Read Online Black Bread White Beer by Niven Govinden - Free Book Online Page A

the Mini Cooper were bought in this spirit, when unions were only ever thought to be happy and unbreakable. Now they need something bigger; a four seater, long and wide. A tank, like the Mercedes S Class, where she can sit at the back and sulk with the painting propped beside her, and he can be left alone, putting his foot down on the series of undulating hills that trail to Lewes.
    The best she can do is wedge the now bubble-wrappedpainting between them. From gear stick to ceiling, they are cut off from each other with this mobile Berlin Wall. Only the closeness of the other’s breath, and their scent, can pass through and over flimsy plastic wrap. They cannot see but they can hear: fits and snorts and odd exclamations removed from all recognizable language.
    He hopes that speed will help, that the faster he goes, the quicker their clouds can be shaken off. He is not angry with her, only with himself, suffocating in remorse as thick and impenetrable as the bubble-wrap. His head feels as if it is filled with tiny negative bubbles which need to be popped one by one. Does not listen. Pop. Childish. Pop. Ignorant with no concept of art. Pop. Defective sperm. Pop. Bad choice of husband. Pop. He does not hear her voice until she is in full flow. She is talking on the phone, using his mobile, which lies charging on her side.
    â€˜I’ve got Hari waiting on the line, ’Mal. I think you have something to tell him.’

    In his readiness to make allowances, to mourn, he has forgotten what a bitch she can be. If things are not to her liking he will be cut dead guaranteed, from arguing over their choice of supermarket when they first moved in together, to her insistence of being fucked in a yogaposition, irrespective of his pleasure, because according to all the literature, it was the best way to conceive. She has this need to be in control of every element or at least to have a well-argued say. Even weather reports are not believed if they do not fall into the scheme of things. It will definitely not rain because it is warm enough for bare legs; there needs to be at least five centimetres of snow because what is the point of spending exorbitantly on getting three pairs of custom-made Uggs shipped over from New Zealand if they cannot be worn before the end of March?
    But phoning Hari is the lowest she has ever sunk, making him feel like a naughty school kid being slapped across the legs for misbehaviour. School ma’am knows best. He hates everything about her slyness, this compulsion she has to put him on the spot.
    Hari is with him, not finding it funny as she does.
    â€˜What’s happened? I don’t understand what’s going on.’
    â€˜That makes two of us.’
    â€˜She said there was bad news. Have things gotten worse?’
    â€˜Not quite.’
    â€˜You don’t sound like you’re in the hospital, more like a car. Is it an ambulance? Is she being transferred? I heard that some women bleed to death, but not in a hospital surely?’
    Hari’s voice rises with excitement at the prospect of being so close to crisis. Amal pictures his face,consummately metrosexual, expectant, and ready to shoot his load if the details are particularly delicious and nasty. Probably holding a pen in readiness so as not to miss a thing, or speed-dialling on a second phone to reach Ma and Puppa. Even in the tensest moment he can only find this behaviour endearing, worthy of a punch on the arm or a drunken kiss on the forehead. How can he forgive his friend, lurching on the precipice of gossip, and not his own wife? What does that say about his divided loyalties?
    â€˜We’ve had a nasty shock, Hari. You should probably sit down.’
    The news he is expected to deliver sticks in his throat, and not just because she is monitoring his every nuance or because he has never been so aware of how comfortable he is with lying, and telling people what they most want to hear. It feels like they are playing