Refuge (12 page)

‘Okay, sir, I’ll need you to come down to the station and give us a statement. You can drive behind us and follow us.’ He shouted something in Xhosa to the policeman holding Ifasen.

The man nodded in reply. He pulled Ifasen up straight, prodding him on the chest with his finger. ‘So where’re the drugs? Come on, just show them to us and maybe we can sort this out. Where are you keeping them?’

‘Please,’ Ifasen blurted out, summoning up his strength and suddenly aware of the danger of his situation. His anger had been replaced by a cold anxiety. ‘Please …’ He battled to find the breath to talk. ‘I don’t sell drugs … I have never sold drugs. I never will. I was a schoolteacher in my home country. Now I sell these plastic toys. That’s all I do. Please.’

‘No, that’s not right,’ the tall one said, without looking at him. ‘The gentleman here says you tried to sell him drugs. He is a citizen of this country. I am a police officer, employed to protect the citizens of our country.’ He paused, pinching Ifasen’s ear lobe and twisting it. ‘You, on the other hand, don’t even belong here. So now, you think I must just tell this man that I think he is lying and that I believe you instead. Is that what you think is going to happen?’ The policeman’s voice suddenly hardened and he slapped Ifasen on the side of his head with a flat hand. ‘You think I’m stupid?’

Through the whining noise in his ears, Ifasen heard the door at the back of the van screech on its hinges. It banged against the metal sides. There was something unambiguous about the sound. It reminded Ifasen of the army jeeps in Obuja, the way the doors slammed, metal on metal, as the soldiers jumped out with their rifles. Now the tall policeman took hold of his shoulder and pulled him towards the side of the van. Once there, he shoved him against the hot-plated side, pushing his face and chest against the metal. The man’s hands smacked against Ifasen’s legs and into his crotch as he searched him. Thick fingers pushed into his trouser pockets and his wallet was emptied onto the front of the car. Ifasen watched in dismay as his bus ticket flew away in the breeze, skipping playfully across the surface of the tar. A small photograph of Khalifah slid down the bonnet and out of sight. The policeman pulled out a few notes and pocketed them before tossing the wallet back to him.

‘In the back,’ he said.

Ifasen looked at him in disbelief, shaking his head. ‘I can’t …’ he mumbled. The toe of the policeman’s boot caught him just behind the knee, whipping his leg out from under him and sending him sprawling onto the tar. Pricks of blood welled up from a graze along the length of his forearm. The tar smelt of gearbox oil and old diesel.

‘I didn’t ask whether you’d like to. I said get in the back of the fucking van.’ He looked at the other policeman for support.

‘Otherwise we’ll add resisting arrest to your list of drug-dealing charges,’ the smaller of the two added.

Ifasen clambered to his feet and was immediately propelled by the two policemen into the confined space of the holding section of the van. A spare tyre rested against the bare metal bench. The door clanged shut and he heard the locks being pushed into place.

‘H
ELLO
,
MY NAME
is Abayomi. Please come inside.’ She paused, smiling openly and touching the sleeve of Richard’s cotton shirt. ‘I am the pleasure of Africa.’ She closed the door behind him and the noise of the street was cut short, disturbed only by the occasional muffled tremble of a passing car. There was no sign of a reception area. The interior of the building had all the appearance of a carefully furnished home.

‘Welcome to Touch of Africa. My name means “one who is born to bring joy”. Please come with me.’

Richard concentrated on her lips, the way the firm outline of her mouth creased as she spoke, dropping soft, warm sounds into his chest. Something human and meaningful seemed to fill his torso, as if her simple words were a sermon of great profundity. He could not be sure she was the same woman who had answered the telephone when he had called to make an appointment. The telephone had conveyed none of her sultry vowels and padded consonants.

