Fuck The Pope But Use A Condom (Pt. 3)
The Girl Next Door … A Daring Scheme … Desperate Scenes.I not so much walked away as floated away from Daniel. I could scarcely believe how quickly and to what extent my situation had looked up. Just a little while earlier, I was a picture of sorrow, at the lowest of lows, a shred of smudged cheese on the kitchen floor. Now, through a stroke of good fortune and uncommon daring, I had gathered all the makings of a profound and serious story. Sure, I’d have to spin an ending, for Daniel’s had tapered off rather dully, but that would be but a minor challenge for a writer of my timber. Yes, I would’ve been well satisfied if that had been the end of it. But it wasn’t. Not even close to it. The table had merely been laid, and the entrée was about to be served.
I must say, she smelled terrific. No denying that. When I turned the corner and she came hurrying up to me, I only briefly appreciated her lissome, elegant features before I reeled and buckled at the knees from the sweet, succulent cloud of French perfume that intoxicated me.
“Hi, sorry to bother you,” she said in a thin, tremulous American voice, eyes hazel and urgent, “but—can I ask you something?”
Sensing that the lassie was distressed, I snapped out of my daze and, squeezing out my most compassionate smile, said, “But of course! What would you like to know?”
“Who’s that girl sitting on Daniel’s lap?”
I sort of frowned and turned to look at the two in question, but then, connecting the dots—flatmate, American accent, strong signs of a romantic interest in Daniel—swung back to her and said, “You’re not Layla, are you?!”
Looking surprised, she said, “I am. How did you—did he say something about me?”
I smiled, and smiled broadly, because I immediately began to wonder what would happen, what searing explosions would go off in Daniel’s fragile little brain, if he had to come around the corner at that very moment to see his psychologist, the man to whom he had just revealed his most intimate and embarrassing secrets, chewing the fat with the love of his life. This thought experiment turned out to be nothing but a starting point, however, a catalyst for my most daring scheme yet!
“He sure did,” I said, practically licking my lips.
“What did he say?” she asked eagerly.
“Well, as his psychologist, I’m not really at liberty to divulge, but I’ll reveal this much: he is rather fond of you.”
She got that dreamy look of a junkie soaking up a hit.
“He is?”
“He sure is, alright.”
Then her face hardened like crème brûlée.
“But only as a friend, right?”
“No! He really likes you, in the way that you want him to like you.”
“Why is he with that girl, then?”
“He is not with her. He’s not with anybody! She just sort of busted in there and collapsed onto him. He’s actually trying to get rid of her.”
“Oh … so he’s still not over what happened at the competition, then? Is that why he’s seeing you?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I said. “A tortured artist if ever there was one, really.” I leaned back to see how the two were getting along. Not too badly, as it turned out. The girl, now straddling him, seemed to have set herself the ambitious goal of sucking out all 32 of his teeth. She was going at it in a total-body way, too, curling her torso and hips like some oceanic creature from the deep. Thankfully, Layla was spared the ordeal. The wall blocked her view. Even so, I heard her emitting a long, miserable sigh behind me. Turning back to her, I said, “You really miss him, don’t you?”
She cast her eyes downward.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“So, let’s get him back!”
She looked up hopefully.
“How?”
“We make him jealous!”
Her face sagged. This was clearly not her idea of a red-hot plan.
“Ugh, I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t really like to play games.”
“Games?—GAMES?!” I thundered. “Do you really think I play games with my clients? My paying clients? In case you don’t know, I have a professional obligation towards them. I am bound by law not to play games with them.”
“Yes, I know,” she said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to question your integrity. It’s just … it sounded a little odd, you know.” Then she added hastily, “So, what do you have in mind?”
“Any moment now,” I said while still sort of glaring at her, “he’ll get up and go downstairs with the express aim of locating me. I suggest we go down there and grind each other a bit on the dance floor. When he sees us, he’ll get so green, he’ll want you back immediately.”
Wrinkling her nose as if I had suggested a trip to the sewage plant, she said, “Hmm, I don’t know …”
It was time to take a firm line.
