The Silent Scream
By
Sulette Gardiner
Smashwords Edition
Published 2010
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Copyright © Can Write Will Write 2010
Sulette Gardiner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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The Silent Scream
Good girls go to heaven
Bad girls go everywhere
1998
I am forty-five years old and presently work in a large and popular house of ill repute in Gauteng, South Africa. I am a whore and have been employed here for the past nine months. All it comes down to is the same old story in a different house, year after year. My routine consists of work, sleep, a bit of gym which I do to the best of my ability without equipment, then I return to the house again. I feel like a hamster in one of those little wheels which is put into their cages to keep them busy. I never see my family or friends and have lost my sense of humor. I never smile or laugh. I am always tired, hung over and cannot bear men near me. I hate the empty drunken conversations; the pawing and the invasion of my body by the hour. Not even the girls, whom I love dearly, do I find amusing at this stage of my life. My bookings drop, because the clients sense my dislike and impatience. I am very tired and also broke.
When I look in the mirror, I find that I am still a beautiful woman with an amazing body. But my face is hard, my eyes flat and cold. How many times can one heart be broken? Mine has been smashed too many times, causing large empty cracks to appear, much too wide to put together again. Like a puzzle missing pieces. I am dead but still breathing, because my soul has been smothered by unbearable pain. I am a zombie going through the motions of life, constantly considering suicide, while my whole being silently screams out for release.
There is no way forward or backward for a woman like me. I have seen it all, seen too much, have no desire to see more. I once read somewhere that knowledge is power. But it was never explained, what power and how much? Way back there I unknowingly sold my rose-tinted spectacles, and who wants to live in a world surrounded by the harsh realities of life? Certainly not me, so there can be no future for me.
Yet I was an innocent once, someone who fell into the game with good intentions. I wasn't going to be doing this for long, I remember telling myself when I first started selling my body, unaware that my soul was to be part of the deal...
Part One 1: The Ascent.
Chapter 1
1985
I lean over to stop the shrill ring of the alarm clock. It is still dark outside as I slip quietly from under the bedcovers, trying not to wake my husband. I tiptoe to the adjoining bathroom where I quickly shower. Then I go to the kitchen where I start preparing breakfast. Having done that, I wake the children. The percolator is making soft popping sounds on the stove. I fill a large mug, adding sugar and milk. I turn the light on as I walk back into our bedroom.
He is still sleeping soundly and I gently shake him by the shoulder. ‘Danny wake up, it is time.’ He opens his eyes, stretching before taking the coffee from me. His eyes are fuzzy with sleep as he watches me dress for work. Then he picks up the classified section of the previous day’s newspaper from the floor. ‘Today is the day that the Lord has made. Praise the Lord,’ he exclaims pleasantly while I continue dressing in silence. I have heard that one before, so what's new? ‘Is something troubling you, Bernadine?’ he asks quietly, lowering the paper and looking at me.
‘No,’ I reply as I bend down to slip my shoes on. Just then, my son calls me from the kitchen.
Danny bellows to the children. ‘Come here, both of you!’ They enter the room, one after the other. ‘Where are your manners?’ their father demands angrily.
‘Good morning,’ the children mumble, looking down at their feet.
‘Good! We will start this day by giving thanks unto the Lord. The Lord is God Almighty, Amen,’ says Danny. The children agree in unison before hastily dropping to their knees.
I feel my stomach contract. I don't have much time between packing the children off to school and getting to the damn railway station myself. We live in a suburb in Germiston. This is to the east side of Johannesburg, where I work as a wage and debtors clerk for a large plumbing company. I commute daily by train.
Now Danny is glaring at me from accusing self-righteous eyes. ‘Don’t you want to praise the Lord?’
‘I still have to serve breakfast and run for the train. Can’t we praise the Lord tonight?’ I ask.
‘Get on your knees!’ he orders. The children’s eyes are closed, their hands clasped tightly in front of them. They do not move; like two little statues. The knot in my stomach tightens.
A surge of hatred shoots through me as I slowly go down on my knees and gently place my arms around my children’s shoulders. Why in heaven's name do I allow him to bully us like this? Fourteen years! First it was alcohol, now Jesus; which is worse? How much longer can I live like this? The children deserve better!
‘That’s better,’ he says before raising his eyes and hands towards the ceiling. ‘Oh Jesus, the only One, the Son of God, we ask for you to send the Holy Spirit to join us, to baptize us in fire and let us speak in different tongues - Shalabumara kasilla ET moin for estrin…’ The prayer goes on for what seems like an eternity while he speaks in tongues. This is meant to be the Holy Spirit speaking through him in a foreign language. Or so he believes, as this is what the church teaches. I cannot for the life of me understand why God would want to speak to me in a language I don't understand! It certainly makes no sense to me.
I glance at my watch every few seconds, occasionally peeping at him from between lowered eyelashes. He is as mad as a hatter and getting worse by the day. At last he stops abruptly, tears running down his face.
I quickly close my eyes before he looks at us with the regular big smile. ‘Isn’t Jesus wonderful?’ he exclaims pleasantly, expecting a reply.
‘Yes,’ we chorus as we get up from the floor. The children run to grab their lunch which they hastily throw into their school bags. They are going to be late for school once again, and there is no time for breakfast.
