Nadine Gordimer - Occasion for Loving

Morgan was dead still. If they had put a gun against his ribs just then he would not have spoken. And then he picked up some bits of wire that were lying on his bed and began to wind a loose end of insulating tape round them. He looked at his mother and Tom, kindly, helplessly, blindly.

“Well?” Jessie could not stop staring at him, roving curiously over the little thin neck in the open shirt, the lips closed with nervous lightness over the slightly forward projection of the jaw (he had nice teeth; what a good thing that was), the shabby grey trousers folded over like a dhoti under the circle of belt round his thinness; the raw and tender hands. They were like the hands she sometimes saw on young mechanics at the garage, coarse and sad, not yet hardened to the bruises of heavy metal, and with their pinkness still showing through ingrained grease.

“Jessie and I didn’t think you were keen on dances and things like that yet, Morgan,” Tom said to him. “If you are, there are clubs and places for chaps of your own age, and girls, of course. I should think you’d enjoy those more.” Poor little bastard! Healthy recreation, they were offering him; who knew what it was he needed? We can offer him only what we’ve got, thought Tom.

“You don’t have to sneak off to some joint.” Jessie made an effort to be friendly. “You could have invited people here, for that matter, if you’d told me. Now it’s too late — you’re going back to school.”

He said, as if fascinated by her voice, “Yes, I know. Only two more days.”

They were talking about someone else. Morgan would never invite croaky-voiced jolly boys and petticoated girls to dance to the gramophone. Neither did he have any share of the teddy-boy’s animal vigour; the reverse side of cosy home respectability acquired in regular instalments. The interview had come to nothing; there was only the relief that it was over.

Tom said, “He may do the same thing again. I don’t see what’s to stop him. We’ll have to make some plans before he comes home next time.”

“He’ll have forgotten. You know how children leave things behind them.”

“Yes,” said Tom, “but he won’t be leaving them behind any more.”

Jessie was caught up again in the uncomfortable, uncontrollable amusement that had unnerved her the night before. “Tom, Tom, really now, Tom, can you believe that he ever did it, though? Is it real, to you? That little boy? That little pest, with his boring stories?”

It was over and he would be back at school in less than two days, and she accepted that that was an end to the whole ridiculous, queer business. She felt a cold irritability towards the boy and she did not want to talk to anyone about him, especially not to Tom. It seemed to her that Tom had come particularly badly out of the talk with the child, with his totally unspontaneous “understanding”—into which she had let herself be led, too — and his suggestion that plans should be made for Morgan. Plans — there came to mind at once a picture that had had a special appeal for her as a child. It was in a book of pencil drawings of children, dogs, horses, parents and English nannies that was both exotic and comforting to her, and it showed a young woman lying on her side on the sands, her hand shading her eyes as she gazed fondly at the small boy who rested against her big, soft hip, rising in a curve behind him: “What will he be? — A Maternal Reverie.”

She had battled to get him into a decent school (you were supposed to be entered when you were born, to get into anywhere really good, but his father had died, she had moved about with him from place to place, and she had not thought it worthwhile to arrange anything until he was almost ready to go). She counted on her mother and Bruno to help with the business of university. She would be unshockable — this she accepted in the abstract, thinking of homosexuality, getting a girl pregnant, running into political trouble, turning Buddhist or Roman Catholic. All this when the time came. But the time was far off; she herself was still in the season of loving and breeding, she had three babies hardly out of napkins, she was filling ever-open mouths … what would she be, that was the question that possessed her. She was kicking up her own dust.

Morgan was down there somewhere in that cosmic whirl, a particle flying round her. When it settled — ah, when it settled, the atoms would be combined in some other pattern, not her own.

She did not think of Morgan, who was going back to school anyway, but his appearance as a visitation in the eerie grown-up world was like a dream that, not remembered, drains the taste and colour out of the day that follows. Everything was as it was in her daily life, and yet for her it was not the same; she continued mechanically.

As she left the Agency office one afternoon she telephoned the house and left a message with the servant that she was working late and probably wouldn’t be home for dinner. She drove slowly through the surge of home-going traffic to Hillbrow and went and sat in a coffee-bar for a long time. It was a big place, that had been decorated with bad abstract murals and African masks and lights shining through the woven strainers that Africans use for maize beer, but it made functional noises that gave it, after all, a certain kinship with the comforting qualities of a kitchen. A stream of bright orange juice constantly rose and streamed hissing down the inner walls of a glass machine, nearly as good as the sound of a bubbling kettle; the espresso dispenser did its work with a hoarse, sizzling chuff, almost like the noise a roast makes when it is being basted with hot fat. The place was empty, and these things were companionable. Then people began to come in. The girls waited with the look of musing world-weariness that she remembered so well assuming herself when she was waiting with wild excitement for some man. The older men, with money and aplomb, read the fresh pages of the evening paper. The young men sprawled back, watching the door, or leaned, tense and pensive, chin on arms, over the table. The immigrants came in: German Jews of the Thirties, doctors of this and that, in shabby raincoats; young Italians of the Fifties, the poverty-civilisation-stunted ones — little men-dolls with lifts on pointed shoes — bold, handsome ones with curly hair, rolling their thighs apart to show off the fine curve of their sex in tight trousers.

Jessie began to pretend that she was waiting for someone, too. Only this was a waiting without anguish, without the possibility of being let down, without a trace of the worst risk of all — that the meeting would go wrong for no reason at all. When the place began to fill up she left with a nice sense of timing. She walked round the shops for an hour, looking with interest at everything, from the rakes and plastic buckets in the hardware shop, and the lilac and silver wigs in the hairdresser’s, to the patterns of turkey, duck and chicken corpses laid out at the kosher delicatessen, and the perpetual festival, with its scent of trampled fruit and wilting flowers, of the Indian greengrocer’s, banked with purple of aubergine and scarlet of tomato, feathered with carrot and curly lettuce, and glowing with the light showing through the bottles of bright cold drinks on the top shelves. It got dark and she bought herself another cup of coffee. But this time she drank it off and went back to the street at once. She did not know where the place was, but, passing in the car at some time, she must have seen the name up, and now she walked to it with hardly more than a moment’s hesitation at each block’s end.

There was a flight of concrete stairs set in a narrow passage off the street. As she went up she thought, with the criticism of one generation for another, how what she had sought had usually to be found in cellars.