“Look,” I said sharply, “do you want him back or not? Because this is it. This is the only way you’ll get him. No amount of pleading or sweet-talking will do the job for you now. Only a strong emotion will. Jealousy will. He needs to see you in the arms of another man. He needs to see what he’s missing out on. And don’t think I’m only doing this to facilitate a reunion! My main objective here is actually to make him see that there’s more to life than just his career, which, paradoxically, would benefit it. So, if you really love him, this is the most loving thing you can do for him right now.”
I straightened up.
“In any case, just tell me now, are you in or out? Because he is going to come over here any moment now.“ I leaned back to check up on the two. No longer on the couch, Daniel was backing away from it while gently removing the girl’s clenched hands from his shirt. I swung back to Layla and said, “He’s coming! What do you say?”
She hesitated only for a moment.
“Okay!”
“Good!” I grabbed her hand and started for the stairs. “We just need to make sure of one thing: that we don’t seem malicious. The whole thing must look like one big coincidence. When he confronts us, we have to appear as shocked as he will be. And let me do the talking, okay? If he wants to get the lowdown, I’ll tell him that we met in a club one night and have seen each other a few times since. At this point—but don’t be afraid to improvise as you see fit—it might be a good idea to give us some space. Go to the restroom or something. I’ll smooth things out with him. I’m Laurence, by the way.”
When we reached the dance floor, I brought us to a halt and said, “Good music for a bit of grinding, eh?” The band was on break, so, for variety, I guessed, the proprietors were playing some kind of pornographic hip-hop song.
She smiled nervously.
I placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. Just trust me.”
She nodded, but not in a way that assured me she wouldn’t dart off at any moment, so I decided to take control of the situation. Saying, “Okay, let’s get into position,” I maneuvered her around to face the region from which Daniel would emerge, then moved in behind her and, while gently laying my hands on her hips—I’m a man of grace—started rubbing up on her.
She went as stiff as a rod.
“Hey!” I admonished her. “You need to relax! We need to seem natural!”
She softened a bit in response, but not enough, so I kept encouraging her: “That’s better, but more, more … Ah, yes, that’s it … shake it … You’re doing fantastic!” So fantastic, in fact, that I was getting an erection. “Ah, yes, yes …” And then I spotted Daniel in the distance, his head sticking out of the crowd like a periscope.
“He’s coming!”
While bending her over with one arm, I tried to grab Daniel’s attention with the other. He quickly caught sight of me and, flashing a grin, made his way over.
When he was about two meters away and noticed what I was up to, he laughed and shook his head. Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man stop laughing and shaking his head more abruptly than him when I raised Layla to the vertical. It had the flash-like quality of a sleight of hand.
“Daniel, old boy!” I said, moving in beside her and hooking my arm around her warm middle. “I just ran into my squeeze. You wouldn’t mind if she tagged along, would you? In fact, I’ve already kind of invited her … Daniel?”
I should note that, as I moved in beside her, one of the fellows next to us caught sight of my tent and, besides laughing his guts out, pointed it out to a friend. This commotion wasn’t lost on Daniel, whose attention also shifted to the area of interest. His eyes widened and, the next thing I knew, he grabbed me by the shirt and dragged me off through the crowd.
“Daniel!” I shouted, stumbling behind like a tin can. “Daniel! What the hell are you doing? Daniel!”
Reaching a wall, he swung me around and pushed me up against it.
“You son of a bitch!” he hissed. “What kind of a sick game are you playing?”
“What the dickens are you on about, old boy?”
“You know what I’m on about!”
“No, I don’t!” I said, and pushed him away with righteous indignation. “And I don’t appreciate you manhandling me like this in front of my girl, especially not after everything I’ve done for you! Hell, man, what will she think of me now, eh?”
This took him aback, made him doubt himself. With a sort of befuddled, desperate expression contorting his features, he said, “But it’s Layla! Layla!”
“Yes, Layla—and what about it, eh?”
“Layla, man! My Layla!”
“Your Layla?”
“Yes! My Layla! From New York! We just spoke about her!”
“We did? When—” And then the penny supposedly dropped. In my eyes, I imagine, there was a sunrise of comprehension of sorts. “Oh my god!”
“Yes!”
“I had no idea, old boy. Really, I had no idea.”
“How—” Pursing his lips irritably, he shoved his hand into his pocket and fished out his phone. “Yes, yes, I’m coming!” He shoved it back into his pocket. “How on earth didn’t you know it was her? I mean, the same name? The same country?”