I go to the dining room where I put my own lunch in my bag. No need to rush, I am already late. The train has gone, the next one won't be for another hour. We live a ten-minute walk away from the nearest railway station. I call to let my boss know I will be late. Then I pick up the bundle of accounts that have been piling up on the table and quickly scan through them. My stomach contracts again. I sigh deeply as I slip them into my bag. Today I am going to have to phone the creditors, to once again beg, plead and promise. Damn! I hate doing this!
Danny has been in and out of jobs for the past three years. He is a child of God, staunchly believing that the Lord will provide. The earth is our heritage and so forth. Unfortunately the earth is also overrun with sinners! For the past eight months he has refused to work under a heathen. He is waiting for the Spirit of God to lead him to the right job. Until now the Spirit has not moved. So far nothing has moved, except for the damn creditors!
We regularly host home prayer meetings. The evenings that we don’t, we attend elsewhere. These take place six days per week. The brethren are praying with and for us. We attend church twice on a Sunday where I tithe ten percent of my salary every month.
Danny’s children do not mix with sinners. They are neither permitted to invite nor visit friends from school. During the week they attend the home prayer meetings with us, which are a long drawn out process. They are allowed to play on a Sunday, for a short while, with the brethren’s children. Samantha my daughter is twelve and Clinton my son, nine years old. It is becoming clearer to me by the day that I am going to have to save my poor brainwashed children from “Jesus”.
I glance nervously at my watch before leaving for the station. As I am walking to the front door Danny comes up quietly from behind, pulling me back into his arms. ‘The trouble with you Bernadine, is that you do not trust the Lord. Faith the size of a mustard seed is all that you need for all to be well. The Spirit told me that today is the day that the Lord shall provide. Hallelujah. Praise the Lord.’
I break free and swing around, my anger rising swiftly. ‘I’m the only one who provides around here! You are lazy!’ I snap before I can stop myself. His hand comes up as fast as a striking cobra, causing me to drop to my knees, thereby saving my face.
He sneers down mockingly at the fear in my face. ‘That is blasphemy! You do not speak to me like that, get thee behind me Satan!’ He vigorously rubs the cross that permanently hangs on a chain around his neck.
I jump up, grab my bag and run to the station with tears streaming down my face. That’s it! Today is the day! Never mind the Lord, God helps those who help themselves!
A car hoots as it pulls up alongside me. It’s Penelope, my next-door neighbor. ‘Good morning, Bernie. Can I offer you a lift?’
I gratefully fall into the passenger seat.
‘We had a party last night and I overslept. Thank heavens we have this second car. Damn but I have a hangover,’ she complains loudly as we pull away, causing me to smile enviously.
‘I heard the music. Was it good?’
‘A new day, same crap,’ she replies tiredly.
I am secretly pleased that she is late this morning. This is the way I believe God truly operates. Small miracles! Danny doesn't socialize with them as he perceives them to be sinners. He went next door once to pray for them. Penelope’s husband promptly became annoyed, requested him to mind his own business and leave. Danny has since washed his hands of them. The Lord has knocked! The Lord has been turned away! They belong to the Devil! Amen!
I go straight to my boss’s office when I eventually arrive at work. ‘I’m sorry to be late again, Mr. Johnson, I will work the time in,’ I promise when I sit down. ‘I need to take a loan plus I’ll need more time off this morning,’ I quickly add. He knows about my situation and fortunately for me, has been very patient with it all.
He nods, smiling sympathetically. ‘How much?’ he enquires as he takes a cheque book from one of his drawers. I shrug my shoulders helplessly because I’m not sure.
‘As long as we have the invoices out by Friday latest,’ he reminds me while signing a blank cheque. Then I go to my office where I take an attorney’s card from one of my desk drawers.
Six weeks later I am divorced.
The house we shared with Danny sells quickly. The court grants me all the furniture plus custody of the children. He gets guardianship and is ordered to pay monthly child support. I receive my half of the sale of our home in a lump sum. The other half goes to my now ex-husband. I use some of the money to purchase a second hand car.
As I work only half days, I apply for my job to become a full time position. The children and I find a lovely two-bedroomed flat in a large complex. It is close to the children’s school and the railway station. We promptly move in, delighted by our newfound freedom. I employ a nanny to mind the children in the afternoons because I am expecting to be working full time soon. All is working out well when suddenly, Danny disappears. Then I hear there are no full time jobs available at my present job or elsewhere. Now I am no longer receiving the monthly child support cheques. I heavily depend upon those, because the rental on the flat is much higher than the house repayments were. I am running out of money fast.
I decide to approach the church for help. They should aid me because I was a member, having tithed there for many years. The brethren are sympathetic and promise to pray for me. Then I totally and completely lose it, and end up screaming at them that my children cannot eat their damn prayers. Now they are shunning me, treating me like a leper. Damn hypocrites! I desperately need to find a second job.
One evening, while scanning the classified ads in the newspaper, my eyes fall upon an advert which reads: “Ladies wanted for escorting.” My eyes stretch wide when I see what I can earn. I slowly read the advertisement again. No, my eyes are not deceiving me. I wouldn't mind earning that or even half of that per month. So much money just to escort men to wherever it is they need to go! I am only thirty-three years old and do not have a bad figure so I quickly call the number, arranging to go for an interview the following day. I toss and turn the whole night. I am very excited by my new job prospects!
