Silas sat quietly on the veranda, in the wobbly wicker chair that was one of the few things they had brought with them from the township. A relic from the past, but fitting for an increasingly ramshackle house. And as for this ‘veranda’ thing, what a lot of shit. This is a stoep; verandas only existed in places like Linksfield, where Julian lived.

The grief was in his heart now, a dull, embedded presence, as if he had just detected something wrong with its beat. But it was grief, undeniable sorrow, that sense of loss he had sworn he would never succumb to. Lydia had finally left him. Her car was not parked in its usual place, under the old jacaranda, which would have to come down one of these days because it was ‘foreign’ and invasive. That car had become the real instrument of her freedom. Gave her the ability to cover great distances without his help.

Where was she? Well, he could only hope that she was safe. Perhaps that – his concern for her safety – could be his excuse for tracking her down? No, it was too late, she was gone, that scene on the billiard table, so staged, so cheaply cinematic – or cinematically cheap – had been her public declaration of freedom. He was glad she had chosen a black man as her medium of expression, even if he was so young, so young and athletic. Involuntarily, he pulled in his stomach. God, he'd have to do something about that. Perhaps make use of that lifetime gym membership. Up there with the best of them, sweating and straining to remove the inches of flab that his body had so slyly put on over the years.

He heard a noise inside. Was Lydia home after all? Certainly not Michael. This was his night for communing with the loonies in Newclare, monking with the mystics. He had a sudden fear: did Michael see his mother slip away with black João, did he see them fucking?

God, he had to stop going on about ‘black this’ and ‘black that’ . He was surprised by this preoccupation with race. Perhaps he had been denying it for too long: who we are is still determined by what colour we are. The kid who fucked my wife is Mozambican, the son of a diplomat, training as a doctor in Portugal, off to Cuba for the work experience, some in-the-know wag had told Silas when João was dancing with Lydia. How could he hope to compete? Township Silas, civil-servant Silas, greying and paunchy, versus exotic black João?

Would he have been so philosophical if the man whom Lydia had enticed into an abandoned playroom was white? White men can't fuck. Now white women on the other hand…

‘Stop this!’ he said out loud.

The door behind him slowly swung open. A slight movement in the shadows, a woman's movement, the lisp of silk against a silken skin.

‘Lydia?’ he said, standing up.