He let his eyes travel briefly across her features. Her chocolate-smooth cheeks and the sweep of her nose gave her face a clean, full look. He could not bring himself to look into her eyes, aware of the intensity of her gaze. She turned, dropping her fingers lightly into his hand. Her back swayed as she sashayed down the passage in front of him, trailing her hand behind her like a fisherman’s float behind a boat. Her bare feet left no mark on the hessian weave. She was about his height, but somehow she glided across the surface of the floor. He was aware of his big shoes clomping behind her and felt annoyed at his discomfort, at his ungainly self. He seemed to take up so much space in the passage. He wondered whether he should take off his shoes first, worried that he might be marking the crisp carpet. The walls were a light-brown Cretestone, as if the house had been cut out of soft earth, burying into the mountainside. The air was still and warm, filled with scents of cedarwood and musk. A haunting melody played from hidden speakers, a low bass hand drum mixed with African lyrics. The sound made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The front door had opened into a hallway, bedecked with African and Indonesian masks with hollow eyes and sallow cheeks. The scraggly hair stuck out at angles. The house was still and they appeared to be alone. The sense that he was in the woman’s home calmed him a little.

She led him straight up a steep staircase from the hallway, her bare legs enticingly close to his face as he followed her up the wooden steps, rounded from years of use. He watched her calves flex and relax as she took the steps one at a time. At the top of the stairs a short passage stretched away from them, with one door on either side. The entrances stood open and she directed him into a compact room on the left. The light was dim, the bulb encased in a woven shade that cast dappled shadows across the walls. The room was impeccably neat and refined. There were a few choice artefacts positioned on a shelf, but it was still uncluttered and clean. A massage table covered in beige towels filled the centre of the space, and a leather sofa stretched across one end of the room.

Richard turned to look at the woman properly for the first time. She was stunningly beautiful. Her expression was open and warm, as if she knew him and was genuinely pleased that he was there. It was quite unnerving. Her eyes were large and defined by strong black lashes. She was wearing a simple wrap-around garment; it was not anything he had seen before. The dark material looked slightly coarse, like muslin, but still comfortable. It draped around her like a kikoi, leaving her shoulders bare. The fabric stopped just below her hips, where the smooth skin of her thighs gleamed.

‘This is your first time here, yes?’ Her words had a soft lilt, suggestive of a European accent, perhaps French. But the words were perfectly formed, round and whole sounds falling through the air. She touched him again, keeping a bond of human contact between them. Richard felt a warm glow pass across his stomach. ‘A friend recommended you here, yah?’

‘That’s right,’ he replied to both questions. Her eyes did not leave his and he smiled back nervously.

‘That will be a thousand rand.’

She said it so pleasantly that he was confused for a moment. It was said so openly, it was as if she had said something quite different, perhaps made a comment about the temperature of the room or the colour of his shirt.

‘Of course,’ he replied after a pause, fumbling in his pocket and bringing out a folded white envelope containing a wad of notes. The woman on the phone had told him the price when he had made the appointment; it seemed expensive but he had no basis for comparison and there was no one whose opinion he could ask. He had counted the notes out several times before leaving the office, but still worried that he had not included the right amount. He handed the envelope to her, suddenly feeling a surge of embarrassment. The suspicion that he had somehow got it wrong plagued him; he worried that she would be deeply offended by his expectation and accuse him of chauvinism, or worse.

But the woman was unfazed and thanked him politely, as if he had done her a chivalrous favour. Then she added: ‘Please remember that you cannot touch me; only I touch you.’ She paused and looked at him directly, holding him melted in her gaze, before continuing: ‘Until we know each other better, anyway.’ It was obvious and bawdy, a hook thrown out to catch him. And yet the startling allusion to the future was thrilling.

Richard nodded, as if touching her was the furthest thing from his mind. The woman on the telephone – he still wondered whether it was her – had advised him: ‘Please remember this is a professional massage. There is no sex.’ It seemed like a strange and premature admonishment. But he was grateful nonetheless; the clear boundaries made him feel more comfortable. Without that qualification, her familiarity might have unsettled him. Instead he felt something hum inside him with delight.

‘Would you like a shower to warm up first?’ She held eye contact unashamedly. The simple question seemed impossibly loaded. Richard imagined that, as a lover, she would hold her partner’s gaze even as she climaxed. The thought was intimidating, not just that she must have a real lover, but that she would be satisfied by him. He hesitated, again confused by the conversational tone in her voice, and the alluring reference to temperature rather than hygiene.

‘Yes please, great,’ he answered meekly. She smiled again, as if at a compliant child, and handed him a clean towel from a pile resting on the massage table.

