‘I have never told this to a soul…’ or start the sentence with, ‘You’re the only one who knows…’. Adam listened to her. He listened to her fractured thoughts and her anger and he didn’t turn away. He accepted her, just as she accepted him—the man he had become, the man he used to be. Between the two of them there was no shame. If soul mates meant giving yourself to the other utterly—body and mind, in beauty and in ugliness—then, yes, they were soul mates.

  And they had no need of successive lives, she thought. What they were creating right here, right now: this was the miracle.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE SOUND of the ringing phone pierced Mark Botha’s sleep-fogged brain. He opened his eyes in the darkness and the first thing he saw was the luminescent face of the bedside clock. The red digits pulsed: 1:55 A.M.

  He groaned and pushed himself upright against his pillows. Beside him Rita was already answering the phone, her voice calm and friendly. She was an old hand at these late-night calls. He never answered the phone himself. Rita did the screening, deciding whether it was a real emergency or whether it was one of his patients who was simply in a chatty mood after having had a few too many at the Palace.

  But the person on the other side of the line was Mrs Dama, an eighteen-year-old single parent, and Rita gave the phone to her husband immediately. Carol Dama’s husband had died only months before in a fishing accident and she had given birth to their baby a mere two days after his death. The baby had been born prematurely and, even after eight months, his weight was still too low. And tonight, it seemed, little Michael had developed a fever. Promising that he would be there as soon as possible, Mark replaced the phone and reached for his shoes.

  As he pulled on his shoes and ran a comb through his hair, Rita took his coat from the closet. Mark usually didn’t even bother changing into day clothes when he was called out at night. Very often he was called out more than once during the evening, anyway, so it wasn’t worth going to the trouble. Slipping into the coat Rita was holding for him, he picked up his black bag and gave his wife a peck on the cheek. ‘Get back into bed,’ he told her. ‘I probably won’t be long.’

  Mark didn’t take the Land Rover. The Dama house was only three streets away. As he approached the house, the front door opened and the slight figure of Carol Dama stood silhouetted against the yellow light. As he stepped into the tiny front hall, Mark looked at her with concern. She was a pretty girl, but her skin seemed blotchy and there were enormous shadows underneath her eyes. The pilled wool sweater she was wearing had a stain across the front.

  ‘He won’t stop crying,’ she said despairingly as she led him into the baby’s room. ‘He never stops crying.’

  As Mark gently examined the tiny body underneath his hands, the woeful little face—so red and angry when he first entered the room—started to uncrumple and the screams and hiccups stopped. Mark brushed his thumb against the velvety cheek. The baby had his mother’s beautiful coffee-coloured skin and black eyes. But the long, long lashes belonged to his father. Trevor Dama had been a good-looking man and he had used those long lashes of his to devastating effect, effortlessly charming women wherever he went.

  There was nothing wrong with the baby, Mark decided as he slipped the dummy into the tiny mouth, but the mother was another matter. She looked malnourished, her face too bony, her arms far too thin. She was close to exhaustion and there was panic in her eyes. It was clear she wasn’t coping. He would have to find someone to help. He certainly didn’t have a nurse available, but maybe Rita could stop in tomorrow and give the young mother the opportunity to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. And he’d ask the ladies of the prayer group at church if they could also help out for the next few weeks.

  Before he stepped out into the night again, Mark told Carol to visit him at his consulting room before the end of the week. He wanted to give her a thorough check-up and some vitamins. ‘And bring that handsome young man with you,’ he said, nodding toward the baby’s room. ‘I’ll look him over again. He has certainly inherited his father’s good looks, hasn’t he?’

  She smiled and for the first time looked like the very young girl she really was. ‘Bless your heart, doctor. We’ll both be there.’

  As he walked back to his house, Mark pulled the night air deep into his lungs. The smell of brine was sharp as a knife. The sky—the blackest black imaginable—was frosted with stars. Mark suddenly felt at peace with the world. He was doing a job he found deeply satisfying, living in a place whose stark beauty never ceased to fill him with wonder. At home, Rita would be waiting for him.

  His house was at the top of a hill, a steep climb. Breathing slightly faster from the exertion, he stopped and looked out over the sleeping town with its modest houses and their darkened windows. In the distance, the ocean glimmered. His eyes travelled to where he imagined he could see the dark blob of Pennington’s Island. He knew that Grachikov’s mechanical diggers were still stuck there. He wondered for how long. It was probably going to cost the man a lot of money to remove the heavy machinery from the island. But that was certainly not his problem. Mark turned away.

  But as he placed his hand on his front gate, he thought he heard something behind him. He swung around. Nothing. But he still had the unnerving feeling that there were eyes in the darkness, hiding behind that wall, maybe… and the shadow on the other side of his neighbour’s house, was that a figure? He stared into the night.

  Opening the gate, he started to walk swiftly toward the front door. The breeze felt suddenly much colder. A chill moved down his spine and he pulled his shoulders forward.