At last it is morning. I travel to work by car, leaving home much earlier than usual. A hairdresser changes my long brown hair into long blonde tresses. Much later I walk into my boss’s office, where I twirl around. ‘What do you think?’ I ask excitedly.
He looks up, his face registering shock and surprise. ‘Good heavens, Bernadine, first divorced, now blonde! You look so different… sexy…’ All the plumbers on my payroll whistle at me until I eventually hide my blushes in the bathroom.
After work I easily find the escort agency in Johannesburg City Centre. It is well advertised with bright lights flashing above the entrance. I walk into a dimly lit lounge-cum-bar. Near the door is a desk with four phones. The young man sitting there looks bored as he doodles with a pencil on a pad.
I give a little cough after which he looks up and smiles at me. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I called last night about a job as an escort,’ I remind him.
‘Oh yes, I remember now. Have you done this before?’
‘No,’ I reply. I hope I am what they are looking for. I desperately need this job!
‘I’ll let one of the girls explain to you what it entails,’ he says. He calls into the dim lounge and a tall brunette, wearing a very short skirt, comes forward. ‘Take this lady to the back and explain the job to her,’ he instructs.
Just then three men walk in. They greet the brunette and then they openly stare at me with interest. The young man smiles at them while signaling for us to move on. While following the girl I overhear one of them enquire, ‘The blonde is cute, new meat?’
The man behind the desk laughs. ‘Brand new, she started working here just before you walked in.’
The brunette takes me to a small dirty kitchen that is furnished with two plastic chairs and a broken table hanging askew. We sit down and she lights a cigarette before looking at me. ‘So you want to escort?’ she asks in a hoarse voice. I nod expectantly. Of course! That’s why I am here.
‘Escorting is whoring,’ she tells me between a cloud of smoke which drifts my way. ‘Always take your money up front and be sure to check it. Don’t talk! Write the amount that the steamer, the man paying for sex, is to give you on your hand. Show him and then quickly wipe it off. We do it this way in case the room is bugged.’ She takes another drag from the cigarette. Before exhaling she tries to clear the smoke between us by waving her hand around. Her nails are gnawed painfully short and varnished brightly red.
‘Always make sure that he is completely nude before you undress. That way you can be sure he’s not a cop. After that you can talk to him. Always hide your money where he can’t find it. You never kiss. Always use a condom, which you apply with your mouth. Doing it like that helps you inspect up close whether he has a disease.’ She stops and smiles cynically at me, ash dropping to the already filthy floor.
‘You get booked out for one or two hours. Fit your clean up and bath time into the steamer’s time. Do not return to the agency late because it gets deducted from your money.’ Then she explains the finances to me. They charge a fixed fee. I get to keep two thirds of what I receive. The balance I am to pay over to the agency immediately upon return. Any tips I receive are mine.
‘Any questions?’ she asks before leaning forward to put the cigarette out on the floor. Then she straightens up and blows smoke towards the ceiling, from the one side of her very red mouth.
I gape at her in shock, shaking my head. I don’t believe this! ‘No…’ I stutter as I get up, turning to run as fast as I can.
‘Hey doll, where are you going? I have a booking for you!’ the young man behind the desk calls after me as I rush past. I do not look back.
I drive home at a hectic speed, my heart pounding. I sit quietly in the lounge recovering from the shock. Whoring for money? No! A definite No!
One Saturday morning I am reading a book, relaxing in the sun next to the pool. The children are swimming and splashing, shouting loudly as they play with new friends. There are a lot of single and divorced parents living in the complex. Weather permitting, almost everyone brings out snacks and drinks on weekends. I have made a lot of new friends, one of them a girl hailing from the USA. She has an unstable relationship with a local guy who also lives here.
Margaret, the American, drops down onto the grass next to me. ‘Men suck,’ she sighs.
I look up from my book. ‘Fighting again?’
‘Yeah, now I have nowhere to live, the bastard!’
Another small miracle! I suddenly see a way to solve my financial dilemma.
‘You can live with me if you carry half the costs.’
She gratefully smiles at me. ‘Gee thanks, that’s great. I’m going to move my stuff in right now!’ she exclaims, jumping to her feet.
Relieved, I get up as well. ‘OK, I’ll move the children over to my bedroom.’
The following Saturday afternoon, while lounging around the pool, Margaret invites me to go night-clubbing with her. Three other girls are coming with us. We all pile into one car and head for a club in Hillbrow, which is “the” place to be, so they tell me on our way there. They quickly find partners, after which they disappear to the dance floor. I am sitting by myself at the bar, watching them having fun.
Margaret comes to stand behind me. ‘Come on, Bernie, find yourself something for the night,’ she softly encourages in my ear. I feel my face turning bright red. Danny is the only man I have ever been to bed with. I do not know how to find “something for the night”. She orders another round of drinks before returning to the dance floor.
Somebody sits down on the barstool next to me. I turn to see who it is, finding myself looking into the blackest pair of eyes I have ever seen. He has long dark unruly hair, a full moustache and a generous bottom lip.
A dimple appears in one cheek when he lazily smiles at me. ‘Hi baby.’ He has a strong Latin accent. I quickly look away as my face turns red again, trying my best to ignore him.
‘Would you like to dance?’
‘No thanks,’ I decline, staring bashfully into the empty glass on the bar counter in front of me. I wish that the ground would open up and swallow me!
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘No thanks,’ I decline again. I hate this damn shyness of mine!