“I see what you mean, old boy,” I said, looking real sorry, “and earlier, when you were talking about her, I actually considered the possibility; but, you see, the way you described her”—I shook my head—“it just sounded so different from the Layla I know. I couldn’t see the two being one and the same.”
Fear creeping up his skin like a snake, he said, “How do you mean … different?”
“Well, let me put it this way, old boy: I wouldn’t describe her as either ‘pure’ or ‘innocent’, if you know what I mean. Maybe because you didn’t give it to her, or maybe because she’s grieving—I don’t know, but she can’t get enough of it, quite frankly.”
He groaned and fell forward, bracing himself against the wall like a drunkard at the urinal. He remained thus for a few moments longer, rumbling like distant thunder, then turned his head toward the female in question, now sitting at the edge of the dance floor with a sort of forlorn, what-has-it-come-to air. “Are you two together?” he croaked.
“Nah, we just hook up.”
He groaned another deep one.
“But listen here, old boy,” I said, turning him towards me. “I know how much she means to you, okay? So, let’s go back to your place, and then the two of you can straighten things out. If she wants you back, I’ll remove myself from the equation. How about that?” He was looking over at Layla again. “Old boy?”
He was silent a while longer, then straightened out and said, sounding ten years older, “Okay. Let’s go.”
He led the way. When Layla saw us, she shot up like a startled duck. To set her mind at ease, I leaned out from behind Daniel and, smiling encouragingly, gave her the thumbs-up. It didn’t seem to help. She gave a quick, nervous step towards us and said, “Daniel! I had no idea! I promise.”
To her immense shock, I believe, he bent down and embraced her.
“It’s fine,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’m … okay. And you?”
“I’m—are you joining us?”
“I think so,” she said tentatively, looking over at me for confirmation.
I was impressed. It was a thoughtful touch. It made our act more believable. I mean to say, it would’ve seemed rather callous had she just agreed on the spot, with no thought for poor old Laurence, her present and aroused lover.
Fortunately for her and Daniel, Laurence Chalmers didn’t only preach, he also applied. Stepping to the fore with my chin up, I said, “I have no objections. We are all adults here.”
Layla’s face brightened.
“Let’s go, then,” said Daniel. “My sister is waiting outside.”
When we reached the aforementioned sister, waiting for us on the pavement with her beefy beau, she pushed herself off from a colonnade and exclaimed, “Layla! What are you—” And then the words died on her lips. She had caught sight of my outstretched hand.
“Laurence is the name!”
She looked up at my jovial features, frowned for a moment, then shot a quizzical look at her brother.
“Laurence is a friend,” he clarified. “He and Layla are joining us for drinks at the house.”
“Oh,” she said, and took hold of my hand. “Ella.”
She released it with insulting curtness.
She and Layla exchanged a few pleasantries—she informed Layla of her and Pierre’s engagement (apparently the chap had been in fine comic form; something about cutting his hand on a broken bottle)—after which we split into two parties. Daniel, Ella, and Pierre crossed the street to Pierre’s car, while Layla and I headed to my own. We would meet at the house.
Once out of earshot of the others, Layla said, “Does Ella not know about you?”
“Meaning?”
“That he’s seeing a psychologist. Why did he refer to you as his friend?”
The possibility of Layla raising this issue had not escaped me, and, as befits a man of uncommon prescience, I had prepared a statement in advance.
“I’m glad you’ve brought this up. Unfortunately, as is the case with the majority of my male patients—it’s universal, really—he’s ashamed to admit that he’s vulnerable, that he needs help. He’s afraid that society—especially you and his sister—will think he’s a weakling. A sissy, if you will. Consequently, I implore you not to divulge your familiarity with this fact. He should be the one to inform you—once he’s ready.”
“I promise, I won’t.”
“Good.”
I flung an arm over her shoulders.
“This is going well though, eh? Did you see how he was looking at you? Fell in love with you all over again!”
She slapped a hand over her smile.
“Just remember one thing,” I said, waving off a beggar. “We have to keep up appearances now. Under no circumstances must he discover what we’ve been up to because … if he does—well, well!”
