Doppio Zero, Greenside

Saturday, April 10, 2004

Service: * * * 1/2
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * *

Phone: +27 11 646 8740

It's 7 o'clock, and I'm half an hour early for Kyle and Jonty, so I'm sitting in the corner at a tiny table, getting some reading done. I'm on the final pages of THE CORRECTIONS by Jonathan Franzen. Excellent novel delving into the lives of the members of a dysfunctional family. Striking chords with me, seeing as I come from a dysfunctional family.

I've already ordered, since I'm going to be meeting Eran and his buddies for an 8 o'clock movie. I'm eating the Tai Chicken Salad, which is heavenly. Accompanied by strawberry juice. Damn nice. Damn nice indeed.

I'm a quarter of the way through the salad when Jonty and Kyle arrive. The girl who's meant to be joining us is on the phone to Jonty. She's going to be late. A single Jewish girl.

Could they be trying to set me up? Could they. Hmmm. Gotta ask them to ask her if she shags on the first date. It's all academic anyway, cos I'm not going to meet her, since It's pushing towards 8, and I'm going to be leaving any minute.

Jonty is a spiritual healer, and Kyle's told him about my mom and about my breakup. Jonty and I know each other from SABC days. He's one of the main voice artists for SABC1, and I wasn't allowed to use him on SABC3 promos, cos they had an exclusivity deal with him.

He says, "Kyle, I know you're vegetarian, but you've got to try the dish Roy's having. I'm sure there's something they can put in there instead of the chicken."

Kyle peers into my bowl. It's got chicken, avocado, various salady things, cashew nuts, and a sweet chili sauce with a tiny amount of satisfying bite. I say, "You know what would be perfect in here instead of chicken? Fried haloumi cheese."

"That's it!" says Jonty, and Kyle nods.

I turn to Kyle and start to winge about Memar. "I worked till just before midnight last night," I tell him. Kyle is one of the editors at Memar, the Ethiopian education project I'm producing on. He does all the corrections on the chemistry and biology programs. "Basically cos I took Monday off, and wasn't functioning too well on Tuesday. Also, the viewing bay is always busy with Arne sorting out preproduction on the old batch corrections."

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jonty going into healer mode. I see his hands calling energy from the universe, and then he places them against his heart, his eyes partly closed. I stop chatting to Kyle and simply allow the energy in. After about three minutes, Jonty cleanses his aura. "Thank you," I say. He smiles, nods, and we carry on chatting.

What I'm not talking about is a call I got earlier in the day from an ex-girlfriend of mine. She's now married, and six months pregnant. I'm not mentioning her name, cos it's just too ugly what's happening with her, and I think her stuff's private. What happened is that she went to her husband's office to give him a lift home on Friday night and caught him fucking some arbitrary woman whose name he claims not to know. So now she's trying to figure out whether or not to leave him. Sigh. Can't we get our damned relationships right???

But it's time to see a movie, and I ask Laine, our waiter for the bill and a doggy bag, since I'm only halfway through my meal. I'll probably end up giving it to a security guard in Rosebank before the movie, seeing as I've still got about three doggy bags untouched in my fridge. With the best will in the world, it's such a chore to remember to take them to work as lunch.

Seattle Coffee Company, Hyde Park

Tuesday, April 06, 2004

Service: N/A
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * * * *
Babe Count: * * * *

In terms of my ideal world, Seattle Coffee Company in Hyde Park is second only to Seattle Coffee Company in Sandton Square. That's because both of them are situated in book shops in the babe capitals of Johannesburg.

And to quote the nephew of Antoinette (an ex-girlfriend of mine) when he visited my flat for the first time when he was four: "Wow Roy!!! You live in a library!!!!!" And it's true. I spend more of my salary on books than on anything else. So being in a coffee shop in a bookshop is just overwhelming bliss.

The reason Sandton Square edges out Hyde Park is twofold... (1) Sandton Square Exclusive Books has by far the better movie-book and business book sections. (2) The Seattle Coffee Co in Sandton Square is slap bang in the centre of the bookshop, flanked by two incredible sections. In Hyde Park, it's on the outskirts of the shop.

As for the babeage, what more could a bloke ask for? Literate hotties schlepping books to their tables, their breasts pressed against the spines as they bend over to lay their tomes down on the cool marble.

So I'm sipping a grande harmless mocha with no sugar, and I'm more than halfway through a gigantic muffin.

There are two books I'm looking at. One is on how to make art prints. It covers all the techniques. And I'm busy trying to get my linoprinting perfected. It's just that I can't actually get the inking of the plate right. Granted, I'm using water-based inks instead of oil-based ones, and they dry out too quickly, and they don't give great coverage and blah blah blah, but heck... I really want to excel at this linoprinting business. I have a multi-colour linocut that I've promised Jacqui first choice from once I've done an edition.

The other book is by Alan Ayckbourn, the playwright and theatre director. I'm looking at it cos it's called THE CRAFTY ART OF PLAYMAKING, and it distills his 40 years in the British theatre into a nifty handbook of advice for people who want their words to be acted by people. I figure theatre and film are first cousins, if not Siamese twins, and I'm sure my filmcraft can benefit from exposure to a theatre master. I know I'm going to end up buying this book.

What I'm really doing is procrastinating. There are two things I need to do. Firstly, I have to check the graphics on four different scripts for Memar, the Ethiopian educational television project I'm a producer on. Secondly, I have to write my mom a letter.

