Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon
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swallowed and whispered hoarsely: ‘I’d kiss you.’
‘Very good, Luke. So, you may kiss me, you know how to do that, I’m sure.’
He stared, then he lunged at her. He seized her and plunged his gasping mouth onto hers so their teeth clashed, and she laughed in her throat and toppled over, and he scrambled frantically on top of her, and he ejaculated. In one frantic surging the world buzzed into a blurry flame that promptly crescendoed into the most marvellous feeling in the world, that exploded into a frenetic thrusting towards the source of all joy through jodhpurs and all. Luke Mahoney pounded on top of Lisa Rousseau, exploding, and she held him tignt, grinning up to the sky.
When he finally went limp, gasping, on top of her, his mind in a whirl, she smiled. ‘There … Now we can really talk about this like adults.’ She took a handful of his hair and lifted his suffused face. ‘Tonight, instead of going to the cinema, or wherever, why don’t you come to see me? The hostel’s empty.’
Those school holidays were wonderful. Wonderful, marvellous, divine, delicious, heavenly, breathtaking, walking-on-air – a head-over-heels, laughing-out-loud, do-backward-somersaults love affair, a secret so delicious he wanted to bellow it to the world.
Umtata was quiet, the school silent, the sunshine golden, the birds atwitter, the bees buzzing. And the big girl’s hostel was empty, except for the beautiful, long-legged, big-busted, sparkly-eyed, wonderful Lisa Rousseau. Every day they went galloping over the hills to the reservoir to make love on a blanket. Twice a week she came to the house to type up the journals (‘No, Luke – your mother may come home …’), every night he climbed out of his bedroom window and hurried across town to the hostel, let himself in the kitchen door and bounded up the stairs – and there was Lisa Rousseau, a grin all over her lovely face, and he seized her in his trembling arms. And, oh God, the wonderful feel of her against him, her strong-soft athletic body, her breasts crushed against his heaving schoolboy chest, her belly and loins crushed against him, his hands frantically sliding over her, feeling, feeling, feeling her. Then she swept her nightdress over her head, and the sight of her nakedness, each night, took his breath away. Then she tumbled onto her narrow bed, a grin of fun all over her lovely face. ‘The first one’s for you; the second one’s for me …’
So it went every night, those school holidays. The first one was over in minutes, two or three minutes of frantic thrusting, then a searing explosion of cascading joy. And Lisa Rousseau lay there, legs wide, smiling, receiving this explosive accolade, then, when that bit of heavenly nonsense was over, it was her turn. Miss Lisa Rousseau toppled him onto his back, and he lay there, exhausted, happy, wildly in love, and she began her magic. She slithered down to his loins and she grinned at him up his belly, her long hair awry and her big eyes twinkling, then she slowly, so slowly, lowered her head and, oh, the wonderful feel of her warm wet mouth, her teeth playfully nibbling, her full lips sucking, her warm pink tongue slithering, her eyes sparkling with the sheer fun of it all, and when she had done her magic she climbed joyfully on top of him, for her turn.
At the end of the second wonderful week Luke had a brilliant idea: his father owned a fishing camp down on the Wild Coast, sixty miles away: how marvellous to have the last week of the holidays there with Lisa all to himself, out in the wide open, sleeping together all night long, swimming naked in the crashing surf, romping together in the languid lagoon, walking along the wild deserted beach together like real lovers … It would be just like a real honeymoon. Lisa thought it a wonderful idea provided his parents didn’t know about her being there. ‘And provided we have some intellectual activity – I, my friend, am going to ensure you get an A for history …’
Luke said to his father: ‘Can I take one of the horses down to the camp? Do some fishing before I start work on my final exams?’
‘Can I come too?’ Jill cried.
‘No girls,’ Luke said firmly.
‘But what about that nice Miss Rousseau?’ Mrs Mahoney said. ‘She’ll be disappointed if you don’t go riding with her.’
‘Oh, she’s going off somewhere for a week to meet a friend.’
‘Well,’ George said, ‘provided you take Justin with you …’
Oh shit.
But the sheer audacity of living together … it was the romantic stuff of story books. And it was a great adventure setting out in the predawn into the land of the Xhosa, something like his great great grandfather Ernest had done into the land of the Zulus. As they rode through the rolling green hills with their Xhosa kraals, through their scattered herds of cattle, Luke could almost feel the shades of his forebear riding with him – and his heart and loins were as deliriously tumultuous as Ernest’s had been over his Sarie. But this adventure required him to take Justin into his confidence.
He said soberly in Xhosa: ‘Justin, I must trust you with a secret. You know the white woman, Rousseau, my history teacher?’
‘I know her,’ Justin said.
Luke cleared his throat. ‘Well, she is going to drive down to the sea tomorrow to be with us.’
‘I know,’ Justin said.
Luke frowned. ‘How do you know?’
‘I know,’ Justin grinned, ‘because every night you climb out of your window and run to her house. Like this …’ He placed his elbow in his groin and thrust his forearm up rigidly.
‘So you are a spy!’
Justin smiled, ‘No, I only study till late, at my window.’
‘And how do you know I go to her house?’
‘Because we must ride past her house every Friday. And because when she comes to your house to work your tail wags like a dog. Like this … ’ He put his elbow in his groin again; and shook it about. He burst into laughter.
Luke grinned sheepishly. ‘She is only teaching me history!’
Justin dropped his head and laughed: ‘I know …’
‘And she is only coming to the sea to teach me more history!’
Justin threw back his head and guffawed, white teeth flashing: ‘1 know …’
‘Do you understand that?!’ Luke grinned. ‘And my parents must know nothing about this.’
Justin wiped his eyes. ‘I understand everything …’
They rode on in suppressed giggles for a moment, then Justin burst into laughter again. ‘But tell me, Nkosaan – is history nice?’
‘Ooooh …’
It was a wonderful week. Floating in the blue lagoon with Lisa, romping in the crashing surf, walking along the deserted beaches, sleeping all night together: not once did Luke go fishing – that was Justin’s job, to keep him out of the way. Who would want to fish when he could be with the divine Lisa Rousseau? He could not get enough of her. But the divine Lisa Rousseau did also get some brain-work out of him.
‘Luke, always think of history as a series of lampposts, which you can see leading up long networks of roads to the present. The greatest value of history is that our knowledge of the past, particularly past mistakes, helps us see into the future, and hopefully avoid mistakes …’
And she said: ‘As Ernest says, the Battle of Blood River wasn’t a battle, Luke, it was an execution – though don’t say so in your exam paper. But what’s the significance of that lamppost?’
Luke said: ‘It’s an emotional rallying point for the Afrikaner every year when they celebrate the Day of the Covenant. He is reminded every year that God was on his side, and therefore still is. And therefore apartheid is