* * *
As you can imagine, I was a montage of conviviality and good humor en route to Daniel’s place. I talked to Layla about this and that—she was quite chatty herself—and towards the journey’s end, as the fresh evening air was streaming through the windows and cavorting with our hair, I was whistling and swaying to Khachaturian’s Masquerade waltz, which, quite fittingly, I thought, was blaring over the radio. But this musical mood received a considerable dent as I pulled up in front of Daniel’s residence.
You see, I had imagined that, like most washed-up classical pianists of his age, Daniel would be lodging or residing with his folks, or perhaps be taking advantage of a friend’s sofa. Accordingly, when Layla directed me to throw anchor in front of a Victorian mansion erected about as high up on the slopes of Table Mountain as bricks are legally allowed to go, and I quite innocently asked, “Who else lives here?” and she replied, while applying lip balm, “Just him,” I goddamn nearly crashed the car.
I mean to say, the kid was a veritable failure! How was such a thing possible? And I was just about to blurt out something to that effect, albeit in more emotive terms, when it struck me that she would expect me to be familiar with such facts—so I bit my tongue. Well, rather, I said something along the lines of, “Oh, nice. Didn’t know.”
I swallowed my feelings and became painfully aware again of the stabbing discomfort in my bladder, which I had ignored earlier due to more pressing matters. Nothing pressed my matters more at present, however, so directions to the nearest restroom were the first item on the agenda once within civilized earshot of Daniel, who was waiting for us on the porch.
“Last door on your right,” he said, pointing down the hallway behind him. Then he leaned back a touch, as if trying to get a view of the door in question, and added, “But I think my sister is in there right now, so you may have to go upstairs. It’s—”
“Can’t I just go on the lawn, old boy?”
“Sure,” he said.
So, while the lovebirds entered the house, I toddled back down the steps and lost sight of my ankles in what more closely resembled a lush meadow, desperately in need of one or two hungry cows, than a lawn. I settled into a wide, comfortable stance and then, as I admired the full moon hovering over Devil’s Peak, shuddered near orgasmically as a thick, warm stream of urine gushed from my member, foaming and splashing over the blades of grass like Coca-Cola.
It was one of those eternal pisses. It seemed as if it would never end. It just kept coming and coming, as if from some magical spring. But all good things must eventually come to an end, and what a beautiful end it was. As the final arc of golden liquid plunged to terra firma, I felt as if I was about two inches off the ground. Satori.
After shaking loose the last few drops, I felt so profoundly satisfied, I just stood there a little while longer, taking it all in—sort of like Gatsby that one evening, when he gazed up at the stars. It’s important to have these little moments, even in the midst of engineering a human drama. It settles you. But then you have to zip up and get back into it. I mean, Gatsby for one didn’t acquire his fortune by urinating the whole day. So, I resumed my whistling, caged the snake, and re-entered the fray.
The first form of life I encountered was Pierre, chilling solo in a drawing room of sorts. It was one of those rooms, often to be observed at the front of these Victorian mansions, which seemed to be experiencing a kind of identity crisis. All over the board theme-wise, if you know what I mean. Stuffed with furniture and frills of every stripe: Ottomans, Persian carpets, settees, antique silverware, unread books, obscure maps, mounted weapons, and, by the looks of it, Daniel’s piano. It was as if Amerigo Vespucci or some such fellow had used it as their personal dumping ground.
Crossing the threshold, I threw my arms up flamboyantly and said, “Pierre! How are you doing, my man? Have you seen the moon out there? It’s a real doozy.”
He rose from his chair and, smiling affably, offered me his hand.
“Laurence, right?”
I met his hand with a resounding smack.
“Right you are, old chap! Right you are. Tell me, where are the others?”
“Ella has gone off to bed—she has a migraine. And I think Daniel and Layla are in the kitchen.”
“In the kitchen, you say … Hmm, I see, I see … Well! Let me go see what those two are getting up to. See you in a jiffy. Kitchen at the back?”
“Yes.”
The kitchen, as it turned out, was unoccupied. The lights were on, Layla’s perfume lingered, but not a star-crossed lover met the eye. I frowned, and then I frowned no more, for I had spotted a slight opening in the sliding door leading to the backyard. I stole there and, pressing my face up against a glass panel, peered into the moonlit landscape. I spotted the two almost at once. They were about two big kudu jumps away, between a fountain and a tree, making out. Exceedingly romantic.