‘I will show you where it is. Please undress first, and I will take you. Take everything off, yes?’ She left the room, like a cat curling away from the firelight.

Richard undressed, nervously folding his trousers and positioning his jacket and shirt on the hanger behind the door. He put his socks in his shoes and dropped his underpants on top. They lay crumpled, looking at him accusingly, so he picked them up again and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket. There was something comical about his clothing lying on the floor of this strange room, the corner of his blue underpants peeking out of his jacket pocket. He stood naked, unsure about what to do with his hands. The strange music continued, the lyrical voice lapping against the acoustic background. He rubbed his palms on his thighs, looking around the room for guidance. Then he heard a noise outside the room and the door opened. He stood exposed before her, trying to push his shoulders back to accentuate his upper torso rather than his untoned stomach. His heart was racing, but she smiled again, looking directly into his eyes, completely at ease. He felt his chest ease and warm towards her. He wrapped the towel around his waist and she led him to the end of the passage. The music was softer in the passage, which was otherwise still. The thought of being alone in the building with her provoked a nervous conspiratorial grin.

He showered in hot water, streams of it needling down on his body. How many men have washed here today, he wondered. But if there had been any, there was no trace of them now. The shower cubicle was spotless. The squeeze soap container was full, the hot water powerful and abundant. He wondered if she also showered here, when she was on her own. He took handfuls of liquid soap and washed everywhere, paying particular attention to his scrotum and arse. He half-wished that he could remain under the shower indefinitely. He let the water rush over his face one last time and, with a deep breath, turned off the tap, stepped out onto the floor and started to dry himself. He spent extra time trying to dry off any hint of dampness around the small of his back, where he knew he sweated when he was nervous. He teased his testicles away from his body and carefully dried all around them.

The strangeness of the situation overwhelmed him again, standing naked on the cool tiles. The bathroom had a homely feel to it. It was as if he had stepped, quite by error, into a parallel existence, where he had a life utterly divorced from Amanda, his daughter, his practice. What on earth am I doing here, he thought to himself. Is this the kind of thing that I do? Even as he felt the anxiety starting to pick at his resolve, the rational responses flooded into his mind: it’s just a massage, he reminded himself. It would be nothing more. It was all he had asked for and all he had paid for. Guilt still harassed him as he opened the bathroom door.

He returned to the room, the towel tight around his waist. He was aware of his stomach pressing over the edge of the fabric. The room was empty, and for a moment he thought he had wandered through the wrong door. But his clothes remained where he had left them. He unwrapped the towel, then caught sight of himself in a full-length mirror on the wall at the head of the table, his penis shrunken against his black pubic hair. Disconcerted, he turned away and pulled the towel around himself again. He leant against the table and ran his fingers across his forehead, pushing stray bits of hair back into place. He thought of leaving, but he would have to dress first. How would he make it to the front door without her seeing him? He was too intimidated by the thought of being caught to take the chance.

Then he heard footsteps outside the room and she opened the door. Her presence utterly concentrated his thoughts, banishing any ambivalence. With one practised, fluid movement she closed the door, turned, pulled the cord of her short robe and let it drop from her shoulders. The effect of her little pirouette-dance was breathtaking. Her naked body reminded Richard of a polished nut. Her taut coffee-brown skin seemed to focus and reflect the little light in the room. A gentle indentation above her collar bone softened the effect of her strong shoulders. Her breasts were dramatic; dark aureoles spread halfway across their curve. Her waist was slim, but not skinny, flowing down to a short-cropped triangle of darker skin and the outline of her sex.

‘You are so beautiful,’ he stammered, awed by her easy nakedness. ‘You are so beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, tilting her head slightly to one side. Again she reacted as if she appreciated the compliment, as if a friend had told her that her hair looked lovely today. His admiration was absolutely sincere: he had seldom, if ever, seen quite so magnificent or intriguing a body. She moved closer to him, her nipples now just inches from his chest. Richard felt he was somehow the first man to see her naked, as if she had been keeping herself, just for him. He was exhilarated and terrified. But he had no idea what was to come and his emotions were quite unprepared for her erotic assault.