Margaret sends a waiter over with another drink for me, which I gratefully gulp down. Then the man touches my hair.
‘Beautiful.’
I turn to glare at him, my face still hot and red. ‘Nice blue eyes too,’ he cajoles while smiling at me. The drink hits my stomach causing a different heat to replace the flush in my face. OK girl, now is the time to pick up something for the night. It’s now or never. Suddenly I smile back and shortly we join my friends on the dance floor.
Much too soon Margaret comes to tell me they are leaving. I decide to stay because I am really enjoying myself. Carlos, that’s his name, has offered to take me home.
We leave the club at the break of dawn. As we are driving along I nervously make up my mind and quickly turn in my seat to face him. ‘I want…to go…with you,’ I stutter nervously.
He stops the car. ‘Are you sure?’ He sounds gently surprised. I nod my head and then turn to determinedly stare straight ahead through the windscreen. He turns the car around and back to Hillbrow we go.
We book into the Skyline Hotel where we spend the whole day drinking champagne and making love. I am learning fast, I have found something for the night!
Six months later I am still battling financially because Danny is still missing. I have enrolled Samantha into a prestigious private girls’ boarding school. It is one of the best institutions in the country, situated in a small town called Potchefstroom. For Clinton I still need the nanny in the afternoons. Once he is a bit older I plan to enroll him into the boys’ section, in the same school and town as my daughter. I want my children to have the very best education available.
I am also still dating Carlos. He is a twenty one year old Portuguese college boy still living with his parents. He is very sexy, very virile but not much help to me. I have two children to take care of, not easy without support. Margaret’s contribution is helping but it doesn’t cover all the expenses because Samantha’s schooling is very expensive. I am back to stalling creditors but without Jesus this time! I am going crazy because I am constantly thinking of ways to generate a second income. I do not know where or how.
One afternoon I return home from work, feeling very despondent. I listlessly join Margaret and Clinton at the pool. He is having a whale of a time in the pool with his friends. ‘I need to find another job, pronto!’ I complain loudly as I fall down on the grass. I don’t understand; my friend never works but somehow always seems to have money.
‘That Carlos of yours is cute but what is he doing for you? He is here every night tiring you out, so that you can hardly cope with your one little job,’ she points out.
I shrug helplessly. ‘I’m in love with him.’
She laughs cynically. ‘Bullshit honey! You are in lust with him. What you need is a wealthy boyfriend.’
‘Hey Bernie, let me in!’ a voice shouts from the street. I jump up to go and open the security gate.
Penelope, my ex-neighbor, has come to visit. ‘Long time no see. I like your hair. What’s happening here? Are you and the children OK?’ she enquires without pausing for a breath. I laugh, nodding to all her questions.
We go to the poolside where I introduce her to Margaret. Carlos arrives at sunset to spend the night. He sits down next to me, giving me a long lingering kiss, causing my friend to gape at him.
Later, as I’m walking her to her car, she asks, ‘Wow Bernie, where did you find the hunk?’
I smile mischievously. ‘I picked him up in a club.’
She gapes again, this time at me. ‘Good heavens, but you have changed!’
One evening I work out my budget seven times, over and over again. I desperately need to cut corners to manage on my income. No go! At this stage I owe everybody money and am forced to hide when I see them coming. Sometimes I am not quick enough and end up stuttering some silly explanation, my face red. I am even too frightened to answer my phone or open my door, as it could be somebody wanting his or her money back. I owe Margaret an absolute fortune. Although she never complains, I think about it each time I see her, which is every day. Then I feel guilty and uneasy. Carlos has offered me his pocket money, which I refused. It is but a drop in the ocean, not nearly enough. My mother and sisters keep my flat well stocked with food. They even fill my car with petrol. So asking them for more help is totally out of the question.
After scrutinizing my budget one last time, the eighth time, I go to bed where I restlessly toss and turn. After much soul searching, I decide with firm conviction and great determination to go for another interview at an escort agency. Surely whoring for money is a better option than borrowing and hiding? I cannot live like this for another day. It is also better than having the welfare take my children away. After having made up my mind I fall into a restless sleep.
This time I wisely pick an agency situated in one of Johannesburg’s upmarket areas. Manning the reception is a young, incredibly beautiful girl. She has long black hair and very blue eyes. She is dressed in a designer suit and looks like a successful business lady. I inform her that I am here to be interviewed as an escort.
She smiles at me before turning in her chair. ‘Wayne! Wayne!’ she calls into a room behind the reception area. It is dimly lit but there is not a bar in sight.
A short stockily-built man with a pockmarked face appears in the doorway. He is dressed in an expensive beige Armani suit. A small diamond ring on his left pinkie finger flashes at me in the light.
‘Hiya,’ he greets in an American accent. Two of his front teeth are capped in gold and they gleam as he smiles at me. I nervously introduce myself.
‘Come inside, let’s chat,’ he invites, standing aside to let me pass through. We enter the room from where he came. Inside are six attractive neatly dressed ladies. They are lounging around, relaxing on large couches, laughing and talking amongst each other but they quickly fall silent when they see me. Wayne introduces me, after which the girls softly resume their conversation.
We also sit down on a couch situated further back. I hesitantly inform him that I have never done escorting before. ‘Do you know what the job entails?’ he wants to know. I nod and then proceed to tell him about my previous experience.
