At the bar in the living room, he poured three fingers of scotch into a tumbler and retreated to his study, where he checked the closing numbers for the financial markets in New York—the Dow and S&P up again, the rand continuing its slide against the dollar—and tomorrow’s weather forecast, sunny, with a high of seventeen degrees centigrade, which he had to convert in his head, non-Fahrenheit degrees still unreal to him after three years in the valley of heaven and earth, though the weather didn’t matter so much now that the grapes were harvested, the new vintage mellowing in the cellar, beyond the reach of the elements, except, perhaps, the tidal pull of the moon. While he was not of the dancing-naked-among-the-vines school of viticulture, his midlife foray into farming had given him a new respect for the rhythms of the spheres and the unseen forces of the natural world, which were as inexorable as the operations of markets. He knew that the wine tasted unsettled in the barrel as the full moon approached, just as he knew that the price of bonds moved inversely to interest rates, and he now felt far more attuned to the cycle of the seasons than in the days when he’d lived in conference rooms and airports.
Checking his e-mail, he found invoices for materials for the new school in the township, a request for a water-catchment system from a nearby district and an unwelcome missive from his ex.
Luke
I can never remember what time it is there and I don’t want to risk waking your child bride, but need to talk to you about Ashley. She came down to the city last weekend and was a mess. You know I’m hardly one to think a girl can be too thin, but Ashley’s beyond skinny. I tried to talk to her about it, but of course she’s in total denial. I really don’t know if it’s drugs or not, but I think she may need to go somewhere and I think you really need to get involved here. You know she doesn’t listen to me; you seem to have succeeded in turning her against me. She’ll be out of school as of mid-May and I think you need to be on deck. She can stay here at the apartment with us the last two weeks of May, but after that we’re going to London and then we’ve chartered the Lawlors’ yacht for two weeks, cruising the Amalfi coast, and I don’t think she should be here in the city alone. Sarah Bradley has invited her to stay at their place in Southampton, but I don’t think she should be on her own all summer. I know there are lots of needy orphans and teenage brides in Africa, but your own daughter needs you right here in America. Charity begins at home, Dad.
Sasha
Luke immediately dialed his daughter, but his call went straight to voice mail. “Ash, it’s Dad. Please call me.”
He thought about calling Sasha but knew that he’d have a hard time keeping a lid on his emotions.
Sasha
Am deeply concerned about your report on Ashley’s health. When I saw her last month, she seemed well, if thin, but if you think she’s underweight, then the situation must indeed be dire. As you may recall, your sarcastic attitude when she was a little heavy as a teen helped to contribute to these body-image problems, and your diet pills certainly helped launch her drug problems. I’m going to talk to Ash and some of her friends, and you can be sure I will take whatever action is necessary.
Luke
The American obesity epidemic did not extend to wealthy Manhattan and its spheres of influence, its satellite prep schools and summer colonies, where females in particular seemed susceptible to anorexia and bulimia, at least the ones in his immediate orbit, his ex-wife, his daughter…possibly even Corrine. In the case of Sasha and her friends, it was a religion, practiced at Pilates studios and private gyms and restaurants’ ladies’ rooms. For all those bony Upper East Side women with their sharp elbows, slenderness was a virtue, standing in for all the others that had been discarded.
It occurred to him that the solution to at least two of his own problems might involve a quick trip back to New York.
All at once the lights went out and the computer screen faded. Luke reached for the flashlight on his desk and fished his key ring from his pocket, unlocking the top desk drawer, where he kept a loaded SIG Sauer. The power was somewhat intermittent in the valley—in most of the Cape, for that matter; Eskom, the power company, was notoriously unreliable. On the other hand, late-night farm invasions had become increasingly common to the north, armed gangs breaking in and murdering white families, with the tacit approval of the ANC, which advocated the redistribution of land and sent out periodic calls for “colonialists” to abandon their farms. Rape, torture and mutilation were common features of these attacks, which usually began with the intruders cutting phone and power lines, and Luke couldn’t help tensing up whenever the lights went out, even as he felt paranoid for doing so.
He went to the window and looked out over the vineyards, but he could detect no movement; hurrying to the bedroom, he found Giselle asleep on her back, her arm draped across her face, her head in the crook of her elbow—her habitual pose in sleep. He was grateful that she was a heavy sleeper, since he was a restless one. He was about to check the phone, when he heard the generator kick in and saw the glow of the hall light in the bedroom doorway. He picked up the phone and was reassured by the dial tone. As soon as he put the receiver in its cradle, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Luke, Charles here. Just wanted to make sure all was well.”
“We’re fine here for now. The generator’s gone on. You’ve got power there?”
“Same as you. Just another blackout, then.”
“Thanks for checking in.”
“Sleep well.”
“Who was that?” asked Giselle, opening a single eye.