Stifling the cry of laughter that threatened to tear out of me, I pushed the door further apart and, summoning the tiniest, most heartbroken voice I could muster, said, “Layla?”
The two broke apart.
“What, what are you doing?” I stuttered. “I thought, I thought …”
With a shadow of perplexity trailing her words, she said, “I’m sorry, Laurence, but, Daniel and I, we have a history. You and I … we weren’t that serious. You knew that, right?”
“I guess so. It’s just, it’s just …” And then I heaved a deep sigh. “Never mind. I’m being selfish. You two belong together. I’ll be on my way now.” I wheeled around and gave one step towards the door, then stopped dead in my tracks. “Just one thing,” I said, wheeling back around.
“What?” said Daniel like a shot.
“You offered me a drink, old boy. Surely you won’t send me off into the night without first soothing my aching heart, would you?”
“No, of course not,” he said, sounding relieved. Then he turned to Layla. “Go wait for me upstairs? I won’t be long.”
Even though I think she would’ve preferred to stay with us—to keep an eye on me, no doubt—she acquiesced. At the foot of the staircase in the hallway, I hugged her and told her how much I valued my time with her. She awkwardly mumbled something about “me too” before climbing the stairs.
“Sorry for the schmaltziness, old boy,” I told Daniel as we pushed on, “but I want her to remember me as someone who cared, you know?”
“I understand.”
Pierre emerged from the drawing room a few meters ahead of us. “I’m going to check up on Ella quickly,” he said in passing. “See you guys now.”
“Whisky?” Daniel asked him.
“Yes!”
When we entered the room, Daniel went to the drinks cabinet and poured our whiskies. “How long have they been together?” I asked, taking a seat.
“Who?”
“Pierre and your sister.”
“Oh, uh, just under a year, I think.”
“Not messing around, are they?”
He grinned. “I think he is anxious for the honeymoon.”
“You don’t think they’ve …?”
“No,” he said, bringing the glasses over and handing me one, “he’s too religious for that. I mean, he’s building a church as we speak.”
“A what?”
“A church—for their farmworkers.”
“How big?”
“Not sure. I still need to go look at the place.“
I took a thoughtful sip.
“So, he’s a farmer, then, old Pierre?”
“Winemaker.”
“Ah, I see … Where?”
“Bergschaduw? Near—”
“I know Bergschaduw!” I exclaimed, almost offended at the notion that I might not. “I go on a spree at their wine festival every year! I’m actually surprised I haven’t …” And then it dawned on me: but I had seen him there! What’s more, I had interacted with the man. We didn’t talk much, but he hung out with our posse and, boy, did that turn into an evening.
“What?” said Daniel. “Laurence?”
My vision cleared.
“I just figured out where I know Pierre from.”
“Where? The festival?”
“Yes, but … yeah.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure if I should tell you this.”
“Jesus, just tell me.”
“Okay, but just remember: this happened years ago, long before Pierre hit it off with your sister, so don’t judge him too harshly!”
“Just tell me!”
“Alright, alright! So, I met him at this festival of theirs—he knew two of my friends—and we had just the most splendid day: drank wine, frolicked in the sun, swam—” I paused. I could hear Pierre’s heavy footfalls coming down the stairs. “To make a long story short, old boy, we wound up at a rundown flat in Brackenfell that evening where Pierre and a few other lads took turns with an aging hooker. Not the first time, either, I believe. Seems as though he’s turned over a new leaf though, eh? Found Christ and all that. Pierre, you old dog!” I said when the devil breezed in. “Come and get your whisky!”
He sank back into his seat and picked up his glass.
“Cheers!” he said.
“Cheers!” I said, and clinked it. Then we turned to Daniel—you know, to clink his vessel as well—but the man didn’t seem to be in much of a clinking mood. He rose from his chair and ambled over to the piano, where he stood and gazed into the engine.
“Bud,” Pierre began, “is everything—”
“I read an interesting article a while ago,” he said pensively.
We waited for him to elaborate, to give us the gist, but got nothing.
Pierre and I exchanged a look.