He laughs before looking at me in sympathy. ‘It is places like that that give escorting a bad name. No better than damn cattle markets.’ He clears his throat noisily before explaining his set up to me.
The pretty girl at reception, Shania is her name, is ready to do her first booking. He is in need of a new receptionist. He runs an exclusive agency for top market clients. He is very fussy when picking girls; he does not want many but only a few classy ladies. I am not to wear miniskirts or tight pants.
Getting drunk, swearing or wearing imitation jewelry is taboo. He tells me how to avoid getting bust by the cops, repeating exactly what the brunette at the previous agency told me. I will do reception duty for one week, and listen and learn when the other girls discuss clients. Doing it this way will give me a chance to see what the job entails. If I am happy with what I see and hear, I will service the easy regular clients for three weeks. After that I should more or less know the game and become available to anybody who wants me.
He goes on, warning me to use a condom at all times, advising never to let a man go down on me because I can pick up herpes that way. He patiently describes every sexually transmitted disease and its symptoms. He tells me that they also charge a set fee and my eyes stretch when I hear how expensive I will be. I will be booked out for one or two hours, and I must try fitting my clean up time into the client’s time. He does not mention taking money from me if I am late. I get to keep three quarters of what I collect, plus tips. I pay the other quarter to the agency upon my return.
‘Any questions?’ he asks, while looking at me expectantly.
This is absolutely terrible. I smile bravely while my insides turn to butter. ‘No, I like you. I feel safe, you are on,’ I say, agreeing to sell my body. My heart is pounding loudly in my chest. My clenched palms are wet as I battle to contain the tears burning behind my eyelids. I promise to be in the following Monday evening.
Once I am sure that I am out of their sight I start hyperventilating. I gratefully fall into my car where I eventually get my breathing under control. Then I break down and have a good cry. I cannot understand why I am so terribly sad? For goodness sake, I tell myself, you are not a virgin. Remember why you are doing this!
I do reception duty for one week. After three weeks of servicing regular clients I resign from the plumbing company. I also break off my relationship with Carlos. I am now a full time escort, and earning a fortune.
Margaret watches Clinton for me at night while I work. Everybody thinks I am a waitress. I join a gym and work out very hard, very religiously, every morning. The afternoons I spend lazing next to the pool with Margaret, Clinton and his friends. On the weekends that Samantha comes home to visit, we go to outrageously expensive restaurants. All my daughter’s clothes are designer labeled. For the first time in my life I have no financial problems. When I look in the mirror I see a content woman. I am glowing with happiness.
Over the months my body firms, developing the hard lean look of an athlete. After a year I qualify as a gym instructor. I work long hours at the agency, having no social life besides at home next to the pool. Many men try to date me but I always refuse, friendly but firmly.
Margaret is puzzled by this behavior. ‘Bernie, surely you are not gay?’ she says one afternoon.
I smile a secret smile. ‘No! I am merely working very hard because I am planning on having a facelift next year. I have no time for romance at the moment.’
She gapes at me in astonishment. ‘What on earth for? You are beautiful!’
‘Yes, but not young. I wasted my youth Margie, I want it back.’
She shakes her head in wonder. ‘Do you know the price of such an operation?’
‘No, but I plan to find out,’ I firmly reply.
I have become very friendly with the other girls working at the agency. I work under the alias “Jamie”. I watch my words carefully; never speaking of my home life at the agency and never discussing my “real” job at home. I am living a double life, a façade, a lie. I am not going to be doing this for long. I am only helping myself onto my feet. I am very popular with the clients and they treat me well. I do not need any other sexual activity besides my job, which I use to satisfy the cravings of my body. I am Wayne’s top girl.
1986
A call comes in from South West Africa. A German farmer has requested a girl to keep him company over a long weekend. I have never spent all night with a client and also have never been up in an airplane. ‘OK, Jamie now is your time to fly,’ Wayne teases when he selects me to go.
I smile at him. ‘OK boss, when do I leave?’ I find I’m quite excited. The farmer has already paid the money in advance to cover the total fee, plus enough for a return air ticket to Windhoek.
I make arrangements for the children to spend time with my mom because Margaret is going away as well. I lie about winning a trip. Everybody believes me, wishing me well. I feel guilty about the fib but shrug it aside when I board the plane at Jan Smuts Airport. I am very excited about flying, closing my eyes, holding my breath when the plane takes off. My stomach does a summersault as gravity pushes me back into my seat. I have a seat next to a window where I watch as all the houses below turn into Monopoly houses. Small like the game I used to play as a child, buying and selling them on a colorful board while my father protested loudly. He was always the Bank.
Soon we are high enough to fly above the clouds. Suddenly I understand what God must feel like, looking down from up here. At the Mashoeshoe Airport I promptly collect my luggage, after which I wait at the enquiry counter. I have a red rose pinned in my hair as instructed by Wayne.
A lean man approaches me. ‘Jamie?’ he asks hesitantly in a strong German accent. I smile and nod. He introduces himself as Hans and takes my luggage. I follow him out of the building and have to shade my eyes with my hand. Wow! I would never have thought the sun could shine as brightly as this. Whew, hot! He opens the passenger door of his jeep for me before going to the back where he loads my luggage.
He makes a suggestion before starting the engine. ‘We will go to a hotel first because tonight we dance and dine. Afterwards we will go to my farm, yes?’ I smile at him as I agree.
