Muti Nation (20 page)

I pull my arm from his grip and blow a stray strand of hair out of my face. “You’re right about my abhorrence to mundane acts of affection,” I say, trying to salvage whatever dignity I have left. “I do like flowers, though.”

“So, if I were to ask you on a date—”

“The answer would be yes” I say. “But you never asked.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Fine, I’ll see you then.”

“Good.”

“Don’t be boring.” I open the door to leave.

“I won’t,” he almost snarls behind me.

It takes every ounce of my self-discipline not to smile. “We’re not well-matched either.”

“Tell me about it.”

~

The stifling weather dictates my outfit for the evening—a summer’s dress paired with a crocheted wrap and wedge heels—because I have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing for this “date” thing. I wonder, of course, as I nervously fumble with my hands in my lap and watch the world pass by through the passenger window.

The suburb slowly opens up to the roads, which leads into the city. Electric lights twinkle in windows and shine down from the streetlights, illuminating the emptying roads. In the distance, neon lights flicker to life, brightening up the gloom. The cloudless night sky is speckled with starlight accompanied by a bright sickle moon.

The night is beautiful—warm, but beautiful.

“Are you always this quiet on dates?” Howlen asks.

“Yes,” I answer. “Silence leaves no room for misinterpretation.”

He smirks, but doesn’t press for more.

“You’re awfully quiet, too.”

“Honestly, it’s because I’m nervous,” Howlen says.

I twist in my seat to study his face. His strong jaw is set, but there’s a grin playing on his lips. Smudges of exhaustion are present under his eyes, but it’s only noticeable whenever he’s cast within the shadows. He glances towards me and the slightest blush appears. “I haven’t been on one of these in a while,” he explains.

“I can’t imagine why. You’re always so charming.” My joke, earns a soft chuckle

Soon we turn onto Stanza Bopape Street, heading west.

Jacaranda blooms rain onto the windshield of his silver Yaris, tugged from the branches by the breeze. The world feels strange, both new and ancient at the same time.

We come to a slow stop at a red light.

“Let’s not talk shop tonight.” Howlen checks his rear-view mirror. “Please?”

“Deal,” I agree. “On one condition, though.”

“I’m listening.”

“When the date’s over, I’m going to need your help.”

“What type of help?”

“The back-up kind,” I answer.

He sighs his: “Okay.”

The red light turns green, and the Yaris pulls away.

“Let’s start with something easy,” he begins, stealing a glimpse of me.

I nod, force a smile, and try to stop fumbling with my fingers and thumbs.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

I roll my eyes. “You know that already.”

“No, I don’t.”

I answer: “Blue. Yours?”

“Blue,” Howlen says, suppressing a smile. “King’s blue, though, not cyan like you.”

Howlen slacks off and flips on his indicator to turn right into Pine Street. “Why do I get the impression you’re not in the mood for a game of twenty questions?”

“I like to think we at least know each other well enough to have the basics memorised.”

“True, but it feels somewhat awkward, going on a date and not going through the motions.”

“I know, right?” I clap a hand against my thigh for emphasis. “Where are we going by the way?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Ooh, I love surprises.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Howlen flashes a smile. “One in every four-million lobsters is born with a rare genetic defect that turns it blue.”

“What?” I laugh. “No. I meant tell me something I don’t know about
you
.”

“I know what you meant, May.” He laughs softly. “Hmmm, okay, here’s something you don’t know. I used to be a pretty decent violist, but I haven’t played in years.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a story for another time.”

That’s all he says. I don’t press for more.

The Yaris turns left into Government Avenue and we proceed down the street until the twinkling lights of the Union Buildings break through the canopy of green and purple. The imposing neoclassical structure with its Cape Dutch and Edwardian style details sits atop Meintjieskop and overlooks most of the city. Beautiful terraced gardens—planted exclusively with indigenous plants—stretch out towards the always busy Stanza Bopape Street. Larger than life statues, memorials or monuments are visible even if most of them are merely specks in the darkness. Then there’s the Nelson Mandela amphitheatre which can seat nine-thousand people at a time. The Union Buildings remain a marvellous sight, even to those who see it every day as they make their way to work or home.

Howlen slows the car and parks. “Voila.” He switches off the engine, undoes his seatbelt and opens the door.

“Voila?” I unbuckle my seatbelt, grinning like an idiot. By the time I have the door closed behind me, he’s done rummaging around in the trunk. “Can I help with anything?” I ask.

The trunk slams shut. “No, but thank you for offering.”

He appears, carrying a picnic basket in one hand, a chequered blanket folded over his forearm, and a fragrant bouquet of pink daisies, baby’s breath, and white roses in his other hand. “For you,” Howlen says, holding out the flowers.

I accept them, battling the flush rising to my cheeks, but I can’t subdue my smile.

He presses the fob key to lock his car and then holds out his arm so I can hook my hand in the crook of his elbow.

Together, we make our way towards the uneven stone staircase leading into the terraced gardens. Once we reach the uppermost terrace, Howlen spreads out the blanket on the luscious green grass and sets down the picnic basket.

I take a very ladylike seat on the blanket and watch as he opens the picnic basket, revealing a bottle of sparkling grape juice and two Styrofoam cups. He then spreads out an array of Woolworths’ bite-size snacks. Afterwards, he sets up a few thick white candles around us and lights the wicks one after the other.

“You went all out, huh?”

