Honey brings in a pot of tea. This is the first time she has brought him something to drink.
She sits beside him.
"The security told me you were downstairs yesterday . . . but you didn't ring." Umlung looks away. "Why?" Her fingers touch his. "Is anything wrong?"
When he had arrived, the buzzer had immediately clicked. Her voice had been gay and inviting. He had scorned the lift and run up the stairs. And when she had opened the door, and he had seen that she was completely naked - the familiar gown not swathing her body - he had felt a wave of desire more powerful than ever before. And he had embraced her, fondled her, tingled with the promise of her loveliness, and said, "Every time . . . every next time you know I'm coming up, be naked, be ready at the door, ready for me, you hear, my baby, come ready . . . oh, I love you!" he had whispered as he slapped her buttocks, and she had clutched him in return.
Honey slowly sips her tea, watching him sip his.
"I won't be seeing you again . . . for a while, that is." She speaks quietly. "I mean, I'm not sure for how long. I can't say much more, not because I don't want to, but because I really don't know myself. You see . . ."
"You don't want to see me! After what just happened?"
She places a finger on his mouth.
"Listen, I am going away for a while. I wanted to tell you myself rather than just disappear, and leave you confused, and maybe hurt . . . I'm going overseas. I need new people, new places. And I need to pick up some new ideas for the restaurant. We're not doing as well as we should."
He stares at her.
"I'm sorry, but I have to." Honey pours the tea. "But I'll be back." She passes him his cup. "I'm only going for six months."
* * * *
Umlung lies in his bed. Eight weeks have passed. He is deeply agitated: he needs to hold her, to feel her soft, firm body warm his. He lies in his bed imagining her stroking another man. Another four months? He thinks of the woman next door, the new one who has long legs. They have flirted with each other at the nearby stop street. And he has once or twice touched her shoulder, her neck, in the supermarket. But as he thinks of her, and imagines her face tilted towards him, he knows this most predictable of fantasies, though to be expected, if taken further will end in disaster.
He and his wife have been divorced for several years already. Relationships with women since then have not given birth to love. And even if Honey has been the only constant focus of his desire, can he say he truly loves her? What emotion fills him beyond his lust? After it is consummated, shattering the mundane and making him whole for those moments, can he call her the only woman for his life?
He thinks of the moments when she lies with him, and there is only the drawl of morning activity in the street; despite the rush of the city - so many millions driving themselves, driving each other. The two of them half asleep, half dreaming, so much more alive. Then he stirs, swells, with the image of her bending - for another man? And pursued by that image, hounded later that night by a fierce and bitter jealousy, uncertain yet aroused, knowing his mission to be futile - why should he be so fortunate to discover that she has returned and will welcome him? - he drives to her flat.
The lights are on. He parks in the shadows, keeps watch. But there is no movement, no indication of her presence. He decides to leave, and finds himself driving aimlessly to the highway, and then accelerating insanely so that the car almost shakes. The roadside blurs with the lights in her flat.
He stops at a petroport for fast food. Eats. Drives on again. Leaves the city, drives deep into the dark.
Hours later he returns to the building. But the guard on duty says the lady is still away, far away . . . no one knows when she is coming back.
No one knows.
* * * * *
Rain flecks his shirt. The clouds show inky black. The guard answers his greeting in a surly way. It is the same man who was on duty the first time she had refused him and they had nearly come to blows. For all these years they have never gotten on, tension lingering as if the guard sees him as a pervert, a deviant come from the streets despite his smart suits and the expensive car he parks in the visitor's bay.
Umlung ignores the guard and presses the buzzer.
"Who is it?"
He can barely stammer in reply.
"Honey, it's me! When did you get back? Fantastic!" He laughs out loud, then hears the click as the intercom goes dead. He presses the buzzer again, but the guard rises to his feet.
"I'm sorry, mister. You must go. She said we mustn't let you in."
He speaks into the intercom, "Hey, I'm so pleased you're back!"
The guard leans forward. "Mister, please - no trouble." He pulls his jacket down.
"I'll ring one last time."