  He fumbled with his keys, his fingers strangely clumsy. When he finally found the right one, he opened the front door hastily. Without looking over his shoulder again, he stepped quickly inside and shut and locked the door behind him. His heart was beating rapidly and his mouth was dry. He registered, almost with surprise, that he was afraid. But why?

  A few minutes later he was removing his shoes and coat and easing himself into bed. He was beginning to feel better. Rita’s warm sleeping body was beside him and the house was quiet and peaceful. Everything was fine. There was no need for alarm. But as he pulled the blanket over his shoulders and closed his eyes, he relived for one brief moment the sense of imminent danger that had gripped him. Try as he might to make himself believe otherwise, he knew it hadn’t been his imagination. There had been something—someone—outside. And the air had hummed with malevolence.

  THIRTY

  THE DAYS FOLLOWED each other and there were no boundaries between dark and light.

  Sometimes they slept through entire days, closing their eyes against the winter sunlight, their bodies hugging each other. At night they lit candles throughout the house so that every window showed a flickering flame. The downstairs rooms sounded with the music of Chopin and Beethoven, the bewitching notes rebounding off the high ceilings, creating glimmering echoes in empty spaces. For such a long time music had been largely absent from his life. Truth be told, he hadn’t missed it that much. But now that music was suddenly within his grasp again, Adam wanted it obsessively. Later, looking back, his memories of these days with Justine would always be set to music. And he’d remember the night they danced together to the strains of a Strauss waltz, moving deeper and deeper into the house until finally they could no longer hear the song of violins, only the swish of their feet and the sound of each other’s breathing.

  And all her face was honey to my mouth. And all her body pasture to mine eyes.

>   His hands tracing the outline of her body, feeling the uneven, knobbly contours of her shoulders, the disks of her hips; lingering at the hard button of bone in her ankle, cupping the fleshy heel. Smooth arms, soft small ears. The heady scent of her sleeping breath and the glow of her skin.

  The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire.

  Her mouth hunting in the darkness, her breasts and the small of her back slippery with sweat. Her fingers slipped into his mouth and they tasted bitter.

  The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs, and glittering eyelids of my soul’s desire.

  She pulled her head back and her lips opened slightly. The muscles in her legs strained against his weight. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled the vanilla smell of her skin and the fugitive scent of roses and jasmine. Bone, tissue, fragrance: her body an alchemist’s vase. Her kisses red powder, her heart the philosopher’s stone. If he could clasp her to him closely enough, if only he could meld his body with hers seamlessly, he would be transformed: lead turning to gold.

  • • •

  JUSTINE LOOKED out the window. The jay was there. She heard the light but sharp tapping sound of its beak. For the past three days the usually timid little bird had been pecking at his reflection in the glass pane. Every morning, when the wintry sun hit this side of the house, there he’d be, frantically pecking away.

  He was a male bird. He and his mate used to be permanent inhabitants of the courtyard garden. In the summer she had listened to their chattering and had watched them build their nest, scurrying around the garden for twigs, impressively busy and active.

  And then, four days ago, she had picked up the body of the female bird where it lay dead. It wasn’t clear why she had died. Justine felt almost sorrow at the sight of the tiny body, so stiff in death, the feathers no longer neat and groomed but caked with dirt.

  Soon after she had found the dead female, the male bird had started pecking away at his shadow. Adam believed it might be because the bird saw in his own reflection his dead mate come to life. Whatever the reason for his behaviour, it must be compelling indeed for the bird to venture so close to the house.

  The jay cocked his head and the beady eye looked at her warily. Then he started pecking again. Justine wished he would stop. A few times he had even flown straight at the closed window. She was afraid he might injure himself. The little bird looked bedraggled. The dapper tuft of feathers on his head was bushy and unkempt.

  She lifted her arm and waved her hand vigorously. The bird hesitated and then, with a flutter of wings, disappeared into a nearby tree. But as she stepped out of the room, she heard once more the despairing peck, peck of its beak against the pane of glass.

  • • •

  HE PREFERRED darkness: night-time was when Adam felt most at ease. She noticed that even during the day he sought the shade. It was done instinctively; she doubted he was even aware of it himself.

  He was now standing in front of the window, looking out into the light, his body hugging the shadow thrown by the tall shutter. He had taken a shower and a few drops of water glistened on his back. His body was still, but as always she sensed in him that inner tension, as though total relaxation was not an option and his muscles needed to be held at the ready to explode at once into either fight or flight.

  His thigh and calf muscles were honed by hours of walking through thick sand and swimming through deep water. The skin around his waist and buttocks was a startling creamy-white against the sun-darkened skin of his torso and legs. There was a line of hair running down his stomach.

  His feet were slender and elegant but with calloused toes. Powerful arms and shoulders. Sunburned creases around his eyes.

  She walked over to the bedside table and picked up the Leica.

  He turned his head to look at her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I want to take your picture.’

  ‘I haven’t had my picture taken in nine years. It’s dangerous. I’m still a fugitive. If anyone should see it…’

  ‘I’m going to develop the film myself. No one but me will see it.’

  ‘No, Justine. Besides, why do you need a picture? You have the real thing now.’