I've just finished my Tuesday afternoon therapy session with Zahava.

In it, I've expressed bewilderment at why my sorrow and crying and pain is all centred on the breakup with Jacqui, instead of on my mom's rape. I'm baffled as to why I'm cool, calm, collected when I talk about my mom's ordeal to Zahava, but as soon as I just mention the first syllable of Jacqui's name I cry three tissues into pulp.

I've told her about Jacqui's visit to me last night. It was amazing. A massive gift from Jacqui. She smsed me in the afternoon yesterday to ask if it would be okay if she came round to offer me a hug. I sent her a message back asking if I could think about it. What was going on in my mind is that I have to preserve the possibility of a future relationship, and that if I said yes to her coming round, I'd be transgressing the boundaries I'd agreed to with her, and that I'd be ruining all my chances to be with her. So I phone Zahava last night and asked her opinion. "I think Jacqui's offering you her love in a time of extreme duress for you, Roy. I think it's allright for you to say yes." And so when Jacqui came to my place, I had some perspective. And it was the most amazing thing to be held by her. Thank you Jacqui.

Zahava waits, and allows me to say, "Actually, I'm aware of being very angry with my mom. Primally angry. I think this rape has been sent by the universe for me to access that." See, I've spent a lot of time in therapy talking about my dad. How he was almost certainly a paranoid schizophrenic, how he beat my mom when I was a child, how he tried to kill me once when I was 14. All that stuff.

I've touched on the fact that my mom was an alcoholic from the very day I was born. I've glanced over some of the very hectic insults she threw at me when she was drunk. But in some way, I've allowed her to seem like a saint in comparison to my father.

Right now, the anger is flowing.

And then I realise that I haven't actually phoned my mom all day. So I phone. Her line is dead.

I phone my brother's phone. It rings. He answers.

He's driven all the way from Port Alfred to Port St John's in a VW Microbus with only one brake working. The front left one. It's now stuck halfway up the driveway on my mom's hill, cos it's raining there, and the hill is made of clay. He got there yesterday, in time to fetch my mom from the hospital, where she was getting her anti-retroviral course, to kill the HIV/AIDS that may have entered her system.

"How's Mommy, Lance?" I ask.

"Ag, she's okay," he says. "She's handling."

"Is she taking her anti-retrovirals?"

"Ya," he says. "But they're making her feel realllllly sick. She's been vomiting. And she's got bronchitis. Here. Speak to her."

"Howzit, Mommy," I say. I'm clenching my jaw, and putting on half a crisis-counsellor-calm voice (I'm a trained crisis counsellor), and half a cheery-I'm-your-caring-loving-son voice.

"I'm fine, my baby. Thanks for phoning. What's that noise? Where are you? Cresta?"

"No, Hyde Park," I say. And I'm thinking, I don't have to justify the fact that I'm sitting in a coffee shop living my life, you bitch!

"Oh," she says.

"Are you taking the anti-retrovirals?" I say.

"Yes, definitely," she says. "You have no idea how relieved I was when I got them yesterday! But hell they're making me sick."

"Mommy, it's really important that you take them on a full stomach," I say. "They're very dangerous on an empty stomach." I heard on the news this morning that a bunch of people in the Cape had died taking their anti-retrovirals on an empty tummy. But I don't mention this.

"Oh," she says. "The sister didn't know."

"How's your ear, Mommy?"

In my account of her rape, I didn't mention that the bastard also burst her eardrum somehow. Must have been when he clubbed her. He probably slapped her across the ear with his opposite hand.

"No, it'll be fine," she says. "The doctor who examined me is very young. A young black woman. She can't be older than twenty-six. A youngster. She said it'll heal."

"Mommy, that's your ear. I think maybe you should get a second opinion."

"Well, I have to go to Dr Bacher tomorrow." He's the district surgeon. "He's a cripple, you know. Something wrong with his leg. Looks like polio."

"You must take care of yourself, Mommy. Have they found the guy?"

"No. But we're going into town tomorrow, and I'm going to speak to the chief. He granted me the land I'm staying on, so he'll sort this out. Lance is taking me through to Port Alfred tomorrow. We're going to go and look at places for me to stay."

"That's cool, Mommy."

"But you know, it'll have to be rooms in peoples' houses. Small places, you know. Cos of the money situation, you know? Very small places. And what am I going to do about the dogs?"

And if I weren't in a public place right this instant, I'd press the mute button on the phone, and I'd bellow, and scream, and throw things around, and smash tables, and destroy walls, and let out 36 years worth of rage.

But I'm terribly controlled right now. Worryingly so.

"Oh," I say. "Has Lance fixed the brakes yet?"

"No, he's going to go round to Tobie's place and do it there. Willie's going to help him bleed them or something."

"Okay, Mommy," I say. My jaw is hurting from clamping my teeth so hard. "I'm going to say goodnight now."

"Oh, sorry!" she says. "We've been chatting for so long on your cellphone. It must be costing you a fortune."

"Okay, Mommy. Goodnight now."

"Goodnight, my boy."

I put the phone down.

I consider calling Zahava. She's not going to be available for my regular appointment next week, cos of the holidays. So I'm only seeing her on Thursday. I want to ask her if it's appropriate for me to be feeling this huge well of rage, and I want to know if it's appropriate that I'm holding it in so effectively.