Why has she given this instruction? Despite his disappointment that she was going away, their parting had been cordial, she had seemed concerned to not offend him and given assurances that she was returning. Then he understands: now, while he stands bewildered, angry, shut out in the lobby, she and her new man are lying together, dreaming in the deep cocoon of lovers.
Umlung looks at the guard who does not like him.
"Will you go now?"
Will he ever see her again?
He returns to his car and takes out his cell phone. While he is driving away from Honey's flat, he phones his office and waits for the receptionist to answer.
* * * * *
He enters the restaurant. A large, muscular man blocks his way and politely asks him to leave. The man says the restaurant is full - it has been reserved for a private party.
"But I made a booking . . ."
"Sir, we have a private party tonight." He grips Umlung's arm. "I'm sorry sir, but we cannot admit anyone off the street tonight. Those are the manager's orders."
Two couples suddenly enter the restaurant and one of the men says, "Good evening, table for four – I phoned about an hour ago."
Umlung grows hopeful. But before he can celebrate by slipping in under cover of the couples, he sees Honey across the crowded tables.
She is wearing a long flowing dress that accentuates her height, makes her seem especially voluptuous.
Umlung points, says to the man, "There's the manager, let me speak to her. This is crazy, I always eat here."
Honey is speaking to a group of diners. But she lifts her eyes to the entrance, and when she sees him, he sees her surprise and dismay.
In that moment his will to confront her, to beg her to see him, wilts.
There is no point. The passion between them must remain intact, pure, notwithstanding the brutishness he sometimes shows her - and which she sometimes demands. It must not be soiled by a crude altercation, no demeaning public shouting or threats.
He withdraws from the restaurant in the face of the distaste that crosses her features. He vows to keep away. To bide his time. To feign indifference. And then, in his haste and humiliation, swears to break the hold that she has on him and himself take a trip, or bury himself in his work, or . . .
He is so sad and frustrated. He must find a way to save himself from this folly. He must turn away and subdue his desire, his need. For this woman.
* * * * *
Days later when he arrives at the block of flats, the guard gives him an envelope.
"Madam asks us to give you this letter."
He reads:
Dear One,
Your graceful, fierce maleness has brought me great pleasure. And I have been powerful, generous enough to favour you with my beauty. But Life moves. The woman who bowed to receive you is also the woman who will soon bear a child. And this new responsibility must take precedence. I want to feel my stomach swell with this new life. I cherish the idea of a small mouth sucking me for the milk of babyhood rather than for the hardness that makes the male erupt. Yes, I am pregnant and I believe that you are the father.
I am not sure whether this information will bring you joy or discomfort - perhaps acute discomfort; After all, we have never discussed such a possibility and I have no knowledge of your other domestic arrangements. I do not know if you still have a wife, whether you have children, whether you have another lover or whether you are alone. And because I do not know you beyond the fire that we share, I cannot allow you to be the father.
I will raise this child myself; I will put my soul into this child, but I do not wish you to have contact with it. And if you in any way attempt to make contact me before I have sanctioned it, or if at any time you attempt to have contact with the child, I will immediately cease seeing you.
I write this having met another man whom I now consider to be the father.
This man is not my lover and does not and will not live with me, but I believe he has the qualities needed to perform the male role in the child's life. By that I mean he will physically and emotionally present himself as the father, and will embody to the child the male principles.
In order to ensure harmony, I will ensure that you never meet this man. Having said this, I must add that should you attempt to discover his identity or approach him in any manner, I will also stop seeing you.
You may not agree with what I speak of, but I ask you to respect the passion we feel for each other and accept this arrangement in good faith. I do not seek confrontation and do not wish ill for you, but please understand that my decision is final; it cannot be changed. I must consider the child's best interest.
I beg you to respect my decision.
Come to me next Sunday at ten o'clock. I have a gift for you.
Honey
That she could fall pregnant has never occurred to him. She has never discussed contraception with him, and he has taken her use of some means for granted. That he may be the father is equally surprising, but not positively. He wants Honey for himself, he does not wish for the rivalry of a child that will be dependent and drain her. Nothing must disturb his most erotic joy. Nothing. But what of the other the man, the preferred father, the one she sees as more suitable for parenting? Will he be as satisfied with his role as Umlung will be with his?