  She didn’t answer. How to explain it to him? How to explain her irrational belief that something isn’t real until you’ve caught it on camera? Years ago she had covered one of Somalia’s famines, shooting reel after reel of skull-like faces, bodies covered in swarming flies, and sickening scenes of emaciated victims viciously fighting each other for food. She hadn’t thrown up until she was back in London and had started to develop the prints in the darkroom of her flat. It wasn’t real until you printed it. It was ridiculous, she knew, but now that she had found Adam, she felt that only by capturing a picture of him—in black and white—would she be able to relax and accept that he was a tangible presence in her life. Here to stay.

  She hefted the camera to her shoulder. ‘Come on, Adam. You can’t deny me this, it’s what I do. Besides, I need something better than that.’ She gestured at the enlarged photocopy of the newspaper picture of him still taped to the wall.

  ‘We should get rid of it.’ He smiled a little grimly. ‘It looks exactly like a most-wanted poster.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pretty please?’

  He walked over to her and quite calmly wrestled the camera from her grasp. She tried to resist but he was too strong.

  ‘There.’ He slipped the Leica back in its leather glove and placed it on the table out of her reach.

  She slapped at his wrist, irritated.

  ‘Hey,’ he laughed and grasped her face with his hand.

  Quickly she turned her head and bit into his palm. He swore lightly and tightened his grip on her jaw. His fingers were strong. They could probably crush the bones in her face if he wanted to.

  She saw him smile slightly. Using the full weight of his body he pushed her up against the wall. She all at once got a breathtaking sense of how powerful he was, of the frightening strength in his arms and heavy shoulders.

  ‘Do you want to play, Justine?’ He pushed against her again. His skin was still damp from the shower.

  She turned her head petulantly to one side. ‘No. Get off me.’ But the contact of skin on skin made her breasts swell. Dead giveaway. His eyes gleamed.

  Placing one arm across her body, effortlessly holding her immobile, he moved his other hand confidently over her breasts. The hand moved down to her stomach, lingered at her belly button. His fingers reached for the inside of her leg. She gasped.

  He strained against her, pushing her up against the wall so tightly that she felt her shoulder blades press painfully against the plaster. He thrust his thighs inexorably against her legs. Removing his arm from across her breasts and pinning her against the wall with his body, he grasped both her hands and linked his fingers through hers. Slowly he lifted her arms up and above her head. She looked into his eyes. Black. Inscrutable.

  When he pressed his mouth against hers, she kept her lips stubbornly closed. He kissed her hard, so hard that she felt her lip mash against her teeth and she tasted blood in her mouth. She set her teeth, unwilling to let him in.

  His mood changed. Even though he was still holding her imprisoned, his tongue licked her mouth delicately and pleadingly probed the fleshy part of her inner lip. It made her want to stretch and moan and arch her back. Her mouth opened. Releasing her arms, he placed his hands underneath her buttocks and hoisted her up.

  She licked the side of his neck. He tasted of salt and musky sweat. She ran her fingers through his thick hair and traced the outline of his heavy black brows. The rhythm between them was becoming urgent again. His lips pulled away from his teeth in a grimace. He was grasping her shoulders with such force they hurt. Power. Heat. Desire. His touch now almost painful, her skin feeling unbearably tender. She tried to move away, to get some relief from the irritation, but he pressed against her more urgently and again she registered the strength of his b
ody. So powerful. Overwhelmingly male.

  He was talking to her, but she was unable to follow his words. She was only able to follow the intonation of his voice. Her thoughts were froth and the world was liquid. A dark sea, the surface boiling and turbulent, a riptide carrying her along like a piece of flotsam. The sense of something dangerous and dark sucking at her body, drawing her down. Waves crashing over her head, forcing her under. Drowning, choking, stillness.

  Death.

  Resurrection, with his mouth kissing the lids of her eyes, and his large hand wiping the tears and sweat from her face. His low voice still murmuring words she had difficulty grasping.

  Only when they finally separated did she realise that what he had said again and again was: Never leave me.

  • • •

  LATER, taking a shower, she looked at her swollen mouth in the bathroom mirror and saw that her lower lip was split. On her upper arms were bruises left by his fingers. Her body felt satisfyingly sated but also battered and achy.

  Slowly she towelled herself dry. The bruises would fade and the lip would heal. But she had had a disconcerting glimpse of something unbridled and dangerous.

  Undeniably thrilling.

  She looked into the mirror again. Her eyes were underscored by dark shadows. Her lips looked inflamed. Passion and a hint of danger. A potent mix.

  When she entered the room, Adam was lying on the bed on his stomach. His head was cradled on top of his arms. His face was in profile. Next to him was an open book.

  He turned his head slightly toward her and reached for her with one hand. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’ She sat down next to him. He sighed and dropped his head back on his arms. After all that passion and heat, his face now seemed vulnerable and defenceless. She reached out and stroked her hand across his hair. He sighed again, sleepily.

  Turning her head sideways, she read the title of the book, which was face-down next to the pillow.

  ‘Call of the Wild?’