“What was it about, old boy?” I ventured.
“About a woman who got into a relationship with her doctor.”
“A love story!” I exclaimed, trying to egg him on. “Let’s have it, old boy!”
He turned away from the piano and, starting to pace the room, said, “They met when he tested her for HIV.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pierre shift in his seat. “Here’s the thing, though: this doctor had HIV himself … and didn’t inform her, even though he insisted they have unprotected sex. She only learned about it months later, when she found antiretroviral drugs in his bathroom. But by then it was too late. She also had the virus.
“After she laid a charge of murder against the doctor, the judge found him guilty, saying that, as there’s no cure for HIV as yet, he had effectively handed her a death sentence.”
A rather uncomfortable silence followed—or so I imagined; I was feeling rather chirpy myself. And sensing that I had identified the moral of the story, I said, “But it’s only because he knew his status, right? So, as long as you don’t know, you’re fine. You just claim ignorance. Cheers!” And I took another sip of my drink.
He swung around and shouted, “But don’t you see how wrong that is?!”
I lowered my glass in surprise. I mean, was he not dodging the test by the same logic? So, I said, “What do you mean, old boy? Nobody has to get tested. And if a girl sleeps with you without first inquiring about your status, she clearly doesn’t mind the risk, does she? She’s probably a risky lay herself!”
“I agree, but sometimes,” he said, glancing over at Pierre, “the only reason a girl doesn’t inquire about your status is that she trusts you, and if you know this, and that she is innocent, you’d be cruel to put her at risk.”
“You’re speaking a lot of sense there, old boy, a lot of sense. I’ve never been in that particular situation myself, but I’ve faced a similar sort of test, which, if I may say so myself, I think I passed quite admirably.” I shifted forward in my chair and grew a grin. “So, early last year, see, I went home with this little Danish blonde home and, I kid you not, literally the moment I closed the bedroom door, she said, ‘Take off your pants!’
“Really! Just like that! Anyway, gentleman that I am, I obliged the lady. She—a nurse—then went down on her haunches and started inspecting my goods. After making a few favorable comments, she asked if I had any diseases.
“‘No!’ I cried out, shocked.
“‘AIDS?’1
“‘Highly unlikely.’
“‘But you live in South Africa. Everybody has AIDS here.’
“So, I countered with a rather nifty non sequitur: ‘Are you telling me nobody has AIDS in Denmark?’
“After thinking about my question for a bit, she nodded and acknowledged that, in fact, they do have people with AIDS in Denmark—she looks after some of them.
“After a triumphant ‘well then’ from me, she moaned to me about how badly she wanted to suck my cock; so, I told her, ‘Suck it, then.’ But as I shuffled towards her like a limbo dancer, she suddenly jumped back onto the AIDS horse: ‘Are you sure you don’t have AIDS?’
“And that’s when I told what I think was close to the perfect lie, a lie which not only earned me a fantastic few shags but also a tip of the hat from the old conscience. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘I got tested last year.’
“‘Really?’ she said, sounding impressed. ‘And how many girls have you been with since?’
“‘Not many,’ I said. And then, as I ushered my big black cock into her mouth,2 I added, ‘But I’ve been safe. Really. I think it’s important. I do.’”
I beamed up at Daniel.
“What the fuck, man?”
“What?”
“You’re sick!”
“What do you mean?”
“You lied to her!”
“Yes, but don’t you see how brilliantly? You see, by telling her I had been tested the year before (as opposed to a week before), and by acknowledging that I had been with a few girls since, I not only made a very believable statement (I mean, what’s the chance I had been tested the week before?), but I also managed to inform her that, if she were to wrap her lips around my member, she’d still be running a risk.”
“But you didn’t inform her—not properly! What about all the girls you had been with before your ‘test’? Do you think she still would’ve taken the risk if she had known about them?”
I briefly made my number-crunching face, then dropped my head in shame.
“I see your point, old boy.”3
I couldn’t look at him at present (head being dropped), but I suspect that he was eyeing me with a fair bit of frustration when he said, “How the fuck did you become a psychologist?”
