Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

Cecil John Rhodes was having a nightmare. It was a recurrent bad dream and had the disadvantage of having been based on a true and horrible experience, and therefore it was most difficult to exorcise. The dream came every month or so, and left him disturbed for several days afterward. He had often tried to determine what particular activity or thought triggered the dream, but he had never been able to do so. Something he ate? He didn’t think so; food had little importance for young Cecil Rhodes, and he often ate the same thing day after day, except that some days the dream came and some days it did not.

He could not recall exactly when he had begun having this dream; it had simply occurred as he tossed and turned on his lumpy cot in the heat of a Kimberley night, heat stored during the day by the corrugated iron that made up the walls and roof of the small one-room shack he shared with a friend, Charles Rudd. In his dream he was not in Kimberley; he was still in his brother Frank’s farmhouse outside of Durban, where he had been sent several years before to recover his health from the deterioration it had suffered from the damp English winters.

At the time of the events that kept occurring in Cecil Rhodes’ nightmare, Frank Rhodes had been gone for several months. Tired of cotton farming, he had gone off to the diamond fields on the De Beer brothers’ Vooruitzigt farm, leaving the problem of cotton picking in the hands of his younger brother. He also left behind to handle the in-house chores the housekeeper, a young Matabele woman named Matili Lobolo. Cecil Rhodes knew, or strongly suspected, that Matili was — or at least had been during his brother’s presence — Frank’s mistress. It was a most disturbing thought. Matili, young, earthy, her full lips always wet, her large breasts never bound, exuding sexuality, had moved from being one of the numerous field hands to becoming housekeeper in a remarkably short time, and as housekeeper had been given the room adjoining Frank’s. The thought of his handsome older brother rutting with a woman, any woman, black or white, was disgusting, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was something he preferred not to even think about.

But Matili Lobolo thought about it constantly. In the warm nights, lying alone in her bed with the knowledge that the master’s bed in the next room was empty and had been for some time, she would pass her hands over her full breasts and pinch the nipples lightly, and then slide her hand along her thick thighs and, making a fist, press it tightly between her legs, rubbing, squirming with desire. To go to one of the Kaffirs in the field houses was unthinkable; after having bedded down the master, to return to the hot wrestling that took place in the dirty, smelly shacks beyond the outhouses would have been demeaning, as well as unsatisfactory. Besides, word would have been about the farm in no time, and Matili preferred not to even think about the consequences of such rumors reaching the master when he returned.

If he returned. The master was a restless person by nature, and he had been gone a long time, a very long time. The cotton was in and he still hadn’t come back. Maybe he was selling the farm; he had never been happy growing cotton. If so, there would be a new owner, a new master, maybe another Englishman come to South Africa without his woman, as the master had done. But in the meantime—

There was, of course, the master’s younger brother, but he did not look the type. Odd, that one. Never looked at her twice; never looked at any of the other girls who worked in the main house during the day. Never tried to accidentally rub against her body in the narrow passages of the house, or let his hand touch her as if by chance on those places she liked so much to be touched. But that, of course, could just be shyness. Probably never had a girl in his life and was afraid he’d die of fright the first time, or, more likely, make a fool of himself. Nobody died of fright the first time, Matili thought, or the thousandth time, either. The idea made Matili giggle. Oh, he’d undoubtedly be nervous the first time, but they all got over that in a hurry! The thought of the tall, gangling, inexperienced boy under her expert tutelage made her more excited than ever. What was the worst that could happen? He’d spill his seed before she was ready, but that would only be the first time. Then he’d settle down; they always did. And they had the house to themselves. One thing was fairly certain: he’d never tell the master. The first time one had a chance to enjoy kunne he didn’t go around jeopardizing the possibility of getting more of it.

Her mind made up and excited by the thought, Matili threw aside the thin sheet and came to her feet. A simple motion and her shift was on the floor, and then she was walking softly, silently, from the room, naked and tingling slightly from the touch of the night wind on her damp body, and from the anticipation of the lovemaking to come.

The younger master’s room was on the top floor, and she crept up the stairs, one hand brushing the wall, surprised at her own temerity but driven by a force that would not be denied. She tiptoed along the darkened hall and then smiled slightly to find the boy’s door a bit ajar, almost as if he had had the same thought in mind and had practically invited her to join him. She slipped into the room. The moonlight from the high dormer showed the boy sprawled in sleep, the sheet tucked between his naked legs. Matili grinned. She softly tugged the folded sheet loose; the motion brought a response from the sleeping boy. He rolled slightly, ending on his back, his legs apart, his head turned into the pillow, breathing a bit heavily through his mouth. Matili studied the naked body, mentally castigating herself for having waited so many weeks since the master had left. This one was as well endowed as the master, if not better.

She touched herself again in anticipation of the pleasure to come, and slid onto the bed, bending over the sleeping boy, allowing her turgid nipples to brush lightly against his body, starting at his chest and lowering herself slowly until her full breasts cushioned themselves between his legs. She raised herself, stretching out, replacing her breasts with her fingers, cuddling the boy, kneading him sensually, slowly, her breasts now pressed against his side, her lips nuzzling the boy’s neck, pleased with the unconscious response her active fingers were invoking.

The sleeping boy rolled to his side, slowly wakening, becoming aware of the unexpected presence in his bed. Matili grinned, and now that the boy was awake, wasted no more time. Her hand clutched him tightly; she rolled closer to him, one leg thrown over him, bringing him to her, her breasts now pressed tightly against him.

Cecil John Rhodes came fully awake, aware of what was happening. A woman was in his bed, touching him, holding him, trying to couple with him! With a terrified shriek he flung himself backward, pushing the woman away with all his force, and then the girl found herself being struck at, pummeled, the boy’s fists pounding at her in sheer panic, even as he tried to push himself farther away. The shriek had been replaced by a constant hysterical whimper, like an animal in pain, and then the boy had pushed himself over the far side of the bed, forcing it from the wall, and was pounding down the steps, fleeing the horror of the experience.

In the morning at first light, Cecil John Rhodes had packed his bags and had left; gone to join his brother, he told the field hand he had wakened to take him in the Scotch cart to Durban and the coach station. He wondered how long it would be before word of the terrible night would be common knowledge among the field hands and the house servants, spread by Matili. He should have sent her packing even before he left himself, but he knew he could never have faced the girl. However, it made no difference. He knew he would never return to Durban or the farm again.