He stands on the stone table and selects a large fig, bites into the skin, then opens it with his fingers. He thinks of a woman's sex, ancient and eternal, no young girl would have such gritty sweetness. Was this not perhaps the fruit that got Adam and Eve thrown out of Eden? Who would want to give up an unblemished state of immortality for the insipid apple?

He goes inside, stands in the cool well of the house, contemplates the shadows cutting gloomy gashes across the polished wooden floors, remembers something else. People dancing, the old-fashioned way, one-two-three together, rapid swirl, backwards, forwards. The man leads, one hand resting authoritatively on his partner's waist, the other holding hers aloft. Subtle signals from his fingers dictate their movement, back, forward, sidestep, whirl.

The slip-slip of shoes on polished wood, the rustle of cloth, silk on a slender thigh. Mireille dancing with her father Jackson, with Uncle Alec, Silas, someone from Silas's office, the most danceable young woman at the party. One of Silas's rather hasty affairs, the guest list rapidly compiled, those most likely to be available, invited. Mireille tilts her head as she dances, her neck arched, its nakedness on offer, but she is held in this swan's pose by the music and not her dancing partner, her innate sense of rhythm slowly usurping his leadership.

The music ends, another piece starts, slower, an opportunity for bodies to be held much closer. Smilingly, Mireille walks towards Mikey, leads him onto the space cleared for dancing, takes him, slowly, swirling around in an adult world. He submits instinctively to her pace, until their movements flow with natural grace. The grown-ups slump down in chairs, sip drinks, observe the way the young couple hold each other, an easy, unforced embrace, and the watchers are suddenly conscious of their adult awkwardness when they dance. They watch Mikey and Mireille, nephew and aunt, friends, siblings almost, admire the shining innocence of their sensuality.

Mikey knows that this very closeness sets them apart, he dare not touch her neck, her gentle pulse, knows that he has to be content with their chaste game, played in secret, Gandhi putting himself to the test of soft flesh. Did Gandhi ever dance, ever inhale a woman's warm smell, did he ever desire her simply because of her womanly movement?

Impulsively, he decides now to call Mireille, even though he calculates, by counting backwards on his fingers, that it is close to six a.m. in Toronto, still dark, he may disturb Aunt Martha's ordered household. But Mireille has her own telephone in her room, he has seen the number in Lydia's telephone book, different from Martha's. North American obsession with privacy, or Martha older and wiser than Lydia, not wanting to know who Mireille speaks to?

He wonders what Mireille will sound like after all this time, still filled with sleep, secretive and mysterious, someone lying next to her, perhaps? No, Martha's generosity will not go that far, even though Mireille must be nearly twenty-one years old. The puritan gene inherited from Mam Agnes. Oupa Jackson has a certain gleam in his eye. Wayward when given the opportunity, Mikey thinks.