I stay with my finger on the dial button, and work it out. In the end, I stand down, move my finger away. It's all appropriate. Whatever I'm feeling is authentic, and that's how it is.

So here's the letter I'll probably not send to my mom:

Dear Mommy...

You've been an alcoholic all my life. You've been a victim since I first knew you. And you've been an expert manipulator. I don't think I can remember you ever asking for something without some kind of twist to it.

Here's what I think, Mommy. I think this rape was sent to you as a wake-up call, as a little nudge for you to straighten out how you're operating in the world. It's your chance to come clean and start living honestly, and without manipulating other people.

I'm feeling hard and cold and callous, and I hate feeling these things. The Roy I know myself to be is a warm, generous, loving man, with an infinite well of love to offer. I also know that my flipside is to be hard and brutal and intolerant of people I find to be thick. But on the whole, the positive me is the one I know and love.

So when I feel these iron-smooth feelings by speaking to you on the phone after your rape because of your well-placed and unassailable barbs, I don't like you. I don't like you because you bring out the parts of me that I don't like. And I don't like you because those parts of me are very likely the defences I learnt when I was a baby in order to protect myself from you and Daddy.

I wish you weren't raped. But I wish you would learn from what the universe is offering you.

I'm trying to find the learning. I'm doing really hard work just going to goddamn work in the morning so I can deposit money into Lance's account to fix those brakes. To top up your cellphone yesterday. So please don't infer that I'm doing nothing.

All of my friends are saying, "Go to Port St John's, Roy, you've got to go, you've got to be with your mom."

And I'm saying, "Yeah, I'm investigating whether or not there are any charter flights there." But in my head I'm saying, I doubt I'll go. I don't want to mess with my fragile space right now. I hate the place she lives. I hate the manipulation. I'm not going.

So, Mommy, I wish you love. But I really don't want to expose myself to the mastery you have over subtle cruelty. My buttons are way too exposed right now. And while this may seem trivial to you, I'm dealing with something huge for me. I'm dealing with the loss of the love of my life. And it's wrenching and vast. As wrenching and vast for me as the rape is for you.

The rape is yours to deal with. I can support you in my way. Not in your way.

So, Mommy. I'm angry with you.

I'm sure the anger will pass. I need to process it, and express it, and let it shift the parts of me that have always been to scared and hidden to express it. I have work to do on myself.

I love you
Roy

It's a letter I'm unlikely to send, since it really has nothing to do with her. It's my stuff. And though she's contributed throughout my life, it's my interpretation that's stayed with me. My job is to reinterpret. To allow myself freedom.

Because the universe has offered me two opportunities to really look into my world. My mom's rape. And my breakup with Jacqui. My world has been shaken.

Now leave me alone to finish my mocha and my chocolate chip and orange muffin.

My Flat, Cresta

Sunday, April 04, 2004

Service: N/A
Food: N/A
Ambience: *
Babe Count: N/A

I managed to speak to my mom around 3:30am, but was too tired to update the site. So now it's around lunchtime on Sunday, and I've just been on the phone to Jacqui. She's being incredibly supportive.

My mom told me everything that happened. I'll report it pretty much as I heard it.

My mom says:

Because of my premonition dream and this guy trying to break in on Sunday, I've been keeping my eyes open. At about 10 or 11 o'clock I had all my lamps and candles on, and I was in the kitchen, and I heard the dogs bark. I knew immediately that it was him.

I blew out all the lights, and grabbed a cast iron skillet, and he came in. But he barged right past the dogs. It looked like he was carrying a gun.

I tried to hit him on the head with the skillet, but he raised his arm. Next thing I knew, he'd shot me. There was this loud bang, like a bullet, and I was down on the ground. Turns out he'd hit me with a knob-kierie, on my left temple. Lots of blood. It's still bleeding now, even though I've got a dressing on it.

So anyway, he only spoke Xhosa. Refused to speak English. Told me to get to the bedroom. So I managed to get off the floor and go towards the bedroom. Hell. The back door is all blocked, so I couldn't get out that way. Only the front door.

But because of the premonition, I've had a can of Doom spray handy, and I knew exactly where it was. It was next to the couch. So instead of going to the bed, I went to the couch.

While he was unzipping, I put my hand down, and felt for the can. Now all I'd have to do is wait for the right moment.

But he lay down on top of me and really hurt my rib. I think it might be broken. And he pressed all of his weight on me. So I had to bring my hand up and try and lever it under him just so I could breathe.

It was horrible, but I was calm. I knew exactly what to do. I was just waiting for the right moment. But he worked at me for about an hour and a half. Just this horrible grinding. I think what saved me is that he didn't have a full erection. It must have been the drink. He was very drunk. I could smell the local beer on him. And I know where they sell that beer. We'll find him.

I kept telling him, in Xhosa, "I'm an old woman, I've got cancer. Why are you doing this?"

And he kept telling me, in Xhosa, "Shut your mouth! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

I was so worried about my bladder. Because of the hysterectomy, my bladder has fallen, and I was so scared that he'd rupture it. But it seems okay. They examined me in the clinic, and it seem all right. Luckily he didn't have a proper erection.

While he was grinding away, I kept my head. Luckily it's full moon, so I could see some details. But I also felt his head while he was trying to kiss me. Sis. That alcohol. But the rest of him was clean. He must have showered before he came here.

