Why?
She gave a deep, long, slow breath, preparation for a last, all-embracing sigh.
Then she spoke.
43.
Inside they were laughing, systematically more and more loudly, with greater exuberance. Outside it was clear and quiet, a night without imperfections. The moon was bright and in full sail, the stars were a sweep of glittering dust from horizon to horizon. It was cloudless, balmy, warm. She was standing on the little stoop of the lecture hall. The river murmured below, the moon was a yellow stained-glass design on the water. Only a layer of wine remained in the glass she brought to her lips. The wine was very dry but she could taste the sun in it. She took a tiny sip because she only allowed herself one glass. Perhaps another half when she went to her room as a reward for good work done. It hadn't been an easy group. The differences in personality, in seriousness, in intelligence, and in application had demanded a great deal from her, more than usual, she thought. Even so, it had been a success. Everyone had discovered a piece of himself, everyone had grown some very little, she had to admit, but their growth potential had not been formed by her.
Perhaps another year or two of this, then bigger, better things. She regarded the college as a step on a ladder, a temporary pause, but she felt no guilt. Slabbert got a great deal of value for his money. He got integrity and work ethic.
Another year or two.
She tasted the last of the wine on her tongue, let it slip gently down her throat, looked forward to her room. The others had been housed two to a cottage, she and Carina had the privilege of single rooms. She had insisted on that her time was too precious. Her book and music waited in her room. This evening she was going to listen to
Il Trovatore,
perhaps the first two acts. So much death? they had asked, even in Verdis time. But is all life not death? the maestro had replied. She smiled at the moon, turned, slid open the glass doors, and walked in.
They were sitting around a table, talking with great verve, each one with a glass in front of him. Nienaber was holding the floor while MacDonald, Ferreira, and Coetzee listened. Wilson, her star pupil, the one for whom she had a soft spot, sat a little outside the group. Wallace and Carina Oberholzer were having their own conversation at the end of the table.
No one else was evidently drinking dry white wine. She found the bottle easily between the full and empty beer bottles, the open brandy and whisky, liter bottles of mixers, and a big ice bucket. She poured herself exactly half a glass.
Im going to excuse myself, she said as they looked up when she came to stand next to the table.
They protested. She saw the alcohol had filmed their eyes.
Im coming with you, said MacDonald. The others laughed, exaggeratedly.
Shes too thin, said Ferdy Ferreira slyly but she heard it with painful discomfort.
The closer the bone . . .
Suddenly she was in a hurry. She gave a weak smile, said they must enjoy the rest of the evening and she would see them and say good-bye at breakfast.
They said good night and sleep well. Hands above the blanket, Ferdy Ferreira called out before she had gone through the door, and one or two laughed loudly. When she was outside, she shook her head. A rough diamond, that one.
She walked through the sounds of the night insects, the river, a dog barking somewhere, a truck roaring its way up a hill. The voices behind her faded as the distance increased. She focused on what was waiting, everything placed exactly where it should be, late that afternoon while others were dressing for the certificate ceremony. She had uttered a few words of encouragement, handed over the certificates. MacDonald had insisted on kissing her when he received his. They clapped hands for one another, made senseless remarks. Then the photograph: Carina Oberholzer had made them stand in a semicircle and taken one, two, three photos.
She unlocked her bedroom door. The bed light was burning. Everything was just so. She shut the door, leaned against it, and gave a gratified sigh.
First of all she pressed the button on the radio and cassette player. The music filled the room. Bent the knee of her right leg, lifted the ankle up to her hand, removed the shoe. Then the other one. The start of a ritual. She placed the shoes next to each other, symmetrically, at the bottom of the single-door wardrobe. She unbuttoned her blouse from the top, watching herself in the long mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. She didn't want to do the usual self-evaluation now, didn't want to consider the meaning of the sequence and every other step of the undressing process even if it was only a game, a vague, cynical, rueful smile, a game she played with herself almost every evening. She put the blouse on a hanger in the wardrobe, then reached behind her for the button of the skirt, pulled down the zip. It cost only one smooth movement to remove each leg from the garment. Her hands randomly brushed the fabric to remove imaginary threads from the skirt. She hung it next to the blouse.
Her underwear was delicate. While she listened to the music, she unhooked the front fastening of the bra, saw her small breasts in the mirror, the whiteness of the skin. She smiled involuntarily because the decision not to be caught up in self-argument about size and shape at this stage had been a deliberate one. The music was too beautiful, her mood too light and elevated.
The soft fabric of the nightgown slipped over her head. She adjusted it over her almost boyish hips and knew that the texture was a small sensation against her skin. She gave one last pleased look at the tidiness of the wardrobe she could be packed in minutes the next morning. She switched off the main light, pushed the pillows against the headboard, and slid between the sheets. She picked up the biography on the little bedside table and didn't consider her incapacity to enjoy fiction but made herself comfortable and opened the book.
Then she read.
Twice noise of the nights party disturbed her concentration. The first was a shout of resounding collective laughter that rose above even the sweetness of the aria and briefly she shook her head. They should take it easy, she thought, and then focused on the words in front of her again.
The second time was more disturbing. In the silence between aria and recitative, their cries had become a barometer of their inebriation. She recognized MacDonalds voice, maybe Coetzees. Swear words were shouted. She immediately discarded the possibility of getting up and warning them they were adults. Her eyes looked for the words on the paper in front of her but the level of their intoxication remained a vague worry for a while until she lost herself in the life between the pages again.
At first sleepiness was an invader, then a friend.
She waited until the aria ended, then pressed the button to halt the tape. She shifted the bookmark against the spine of the book, placed it on the bedside table, and reached for the switch of the bed light. Then she turned, shifted onto her left side, lay like a fetus between the blankets, and closed her eyes.
The sounds of the revelry slowly penetrated her sleep. The vague laughter and single cries of nearly recognizable words cut sharply through the night sounds of the insects and the rivers flow. Were they still at it? What was the time? There was a supervisor who might complain. Sleep fled before the pressure of anxiety.