Since the mid-seventies, South West Africa has been used by the apartheid regime as a springboard for launching attacks on Marxist Angola and the South West African people. It is an outpost of apartheid colonial occupation and oppression, where the larger population is poor and downtrodden.
I am deeply grateful for my white skin when I observe these people who I think of as voiceless shadows. In my heart I am very sorry for them. I have in the past tried to befriend them but could see that they were not comfortable with this. They do not trust white people and who can blame them? Although the apartheid regime’s laws do not make sense to me, I abide by them because I was born and raised under them.
What the world does not realize is that the white population of South Africa is locked into slavery as well. We are brainwashed from birth to hate people with a different skin color. We do not know anything else because our press is controlled by the state, akin to Adolf Hitler who enjoyed full support from his own people. Why? Because like us, they were taught from birth to obey. Fortunately I have been blessed not to see another person’s color first. To me it is the eyes that are important. No matter what a person’s color, if their eyes are bad, so will they be. This strange logic has never failed me yet.
We drive to Windhoek in silence where we book into the Safari Hotel. Once in the room he offers to order champagne. I accept and then proceed to unpack what I will need for our dinner date. He sits glued to the television screen while I take a bath. The drinks arrive just as I am about to tell him I am ready. We drink a toast before we leave. He takes our luggage along with us because we will be leaving for the farm right after dinner.
He is very quiet, which I find strange. He dances with me only once and does not look at me the entire time we are eating. His eyes jump around; first this way, then that way. Looking everywhere but not at me. I feel like I am invisible to him. Maybe he does not like me? He looks at his watch often, way too often. What is the rush? I am here for the whole damn weekend!
A tight nervous feeling is gripping my stomach because I do not like or trust him at all. I drink another glass of wine and then another as I try to stay calm. I have to stop myself from fleeing the restaurant in panic. I am in a strange place with a client who is giving me the creeps. This is how the girls at the agency will describe the situation. But there’s no turning back now. I have been lucky so far, I have never had a “crazy”. Maybe I am only jumpy because I am so far away from home…and Wayne, of course. Thoughts are flying through my mind at a hectic pace. Relax, I tell myself. You are strong. It will be OK. He is not a big man. My cheeks are sore from the strain of keeping up my smile. He downs two neat double brandies, one after the other. Then he suddenly pushes his chair back and gets up. ‘Let’s… go,’ he orders unsteadily.
Before starting the jeep he slips a cassette into the tape deck. Loud German music fills the cab when we pull off. We turn into a road leading away from the bright lights of Windhoek. We are driving into a large dark desert where the stars seem much closer to earth than any other place I have been. I nervously glance at my watch and out of the window every few minutes, trying to fathom how far we are going and into which direction. Where is this man taking me? This is the last time I do something foolish like this! We travel along for more than an hour, the only sound coming from the tape deck, when he suddenly swings into a narrow dry sand trail.
We slowly crawl along. Dust is leaping up in the glaring headlights, settling thickly on the windscreen, making it difficult to see ahead. The music is blaring loudly, as some man serenades in German, singing about something in a language I don’t understand. A large wire gate appears in the headlights.
He stops the jeep after which he turns the music off. ‘My farm,’ he explains before getting out. He leaves the door open with the engine still running.
Thick dust, together with the loud purring of the engine, filters into the now very silent cab. I sneeze loudly. He opens the gate and runs back to drive through. He repeats the whole performance on the other side, closing the gate again. We crawl along for another thirty minutes before a large old house appears in the headlights. I cannot see anything else in the pitch-black night. Such darkness!
He stops, this time turning the engine off but leaving the lights on. ‘Wait here,’ he instructs before getting out of the car. He once again leaves the damn door wide open, causing me to start sneezing again. I watch through watery eyes as he kneels down in front of the jeep. He is searching through a large bunch of keys. At last he finds what he is looking for. He straightens up, unlocks the front door and then disappears into the dark house.
He soon re-appears, holding up a gas lamp by which he removes our luggage from the back of the jeep. ‘Come with me,’ he instructs on his way back to the house. I give one last sneeze before getting out. He drops his own luggage in the entrance hall, placing the gas lamp on a desk in the corner.
I follow him down a long dark passage to a bedroom where he puts my luggage on a small single bed. There is another gas lamp flickering on a table next to the bed. ‘You will sleep here but first we will play games, OK?’ he suggests with a smile, at last looking at me.
‘What games?’ I ask suspiciously.
He stands deep in thought for a moment, frowning and rubbing at his now closed eyes. ‘Wait here,’ he says sternly before turning to leave the room. His footsteps echo hollowly down the passage, eventually disappearing altogether. The house is as quiet as a graveyard. Not a sound, not even from outside. Such silence!
I sit down on the bed, feeling extremely apprehensive. I do not know where the hell I am; there is not a soul close by in this godforsaken place. I could be alone with a madman, a killer, in the middle of a damn desert! I could get buried out here and nobody would ever find my body.
I nervously look around the room. No personality, just a damn bed. What the hell is going on in this man’s head? Is he not going to be making use my services? If not, what on earth did he bring me out here for?
Then I get up and quietly open an adjoining door. Inside is an old-fashioned bathroom with a shower and toilet. I close the door and sit down on the bed again where I bite my thumbnail while anxiously waiting for him to return.
