* * *
As I cut and clean, the giant watches me with the eyes of my large grandfather, as if I was a familiar-looking boy from an alien tribe. I finish two more prisoners, make it without incident to the big beauty who entranced Dominic. I capture her handsome hands, glance up at the glass. Tamba is watching me closely.
Relax, Tamba. There is no danger of me falling in love with the girl on the side of the bus. Firstly, one-way love is just not possible. Secondly, I have an FM radio waiting to shock my libido into subservience.
Still, I am careful to keep my eyes off the latent strength of her ankles. The glimpse of moist pink between her legs, of course, leaves me dead. I have never, ever had sex, but I have no interest in going into the bush. I have erased those erotic visions with electricity. The same applies to her nipples. They might just as well have been made at a rubber factory.
I groom Charmayne impassively, boast to the spy above, See, this beauty does not move me.
‘It was the tallest office block in Bulawayo City. Worth fifty million to each of us.’
Her eyebrows soar in savage arcs – violent, somehow, in this end-of-tether atmosphere. Her half-tamed, half-rebel hair makes her look madder, more unkempt than the child killer, even.
‘My partners fought like two goats. Pete slipped off the roof. He dragged Bongi with him –’
‘Don’t believe her.’
It is the Ethiopian runner with gnarled muscles that seem laid atop his skin.
Charmayne snaps, ‘Were you there, Gibril?’
I see a skyscraper, scaffolding, those airborne eyebrows flying.
‘Were you?’
The wind quietens suddenly, lets go of this ship. The whole hall seems to be holding its breath. Charmayne thrusts her feet into my glove. Her breasts shine with sweat, her nipples prickle with the effort of persuading me.
‘I was happy with my thirty-three percent . . .’ Her succulent lips form more sexless, corporate words, but still Tamba does not move from his window.
Charmayne drops her business talk, tries to suck me into her childhood. ‘I grew up in a little room off a fire escape. My mother was a cleaner. Malachi?’ Her eyes are a vat of swirling molasses. ‘All I wanted in the world was to make my mama happy.’
I fall into Charmayne’s hunger, up to my knees.
Vicki’s titter slowly calls me back to my dignity.
I pick up my bucket, force my puny thighs down the aisle. This woman, beautiful enough to adorn a fleet of buses, is just a child who loves her mother as much as I loved mine.
* * *
I continue my work in a drunken, dream state. Madame Sophie, the brothel owner, watches me demolish the perfect curves of her toenails. She must have shaped them with her teeth. I glance at the hamstrings running behind her knees. Madame Sophie must be supple.
She shocks me from my reverie. ‘They were heroin addicts before they came to me. They arrived at my door as weak as lambs, so I put them to bed. I washed them, dressed them, fed them . . .’
I stare at Madame Sophie. To my tired mind, she looks like a psycho nurse, with an eerie platinum colouring. I glance at her breasts. They don’t even fit her.
Did she steal them from one of her drug addicts?
In the cage next to her, one half of Josiah’s black moustache curls up. ‘You saved them, Sophie.’
Madame Sophie tries to wrench her feet free. ‘Quiet, Josiah.’
I release the strap, slam her hatch shut. I stare at Josiah’s fingernails, crooked and filthy after only one night. Where has he been digging?
I will not cut the nails of this death-eating sadist. I will not touch this beast.
I leave the last towel rolled tightly beneath the limp, sullied ones. The clay on my skin cracks and leaves a shower of dry disgust as I walk to the door. Behind me I hear a high, quavery cry. It is Shikorina, mimicking her youngest child.
* * *
I shower at normal temperature, let the rain pound the clay from my eyelids. Thunder rumbles too close as I wash my armpits, cleanse my sweat.
It is right that these people suffer.
I lift my testicles, rinse my penis.
I see Vicki’s elbows, their perfect little points nestling against her soft, scarred hips.
Damn it.
I squeeze my penis, test it. I feel not a stiffening but a kind of tension, an animal sensing an impending storm. The barometer is dropping.
I turn off the water, check my timepiece. I have no time to disassemble my radio and shock this treachery from me. I will have to do it after supper. Come hell or high water, I must find some privacy.
* * *
I leave my bucket at the door to Olivia’s laboratory. As I turn into the canteen, I jerk to a halt. A massive tongue sits in the centre of the table, its skin rough and pimpled.
Thunder rolls like circus drums. Tamba arrives unceremoniously, shoves me into the canteen. Meirong glances at the atomic clock.
‘In time,’ Tamba says triumphantly. He throws himself onto the bench. ‘Where’s Olivia?’
‘Staying late to mix hormones for the breakfast feed,’ Meirong says. ‘Malachi, I checked the day’s records. You saw no problems with sexuality?’
I stare at the gigantic replica of what I am missing. Is this a joke at my expense?
Tamba follows my eyes. A laugh bubbles to his lips but he strangles it.
‘Jesus,’ he exhales under his breath.
‘Malachi? Did you hear me? Any sexual issues? The hormone cocktail sometimes fades on day three.’
I drag my eyes from the platter, shake my head at Meirong. Negative. Meirong is too obsessed with her schedule to see the horror of the scene. She must be stupid.
I shut my eyes as Janeé descends with her carving knife. I want to dive to the floor and leopard-crawl through the door, but I lock my spine straight, float in perspiration, watch Meirong’s lips move around her vowels.
‘There’s only the
