creates South Africa’s wealth, the black muscle that works the mines, industry, toils on the farms. Surely, if they withhold that labour, in the form of strikes, they will not only bring the economy to a standstill, they will also destroy the basis of the Lekker Lewe, the Good Life upon which this unhappy land was built. Strikes will pull apartheid down – right?
‘Wrong. Why? Two reasons.
‘One: strikes require organization. Leaders, shop stewards, discipline, instructions, leaflets. Sorry, folks, but the aforesaid legislation, backed up by a system of well-paid informers, will stop that at first base: twelve days’ detention without trial, and twelve days and twelve days for as long as it takes, plus house arrest, banning, and banishment will nip that in the bud.
‘Two: the workers want their work. If you’re black, you’re poor. And if you’re fired, there’re ten guys to take your place, and they don’t only come from South Africa, they hail from Mozambique, Rhodesia and Malawi. South Africa has to patrol its borders to keep illegal black immigrants out, because lousy though the wages are they’re many times better than back home.
‘So my educated guess is we can forget about the ANC for the time being. The Afrikaner has finally won his long battle that began with the Kaffir Wars and the Great Trek. He’s got his beloved republic and Lekker Lewe at last: land, security, and labour, all sewn up. The ANC, blustering a thousand miles away is, in the words of Mao Tse-tung, “the mere buzzing of flies”.’
‘It’s good writing,’ Patti said grimly, ‘“wise beyond your years”, as your editor says. But I wish to Christ you’d stop being so disparaging about the ANC.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot of time for the ANC, I simply mean that they’re a lame duck now. Or for a long time. Until they get their act together.’
She glared. ‘“Lame duck”? Far from it, pal! Let me assure you that this duck –’ she tapped her breast – ‘is not lame!’
Oh Jesus. ‘What does that mean?’
She closed her eyes. ‘Nothing,’ she sighed.
‘Patti? Are you up to something?’
‘No … I’m just devastated by Mandela’s arrest, that’s all. While he was around there was hope – something was happening. Now?’ She sighed bitterly. ‘I’m angry because what you say in your article is probably true … Freedom: that’s all I want. For everybody. Freedom to live how I want, where I can afford, to love who I like.’
They were lying beside the little pool at the cottage. ‘I know the feeling.’
She shook her head, her eyes closed behind her sunglasses. ‘No, you only partly understand, darling. You only understand the injustices of being a lusty young white man having an affair with a lusty young Indian woman, the towering injustice of not being allowed to come out in the open and just enjoy the fun of being in love. But you don’t fully understand that Indian lover of yours, Luke, what it’s like to be an Indian. Or a native, or Coloured. But an Indian is something else again – an Indian is just as sophisticated as you whites, Luke.’
‘I know.’
‘But you don’t know what it’s really like to be as good as the next person, even smarter, as pretty as the next girl but not allowed to stand next to her in a post office queue. A bank queue. Not even ride on the same bus. Let alone live in the same suburb. You don’t know how insulted that makes you feel, you commiserate but you don’t carry away with you that appalling sense of injustice.’ She sighed. ‘But that’s not what I’m really talking about. I’m talking about you.’
‘Me?’
She sighed up at the sky, eyes closed. Silent a long moment. ‘I really love you, Luke. I’ve tried not to. I’ve tried just to keep it a fun relationship – just a sex thing, but I failed long ago. And in fact I’m very lucky. Because, as an Indian, I had no selection at all. No choice of men. Oh, there are a dozen eligible Indian men I could have, but I just don’t happen to fancy any of them. Imagine that – if the law made you choose your love-life from a dozen women you didn’t fancy. Imagine the feeling of bondage, if the law did that to you. But, wow, did I fancy you! And I’ve got you: so I’m lucky, aren’t I?’
‘And so am I.’ He tried to jolly her out of this mood. ‘If it weren’t for the law you’d have won that Miss South Africa contest and be in Hollywood now.’
‘Bullshit. But, yes, we’re lucky. But it’s also very, very sad. Because there’s no future in it.’
Oh God, he did not want to talk about the future, all he cared about was here and now, the happiness of being in love.
‘No future,’ she repeated. She hadn’t opened her eyes. ‘People say apartheid can’t last much longer, but how long is that? Ten years – twenty – thirty? A twinkling of an eye in the history of a country but a lifetime for you and me.’ She sat up suddenly. She swept back her hair and said: ‘Shall we please stop talking about it? Can we just be happy? And have fun?’
Just fun love? He didn’t want that – he wanted the real thing. Oh yes it was fun, to be in love and beating the law, these deliciously exciting lover’s trysts, wine in the sun, the lovely satiny feel of her nakedness as they romped in the pool, her long black hair flared out in clouds as she floated, her lovely breasts and belly and pubic mound awash, her long golden legs glinting, and bathing together as the sun went down, legs hanging over the rim of the bath, soaping each other, drinking wine, talking.
‘Just fun love,’ she said. ‘Look at it this way: we wouldn’t make love so much if we were allowed to sleep together every night. You simply couldn’t keep up this spectacular weekend performance.’
‘Yes I could.’
‘No you couldn’t. You’d get bored. Sexually bored.’
How could any man become sexually bored with this sensual beauty, those legs, that heavenly bottom, those glorious curves, that classically lovely face, those sparkling, flashing dark eyes. ‘Impossible. But maybe you’d get bored with me?’
‘That hard-on? Impossible. But, you see, if it were legal, I’d want to marry you. And that’s the good deed apartheid’s done us – if we could get married you’d get scared and run away.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Oh yes. You’re far too young to get married, Luke. You haven’t sowed enough wild oats yet.’
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Fuck the wild oats.’
She smiled sadly. ‘I am your wild oats, Luke. Your forbidden wild oats. I just hope your memory will be the more vivid because of that.’
Oh Jesus. ‘I love you and I love you and I love you. And I’m not going to leave you.’
‘And I believe you mean it. But you cannot marry me. Illegal, So? So you’re safe to be in love without the responsibility that usually entails.’
‘But I do want to marry you.’
‘And you’re lucky. Because if you weren’t screwing me you’d be screwing some nice white girl who’d be wanting you to marry her. I’m saving you all that hassle. Us women are trouble,