Suddenly the silence is overpowered by the sound of loud music. Marches! He unexpectedly re-appears in the doorway, dressed like a German Nazi soldier, causing me to jump with fright. He throws thin grey cotton pajamas towards me. ‘Wear this and no shoes,’ he orders, still in a stern voice, after which he fades into the darkness again. I cannot hear his footsteps this time because the music is drowning out all other sound.
Fear is crawling through my body, causing me to shiver. Whatever is busy unfolding here, I do not like it one bit! When I get up, I feel the bare wooden floorboards vibrating under my feet. I quickly change, sitting down on the bed where I curl my bare feet up under me.
He silently returns to glare at me from the doorway. ‘Come, follow me!’ he orders coldly. I slowly rise from the bed to obey.
I jerk to a halt at the entrance of the room into which he disappeared. My mouth drops open in shock. I am looking at Nazi Germany from the early 1940s, recreated to perfection! The music is coming from an old fashioned gramophone. Flags with Swastikas are hanging on every wall. Gas lamps are flickering high up on two pillars, placed strategically for effect. There is an eerie, uncannily real atmosphere from the past, hanging around and throughout. An unnatural situation, something I have no knowledge of. Sadism and masochism? Wayne’s girls do not do this! He believes it isn’t worth it, that it is dangerous to the girl, physically and mentally.
Hans is standing in the middle of the floor, his face hard and cold. He is hitting a leather riding crop against his leg in time to the music. ‘I am Hitler! You are the Jewish prisoner! Come, march now!’ he orders loudly.
I hesitantly enter the room. My heart is throbbing unevenly in my chest but I start marching. I have a lump in my throat, causing my mouth to turn dry. I am petrified, wanting to scream out but there is nobody to hear me.
‘Links, regs, links, regs, links, regs…’ he shouts loudly in time to the beat of the music. He is hitting the riding crop against his leg harder and harder as he marches me on and on. He must surely be hurting his leg? I am a frozen robot, too frightened to disobey. I march and march. Around and around I go in time to the crop hitting his leg.
Two hours later I am still marching! I am not frightened anymore. At this stage I do not give a damn whether I live or die in this godforsaken hole. So he wants to play games? I will teach him!
‘Enough!’ I hiss, my face wet with perspiration. I grab the crop from his hand. ‘Now I am the Jewish prisoner who has escaped and we are in Israel, my friend! You were hiding, I have found you!’ I shriek loudly, using the crop to hit the record off the gramophone. It scratches badly before coming to a standstill. The sudden silence drops down to envelope the room like a dark cloud.
I stomp around, ripping flags from the walls, tearing them as I go. Then I menacingly approach him, now hitting the crop against my own leg. I stop to glare down at him because he is shorter than me. He gives a little shudder as he looks up at me with a pleading expression. I rip his jacket open, causing buttons to scatter over the bare wooden floor. Then I jerk it viciously from his body, making him spin with the force of my anger. He nearly loses his balance, stumbling towards the floor before I grab him by his hair, roughly pulling him upright. Beads of perspiration appear on his forehead and roll down his face. Suddenly he gasps, grabs at his crotch and groans loudly as he relieves himself.
I freeze, looking down in surprise. I am playing his damn game after all, the conniving bastard! ‘You are a sick pig!’ I shout, attacking him with the crop. He falls to his knees, gasping and groaning. I hit him until my arm is lame after which I fling the riding crop to the floor. Then I swing around in disgust, storming down the dark passage, back to the bedroom where my luggage is. I fall down on the bed, emotionally and physically spent.
Half an hour later I get up to search for electric light switches but find none. I remain very quiet for a few seconds, listening intensely, but do not hear him. Then I take the gas lamp from my bedroom into the adjoining bathroom, carefully placing it on the closed toilet seat. I wearily slip out of the grey pajamas which are saturated with perspiration. I pull aside the cheap plastic curtain hanging in front of the shower cubicle and step wearily inside. Just as I am starting to relax under the lukewarm water there is a loud shout. A large blade slices through the curtain. I cannot breathe! I am gasping in horror, nearly passing out from shock. My heart is flopping around like a tambourine in my throat. My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. I am going to die!
He peeps in through the gash. ‘Have you seen the film “Psycho”?’ he inquires in an odd cold voice, an evil grin on his face.
I stare at him in frozen terror for a few seconds. Then I smile. ‘Yes,’ I reply calmly. ‘But it’s going to cost you your farm, a car and your damn life.’
Suddenly I kick at him through the curtain. He gives a loud howl of pain before dropping the knife and disappearing. It clatters loudly when it drops onto the wet floor at my feet. I dive down, seize the weapon and quickly straighten up, holding it firmly and determinedly in my hand. Then I jerk the curtain aside, ready to strike.
He is naked, crouching on the floor just outside the cubicle. His back is turned to me and I can see the angry red welts where I hit him earlier on. He crawls forward, away from me. Then he slowly and painfully turns around, straightens up and looks at me. He covers his genitals with both hands, a sullen expression on his face. ‘I go to sleep now,’ he groans, his accent more pronounced with pain. He takes a step back, his shadow flickering eerily on the wall in the weak gas light. Then another after which he turns. At last he is gone!
I lean back against the tiles and slowly slide down to the wet floor, clutching the large knife tightly to my chest. My whole body is trembling with shock. I sit there for what seems like an eternity before I carefully and quietly return to my bedroom to get dressed. I want to lock the door but cannot find the damn key. And there is nothing heavy enough in the room that I can use as a blockade. I want to prevent him from pulling another trick on me like he did in the shower.
