This time he does not wish to sink his tongue or his penis into her; he wishes to hold her and kiss her gently, so as to restore her spirit.
Umlung presses the intercom buzzer. The security guard looks at him. Sitting at his desk, twisting the string to which the blunt pencil that records names in the visitors' book is tied, the guard displays interest - there is little to do in the mornings.
Umlung presses the buzzer a second time, fiddles with his car keys.
A woman's voice answers, "Who is it?"
He moves closer to the intercom.
"It's me."
"Oh . . . "The voice is vague, but melodious. "Too early . . . I have to get up soon for work again. I need more sleep. We closed up late."
"I've got something for you."
"Too early. I'm tired." Then, "Come tomorrow morning, maybe at about . . ."
"I can't. I won't be in town." The guard watches him swing the keys. "I won't stay long." His voice drops. "I miss you too much. I really miss you, sweetheart." He laughs, "Hey, you know I can't wait."
Umlung shifts his leg. There is no reply. The guard looks at him aggressively.
"I can't wait, honey." He breathes unconsciously against the intercom face so that the sound is amplified, distorted. "I can't wait to . . ."
The security guard stands up. Then, before Umlung can say another word, the buzzer clicks and the iron gate swings open.
"Hey, mister! Sign the book."
Umlung holds the gate open with his foot and signs in the visitors' book.
Name: Victor Visiting: Flat 33 Purpose of Visit: Visit Time In: 11H05
Grafitti is scrawled across the mirror in red nail polish: MY AUTHENTIC SELF IS POWERFUL, LOVING AND UNAFRAID. In the centre is a heart with several black arrows puncturing it. The arrows travel through the heart and trail round the lift chamber where they circle another message: CUM FUK ME BABY, CUM CUM CUM – FLAT 7 ANYTIME
The lift reaches the third floor; he steps out, walks down a long corridor that smells of disinfectant and rice. Before he can ring the bell, he hears her undoing the chain. A long, fine-boned hand thrusts out a key, and withdraws. Umlung unlocks the security gate, and pushing the door open, re-locks the gate and closes the door.
A woman stands in front of him.
She is wearing a satiny gown whose neckline exposes her full breasts, whose snugness traces her hips. Umlung goes down on his knees and lifts the hem of the gown.
He begins to kiss and caress her, pressing his mouth to her, his tongue licking her till she trembles, and grips his head, and begins to ruffle his hair and squeeze his face with her strong, slender fingers so that he is soon streaked with her wetness, his lips and nose impregnated with her juice and scent.
Then he rises to his feet, and loosens his pants, lets them fall to his feet. She turns towards the curtains, and bows - her buttocks and the dark hair of her kloof facing him. He grasps her tight and caresses her thighs. Then he enters her, and they arch into each other and are joined, gasping and calling out love names – of taunting and adoring. And as he thrusts, she responds - swivelling, churning him - till he comes. And she, spurred by his cries, follows in liquid, unfathomable pleasure.
They rest, still bound together. Umlung holding her, pants still at his feet, turns her mouth to him, and kisses her, an exhausted but voracious kiss full of his delight and gratitude. Then he slowly eases out of her, and they stand erect.
"I was thinking about you all the way. I couldn't stop playing with myself in the car."
She smiles, shakes her head, "I shouldn't have let you come up." Then she touches him lightly, "I've also missed you". She opens the curtains. "And to celebrate I want the whole world to know that you still have to come to me to know ecstasy."
As she says this, she lets her gown fall to the carpet.
"Honey! Don't be crazy! I'm not dressed yet."
She dances away. But when he has half drawn the curtains, still struggling with his pants, she saunters back, and caresses his cheek.
"Afraid of the light?"
"I missed you and thought about you all the way. Don't spoil this. It's been weeks."
"Has it?"
Umlung clutches at her.
"Leave that damn restaurant! They'll have to learn to survive without you." He kisses her hand. "Can I come back later? I want to spend the night with you. I'll be here by eight. We can go out. I've got money."
"Oh, you do, do you? Big boy's got a stash. Well, well . . . "
She presses against him, and Umlung, inhaling her scent, feels her warmth rekindle his desire. And despite his bitter experience, dares to believe that she will agree to spend more time with him, that she will relent and they will be together openly. How can he accept that she will only see him in her flat - becomes angry if he tries to see her more frequently?
"Honey, I want to take you out tonight."
She walks away to the bathroom.
Umlung sits down.
The bookshelf opposite him near the television is full. He cannot make out the titles but they seem to be mainly thrillers and books on health food.
"I want to take you out and fatten you up so that you're even more luscious."
He hears her laugh. Her voice floats back down the corridor.