He's got a very strange dreadlock style. Not common around here. Normally they have a full head of dreadlocks here in the Transkei. But this one had only a single row of locks, starting around ear level, and they were about eight inches long. Very distinctive. And what I did was to smear as much of my blood over his face and hair and clothes. I wanted him to be easy to pick out in his village.

The blood was from my temple. Luckily nothing was going wrong down there. Just the temple. I was very scared of all the blood. But I thought I'd use it. That's why I smeared it all over him.

But it was getting very difficult to breathe, and my rib was really hurting. Oh yeah... somewhere in the middle of all of this, I put my foot down on the floor and tried to feel for the gun. I still didn't know it was a knob-kierie. So I wanted to know what he had. So I felt it with my foot, and I realised it was just a stick, so I swept it under the couch with my foot.

Shit... it hit something, and some stuff fell off a shelf, and he jumped a bit and threatened me again. I told him it was the dogs, and he calmed down, and carried on grinding away.

Anyway, eventually he got up, and I knew this was my chance. You must remember, I was still on my back, and he was standing in exactly the right position. He was zipping up, and he demanded money. I'd emptied my purse out and hidden my money away about an hour before this happened. I wish I'd been carrying the Doom before. When he came in, I should have had the Doom with me.

So I knew I had my gap. He was asking for money, so I put my hand on the can, and he leaned forward, and I let him have it, in the eyes. And because of my position, I kicked him in the balls. I got him about seven good ones! I can tell you, I felt soft tissue between his legs. I got him. And the Doom too!

I started screaming, cos Wilhellie lives about twenty, thirty metres away on Willie's property. Willie's got connections here, I can tell you. We'll find this guy. We'll find him. Oh yeah... I felt his chin... he's young. I could tell he's never shaved. Smooth. Young.

So he ran away, and it was only a minute or so before Wilhellie arrived. And he took me to Willie's place. We've just come back from the police station and the clinic now. I'm staying at Willie's place. They told me not to shower or anything, but I had to. Sis. I couldn't stand not to. But he didn't ejaculate, I don't think. And anyway, tomorrow morning I have to go to the district surgeon, and they take a swab from deep inside.

I wasn't scared, and I'm very proud of the way I handled it. I really gave it to him with that Doom and kicking him in the balls.

So that's what happened to my mom. Jeez.

Jacqui mentioned anti-retrovirals, to combat the possibility of my mom getting HIV/AIDS from this guy. So I sent my mom an sms early this morning to tell her to insist. And I have the cellphone number of the executive producer of Special Assignment on my phone. One call, and there'll be a nice television crew down there on the next plane to do a story on how inept the government is in dealing with rape cases. Well. That's the threat, anyway. I suppose it's such a common story that maybe they won't. But I do know Chris. And who knows?

My Flat, Cresta

Saturday, April 03, 2004

Service: N/A
Food: N/A
Ambience: *
Babe Count: N/A

It's technically Sunday, seeing as it's around 2 in the morning. But for me, it remains Saturday until I've gone to sleep and woken up the next day.

I've just finished brushing my teeth, and my cellphone does its message announce thing. Immediately, my heart leaps. Something's wrong! I hope nothing's happened to Jacqui!!!

I fumble with the button. It's a message from Lance, my brother. He's in Port Alfred, and it's 2am, and something must be badly wrong.

He says:

Hi. Please call me URGENTLY. Mommy was raped today (Saturday). No, this is NOT an April Fool's joke. Lance.

Oh man. What can I tell you? Helplessness. Rage. Despair. Futility. Pain. Loss.

I phone Lance. "Mommy spoke to me on Monday," I say. "She said there'd been an intruder."

Lance says, "I spoke to Willie. He's helping her. They're at the copshop now. She reckons it's the same guy."

My mom lives in a hut on the top of a hill in Port St John's in what used to be the Transkei. There's no electricity there, and she has to charge her cellphone on the car battery.

When I spoke to her on Monday, it was in response to a "Call Me" message from her. She wanted me to know that the dream she'd had on Saturday night (which she'd told me about on Sunday night while I was sitting at the Mugg & Bean in Cresta) wasn't a warning to me, but rather to her.

In the dream, she said there was great danger to me. She said there were people, and they were attacking me, and she was very scared. She said that I must be very careful, and she just wanted to warn me.

So on Monday, when I spoke to her, it was hectic to hear that later on Sunday night, in the driving Transkei rain, a man had attempted to enter her hut, and only the fact that she has huge dogs kept the guy from getting to her. She said he appeared to be drunk, and that it happened about 11 o'clock that night. She told me she was safe, and that I mustn't worry.

So fuck. I should've worried.

Lance says, "If it's that guy, he'd better hope I don't find him. He'd better hope." I'm thinking the same thing. I've seen Lance punch a closed door off it's hinges. And I'm hoping that he DOES find this guy. I'm a liberal type of dude, and I don't believe in the death penalty. But you know what? Someone rapes my mother, I'll kill him myself. Jesus.

So I send Jacqui an sms. Aside from my therapist, she's the only person I need to be with right now. But her phone's off. She'll probably call me early in the morning to find out what's happened. Oh man. Oh man.

And I send my mom an sms, saying that I'm lighting a candle for her, and that I'm sending light and love. She's 57 years old. And she's not in good physical shape. Lance reckons that her cancer of the uterus has returned, and that she hasn't got long to live. And now some dude's raped her. Ah man. This is too much.

