Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon

fully understand that Indian lover of yours, Luke, what it’s like to be an Indian. Or a native, or Coloured. But an Indian is something else again – an Indian is just as sophisticated as you whites, Luke.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘But you don’t know what it’s really like to be as good as the next person, even smarter, as pretty as the next girl but not allowed to stand next to her in a post office queue. A bank queue. Not even ride on the same bus. Let alone live in the same suburb. You don’t know how insulted that makes you feel, you commiserate but you don’t carry away with you that appalling sense of injustice.’ She sighed. ‘But that’s not what I’m really talking about. I’m talking about you.’

      ‘Me?’

      She sighed up at the sky, eyes closed. Silent a long moment. ‘I really love you, Luke. I’ve tried not to. I’ve tried just to keep it a fun relationship – just a sex thing, but I failed long ago. And in fact I’m very lucky. Because, as an Indian, I had no selection at all. No choice of men. Oh, there are a dozen eligible Indian men I could have, but I just don’t happen to fancy any of them. Imagine that – if the law made you choose your love-life from a dozen women you didn’t fancy. Imagine the feeling of bondage, if the law did that to you. But, wow, did I fancy you! And I’ve got you: so I’m lucky, aren’t I?’

      ‘And so am I.’ He tried to jolly her out of this mood. ‘If it weren’t for the law you’d have won that Miss South Africa contest and be in Hollywood now.’

      ‘Bullshit. But, yes, we’re lucky. But it’s also very, very sad. Because there’s no future in it.’

      Oh God, he did not want to talk about the future, all he cared about was here and now, the happiness of being in love.

      ‘No future,’ she repeated. She hadn’t opened her eyes. ‘People say apartheid can’t last much longer, but how long is that? Ten years – twenty – thirty? A twinkling of an eye in the history of a country but a lifetime for you and me.’ She sat up suddenly. She swept back her hair and said: ‘Shall we please stop talking about it? Can we just be happy? And have fun?’

      Just fun love? He didn’t want that – he wanted the real thing. Oh yes it was fun, to be in love and beating the law, these deliciously exciting lover’s trysts, wine in the sun, the lovely satiny feel of her nakedness as they romped in the pool, her long black hair flared out in clouds as she floated, her lovely breasts and belly and pubic mound awash, her long golden legs glinting, and bathing together as the sun went down, legs hanging over the rim of the bath, soaping each other, drinking wine, talking.

      ‘Just fun love,’ she said. ‘Look at it this way: we wouldn’t make love so much if we were allowed to sleep together every night. You simply couldn’t keep up this spectacular weekend performance.’

      ‘Yes I could.’

      ‘No you couldn’t. You’d get bored. Sexually bored.’

      How could any man become sexually bored with this sensual beauty, those legs, that heavenly bottom, those glorious curves, that classically lovely face, those sparkling, flashing dark eyes. ‘Impossible. But maybe you’d get bored with me?’

      ‘That hard-on? Impossible. But, you see, if it were legal, I’d want to marry you. And that’s the good deed apartheid’s done us – if we could get married you’d get scared and run away.’

      ‘Bullshit.’

      ‘Oh yes. You’re far too young to get married, Luke. You haven’t sowed enough wild oats yet.’

      ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Fuck the wild oats.’

      She smiled sadly. ‘I am your wild oats, Luke. Your forbidden wild oats. I just hope your memory will be the more vivid because of that.’

      Oh Jesus. ‘I love you and I love you and I love you. And I’m not going to leave you.’

      ‘And I believe you mean it. But you cannot marry me. Illegal, So? So you’re safe to be in love without the responsibility that usually entails.’

      ‘But I do want to marry you.’

      ‘And you’re lucky. Because if you weren’t screwing me you’d be screwing some nice white girl who’d be wanting you to marry her. I’m saving you all that hassle. Us women are trouble, Mahoney; remember that when you leave me.’

      ‘You’re not listening. I’m not going to leave you.’

      She sighed. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘you will leave me. And if you don’t, I will leave.’

      ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

      ‘I’ll never want to leave you,’ she said sadly. ‘I’ll be leaving … what? Us? But there is no “us”. Because there’s no future in “us”. “Us” means being together forever. That means a home. Home means marriage, all the things Mother Nature designed “us” for. But all that is impossible – for us. So there is no real “us”, to leave. So I will leave … our heartbreak.’ She waved a hand at the cottage walls.

      He could not bear to hear this. ‘We could leave this fucking country instead!’

      She snorted softly. ‘Oh, don’t imagine I haven’t thought about it often. But I don’t want to leave Africa. And go where?’

      ‘Australia.’

      ‘Australia? Never heard of the White Australia Policy? They haven’t got a black problem because they shot most of them. And they don’t intend acquiring a new one.’

      ‘You’re not black, for Christ’s sake!’

      She smiled. ‘Oh, I know I’ve got a good complexion. All I’ve got to do is read the ads for suntan lotions. Drive along the beaches I’m not allowed to lie on and see all the pretty white girls desperately trying to get themselves the tan nature gave me. But the fact of the matter is that I’m not white, and Australia has a White Australia Policy. And so has Canada.’

      ‘England then.’

      She waved her hand. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is I don’t want to leave this country, Luke! It’s my country. I just want to change the bloody place! I want to stay right here and raise hell until they change it. I refuse to leave.’

      Oh, Jesus. ‘And how’re you going to raise hell?’

      She sighed, then grinned and kissed his cheek. ‘Just a figure of speech. Don’t worry, darling, my hands are as clean as the driven snow.’

      He badly wanted to believe her. ‘Tell me the truth, Patti.’

      ‘Darling?’ She looked at him with big innocent eyes. ‘I also want us to keep a low profile so that we don’t have trouble. Just examine the facts. Have I made trouble since we started going together? Have I climbed or any whites-only buses? Walked into any white restaurants? Tried to cash a cheque in any whites-only queue at the bank – or buy a-whites-only postage stamp? Tried to swim in a whites-only pool? Have I?’

      ‘No,’ Mahoney sighed.

      ‘And that used to be my stock-in-trade. Now Patti Gandhi has disappeared from the magistrates’ courts. Why? Because I want to be happy with you. I don’t want to get into trouble and spoil it. So, I suppose I’ve become like ninety per cent of the white South Africans. Like ninety per cent of Germany under Hitler: don’t make trouble with the big bad authorities.’ She looked at him with big dark eyes. ‘Which is pretty despicable, I suppose, but that’s where yours truly is at.’ Then she flashed her brilliant smile. ‘And we’re not allowed to talk about politics, remember? So …’ She heaved herself up out of the bath, gleaming, and reached for a towel. ‘So, shall we just have fun while it lasts?’

      ‘Don’t talk like that.’

      While it lasts. Oh God, those words frightened him. But somehow