again. That he’d die under this foreign sky.
Wandering away from the heat of the fire he hunkered down and stirred the pool water with his fingers. It was as tepid as a cup of tea left to stand.
Turner never swam.
He hated the way the chlorine made his eyes burn and his skin itch. But most of all he hated how claustrophobic he felt when submerged, as if the water would suck him to its depths and never release him.
Turner stood and wiped his hands on his chinos, his damp fingers finding the outline of the BlackBerry in his pocket.
Despite—or, perhaps, because of—their disquieting conversation at the motel earlier, he wanted to call Grace, picturing her sitting on the couch in her apartment, legs tucked under her, smoking one of her ridiculous menthol cigarettes as she paged through Vogue.
He had only once been to her apartment.
Six months ago, driving with him in the Lexus to a business meeting, Grace had been drinking Coke from a can when Turner, distracted by the GPS, nearly collided with a semi and swerved wildly, the horn of rig blaring like an unmanned bull as it hurtled past them.
Grace had spilled the drink on her pale blouse and they’d had to take a detour to her apartment in Armory Park.
Grace’s desk was frequently cluttered and disorganized and Turner had expected her home to be the same, but the open plan apartment was as clean, neat—and anonymous—as a recently serviced hotel room.
Grace left him in the hall and hurried into the bedroom, closing the door. Turner had a view through to the kitchen (a single glass upended in a drying rack) and the living room where characterless modern chairs and a brown couch bowed before a huge, wall-mounted TV.
He went in search of cold water. The antiseptically clean refrigerator held only a jeroboam of French champagne—Krug—and an open tub of Beluga caviar, the black roe clinging to the canted lid like rat turds.
Turner was surprised.
In the months they had been sleeping together Grace had never drunk champagne nor ordered anything as exotic as caviar. This hinted at a secret life and it left Turner, as he closed the refrigerator, wondering what other secrets she harbored.
Grace had emerged in a fresh shirt and they’d left the apartment.
She’d never invited Turner back and their assignations had continued in a succession of cheap motels.
Now, wandering in the dark outside his house like a spacewalking astronaut adrift from his mothership, Turner yearned to be with Grace at her home.
To sit on the couch with her and drink and eat and make small talk before going with her to the bedroom (the bedroom he’d seen only in his imagination) where they would fuck and sleep and he’d be woken by Grace’s hairdryer—in his fantasy a handheld thing that screamed like a jet during take off—and he’d lie in bed watching her as, unaware of his scrutiny, she sat magnificently naked at the vanity, one eye closed against a curl of smoke from the cigarette she had gripped in her teeth, drying her hair.
Turner’s flight of fancy was interrupted when Tanya appeared at his side, startling him.
“What’s going on, Johnny?” she said, the only person who called him that these days.
“I’m cooking sausage.”
“ Wors , Johnny. You’re cooking fucking boerewors .”
“Okay, Tanya, I’m cooking fucking boerewors .”
“Are you becoming like our daughter? Talking like them ?”
“Well, we do live in America.”
“Yes, we live in America but we’re not American .”
“No, we’re not.”
“No. But I bet you’d like to be, wouldn’t you?”
He said nothing, nudging the sausage with the tongs.
“Sorry, but you can’t become American by fucking osmosis, Johnny.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means that no matter how many times you put your cock inside that fat cow you’re still going to be you. You’re still going to be Johnny fucking Turner from the arse end of Johannesburg.”
“Where are you going with
Wandering away from the heat of the fire he hunkered down and stirred the pool water with his fingers. It was as tepid as a cup of tea left to stand.
Turner never swam.
He hated the way the chlorine made his eyes burn and his skin itch. But most of all he hated how claustrophobic he felt when submerged, as if the water would suck him to its depths and never release him.
Turner stood and wiped his hands on his chinos, his damp fingers finding the outline of the BlackBerry in his pocket.
Despite—or, perhaps, because of—their disquieting conversation at the motel earlier, he wanted to call Grace, picturing her sitting on the couch in her apartment, legs tucked under her, smoking one of her ridiculous menthol cigarettes as she paged through Vogue.
He had only once been to her apartment.
Six months ago, driving with him in the Lexus to a business meeting, Grace had been drinking Coke from a can when Turner, distracted by the GPS, nearly collided with a semi and swerved wildly, the horn of rig blaring like an unmanned bull as it hurtled past them.
Grace had spilled the drink on her pale blouse and they’d had to take a detour to her apartment in Armory Park.
Grace’s desk was frequently cluttered and disorganized and Turner had expected her home to be the same, but the open plan apartment was as clean, neat—and anonymous—as a recently serviced hotel room.
Grace left him in the hall and hurried into the bedroom, closing the door. Turner had a view through to the kitchen (a single glass upended in a drying rack) and the living room where characterless modern chairs and a brown couch bowed before a huge, wall-mounted TV.
He went in search of cold water. The antiseptically clean refrigerator held only a jeroboam of French champagne—Krug—and an open tub of Beluga caviar, the black roe clinging to the canted lid like rat turds.
Turner was surprised.
In the months they had been sleeping together Grace had never drunk champagne nor ordered anything as exotic as caviar. This hinted at a secret life and it left Turner, as he closed the refrigerator, wondering what other secrets she harbored.
Grace had emerged in a fresh shirt and they’d left the apartment.
She’d never invited Turner back and their assignations had continued in a succession of cheap motels.
Now, wandering in the dark outside his house like a spacewalking astronaut adrift from his mothership, Turner yearned to be with Grace at her home.
To sit on the couch with her and drink and eat and make small talk before going with her to the bedroom (the bedroom he’d seen only in his imagination) where they would fuck and sleep and he’d be woken by Grace’s hairdryer—in his fantasy a handheld thing that screamed like a jet during take off—and he’d lie in bed watching her as, unaware of his scrutiny, she sat magnificently naked at the vanity, one eye closed against a curl of smoke from the cigarette she had gripped in her teeth, drying her hair.
Turner’s flight of fancy was interrupted when Tanya appeared at his side, startling him.
“What’s going on, Johnny?” she said, the only person who called him that these days.
“I’m cooking sausage.”
“ Wors , Johnny. You’re cooking fucking boerewors .”
“Okay, Tanya, I’m cooking fucking boerewors .”
“Are you becoming like our daughter? Talking like them ?”
“Well, we do live in America.”
“Yes, we live in America but we’re not American .”
“No, we’re not.”
“No. But I bet you’d like to be, wouldn’t you?”
He said nothing, nudging the sausage with the tongs.
“Sorry, but you can’t become American by fucking osmosis, Johnny.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means that no matter how many times you put your cock inside that fat cow you’re still going to be you. You’re still going to be Johnny fucking Turner from the arse end of Johannesburg.”
“Where are you going with
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