I'll let you know what's happening.

Right now I'm trembling too much to type anymore.

My Flat, Cresta

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

Service: N/A
Food: N/A
Ambience: *
Babe Count: N/A

Sitting at home listening my UNCUT, Best of 2003 cd on repeat. Feeling lonely, and wishing Jacqui were with me.

My phone vibrates, and gives off the cuckoo sound. An incoming sms. It's from Jacqui.

She says that her cd is an exquisite set of songs, and that she feels loved. She also thanks me for our beautiful and soul-full goodbye.

A huge part of me is beaming. That cd I made for her is bursting with love and light. Another part of me is wailing. Tears of loss. I'm wishing that she and I can be together. That this space she's in is filled with healing. May she find herself, and in doing that, find me.

M&A, Hyde Park

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

Service: * * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

Phone: +27 11 325 2727

Yup, the babe count is full to overflowing tonight. That's cos the babe sitting across from me is Jacqui. It's our meeting, the one where we hand things to each other and say goodbye. She's looking beautiful tonight, in a red-Japanese-sunburst-on-white cotton blouse, oriental-cut. "I bought it on the Woolworth's sale," she says.

We've both been crying intermittently since Jacqui arrived. But there are amazing amounts of love flowing between us. This woman really loves me, really finds me precious. And the same from me. We've hugged a few times. Touched each others hands. I've held her face.

I've got this little condom pouch in my cargo pants. It's right near the ankle, inconspicuous. And I've got it loaded tonight.

I reach in and pull out a candle. And a lighter. "I brought this in case they didn't have candles for us." And they certainly didn't. This place is VERY brightly lit.

When I asked the maitre d'hotel if he could perhaps dim the lights, he said, "Hmm. We don't have a dimmer, but I'll see what I can do. But, just out of curiosity, are you saying the restaurant is overlit?"

Jacqui lights the candle, and I breathe white light into it as she does so. Then I reach into my condom pocket and pull out a blue rectangle of glass. It's a piece of mosaic that's fallen off the wall of my block of flats. Jacqui's a Gaudi-lover, and has done a mosaic course, and is about to make a mosaic. As she realises what it is, and where it comes from, the tears flow again.

I hold it to my heart, and breathe light and love into it. I ask God to enter it, so that it may guide Jacqui on her search for her soul, and that she may be free. I kiss it three times and give it to her. She touches my face, smiles through the tears. "Thank you."

Yet another dipping into the pocket. A smooth, round, white pebble. Quartz. I do the same with it. "This one's just for you to keep somewhere, to remind you of me. The mosaic is for your next project."

All this while, the waiter is hovering. As Jacqui bursts into tears and reaches for a serviette, he braves the table. "Would you like to order?" he asks.

"No, not right now," I say. I'm also on the verge of crying.

Jacqui puts the stones in her bag. "I want to keep the energy in them," she says. And my floodgates break.

The maitre d arrives as I'm pressing a sodden serviette to my eyes. "Uh, sorry to, uh, interrupt. But, uhm, I'd like to offer you an hors-d'oeuvre on the house, just to keep you going till you order." He then goes on to describe it. Something to do with olives, bread, basil. I dunno. I'm crying. Leave me alone! Jacqui nods a yes to him, and he leaves.

The lights slide down a couple of notches. "That's strange," I say, and Jacqui's thinking the same thing.

"I thought they didn't have a dimmer," she says.

And we're onto some other topic. And I start to cry again. And the maitre d pops into my distorted field of vision. "Sorry to interrupt," he says, "but is this level of lighting now acceptable?"

I almost start laughing, but the sorrow's just a little too throaty for me. So I just blub while Jacqui says the lighting's cool. He leaves.

Then Jacqui starts crying for one reason or another. And the waiter appears with the hors-d'oeuvre. Jeeez. The service here would receive five stars, but only if they added a touch of sensitivity to the mix. As it is, four stars is a little generous, but that's okay, cos Jacqui and I are here in a loving space, and we're creating a beautiful breakup. So I'll be generous to the service. But I can't easily forgive the ambience. The lighting, even mysteriously dimmed a notch or two is still daylight-bright.

We talk about things. "Are you seeing anybody?" I ask.

"I don't think I'll be seeing anybody for a long time," she says. Then, "This poet of yours. I don't like the sound of her. I would like to request that you let me interview any of your potential lovers. You deserve only the best," she says.

I touch her arm, delicately, sincerely, tenderly. "That's you," I say.

So we yo-yo through our emotions, with the dude appearing as the tears break. Weird man.

My tuna salad is delicious, and superbly presented. It's just that the knot in my stomach is leaving me a tad un-hungry. Jacqui's ravioli is satisfying to her. I ask the waiter to put more than half of mine into a doggie bag. I'll have it for lunch tomorrow at work.

At the end of the evening, I tell Jacqui that I love her, and that I set her free. "This is what I wish for you," I say. "I wish for you to have a beautiful journey to finding your soul. And if you find a soulmate, I wish that your soul will recognise him as your home. I have found my soul's home, and she is you." She cries. For once, nobody comes to bother us.

"You're so generous, Roy. I feel amazed that you can say this after I've hurt you so badly."

I consider this. I say, "Jacqui, I don't really understand why we can't be together, but I'm coming to understand that you need to be where you are, and you need to have this space, and you need to be free. You've done nothing aimed at hurting me, and you're doing the right thing. For yourself. And if there's ever going to be a you and me, you're doing the right thing for us."

