Love Tastes Like Strawberries. Rosamund Haden

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СКАЧАТЬ eyeing out the talent in the bar. Stella wanted to go home as soon as she arrived, but after two drinks she doesn’t want to go home – ever.

      “It was exciting then – the life drawing class.”

      “So take up another hobby.”

      “It wasn’t a hobby.” Stella can’t explain.

      “Well, nothing is going to happen if you do nothing,” Marge lights a cigarette and scans the room. It is filling up after work.

      How to take your day look into night, thinks Stella drunkenly. They had done a feature on it for the magazine. You could unbutton your professional shirt, clip on earrings, lose the jacket. There was something else, but she couldn’t remember what it was . . .

      “Why are you staring at that woman? Are you drunk, Stella?”

      Stella frowns at Marge who is definitely drunk.

      “I’m glad you came out and didn’t go home and read.” Marge rests her hand on Stella’s knee. It’s warm. “You’ll never meet anyone if you stay home and read.”

      “Buddhists say do nothing. Still your ego, wait with an open heart,” says Stella uncertainly.

      “You’ve been doing that I Ching again. It’s a load of shit. Ask it a question and it always says the same old shit . . . do not be entangled by inferior things.” Marge exhales and the smoke pours out through her nostrils. “Buddhists don’t have sex,” Marge says, blowing a huge smoke ring.

      Stella feels ill. She has drunk one too many margaritas. “I just need to speak to someone from the life drawing class. Because of this.” She fishes in her bag and puts the invitation to Ivor’s exhibition on the table between them. Marge spills her drink on it. Then she picks it up and squints at it. “Who is it?”

      “It’s Françoise. She modelled for Ivor.” Stella suddenly sees something she hasn’t seen before. But maybe it’s the drink.

      Marge crushes her cigarette out.

      Stella can’t remember how she found her way to her car. When she parks, the wheels of her Corsa scrape against the kerb. It’s windy and gritty and she feels green and ill. She takes the half-eaten pies, an empty cooldrink bottle, her book of messages to herself and a bunch of papers off the back seat. Her car is a crime scene, her housemate says in that superior, self-righteous way of his. They should cordon it off with tape. The A4 pages from work that she is clutching fly away in the wind. She just watches as they disappear, too drunk to try to retrieve them.

      After dumping the refuse from her car in the black bin at her gate she weaves her way up the overgrown path, only to find a bergie passed out against her front door, blocking the entrance. She tries to drag him by the legs but he is a dead, reeking weight and she only manages to shift him an inch. In doing so, the tattered jacket he is wearing falls open to reveal a T-shirt. The wording is almost indecipherable with grime but she can just make out the white lettering on the black cotton. In bold print it says Look Busy – Jesus is Coming. It’s Timothy’s T-shirt. She looks again at the tramp, her heart in her throat. It isn’t Timothy, of course it isn’t. He is at his flat. She saw his silhouette and heard his cursing. He must have thrown the T-shirt out and this street walker picked it up while he was trawling and has worn it ever since. Marge would say it was a sign. But then Marge thinks everything is a sign.

      Stella leans over the man, unlocks the door, and nearly stands on his face as she steps over him into the passage, slamming the door behind her. She slumps on to the floor and dissolves into drunken tears.

      A screaming and cursing outside forces her up again and when she peers through the curtains of the sitting room she watches as two other bergies pull the guy to his feet and drag him back out to where their trolleys are parked on the sidewalk.

      She has to relax. Her breath is shallow and she feels dizzy. In her bedroom she flops down on her unmade bed, feels for her CD player, stabs the play button, and closes her eyes.

      Breathe in, I am a mountain. Breathe out, I am strong. Breathe in, I am a flower. Breathe out, I am fresh.

      Why didn’t Timothy answer her knock?

      Breathe in, I am space.

      She should have knocked one more time.

      Breathe out, I am free.

      She should have shouted. What if it wasn’t him in there? What if he was dead?

      Breathe in, clear your mind. You are space, you are a flower, you are a mountain, you are space . . .

      Françoise

      The bus pulls into Cape Town station in the cold blue of the early morning. Passengers stand up, dazed by the harsh interior light that floods the cabin as the doors hiss open. Tired and stiff from hours of sitting in a cramped space, they start to push forward down the aisle. Françoise shakes Dudu, who is still snoring next to her, a cloth over her eyes. She stirs. Françoise pulls the cloth away and Dudu opens her eyes a slit. Françoise shakes Dudu again, even though she is awake, this time harder. She is irritable with tiredness. As she reaches for her bag in the overhead rack, someone shoves her as they push past.

      The south east wind hits her as she steps out of the bus; it blows grit and dirt off the street, whipping her bare legs. She clutches her skirt tightly with one hand, the other free for their bag. People are crushing to get their luggage first, so they can get to their final destinations.

      A woman embraces a family member who has come to meet her. Joyous. They walk off, chattering, laughing. A husband claims his wife and young child. A boyfriend kisses his girlfriend, spinning her around as she climbs off the bus, fresh and in love, despite the twelve-hour journey. The driver is throwing suitcases and bags out on to the pavement. Françoise reaches for their woven plastic bag. The wind nearly whips it out of her hand. Dudu is punching numbers into her cellphone, unaware.

      Nothing feels solid in this city, thinks Françoise. Françoise doesn’t feel solid. Everything is blown back and forth – the sea, the sand, her and Dudu.

      “What?” Dudu looks up.

      They have gone backwards. They have thrown the dice and landed on the snake’s mouth, been sucked down into its gut and shat back out, in the same place they left. They will have to start all over again.

      “Am I not allowed to phone a friend? Pascal will come pick us up,” says Dudu.

      “No,” says Françoise, “we’ll walk.”

      “He owes me.”

      “You stole a car,” Françoise reminds her as they join the throng of people walking down the road away from the bus terminal.

      “I’m tired,” complains Dudu.

      “And I don’t care,” says Françoise.

      “Yes, you do,” says Dudu sulkily. They slide back into the language of their childhood. It will always be the same until they are old ladies with fading memories, this bickering of siblings.

      Early morning commuters hurry past them. Taxis hurtle by, hooting. Once they have walked across the parade and under the bridge and into Main Road, Françoise starts to count the blocks. СКАЧАТЬ