Howlen opens the grape juice and fills the Styrofoam cups. “Imagine what I can do when I have time to plan.”

“Hot air balloons, champagne, caviar?” I ask, taking the offered cup from him.

He tries to hide the beginnings of a crooked grin, but fails. “Too predictable,” he states.

“I’m intrigued
and
impressed.” I take a sip of the sweet, sparkly drink. “So tell me something else about you.”

“What do you want to know?” Howlen’s eyes become molten chocolate in the candlelight.

Those eyes make my inner teenage girl sigh.

“Surprise me,” I say, moving my tongue across my teeth as I smile brightly.

“Okay. I have an older half-brother from my father’s previous marriage and a younger half-sister from my mother’s current marriage,” Howlen says. “Richard is a musician and Christine is an actress. My mother is an ex-stage actress and quite melodramatic, which is why your grandfather insists on calling her Lady Sophia Jane Walcott.”

“And your father?”

“My father was a musician too, but he’s recently decided to be a lyricist.” Howlen answers. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Are you sure you weren’t switched at birth?”

He grins and drinks some grape juice. “You’ll laugh, but it was the first thing I checked when they let me loose in a lab.” Howlen crosses his legs without breaking eye contact. “I think my parents figured out I was different when, for my sixth birthday, I asked for a chemistry set instead of toy cars or a guitar like my brother wanted.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Mum sent me to a preparatory school when I got beat up in public school for being too nerdy. My father, on the other hand, decided it would also be helpful if I knew how to defend myself.”

“Martial arts?” I probe.

“Boxing. My father’s old school, even if he lives by the whole “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” motto.”

“Ah.” I smile. “Do you live by that same motto?”

“Not really, but I’ve been known to have moments of delinquency,” Howlen answers. “Apparently, I’m quite self-destructive when the mood hits, but these days I tend to work my frustrations out in the gym.”

“So where does the violin come in?”

He clears his throat, and says in a voice not his own: “You’re a Walcott, Howlen. You
have
to play at least one instrument. Pick one, stick with it, and you’ll have any woman worth having. Not that you’d know what I mean right now, but one day, son. One day.”

“Your dad’s a smart guy. Real classy.”

Howlen laughs. “Don’t tell him that. He has a big enough ego as it is.”

We talk for hours about everything and nothing, getting to know each other outside of work, outside of the death and grim realities overshadowing most of our lives. It’s just us and the stars and the warm spring breeze.

The candles burn out, but neither of us seem to want the night to end.

Our shoulders touch as we lie on the blanket, gazing at the stars. “I should probably take you home at some point,” he says.

I turn my head to face him, my cheek pressing against the soft blanket and find him staring back. My heart skips a beat and then my pulse starts to race. Before I can persuade myself otherwise, I turn onto my side and prop myself onto my elbow. I place my free hand against Howlen’s cheek.

Leaning down, I brush my lips against his, my fingertips tracing his jawline.

His breathing hitches before he places his hand against the small of my back.

My hand comes to a rest against his chest where his heart pounds fiercely, and I smile against his mouth. I pull away too soon and those few shared moments of closeness can only be described as both infinite and insufficient.

“Does this mean I get a second date?” His voice is husky. His eyes roam my face, lingering on my lips before our gazes lock again.

“Maybe,” I breathe. “We’ll have to see how you behave yourself in between now and when you drop me off at home.”

“Then I better get you to your meeting,” he whispers.

Reluctant for the night to end, yet unwilling to spoil the memory, I whisper: “Am I out of line for wanting to go home with you instead?”

“Very,” he says, his hand clutching a fistful of fabric. “And that’s why I’m crazy about you.”

“But?”

“But, you wanted romance. And romance means you’ll have to make peace with having to kiss me for a while, before we do more.”

His mouth muffles my groan of dismay before it escapes. I feel him smiling.

I pull away to protest his definition of romance, but he cuts my arguments off again in the same way. Soon, I’m putty in his hands, and relinquish the win.

The next kiss is deeper, lasts longer, and is full of promises.

I don’t trust it for a second.

Chapter 24

Him
sits in the driver’s seat of his van, parked near the Yaris that had transported Esmé and her shining knight to the Union Buildings. With the window cracked open for ventilation, he watches them have their evening picnic. Their heads bent together, smiling, laughing, talking, and dining.

He sees how the snob pushes a stray strand of Esmé’s long red hair out of her face, watches his hands caress her loose curls. That hair, oh how it reminds him of waterfalls of blood. Then he watches her eat offered food, seductively looking at her dearest Doctor Walcott. Had
Him
any emotions for the woman, Howlen would have been dead already. Lucky for Howlen, he doesn’t see Esmé as a paramour.

She isn’t a conquest, but an opponent. An opponent who needs more inspiration to play his game, it seems.

His stomach rumbles at the sight of them consuming their food and he decides to eat while observing from afar.

Dinner consists of comfort food—peanut butter and apricot jam sandwiches, prepared that same morning with his own hands and packaged in a large, airtight Tupperware lunchbox. Blue Ribbon brown bread slathered in Rama margarine with Black Cat peanut butter on one side and a generous helping of Koo apricot jam on the other. Exactly the way his Gogo used to make them.

No gourmet meals come close to childhood favourites, in his opinion.

He takes tentative bite after tentative bite, relishing in the flavours combining in his mouth, and reminisces over the few good memories he’d accumulated in his short thirty-five years of life.

There aren’t as many good memories as he would like.