We hug.

And the evening comes to an end. We pay, head out into the night, go to her car. Things of mine in the boot. It's freezing outside. Rain spitting. I offer her my jacket. "It'll give me an excuse to come visit," I say. We laugh. Part of what we've agreed is that we might go on Vitality-points-earning fitness walks together once a month or so. We'll keep contact. And we'll hold a space open so that our mutual friends don't need to be awkward about inviting us to functions.

We put the boxes in my boot. Hug one more time, both sobbing wildly. The cold is nudging Jacqui's nipples into my chest. I love these nipples. I love this woman. I want her! And we say goodbye, and get into our cars before the maitre d'hotel can find some reason to come into the cold-cold night to interrupt us again.

Mugg & Bean, Cresta

Sunday, March 28, 2004

Service: * * * *
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * *1/2
Babe Count: * * *

I'm trying the Chinese Chicken Salad with Glass Noodles. Basheer, my waiter, is damn good. I reckon if he were working at Primi Piatti, he'd be one of their highest-earning waiters. Instead, he's here at Cresta, getting tipped by students and West Rand dwellers. A tough life.

Last night, after I met with Mandy, the poet, I went to gym, then hit Rosebank for a movie. Saw BIG FISH, which made me cry, cos it's all about undying and unfailing love over an entire lifetime. I wanted to sms Jacqui a hundred times during the movie to ask her to see it with me.

But I was very disciplined. I didn't sms her at all. And around 7 o'clock, I'd even begun to stop checking the screen every thirty seconds to see if she'd replied to my morning message.

So I was quite surprised to find a message from her when I exited the cinema:

Hello Roy, thanks for your lovely msg. I am in the Drakensberg with Clair and Erich etc... for Bear's birthday. I miss you terribly too and the walk on the mountain today reminded me of our walk on Table Mountain. I love you too Roy, and I pray that we will heal totally. Sleep well! Jacqui.

So when I went to sleep last night, sobbing viciously, drool running into my ears, I spoke aloud to the universe. I said, "God, if there is such a thing, if you really do exist, I need your help. I don't know what is going on with me and Jacqui, and I would really like some clarity. Please send me some message, some course I can take, to resolve this. I love this woman. She loves me. If it's for the greatest good, please let us be together!"

I listened carefully, but all I could hear was my duvet getting tear-logged.

Fell asleep.

Woke this morning on a mission. I sat down before my cd collection and started looking for songs that would make a great love collection to compile for Jacqui. Switched my computer on and started popping tracks onto the hard drive. How's this for a playlist???

INTO MY ARMS by Nick Cave. NIGHTSWIMMING by R.E.M. IN THE COLD, COLD NIGHT by The White Stripes. EVERYDAY I WRITE THE BOOK by Elvis Costello. I'M YOUR MAN by Bill Pritchard (a Leonard Cohen song). CAUGHT IN A CRAVING by Wendy New. FLOWERS IN THE WINDOW by Travis. DON'T MARRY HER by The Beautiful South. YOUR GHOST by Kristin Hersh (with Michael Stipe). BORN TO RUN by Bruce Springstein. UNIVERSAL HALL by The Waterboys. BE MY NUMBER TWO by Joe Jackson. THERE SHE GOES by the La's. HALLELUJAH by John Cale (another Leonard Cohen song). And finally, (I'LL LOVE YOU) TILL THE END OF THE WORLD by Nick Cave again.

Made it into a cd, and have done the packaging. I'm hoping that with space and perspective, Jacqui will be able to see that this breakup is actually based on an incident, and that the incident doesn't have to mean the end of our relationship. I don't think I was insane in finding Jacqui to be the woman of my dreams. She actually IS that woman! Remains so! And I don't think she spent ten months with me in abject misery. We had great times together, and she's found me wonderful. These are not illusions.

So I'm hoping that when we do the handing-back-of-Roy's-things ceremony some time this week, she'll appreciate the cd, and might actually even listen to it. My propaganda is subtle, but I think persuasive.

So anyway, I'm in Mugg & Bean, and a very large-boned student type girl walks in with her buddies. Sits at the table next to mine. And proceeds to sit with her legs gaping.

Don't do that to me!!!!!! It means I have to fixate on finding out whether or not she's wearing any underwear. Oh man. Hard-on territory.

Only one thing to do. I whip out my trusty sketch book, and record the dark shadow of her womanhood for posterity.

JB Rivers, Hyde Park

Saturday, March 27, 2004

Service: * *
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * *

Three o'clock, and all's well. This morning, after a long time lying in bed thinking, I sent Jacqui an sms.

It said:

Hullo Jacqui... Just letting you know I love you, and am missing you. The anxiety is gone, and now I'm able to mourn the loss of us. Feeling sore, but it's a clean pain. I hope you're having a peaceful, healing time. And I want you to know that I wish you the very best. I also hope that one day in a couple of months, you might decide that I'm a guy you might want to date. And maybe we can start afresh. I love you, Jacqui. Roy.

And of course, shreds of the anxiety are still active, so I'm only checking my phone every fifteen minutes for a response. And there isn't one. She's mentioned that she'd "be away" this weekend, which is why we couldn't do the handing over ceremony where she gives me my underpants and socks and tshirts and trousers and books and keys and we kiss dry-lipped and hug awkwardly and cry. I can look forward to that next week.