Umlung tries to visualize this other man. What qualities of character and temperament does he possess? What does he look like? Is he wealthy? At the same time he is forced to admit that he does not know what type of man she admires; he has never met any of her past lovers, her partners. Other than himself, he has no model. So he finds no satisfactory answers though various scenarios dog him.
What if one of them should feel threatened, insecure as to his status, his rights? Umlung fears more for a change in the 'father' for if this man will take on the role he, Umlung, does not desire, it will free him for the role that he wishes to continue to play. For there is no doubt in his mind – even if she has ballooned out, and has swollen feet, and breasts that after feeding sag, and has stretch marks on her belly - he will continue to be her lover. He thinks this because he refuses to believe she will change too radically. How can her immaculate curves permanently thicken, her suppleness stiffen, her fineness coarsen?
He feels more settled. Then another realization floods him: a far more dangerous threat is that the presence of the child might lead to a diminishing of her erotic need and that the man, the father, will become more important to her than an irregular lover.
Umlung barely sleeps during the nights that precede Sunday. Even when the maelstrom of emotions subsides, he cannot rest, dwelling endlessly on how best to proceed and properly manage the situation. Finally Sunday dawns. He is exhausted, but expectant, fatalistically calm despite an underlying trace of apprehension. The guard smiles, buzzes him in with a cheerful greeting. It is a warm, soft morning. He steps forward to the lift. It has taken all his powers of control to stay away from her. He is proud that he has managed to learn the bitter lesson: imposing his will does not work - it only reinforces her stubbornness. The prize will be gained by patience and discipline. By stealth.
He knocks confidently.
A strange, unattractive woman in a nurse's uniform opens the door and tells him that Honey cannot see anyone, she is being attended by a doctor.
* * * *
The miscarriage is quietly celebrated. The complications of a child would have been too unstable, too unpredictable. However, his satisfaction is short lived. Honey still refuses to see him and the guards are implacable. He takes the receptionist out, but long silences plague the dinner. He withdraws from his friends, visits the gym obsessively and considers taking a trip to another country. Weeks pass. Then, soon after he books a ticket to another country, he has an encounter with a man in a supermarket.
The man follows him down the aisles. The 'chase' continues. Umlung is disbelieving. Why would anyone want to follow him? He cannot take the pursuit seriously. Is the man perhaps a store detective following a whim? Or a lunatic? A pickpocket? Is he infatuated? Then just as Umlung reaches the till, the man bumps up against his shopping trolley and quietly informs him that Honey wishes to see him - will he visit her as a matter of urgency?
* * * * *
Umlung sits beside her. The nurse is outside in the living room. He is shocked: Honey is so pale, seems so weak, her features all drawn. She lies in her bed, the bed that has so often been the platform for their tender, savage moments. She lies back, propped up by pillows. She smiles. And when she smiles, Umlung again sees her beauty. He leans forward. "What happened?"
"Complications. But I'll be all right. I'm over the worst."
She sighs, caresses his hand.
She has never before shown such affection to him. Desire yes, gratitude, understanding of his needs, generosity with her body, willingness to please him, pride in asserting herself, open in asserting and exploring her pleasure. All these, yes, but affection - never.
He bends, and kisses her.
"I'm so pleased Ivan found you. It wasn't easy." She pauses. "He was to have been the little boy's father."
Umlung sees the sorrow in her eyes, and despite himself, feels an answering remorse for his previous ambivalence and subsequent relief.
Then Honey adds, "It took me a while to persuade him to take the job."
"Well, he tracked me down."
Honey smiles. They sit for some minutes without speaking. Umlung slips a small box out of his pocket.
"This is all I have, all I can offer to make you feel better." He grins, self-conscious but triumphant. "Can't let you leave this planet before I make you my wife."
* * * *
After he leaves, there is a new graffiti in the lift: Create a unifying explosion of transcending intensity.
* * * *
Honey sits propped up, playing with the ring. Can she finally take the chance of trusting him?
