?Benny.?
?What for, Cliffy?? He couldn?t do this. He had to have a drink. He felt for the slip of paper in his pocket, not sure where he had put it.
?I don?t know, Benny,? said Cliffy. ?Let?s go.?
?Just wait a minute,? he said.
?If I was her, I would also want to be Ms.,? said Andre Marais quietly from the back seat.
He found the paper, unclipped his seat belt and said: ?Excuse me,? and got out of the car. He read the number on the paper and phoned it on his cell phone.
?Barkhuizen,? said the voice on the other side.
He walked down the pavement away from the car. ?Doc, those pills of yours are not doing a damn thing for me. I can?t go on. I can?t do my work. I am a complete bastard. I want to hit everyone. I can?t go on like this, Doc, I?m going to buy myself a fucking liter of brandy and I?m going to drink it, Doc, you hear??
?I hear you, Benny.?
?Right, Doc, I just wanted to tell you.?
?Thank you, Benny.?
?Thank you, Benny??
?It?s your choice. But just do me one favor, before you pour the first one.?
?What?s that, Doc??
?Phone your wife. And your children. Tell them the same story.?
20.
She sat looking at Sonia. The child lay on the big bed, one hand folded under her, the other a little dumpling next to her open mouth. Her hair was fine and glossy in the late-afternoon sun shining through the window. She sat very still and stared at her child. She was not looking for features that reminded her of Viljoen, she was not reveling in the perfection of her limbs.
Her child?s body. Unmarked. Untouched. Holy, stainless, clean.
She would teach her that her body was wonderful. That she was beautiful. That she was allowed to be beautiful. She could be attractive and desirable?it was not a sin, nor a curse, it was a blessing. Something she could enjoy and be proud of. She would teach Sonia that she could put on make-up and pretty clothes and walk down the street and draw the attention of men and that was fine. Natural. That they would storm her battlements like soldiers in endless lines of war. But she had a weapon to ensure that only the one she chose would conquer her?love for herself.
That was the gift she would give to her daughter.
She got up and fetched the new knife that she had bought from @Home. She took it to the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She stood in front of the mirror and lightly and slowly drew the blade over her face, from her brow to her chin.
How she longed to press the blade in. How she longed to cleave the skin and feel the burn.
She took off her T-shirt, unsnapped the bra behind her back and let it fall to the floor. She held the knifepoint against her breast. She drew a circle around her nipple. In her mind?s eyes she saw the blade flash as she carved long stripes across her breast. She saw the marks criss-crossed.
Just another two years.
She sat on the rim of the bath and swung her feet over. She placed her left foot on her right knee. She held the knife next to the cushion beside her big toe. She cut, fast and deep, right down to her heel.
When she felt the sudden pain and saw the blood collecting in the bottom of the bath, she thought: You are sick, Christine. You are sick, sick, sick.
?In the beginning Carlos was quite refreshing. Different. With me. I think it is more okay in Colombia to visit a sex worker than it is here. He never had that attitude of ?what if someone saw me? like most of my clients. He was a small, wiry man without an ounce of fat on him. He was always laughing. Always glad to see me. He said I was the most beautiful conchita in the world. ?You are Carlos?s blonde bombshell.? He talked about himself like that. He never said ?I.? ?Carlos wants to clone you, and export you to Colombia. You are very beautiful to Carlos.?
?He had nice hands, that?s one of the things I remember about him. Delicate hands like a woman?s. He made a lot of noise when we had sex, sounds and Spanish words. He shouted so loud once that someone knocked on the door and asked if everything was okay.
?The first time he gave me extra money, two hundred rand. ?Because you are the best.? A few days later he phoned again. ?You remember Carlos? Well, now he cannot live without you.?
?He made me laugh, at first. When he came to my place in the Gardens Center. Before I started going to him, before I knew what he did. Before he became jealous.?
Before Carlos she wrote the letter.
She wanted to add something, words to say that her mother deserved a second chance with a daughter, but every time she scratched out the lines, crumpled up the paper and started over.
Late at night she would sit on the rim of the bath and stroke the knife over her wrists. Between one and three, alone, Sonia asleep in her cheerful bedroom with the seagulls on the ceiling and Mickey Mouse on the wall. She knew she could not let the knife cut in, because she could not abandon her child like that. She would have to make another plan with more limited damage.