But right now, I've got an excuse to keep checking my cellphone for messages. I'm meeting a young poet who moved to Joburg from Cape Town, and is keen to hook up with fellow poets. She's sent one of her poems to the UCT PoetryWeb for comment, and I see great potential in it. It's got some rough spots, but it's got some seriously cool observations in it.

I've spent part of the morning analysing it, and working out what I would do to fix it, and, more importantly, making notes about how a young poet might get from one draft to the next.

I send Mandy an sms:

Hi Mandy... I'm wearing a lilac t-shirt, and I'm sitting in JB Rivers at the end closest to the CNA. Leather satchel on the chair beside me.

Something to that effect.

My phone beeps back almost immediately. The message tone is a cuckoo. Could it somehow be Jacqui messaging me? Of course not. Don't be an anxious obsessive compulsive, Roy. Come on! It's Mandy. She's on her way.

Which is darn exciting. I have a soft spot for poets. Especially good ones. Especially ones who have the courage to meet a strange dude at a coffee shop and entrust him with their words. Especially female ones, what with me being newly single and all that.

She arrives. Amazing striped top. Wild black hair. Slightly mismatched brown eyes, but piercing and alive and intelligent. Yummy.

She's in advertising -- a creative strategist. Loves her work. But loves the power of words. I probe a bit, and find out that her first love is actually music. She's a pianist, and loves the romantics like Chopin and Rachmaninov. Has even heard a recording of him playing. Regards him as one of her heroes.

I can tell that she's a little rattled. It's quite easy to know that, since she says, "I'm a bit uncomfortable talking about myself like this. I've told you things that I've never told anyone else. You won't put them on your website, will you?"

Of course I won't. This site isn't here to damage anyone. It's a romp. And it's supposed to entertain.

Then she says, "But aren't you a bit nervous about what you write here? I mean, knowing Jacqui might be reading this, will you write about our meeting?"

I'm not sure about this. As I sit and write the site, I certainly do edit stuff out. You're reading the highlights package. And yes, I'm very nervous about Jacqui reading this. I want Jacqui to be my one-true-love, the woman who has my kids, the woman who I spend the rest of my life with. Even though I broke up with her last Tuesday in the couples therapy session that was meant to be my commitment to doing whatever it took to support her through the space she needed to take.

And I'm aware that Jacqui reading about my meeting a nubile young poet who I'd looooove to shag right this second might not make it any easier in a couple of months when she finally works out that I'm the dude she wants.

But the thing is, WANTING to shag Mandy is not the same as actually shagging her. And I'm not doing that. (Now naturally, I'm being extremely presumptuous here. I'm sort of assuming that I have enough animal magnetism and charisma and poetic insight for Mandy to be interested in shagging ME. But hey. I've gotta allow myself SOME delusions in this tear-stained space I find myself in.)

I pull out my notes, and run Mandy through her poem, as seen through my eyes. And I show her a pared down draft that I've prepared to show her what I think she really intended to be in the poem. And she's really chuffed with my poetic insight. Now I've just gotta work on the animal magnetism and charisma.

Piaceri, The Wedge, Rivonia

Wednesday, March 24, 2004

Service: * * *1/2
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * * *

Troy Bentley called me this afternoon as soon as he heard about my breakup. "We're having dinner tonight in Rivonia. Join us." I'm up for it, and I tell him.

"Oh, by the way," he says, "I don't mean to be insensitive about your breakup or anything, but I've got a new girlfriend."

I get to the place twenty minutes later than 8pm. That's cos I had an hour to kill before, and headed off to the Morningside gym for a workout. In this Jacqui-separation period, I've clocked up 24 hours in the Toyota Virgin Quest, which puts me in line to win a car or a bicycle or a cap. But I've also found that my mass has come down from an overweight 84 kilograms a year ago to an astounding 78 kilograms as of last night! Still got about four to go before I'm sleek, but I'm quite impressed with myself.

Which is why I'm twenty minutes late. Cos I've been watching babes butts jiggling on the running machines. Couldn't tear myself away.

Think I'm going to have to muster the courage to go into one of those adult entertainment shops and buy myself a masturbation machine. That way I can lie back and think of Taiwan, and not feel guilty about whispering Jacqui's name.

But I digress.

So, anyway, when I get out of my car at The Wedge, it's with the grunt of having just done 56 stomach crunches in under a minute so I could qualify for 3 bonus Quest hours, and I'm still sodden with sweat. Luckily my sweat is of the non-smelly variety. So when Troy's 6'1" blonde babe buddy rushes out to greet me, and gives me a hug, and crouches down to get her lips level with mine, and gives me a soft, deliciously spongy-lipped kiss, no tongue or moisture, I have to apologise. "Sorry I'm all wet," I say.

"That's how I like my men," says Renee. She has an awe-inspiring body, and very yummy breasts. And her butt is just yelling out my name. I'd LOVE to see her on a running machine.

Damn. Pity she's got a boyfriend. And she smokes. And she's not Jacqui. Sigh.

But she IS a babe. And because of her, the babe count would have been five stars, but in honour of Jacqui and the fact that I still love her and want to maintain my own illusion that there's still some kind of hope for us, I've had to knock off a star.

And I go into the restaurant, which is one of those modern-styled places with no patrons. There are about thirty tables, and only three sets of people eating there.

