And that night I had a terrible dream. I woke, in the dream, in my bedroom, and got carefully dressed. I smoothed my hair, my hair so beautiful, in my mirror, in the dream. And then I went to my car and drove, drove . . . towards the city. In the dream the streets were empty, the grey streets, because everyone was at work, or at school, everyone, but me, me. And I drove past all the buildings, through the traffic lights, stop, go, stop, go, until I got to John Vorster Square, the central police building of Johannesburg, I knew it, it had many floors, it’s a blue building, and I parked my car and got out, and then I glided, I was gliding, into the building. And I went up to the man in uniform at the desk and put my arms, my bare arms, on his desk. I’m here to report something, I said. And the man stood up as though he’d been expecting me, mevrou, he said, this way. And I followed him into a room, a grey room, and men, men in uniform said, mevrou, mevrou, and they bowed. The security police. And I sat, then, and I spoke. I told them about a man in my garden room, he was their man, they could get him, go and get him, any time. They must go and get him.

I heard my soft voice as I spoke.

And then I woke up, in horror.

Joseph.

And at eight o’clock in the morning I walked from the patio, my tea untouched, my newspaper unread, I walked straight down to Joseph’s room. He wouldn’t be there: he’d be gone, he’d been found. Or he’d been moved, without our knowing. I felt the way I remember feeling years later in New York, when Stephen, a teenager, came home late, later than he’d said, past midnight, and we waited up for him, certain he wasn’t coming home, at all.

And I didn’t knock, because I truly feared Joseph wasn’t there. I opened the door and stood there.

A cup — tea? — was wreathing steam faintly on his table. Joseph sat, a pen in his hand. He looked up at me. In shock. I don’t know.

And then I was against him, my head against his beard, he’d stood up, the chair was knocked over behind him. And we stood like that, for a long time, I clutching him as though my life depended on it.

And did I lie with him then, on that narrow bed?

I did not. I did not. And I told you I won’t tell a lie.

I left from that chaste embrace and ran from the room, up the grass, past the pool, Josias sweeping, sweeping those leaves, and into the house.

MARIE, Stephen’s wife, called yesterday. We have our subscription seats to the ballet, she said, will you join us, it’s La Sylphide. It’s next Thursday. I knew right away that this was Helena’s plan, Helena who was worried, and wanted me to go to the ballet. A conspiracy, among them, to take care of me, to worry about me.