"I don't think that's possible. Anyway, leave while the going's good. Leave now while I still love you."
She returns from the bathroom wearing another slinky gown. She leads him to the door.
"Come later in the week. Perhaps Friday. I'll try and squeeze you in."
* * * * *
Nine o'clock. A relentless, humid summer's day. The guard nods, and presses the buzzer. Umlung reaches the lift, walks down the long, stale corridor. It is five weeks since she last agreed to see him. And he has dithered, not knowing what to do. Then, at last, pushed to desperation, he has bribed one of the guards to open the foyer gate - if she is to continue denying him, she will have to turn him away at her very door.
He rings the bell.
They face each other in the half-light. (She looks so glowing – still half-asleep, flushed, radiating a dreamy ease.) She hands him the key.
He enters the flat and kicks the door closed, grabs her arm.
"Ready!"
The satiny dressing gown slides up. He trembles, but his face is hard. She bends before him. He strokes her.
"Are you ready, my baby" His voice rasps, "Are you ready?"
Excited by the growing moistness round the lips of her cunt, he rubs against her, and she moves harder against him.
"Fuck me!"
And so saying, she draws him into the warm tunnel where he can reconnect heaven to earth and be sealed again in a perfect circle.
* * * * * *
Honey again refuses to see him. The guards become more vigilant. It takes several hundred rand to bribe the same man a second time.
But now, mercifully, Umlung is in the flat, thrusting in and out of her so that they lurch across the room till she lowers herself to the carpet. Then, as he feels himself about to come, she slips away from him and he shouts out in anger, and slaps her, and holds her down so that he can enter her again, and as he forces himself back in, she resumes her dexterous movement. He grunts with pleasure, till he pleads with her to stop. Then he comes. And they lie without speaking on the carpet.
"I want you on the bed now." He kisses her. "Come, my darling."
He pulls her into the bedroom. She unties the gown's belt. It slips off her shoulders and she stands at the foot of the bed, but does not look at him.
"Come here now!"
But still she lingers, avoiding eye contact.
"I want you now, bitch!" but as he spits out the word 'bitch' he knows it is a false move, a false statement, and he tries to control his growing confusion while she now stares at him, and folds her arms.
Then, before he can properly reconsider and find another way to reach her, she leans over him, gently massaging her breasts, inviting him to suck their tense, erect nipples. And Umlung, overjoyed, sucks and nibbles them, and she sighs and he hardens once more. Then she spits into her palm, and smoothing the spittle, cups and cradles his sex so that he strains and twists in her hands, her embrace spreading out from his groin like fire.
Umlung lies back on the bed, and she mounts him, and undulating, raises him - higher and higher.
But he suddenly freezes, shouts out, "Are you pleased I'm here? Are you?" He grips her shoulders, almost shaking her. "Are you? Is this what you want? Honey . . . answer me – is this the right thing?"
She does not respond, still straddling him, but motionless.
He searches her eyes. Ridiculous, this. . . this pose. . . What is she doing? Both of them - sweating, panting, furious to reach . . . ?
He slumps back, hands at his side, rigid.
She remains astride him, though uneasily.
Then she speaks.
"Forgive me, I was wrong to keep you away, but my mind has been on other things. There have been obstacles. In fact, let me say . . . I'm not the one blocking you. It's been the world. But, please, next time, do not bribe the guard. It is a bad practice. Rather take the risk of confronting me. That will build our trust." She bends, embracing him. "Forgive me for being cruel."
* * * * * *
Umlung lies with Honey on the bed, its dark blue sheets speckled with sunflowers, the room drowsy with their lovemaking. He had arrived at dawn, and she had admitted him. Then allowed him to stay long after their satisfaction was sated. Now the heat of midday is intensifying the feeling of languor. Umlung is supremely contented.
Honey sits up, runs her fingers through her braids. "One day I'll lose my beauty. Become an old gogo. Can you believe it? Me, toothless, all pap." She shakes her head, laughing. "I can't."
"Neither can I," says Umlung.
"Remember me as I am now so that the world will always know how beautiful I am and how much pleasure I give you men." She places her hand on his. "Will you?"
He smiles. But Umlung is stung. Why is she speaking of 'men'? On his asking her several times, she had sworn that she had no other lovers, no other involvements - while at the same time declaring her independence.
He stands up, walks away from the bed, and begins to dress.
"Know something, you aren't looking too good lately. For a while now, actually." He blurts this out. And he cannot stop himself from adding, "Night shift killing you, darling."
She purses her lips.
"Ja, gaga gogo." But he does not laugh as he says this. Then tightening his belt, he snaps, "How many men? A little extra on the side . . ."
"You having me on?" She puts the question defiantly. "What's this nonsense?"