“It was Charles, just checking to see we were okay. The lights went out.”
She sat up in bed. “Oh shit.”
“They’re on again now.”
“Jesus. Now I’ll be awake all night.”
“It was nothing.”
“No, but it could’ve been.”
“Let’s not dwell on that.”
“How can I not dwell on that? That’s absurd. You can’t will yourself not to think of something. Did you hear what they did to those women and children up in the Transvaal?”
“It hasn’t happened around here.”
“No, but it’s only a matter of time. It’s not as if we’re stuck here. Charles and Emma don’t have much choice, but we can leave anytime we like.”
Even as he was listening to her, he was admiring her, the swell of her breasts emerging from under the sheet, framed by her cascading strands of blond hair. He couldn’t help desiring her and despising himself a little for it.
“Of course there are problems,” he said, “but I think things are moving in the right direction.” Even as he said this, he realized he was arguing a position in which he no longer believed. He’d lost much of his enthusiasm for his adoptive home, yet he felt it necessary to defend his former position, to maintain the old battle lines.
“Wanting that to be true doesn’t make it true. It’s only a matter of time before what’s happening in Zimbabwe starts up down here. Mbeki thinks Mugabe’s a great leader.”
Luke couldn’t help recalling a safari he’d taken in Zimbabwe not long after the civil war there finally ended, to Hwange and Victoria Falls, when it seemed that the transition would be successful, when Mugabe appeared to be responsible, even idealistic.
“Sometimes I think you’re so afraid of being perceived as racist, with your southern American guilt; you can’t admit what’s actually happening in this country. This isn’t the United States. I grew up here, I love this country, but it pains me to say that I don’t really believe there’s a future for me here. For us. I wish it were otherwise. But we have to at least think about the future. Luke, you know I want to start a family, but I don’t want to raise my children in a country that doesn’t want them, a country where they’ll be blamed for the sins of their ancestors, always seen as colonialists and usurpers.”
Luke could understand this part of her argument; if he’d had any interest in starting a family, then he would want to do so back in th
e States. But he was fifty-eight years old and already had a twenty-year-old daughter. “Sometimes I worry you married me for my passport,” he said.
“God, Luke, that’s a terrible thing to say.” She turned away and buried her head in her pillow.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said, rubbing her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” She remained obdurately burrowed into her pillow. “It’s just that I can’t walk away from the foundation.”
“You don’t need to be here day to day. I mean, fund-raising’s your primary obligation, and you certainly aren’t going to find any funds here. And the winery pretty much runs itself most of the time. As long as you’re here for harvest and crush. Or you could probably sell the winery to Charles. It’s not like you’re making money at it.”
He wasn’t even sure why he was arguing the case for staying in the Cape, although certainly the foundation did have something to do with this. It made him feel needed and useful in a way that he hadn’t felt before; he’d single-handedly brought fresh water, a new school and a clinic to the township down the road. On the other hand, he’d never felt the same enthusiasm for this place since the accident. He’d grown weary of his whole African adventure.
He knew he was being reflexively contrarian. If Giselle had been dead set on staying in her homeland, he might well have been arguing the other side. In fact, he was ready to go home, but not with her.
“I don’t want to wait any longer,” she said, turning to face him and putting her arms on his shoulders. “I want a family. I want a baby. I don’t know what you’re waiting for, but I know you haven’t made love to me in almost two weeks.” Her eyes suddenly welled with tears. “I’m not sure if it’s because you don’t find me attractive anymore, or if you’re afraid I’ll get pregnant. But I can’t go on like this.”
He climbed into the bed beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I got all caught up in the harvest. And then Ashley was having all that trouble at school.”
“Aren’t you attracted to me anymore?”
“Of course I am. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”
“Are you worried I’ll get pregnant?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Don’t you want a family?”
“I just need to get used to the idea.”
“That was what we always talked about.” She was sobbing now, and he found it impossible to speak honestly with her. If he were truly honest with himself, he would have to say that he didn’t want to be a father again, that he hoped the issue might be equivocated indefinitely, but she was determined to force his hand. Until he had finally resolved his feelings for Corrine, he couldn’t possibly make her pregnant. Nor could he keep denying her forever, and his desire to postpone the reckoning, combined with genuine regret and even love, evolved almost imperceptibly from comforting her into gestures of stimulation, her sobbing transformed to moaning as she thrashed off his belt and trousers, his reservations and scruples melting away as he thrust himself inside her.
He woke shortly after dawn and left his wife sleeping, dressed and took his coffee out to the patio, looking out over the valley, the golden vineyards spilling down to the Onrust River and the rusty mountains rising up to the north. A small troop of baboons ambled up the service road before disappearing into the vines. There was a slight chill in the air, the coffee cup throwing a faint nimbus of steam. At this moment it was hard to credit any of last night’s anxieties.
