Norman Rush - Whites

He put his hand on her shoulder, guided her to step back. He could hardly think. He turned the water on, a tepid flow and not forceful. He handed her the soap. But she wanted to stand and enjoy the water: she held her pose, letting the water break directly on her upturned face. She was so calm. He wanted to touch her again. He was shaking, naturally. He touched her hip and then patted her mons. Her pubic hair was coarse, as he’d expected. “You must wash all around here,” he said.

She nodded, but handed the soap back to him. She was going too fast. She lifted one foot onto the sill of the stall and torqued her body a little, thrusting her mons at him. He shied. He said, “No, you must do it yourself, but make everywhere clean. Stay here until I come back.” He had to get away from her for a minute.

He returned to the kitchen. He was the one who was supposed to be in control. This was not the kind of thing that was going to happen to him every day of the week for the rest of his life and he wasn’t going to be rushed and pulled down in the corner of the shower and so goodnight. His cuffs were wet. If this was going to happen, sobeit, but it was going to be with reasonable amenity and taking an amount of time worth the risk he was running. He diluted his wine with tap water. He washed his hands. He cooled his face.

The girl was some kind of veteran, so there was no virginity issue. The interest in virgins was pretty much a dead letter, was his impression. He was half erect. It was embarrassing. He tried deep-breathing, which helped. He heard the shower stop.

Moitse was standing in the stall, a towel wound around her head in a cowl. “We have to dry yourself,” he said. He was mixing things up. He could hear he was trying to sound like someone in the media.

She came forward a little. He took a towel from the rack. Reaching into the stall, he dried her shoulders and trunk. He caressed her breasts through the towel, briefly, teasing himself. He knelt on the sill and dried her legs. He pulled lightly at her right knee, to get her to uncock her leg so it could be lifted. He had to check for danger signs — lesions, scarring, rash. But it was all standard and clean. She looked down at him from beneath the cowl. All his associations for the way she looked with the cowl were religious. He wanted to lean his cheek against her belly, but he decided against it. Her foot was as hard as wood. He got up. His penis was erect. He tried to rearrange himself. She laughed and reached into his robe, grasping his penis at the base. It was painful. She pulled herself against him. She was too rough. He was speechless. She shook the towel off her head and tightened her grip. Shock gave him strength: he caught a tuft of her pubic hair and twisted it. She was going too fast again. She released him. He fell back and stood against the wall. She liked to play rough. He wanted to do all kinds of things, then. She knew how to play. She was back in the stall, standing there like a shadow. He had to think.

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.