And then I pushed away, and turned to the door, and left.

Do you believe me?

Is chastity harder to believe, than the carnal?

Do you believe we weren’t lovers, that afternoon?

WHEN HELENA AND I were looking at the Tiffany mosaic, at the two white swans, this weekend, Helena said: swans mate for life, you know. I was silent. Like you and dad, she said.

I had no answer. But I thought: adultery. How does that fit, how does that fit, into it all?

I SAID THE children were strong — perhaps stronger than me. Helena made progress with her ballet, and I’d started taking her to watch the ballet every season at the Civic Theatre, a grand building on a hill in Johannesburg that Helena thought was ‘royal.’ There were Swan Lake, Giselle: all the classics. We’d spend a Saturday afternoon together going to the ballet, I would drive us, and I’d buy her a box of Maltesers at the refreshment bar, and she’d sit in her dress and sandals, the bright red box on her lap, taking one, one, once in a while into her mouth. They melt, those Maltesers, so sweet, I knew them.

And the auditorium, crimson too, velvet seats, glinting lights. I also loved the ballet, the motions and music soothed me and transported me, away from our troubles, away from all ordinary things. I’ve watched Swan Lake countless times since then, and it never fails to bring tears to my eyes. Perhaps that’s why I like Tiffany’s swans.

It has occurred to me that if Howard and I are the pair of swans in Tiffany’s garden, I am the black one. This, too, is the truth. Perhaps I said that the other day to Helena, or perhaps I never said it, and just thought it.

But Tiffany’s garden has only white swans.

STEPHEN SEEMED OBLIVIOUS of the room at the end of our garden in Johannesburg, and oblivious of our tension. Perhaps he wasn’t oblivious, but I never saw any sign of concern, even interest, from him. He was busy with his swimming, and he worked hard at school. He was like Howard.

But one night at our house in the dark hours, everything silent and still, I was woken by Helena crying. I hadn’t been woken by a crying child since she was small, a toddler, and I woke right away, with a start. I thought she must be having a passing dream and waited a few moments, tense under my covers. But the crying carried on. And then she was screaming. Howard was awake now too.

I threw back the covers and ran down the dark passage, turning on the lights, to Helena’s room. She was sitting up, her hair tousled with sleep, her face crumpled, she was crying and crying. What’s the matter, what’s the matter, I said. I gathered her up in my arms, she was almost too big for me to do that by then, as Howard stood at the foot of her bed, saying also, what happened, what happened. The crying continued, in ragged jags, and then Stephen came in, rubbing his eyes.