“Hey now!” I cried out, lifting my head. “Don’t insult me! I’m only human. It ain’t easy spotting your own flaws … especially not if getting laid depends on not spotting them.” I took a shaky sip of whisky. “That said, I have bedded a bordello load of questionable pussy, so it really should have been clearer to me that my caveat to the Dane was insufficient.”
Contorting his face like one in the grip of an almighty stomach cramp, he said, “And then you sleep with Layla? Layla? Do you know how innocent she was?”
“Well, after tonight I do, but not before. We met in a club, we hooked up. No questions asked. For all that I knew, she was the dirtiest lay in Cape Town.”
“But she wasn’t!”
“Well, I didn’t know that. I had no idea where she had been.”
Puffing up like a preacher in the pulpit, he pointed a raging, self-righteous finger at me and yelled, “But you knew where you had been! You knew! You knew!”
Hitherto, the lad hadn’t once genuinely gotten on my nerves, but this vulgar hypocrisy, I admit, injected a generous dose of bona fide bite into my rejoinder.
Eyeing him sharply, I said, “And you, old boy? Don’t you also know where you have been?”
It only took a moment for the import of these words to penetrate his defenses, and then, to my grand astonishment, he staggered backward in wide-eyed shock and collapsed onto an ottoman.
No sooner had this happened than hurried footsteps reached my ears and Layla came rushing through the door like a flustered ostrich, crying, “I didn’t sleep with him, Daniel! I promise! He’s lying!”
“What the fuck?” I blurted out, looking up at the ceiling.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Daniel, staring ahead blankly.
“But really, I didn’t!”
“I believe you,” he said, transferring his gaze to her. He eyed her closely for a second, contemplating his next move, then got up and started towards the door. “Come with me.”
She scuttled after him.
I watched them out, then followed suit, pausing only briefly to pat Pierre on the back. He seemed to need it. I followed them down to the kitchen door, where I stopped and peeked in. They stood on opposite sides of the kitchen table, and Layla was crying, “No, why? Why do you say that? I promise: we didn’t do anything!”
“It’s not about that,” said Daniel. “I’ve told you already, I believe you. I just can’t be with you right now. I’m a mess. I’m no good for you.” And then he added bitterly, as if he had just tasted grapefruit for the first time, “No good for anybody.” A critic later described this add-on as “morally significant”. Her words, not mine.
Anyway, Layla felt different about the matter.
“That’s not true!” she cried out.
“It is! Trust me. There are things about me that you don’t know, things that would change your mind.”
“Like what? Tell me!”
“No.”
“Tell me!”
“Please, Layla, just let it go.”
“Tell me!”
“No! Just go!”
Sensing that negotiations had broken down and that a departure was imminent, I withdrew. The last thing I heard was Daniel saying, “I’ll get you a cab.”
Evidently not taking him up on his offer, she burst into the hallway just as I slid back into the drawing room. And scarcely had I set foot in the room, dear reader, when I screeched to a halt and my eyeballs lunged out of their sockets like cuckoo clocks. For, believe it or not, Pierre had left his chair and was now on the floor, butt pointing east-north-east and nose nuzzling the carpet. I quickly gathered that he was in conversation with The Big Man—pleading with him, to be more precise.
“I’m so sorry, God, I’m so sorry,” he whimpered. “Please forgive me, please. I love her so much, God. I love her so much. Please, please, I can’t.” By the time he had said “I can’t”, his voice had been reduced to a squeak. A remarkable thing, considering his size. And deprived of his ability to form vowels, he stooped to wailing: loud, slobbering, cheek-wobbling wailing. Picture, if you will, a firetruck in mourning.
Thankfully, this racket lasted only a few seconds, for, quite unexpectedly, he suddenly checked it and started exhibiting all the symptoms of a castaway who had spotted a far-off ship. He stopped swaying to and fro, as he had done hitherto, and after a pregnant pause, addressed the Lord with a vigor, a sense of hope, and a Sean Connery quality of voice scarcely thought possible just a few moments earlier.
“My help comes from the Lord,” he started in a rich baritone, “the maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip. He who keeps you will not slumber. Indeed, He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord watches over you. The Lord is your shade at your right hand. The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all harm; He will watch your life …”
I suspect he had been behind me for a while, but Daniel came swooping past me at this juncture and, squatting down in front of Pierre like a strongman, first toppled him onto his side, causing an earthquake, before rolling him onto his back. Then he straddled him and, grabbing him by the chest, shouted, “Pierre! Pierre! Look at me! This won’t help! Do you hear me? This won’t help! You have to get tested. If you want to be with my sister, you have to get tested!”