He went down to the chicken yard and picked up five eggs, two brown, two small white eggs from the bantams and one a faint, ghostly blue. In the kitchen he fried them and cooked sausages, then took a tray into Giselle, who stirred and smiled up at him, seeming to float on the feather bed as if on a cloud of postcoital serenity.
—
She sat up and settled the tray on her lap, delicately selected a sausage and lifted it to her lips, nibbling teasingly.
Having long since emerged from the spell of the bedroom, he felt the need to establish a more quotidian tone. “So what does your day look like?”
“I’m going down to the township to help the vet. We have dogs to dip and spay. And you? Will you come along?”
“Actually, I’ve got to wait here for that oenologist. He’s coming down from Stellenbosch to help us with a stuck fermentation. That last lot of Pinot won’t finish off. Seems our indigenous yeasts have gone on strike. They refuse to reproduce. We may have to play some Marvin Gaye and light some scented candles to get them in the mood.”
“Let’s eat in town tonight. I’m feeling a little cooped up.”
“All right.”
Later, he walked her to the door, kissed her good-bye.
“Will you think about what we talked about?” she said.
“Which part?”
“The part about starting a life away from here.”
“Okay,” he said, even as he wondered if he had the courage to ask her for a divorce. Suddenly it seemed the only honorable thing to do. He tried to dissociate this possible course of action from the thought of a possible future with Corrine. He certainly had no guarantee that she’d ever leave her own marriage, but he couldn’t in good conscience ask her to until he was free of his own. Could he do it? He felt exhilarated by the prospect, the glimpse of freedom on the horizon. But whatever happened, he realized, this chapter of his life was over.
“And about us having…children?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, sighing and looking away from her.
“What do you mean?
“I can’t do it,” he said. “I just can’t.”
19
OFF-SEASON, THE TRAIN OUT TO MONTAUK was almost empty, the faint residue of sweat and stale beer the only reminder of summer hordes.
They’d changed trains in Jamaica, Queens, and racketed along past the brick apartment buildings and the duplexes, tactfully dodging south of the bedroom communities of Long Island, the golfing and horseback-riding enclaves of the wealthy along the North Shore, rolling through the aluminum-sided postwar suburbs housing homicidal teens, philandering plumbers, dandy mobsters, as well as presumably others who never featured in the New York tabloids, the vegetation taking over as they got farther from the city and the homes of commuters were replaced by summer homes, passing through the leafy utopia of Southampton, with its shingled mansions behind privet hedges, shimmying onward to Bridgehampton and East Hampton and then out along the narrow isthmus of scrubby sand dunes that barely connected Montauk to the Hamptons.
Montauk was the farthest extremity of Long Island, the end of the road. It had once been an island and still felt remote from the gilded summer communities to the west. Each fall as the ocean cooled, the striped bass followed the churning biomass of baitfish pouring down the coast from Maine and Cape Cod across Long Island Sound to Montauk Point. Not long after the summer tourists departed, the town was taken over by campers, recreational vehicles and Jeeps sporting huge toothy tires, with custom rod and cooler racks mounted on their front grilles, piloted by sportsmen from mid-island and upstate and Jersey who stood on the beach throwing vaguely fishlike plastic plugs with fearsome treble hooks into the surf, apex predators in pursuit of Morone saxatilis.
The locals tended to be more enthusiastic about visiting fishermen than about the summer people; especially unwelcome in this Irish community were the hipsters, scruffy chic invaders from the East Village and Williamsburg attracted by the working-class authenticity their presence was diluting. Overlapping with this group, if not quite coextensive, were the surfers, who swarmed the beach at Ditch Plains every year in increasing numbers. Class warfare was palpably simmering in the salty air. As a fly fisherman, Russell would be suspect, an elitist with a wandlike rod throwing dainty feathered hooks. For his part, Jack wanted no part of this hoity-toitiness. Where he came from, dynamite was part of the fisherman’s arsenal, but in this case he would settle for a stout spinning rod.
Russell’s friend Deke was waiting for them at the station, slouching against his rust-pitted
60-series Land Cruiser, a relic of the Reagan administration; inevitably when Russell saw this dilapidated vehicle, he uttered the phrase “It’s morning in America.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Jack asked.
“A vapid slogan from my youth. Come meet Deke.”
Introductions and manly handshakes were exchanged. The inside of the Toyota Land Cruiser was even more depressing than the pockmarked exterior, littered with fast-food debris, newspapers, shotgun shells, fishing tackle and cigarette butts. It looked as if some tweaker had been living out of it for weeks.
Russell had known Deke since the eighties, when he was an A and R man for Atlantic Records. He’d flown too close to the sun on wings made of cocaine and had eventually crashed here on Long Island Sound, where he’d reinvented himself as a fishing guide. He already owned the boat, and fishing was, as he said, the only thing he was good at besides scoring dope.