She turns to the wall.
He thinks to himself: Is it true? Is she losing her beauty? No, it is not true. She is still perfect.
"If that's the way you feel," she pulls the sheet up, covering herself. "I won't subject you to this awful sight. You can go."
Umlung reddens - the morning had been such a breakthrough. He holds out his hand.
"No, no . . . I'm sorry, my love! I know how stupid I'm being, but I can't always help myself." He kisses her. "You are as lovely today as when I first met you. You will always make me sail my ships."
She smiles. "But watch it, mister."
He walks back to the bed, undoes his belt.
She begins to caress her nipples.
"Stay till three o'clock. But right now, don't move . . ."
* * * * *
Honey leans back in the bath, savouring the wine she is sipping. Morning light streams through the open window. Bubbles froth round her body, almost obscuring her chin. The wine is rich, thick, earthy. She refills the glass. Why is she drinking this early? She does not know – a caprice, a sudden whim, a release from some hidden worry or concern?
The glass tinkles against the bath. Is she already drunk? She giggles. What is she to do with Umlung? He is so devoted to her. He has remained loyal and avid for so long despite her . . . what can she call it?
She soaps herself. Why him? What if she was to see him more often? What if she was to go out with him one evening, and then allow him to spend the night? Then another night, another day, a weekend, then a week, a month and then. . .
She sips the full, heavy wine. Allows the warm water to cover her. Closes her eyes.
* * * * *
Umlung pulls over on the far side of the street.
She is home - he can see her car in the parking lot. But he does not switch off the engine and walk into the building. He sits slumped, idling at the wheel.
From the lobby, the guard sees him. All the guards know him. They do not object to his visits though they have long wondered at the situation, the scenario: smartly dressed woman on third floor plays with hangdog man. They have all overheard the repeated conversations over the intercom – Umlung, dejected in the foyer, pleading to be allowed to come up - and is ignored, or told to come back another time: later in the week, at new moon, the beginning of the following month . . . They know him well, his look of hunger, his joy when the gate clicks open . . .
Yes, Mr Victor. How are you today? What is going to be your fate?
They have watched him over the years and observed his forehead begin to wrinkle.
Now Umlung sits in his car at the front entrance, mouth drawn tight. He feels a dead weight in his legs, his stomach. What has snapped inside him? Why this sense of fatigue, of staleness. Why had holding her become distasteful? Had the need to touch, to drown himself in her, finally reduced itself to a fatal and meaningless weakness?
Don't play games with yourself, my friend. There is no mystery. Nothing is left to chance. The inner logic of a situation will unfold.
It is clear why he has this compulsion - kept sharp by irregularity, unpredictability, her maintaining control by granting him control, and then reclaiming it - she has never refused to bend. But they never discuss his life, his work. As for her work at the restaurant . . . Stuff that place! The way she applauds her gift for making people feel at ease, and yet at the same time appreciate the formality, the ritual, of dining out.
He switches off the engine, leans back. So what if she treats him with disdain? After all, he still gets what he wants. What he wants? Really? What does he want? How can he burn out this unease, this prickling? Where else can he go? The restaurant, yes, the bloody restaurant . . .
She has always forbidden him to come to the restaurant – that was, after the first time, the first night they had met. She would intercept him at the door, draw him aside, warn him not to return under pain of never being allowed into her flat again. The expression in her eyes had been so threatening that he had not doubted her; and the potential penalty was too severe for him to chance. And yet when he asks how things are going there, she talks about her work with great openness, seems happy to do so. Especially since she was made a manager.
That first time, Umlung had taken his wife. Honey had graciously taken them to their table, lit their candle, presented the specials of the day and the wine list. Then, after they'd been served, she'd returned, monitoring their responses to the food, the ambience, the music – making their state of wellbeing her utmost consideration so that even his wife had commented on the hostess's expert attention. The evening had passed in a blur of expectation and terror - how was he to drop his wife back home so that he could return . . ?
Now (how many years later?) he is at the entrance to her block of flats, but he does not wish to see her. For the first time since that evening when he had driven back to the restaurant in a fever and begged her to allow him to spend the night, and she had agreed without a word of objection, and they had gone to his car, and he had kissed her in the parking lot, and then on the ride back to her flat caressed her legs with a furious tenderness, and then played with her, so that, in haste that would not allow them to reach her flat, he had pulled the car over in a dark avenue lined with trees and they had loved each other under the green canopy till he had thought no greater happiness could ever befall him. And she had curled up against him on the back seat, and sighed.
Now he sits, churning with anxiety and disgust, and the guard walks over, and asks him wearily if he is coming in - he is blocking the driveway.
