He needed a condom. That was next. He thanked God Ione was a varietist who came up with fantasies that involved condoms. How many guys with postfertile wives would have condoms lying around for an emergency like this? So now he had whatever was left of the rainbow pack. And that would be the couple of red ones, a magenta and a blood red, the ones he hadn’t used because he felt they were subliminally frightening. They were in a hiding place in the linen closet, safe and sound. He needed a condom. There was no way he was going to find himself in the position of Peace Corps studs coming moping into the medical office saying they’d knocked up a local because there was no way they could resist when the women said condoms were insulting. Then there was the story he was trying to forget, about another Peace Corps character who had gone back to the U.S. leaving some village girl behind, pregnant. A child had been born. Other volunteers heard about it and collected money for the mother. Later they’d found out part of the money went for a special ceremony by a witch doctor, with all-night chanting. And the point of the ritual had been to get the whiteness out of the baby, let it be black. He told Moitse to go into the bedroom. He went to get a condom. Red was what there was.
He had a moment of fake fear. He was afraid there were no condoms where they were supposed to be. Fake fear was a juvenile thing he indulged in now and then. He would let himself fear something he knew was fake, and then be reassured — like letting himself think the car was stolen when he couldn’t find it on the first try in the parking lot at the Paramus Mall. Maybe Ione had thrown out the red condoms. There had to be condoms because he was not a Boer or a fool and he wasn’t going to impregnate anyone or pick up a disease. Also he should eat something, some protein, for strength. He needed something quick. He took the magenta condom from its hiding place.
In the pantry he found a jar of sprinkleneute, nut fragments for use in baking, which he more nearly drank than ate. He chewed violently. Afrikaans names for things always made him laugh. In the Republic, menswear was mansdrag. Drinks were drankies. Moitse would be in the bedroom now. He was chewing his best.
The hall light would have to be adequate. He doubted that Moitse would care either way about light versus dark: she was young. Ione was a good sport about leaving the lights on during sex. He was wearing the condom.
He got a surprise. Moitse had straightened things up in the bedroom. She had picked up his shirts and hung them on a chair back. His shoes were lined up under the dresser. She had tightened the sheets on the bed and was lying there dead center, a towel under her buttocks, a pillow on either side of her head, the blanket rolled down into a cylinder across the foot of the bed. She was still naked. Her clothes were in a bundle next to the door. She was lying with her knees raised, a little apart. With one hand she was lightly gripping her left breast, forcing the nipple up between her fingers. It was erotic. She seemed to be smiling. Her left hand was flat at her side, with something in it — a pad of toilet paper. The woman was a locomotive. This was not his style, but it was effective enough.
He got onto the bed, on her right. Some pleasantries would be good, but his mind was blank. He leaned on his fist and looked at her. The idea was to introduce the idea of taking it easy and appreciating things as they happened. But she let go of her breast and drove her hand under his hip, trying to lever him up and over her. His cheek slipped off his fist. Her strength was a shock again. She was using her nails. He rolled away from her, to think. In this format they were going to skip the kissing, apparently. At the movies, the Batswana laughed at kissing scenes. The stalls laughed and the whites in the balcony were serious. The good news was that she’d seen the magenta condom and hadn’t blinked.
Now it looked like she had a new idea. She was covering her breasts with her hands. She was going to make him fight for her breasts. He lay against her and kissed her shoulder and neck. She drew her shoulders in. Either she disliked what he was doing or she thought it was funny. He was going to keep on. He was burning.
They heard a voice. Both sat up. She was rigid, listening. The voice was just outside, near the bedroom window.
“Tutututututu,” came to them, trilled softly.
“What is this?” he asked Moitse, his voice hard. It was someone imitating a bird, but why? It could be a signal of some kind. He was in danger. He could feel danger. He repeated his question, but more roughly.
Moitse put her hand over his mouth and shook her head, commanding silence, while she concentrated.
“Ninini … ninini … ninini … ” This was a second voice, different, more piping. There were two people outside.
Then both cries were uttered in unison, followed by muffled laughter and scuffling noises. Moitse hissed.
I have to escape, he thought. He could get in the car. But that was irrelevant. He told himself to start functioning.
“I must thrash them!” Moitse said. She was glancing wildly around, looking for something, probably for a weapon. She leapt up and started pulling the belt out of a pair of his slacks. She was pissing steam, to quote Egan. He went to her, to control her. He got her by the wrists. She dropped the belt.
“It is my sisters!” she said. All this had nothing to do with him. She pulled against him, jerking her wrists downward with all her strength. “They are just teasing after me,” she said.
The cries were repeated, more boldly.
“You’re naked, what can you do?” he said. Number one, she had to dress. That seemed right. They were near the door. He let go of one wrist in order to reach for her clothes. She broke away, down the hallway to the kitchen.
“Relax,” he said aloud. He felt his pocket. The key was still in the back-door lock. But she had to be kept in the house or Christie might see her running around naked if he was looking, if she got outside. Frank ran to the kitchen. This is why motels exist, he thought.
She was turning the key. He heard her say she was going to thrash them to hell. Then she was out in the night. He felt exhausted.
Outside, she was beating them. He could hear it. He turned out the kitchen light and waited. He stood in the open doorway, listening. He could lock her out, but he couldn’t, because he would never see her again, and also he had her clothes. He wondered what Egan would do.
Someone small burst past him, knocking against his leg. He turned a stove burner on for light. There was a child under the kitchen table. She was badly frightened, judging by her breathing. She had to be gotten out, pronto. He crouched down to look at the huddled child. She was about six. She was shaking. She had bits of cloth in her pigtails. He stood up and patted the tabletop. “Relax,” he said, as a second child burst into the kitchen. Her sister under the table called to her. He tried to catch her, but now both children were under the table. The new one was a little older. They were more ragged than Moitse, even. Moitse strode in, closing the door victoriously. The air was full of furious breathing. He wished he could laugh. The house was full of company.
Moitse was hissing Setswana at her sisters. Something was making him weak, other than being a little tight. He wished she would stop or continue indefinitely, because there was something about the moment. It was hellish and the best at the same time, with the light from the burner the only light and shining on her naked skin, her back, the cusps of her spine, as she bent down cursing her sisters. What was the name of the bone like a beak at the base of the spine? The sacrum. He was having a certain kind of moment. It was a little like being alone in the woods when a log or rock looks like a living thing for a second.