"Hey, Troy!" He gets up, and hugs me. I give him the same schpiel about being wet. He just shrugs. We've been hiking together. We've outfarted each other on bunk beds.

And there's his girlfriend. Redhead. Slim. Angular face. I know it's only been a week for Troy and Linda, but they actually look like a couple. And they look damn good together. Especially with their sickeningly entwined fingers. And the little kissy moments of neck nuzzling. And even though Linda's beautiful too, I can't add that fifth star. That would be dissing Jacqui. I know they're holding back, out of respect for my bereavement.

And yes, this is a bereavement. Losing Jacqui has been a very bad jolt to my system.

But I've come to one or two realisations through this.

The first is this: No matter how much I love her, I really do have to put my own needs first. The space she asked for was impossible for me to give her, and I was suffering quite serious anxiety as a result, with trembling and sleeplessness and near-panic-attacks.

The second is this: her needing space has nothing to do with me. We had a good relationship. The best I've had so far. But it wasn't where she needed to be.

And there's a funny little side effect to all of this. Last night I was looking at her photo, and I decided to put it in a frame. And then I thought, "Hang on! This is curious! I've had four very significant relationships in my life, and I don't have photos of any of my previous loves on my walls!"

So I went through my photo albums and pulled out photies of my previous babes.

Miriam was my first serious love. That was a three year relationship.

Ingrid was next. Two years.

Then came Antoinette. Two years and four months.

And now Jacqui. Ten months.

So now all four of them are on my wall, in an honoured space.

Cos I've realised that there is no reason to hide them from myself or from my next lover. They're a proud part of who I am today, and the insights and changes I've made are really part of their legacy. My previous relationships are hugely important to what I take into my next one. So, Miriam, Ingrid, Antoinette, Jacqui... I salute you, I honour you, I love you. And I'm grateful to you for the learning.

Which brings me back to Piaceri. The waiter is extremely attentive, and brings me my Chicken Tika salad, which would be seriously enjoyable if I had any appetite, and if I weren't filling Troy, Renee, and Linda in on the details of my breakup. They make cooing sounds of support, and make it acceptable for me to feel all right about being bleary-eyed and shuddery of breath.

Finally, I finish my story, and half my salad, and the rest are ready to order dessert. I turn to look at the cake stand. "What on earth's THAT!??" I say.

"Salami cake," says the waiter. It's chocolate, with little bits of shortbread speckling it. From where I'm sitting, it looks like an ACTUAL salami.

"Gotta do it," I say, and add a decaf cappuccino to my order. Malva puddings for Troy and Linda. Nothing for Renee.

When my pudding comes, it's in thin slices, just like real salami. Adds a star to this place. I'll come back for this cake.

"Renee," I say. "I've been reading between the lines tonight, and I want to say something. I'm not sure if I'm outta line here, but I just want you to know that you have a beautiful body. You are mouthwatering."

"Listen to Roy!!!" says Troy. And I know that I've hit some or other button on the head. This beautiful woman doesn't believe she's beautiful.

"Okay," she says, "I'll have a bite of your salami."

"Ditch the boyfriend first," I say. "And can I call you Jacqui?"

The Park Hiatt, Rosebank

Wednesday, March 24, 2004

Service: * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * *1/2
Babe Count: * * * *

It's around ten-fifteen in the morning, and my eyes are swollen and scratchy, and I'm feeling drained. I've just finished therapy with Zahava, and it's been a rough session. We've been talking about me and Jacqui, and the stuff that's been coming up for me.

So I've phoned my production manager at work and told her I'll be coming in around lunchtime, that I'm taking the morning to recover from therapy. She's sympathetic. "Have some Hiatt cake for me," she says.

I'm not in the mood for cake. What I need is a good pot of tea.

I'm outside in the garden area, sitting on a wrought iron chair, feeling as though I might be a visitor to zis vunderfull kuntry, Sous Afrika, ya? And the inevitable plane load of German air hostesses arrives. They've just spilled off their shuttle from the airport, and they're in full uniform. Blue hems. Hmmmmmmmm.

They all join their pilots and co-pilots and diplomats at a table nearby. Which means that FINALLLLLLY a waitress saunters over. For one of South Africa's premier hotels, the service here is remarkably unremarkable. She takes their order, and starts sauntering away.

"Excuse me!!!" I say, and a German air hostess does the polite thing and calls her back. I smile at her. She smiles back, her lips stretched back in that, "Enjoy your flight, sir!" kinda way. I wonder what jet lag does to one's sex drive?

The waitress is wearing a name tag. I say, "May I please have a pot of tea, Confidence?" I kid you not. That's her name. It says so on her name tag.

She turns out to be very sweet, just busy, and the tea arrives quite quickly. She's given me two biscuits, which is pretty darn generous, seeing as the pot of tea only costs a trivial R15, a mere R9 more expensive than any of the other twenty or so coffee shops in the area.

She's about to walk away when I ask her where the tea strainer is. Cos last time I had tea here, the pot had loose tea leaves in it, and a dinky little silver strainer. "Oh," says Confidence, "if you want the loose tea you need to ask for it. This one is made with tea bags."

Ah well. It's a bit like a relationship. You can't always predict what you're going to get, and you've got to be very specific about what you ask for.

The German air crew continue behaving like cigarette commercial extras, and I sip my tea, considering faking my accent.