ROSALIND TELEPHONES. 'Lucy says you are back in town. Why haven't you been in touch?'
‘I'm not yet fit for society,' he replies. 'Were you ever?' comments Rosalind drily. They meet in a coffee-shop in Claremont. 'You've lost weight,' she remarks. 'What happened to your ear?'
'It's nothing,' he replies, and will not explain further.
As they talk her gaze keeps drifting back to the misshapen ear. She would shudder, he is sure, if she had to touch it. Not the ministering type. His best memories are still of their first months together: steamy summer nights in Durban, sheets damp with perspiration, Rosalind's long, pale body thrashing this way and that in the throes of a pleasure that was hard to tell from pain. Two sensualists: that was what held them together, while it lasted.
They talk about Lucy, about the farm. 'I thought she had a friend living with her,' says Rosalind. 'Grace.'
'Helen. Helen is back in Johannesburg. I suspect they have broken up for good.'
'Is Lucy safe by herself in that lonely place?'
'No, she isn't safe, she would be mad to feel safe. But she will stay on nevertheless. It has become a point of honour with her.'
'You said you had your car stolen.'
'It was my own fault. I should have been more careful.'
'I forgot to mention: I heard the story of your trial. The inside story.
'My trial?'
'Your inquiry, your inquest, whatever you call it. I heard you didn't perform well.'
'Oh? How did you hear? I thought it was confidential.'
'That doesn't matter. I heard you didn't make a good impression. You were too stiff and defensive.'
'I wasn't trying to make an impression. I was standing up for a principle.'
'That may be so, David, but surely you know by now that trials are not about principles, they are about how well you put yourself across. According to my source, you came across badly. What was the principle you were standing up for?'
'Freedom of speech. Freedom to remain silent.'
'That sounds very grand. But you were always a great self-deceiver, David. A great deceiver and a great self- deceiver. Are you sure it wasn't just a case of being caught with your pants down?'
He does not rise to the bait.
'Anyway, whatever the principle was, it was too abstruse for your audience. They thought you were just obfuscating. You should have got yourself some coaching beforehand. What are you going to do about money? Did they take away your pension?'
'I'll get back what I put in. I am going to sell the house. It's too big for me.'
'What will you do with your time? Will you look for a job?'
'I don't think so. My hands are full. I'm writing something.'
'A book?'
'An opera, in fact.'
'An opera! Well, that's a new departure. I hope it makes you lots of money. Will you move in with Lucy?'
'The opera is just a hobby, something to dabble at. It won't make money. And no, I won't be moving in with Lucy. It wouldn't be a good idea.'
'Why not? You and she have always got on well together. Has something happened?'
Her questions are intrusive, but Rosalind has never had qualms about being intrusive. 'You shared my bed for ten years,' she once said - 'Why should you have secrets from me?'
'Lucy and I still get on well,' he replies. 'But not well enough to live together.'
'The story of your life.'
'Yes.'
There is silence while they contemplate, from their respective angles, the story of his life.
'I saw your girlfriend,' Rosalind says, changing the subject. 'My girlfriend?'
'Your inamorata. Melanie Isaacs - isn't that her name? She is in a play at the Dock Theatre. Didn't you know? I can see why you fell for her. Big, dark eyes. Cunning little weasel body. Just your type. You must have thought it would be another of your quick flings, your peccadilloes. And now look at you. You have thrown away your life, and for what?'
'My life is not thrown away, Rosalind. Be sensible.'
'But it is! You have lost your job, your name is mud, your friends avoid you, you hide out in Torrance Road like a tortoise afraid to stick its neck out of its shell. People who aren't good enough to tie your shoelaces make jokes about you. Your shirt isn't ironed, God know who gave you that haircut, you've got - ' She arrests her tirade. 'You are going to end up as one of those sad old men who poke around in rubbish bins.'
'I'm going to end up in a hole in the ground,' he says. 'And so are you. So are we all.'
'That's enough, David, I'm upset as it is, I don't want to get into an argument.' She gathers up her packages.