I decide to go looking for him and tiptoe through the house. It is deadly quiet, only a floorboard creaking every now and then. He is nowhere to be found so I return to my room. I lie down on the bed, watching the flickering shadows of moths dancing on the ceiling as they play around the gas lamp. At the break of dawn I fall into a short, troubled sleep.
I later find him in the kitchen busy preparing breakfast. Not a trace remains of the maniac I dealt with the previous night. I sit down at the kitchen table where we eat in silence. He does the dishes after which he quietly leaves.
I spend the rest of the day walking around in the hot dry veldt. We are not close to anybody or anything. It is Hans, that is it. Not even a damn animal! I cannot find him and do not see him again for the rest of the day. I do not have a clue as to where he can be. The jeep is still parked where we left it but without the keys. Then, that evening, the whole process is repeated.
Wayne is at the airport to meet me. ‘Good heavens, girl, you look like hell,’ is the first comment he makes when he sees me.
‘I have just come from there,’ I wearily agree.
Once I return to the agency I start doing “Sadism and Masochism” calls, for which I am paid triple the fee. I have once again proved to be an apt pupil of life. I make a lot of money, saving as much as I can. At the end of the year, I go into a private clinic where I have a face-lift; having my breasts enlarged and lifted at the same time. I stay off work for three months while I recover.
Chapter 2
1987
I easily pass for a twenty one year old now. I am no longer working for Wayne because he suddenly had to return to America. Margaret also left to go back home. Clinton is now in boarding school and I am working on the east rand of Johannesburg, living in a large apartment in Hillbrow. This is quite a distance to travel but I do this to prevent my family from finding out about my secret life. There is no chance of me running into any of them that far away; I made very sure of that before starting work here.
Penelope has divorced her husband and now escorts with me. She is only twenty four years old and does the job well. We both enjoy the lifestyle that comes with it. After work every night we go to discos where we tease and fool around with good looking young boys. We never give anything more than a kiss. We are not sluts! Sluts get picked up and sleep with men free of charge. Between us we frown down upon them, thinking them very lower class. We cannot imagine getting used like that. We find that men loudly discuss sluts between themselves, advising their friends as to who is “easy”. They refer to sluts as *“Rama” legs.
‘Why do you call them that?’ I once demand from a kissing choice for the night. He grins at me. ‘Because they spread so easily.’
We often run into our clients at the clubs. They always look embarrassed, pretending not to know us. They dance as far away as possible, avoiding us. We have discovered that although men boast about and discuss their exploits with sluts, they keep the fact that they hire a whore very quiet. It is a blow to their egos because paying for sex is nothing to brag about. They are men; women should be dropping at their feet! Or so they seem to think. We also notice that if a man sleeps around, he is a hero between the guys, patted on the back for all his conquests. There is no bad name for a guy like that. He is not a slut—or is he? Anyway, the sluts oblige and we retain our lily white reputations. We often giggle at the double standards of life.
A bouncer working at one of the clubs we frequent has the hots for me. His name is Jacques. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He is tall, well built and good looking, now that I stop to think about him.
The only time I give men a thought is when I’m on the job. This I selfishly do only for my own protection. My mind is not even present when my kissing choices’ lips are covering mine. I have much more important things in life to worry about! Lately, however, Jacques has been appearing at my side like a genie from a bottle. Quietly and suddenly, there he is. This happens regardless of which club I am in. How he knows where to find me is a complete mystery to me because we only decide where we are going after work each evening. I sometimes get the feeling that he can actually read my thoughts, a bit like ESP… Scary!
At first I found it flattering and quite sweet, but now I find it irritating because he is possessive and jealous. I cannot flirt or play my little mind games with the boys as I like to do. Jacques is a member of a bouncer syndicate and has a reputation as a fighter. All the boys and men now avoid me. I am not happy about this and loudly make it clear to him when I next walk into the club. I tell him to get off my case, to leave me alone, that I am not interested in him. He looks at me with an amused expression, causing me to storm away in anger. I have no time for romance and all the crap that comes with it. I am making damn good money while enjoying life at the same time!
I’m now sitting alone at a table next to the dance floor, sulking and enviously watching Penelope dancing with her kissing choice for the night. I am frowning, thinking murderous thoughts about Jacques when Julian, one of the drivers who work at our agency, stops next to me. ‘Smile, it might never happen,’ he teases, then offers to buy me a drink. I gladly accept because I am fed up and lonely sitting by myself. I carefully look around when he goes to the bar but Jacques is nowhere to be seen.
We have an agreement with the owner and staff employed by our agency. If they happen to bump into any of us in a public venue, they hardly know us. They are distant acquaintances. They do not know where we work or what we do for a living, while at the same time they watch over us. If they think we need to know about something we’re unaware of, they inform us at our very next shift.
Julian returns with three drinks for each of us and proceeds to tell me about a hilarious episode which recently happened to him. Shortly he has me screaming with laughter. I buy the next round of drinks, three each. Soon I am pleasantly tipsy, enjoying myself despite not having a kissing choice. Penelope and her boy join us. Much later she kisses her love for the night farewell, and we leave to go home. Friends of Julian have joined our table and he stays behind with them. The sun shines brightly into our eyes when we leave the club.