I should mention that as Daniel was delivering this gripping speech, he shook Pierre like a backpack he was trying to rid of sand. And after one particularly good shake, the divine fire seemed to desert the once fervid believer and his eyes grew moist and fearful.
“I am scared, Daniel,” he said in a tiny voice.
Daniel’s grip slackened.
“So am I. But we have to do it.” He spun around and collapsed onto the floor.
I stepped forward.
“Yes,” I said, looking all sorry and shaking my head, “we have to. This has gone on for too long—way too long. It’s time to do the right thing.” I picked up my keys. “I’m going now. Daniel, Pierre—it’s been a pleasure. Stay strong.” I thumped my chest two times.
Daniel frowned at me as I withdrew.
When I stepped onto the porch and took a big lungful, I felt like a newborn, fresh from the womb, with the whole world and all its fabulous possibilities open to me. I was buzzing with ecstasy. What a night! What a story! What I could do with it all! I broke into a waltz and pranced about like Count Vronsky before toddling down the steps and to the gate. Once out, I launched into yet another rotation, but aborted the maneuver halfway when the sound of a piano reached my ears. It was emanating from Daniel’s drawing room. A real touchy-feely number too. I couldn’t label it in the moment, but I later learned it was Pavane pour une infante défunte.
I noticed something else of note: the balcony door right above the drawing room stood open, which led me to conclude that Layla must’ve eavesdropped on us from there. Sneaky girl …
Speaking of the lass, when I reached my car, I spotted her fine, forlorn figure some way down the road. Thinking that I might just as well have a crack at her—I mean, she was on my way—I swung the carriage around and chased her down.
Leaning over to the passenger window, I said, “Layla, old girl, let me give you a lift home. You don’t know how dangerous this area has become. Just the other day, an old lady and her dog got hacked to death.4 Come, get in.”
“Leave me alone,” she muttered.
“Layla …”
“Just leave me alone!”
“Okay, but just listen to me quickly! Please, just stop for a moment. Layla!”
The verbal rap of the hammer did the trick. She braked, albeit more in the manner of a hostile prisoner of war than a bright-eyed recruit, and turned to me with hard, wet eyes. Naturally, I braked as well.
“Look,” I said earnestly, “everything I said back there was a lie—a lie! I don’t really treat women like that. The only reason I said what I said was to effect a breakthrough in Daniel. Don’t you see? It was a construct! A strategy! I’m sorry I involved you in all of this, but there was no other way. Daniel simply had to be stopped. He was a danger to society.”
Now that grabbed her attention. “Why do you say that?” she said, rushing to the window.
I averted my eyes.
“You know I can’t tell you that.” I joggled the gear lever. “Daniel’s a client.”
“Laurence, please!” she said, clasping the windowsill. “You have to tell me! You don’t know what this is doing to me.”
I joggled the lever a bit more, then stopped and gave it a good, thoughtful look. I was really selling it. Then I sighed and said, “Okay—”
“Thank you!” she said gratefully.
“—but not here! First, let me take you home and make sure you’re safe, then we can get into it.”
She nodded eagerly. “Do you mind if we pick up my flatmate in Long Street? I’m supposed to meet her there.”
Perhaps a little too eagerly, I replied, “Of course not!” I mean, if things didn’t work out with Layla, they might very well do so with the flatmate. After all, she was presumably the one who Daniel had heard getting it on the one night, so she might not be altogether against the idea of an early morning romp with her friend’s trusted advisor.
As I drove off, Layla phoned the flatmate to coordinate the reunion. The flatmate said she’d meet us outside Solstice. When we arrived, Layla spotted her at once.
“There she is!”
“Where?” I asked, bobbing and weaving behind her.
“By the lamppost,” she said, pointing out a girl in white. “I’ll go get her.”
Once she was out of the car and had closed her door, I hastily wound down her window and shouted, “Layla! Got to go! Sorry! Just got a text! One of my patients—suicide!”
I sped off. The girl in white was Heidi.