Work in Progress

Henrietta Rose-Innes's title story from the 2009 Caine Prize anthology, published by New Internationalist and Jacana.

If you begin a story with a high building, it’s supposed to end with a fall. But that’s not where this story is going. In fact, when I remember that penthouse apartment, the summer before I turned nineteen – and sometimes it does still come into my dreams – the dread is not of a fall; the fear is of staying up there forever, of never coming back down to ground.

It was one of those fancy blocks of flats that they were building everywhere in central Cape Town – “New York loft-style apartments”, they called them. I was too poor for a car then, so I took a taxi to town and walked from the station. Not easy in my new shoes: black leather with a heel. I was conscious of the dust on their soles as I stepped into the building’s cool lobby. The entrance was imposing but seemed hardly used; the people who lived here, no doubt, entered only through the underground parking, feet never touching ground from highway to home. 

Certainly the porter at the front desk seemed brand new, his face less creased than his pale-blue shirt, which still held its folds from the packaging. Did I look as green as he did, in my clothes bought specially? No doubt our tensely held expressions were much the same. We might have laughed, if either one had let slip the first smile. But as it was, I was keeping my charm for the twenty-second floor.

“I’ve come to see Mr Muller,” I said. “Mr Bernard Muller?”

He gave no sign of recognition, just swivelled the fat ledger around and pushed it across the counter at me. I hesitated, then carefully wrote in my name, avoiding his eye. He got up from his seat and passed an access card over a sensor next to the lifts.

The lift snapped open briskly. Like the rest of the building, this elevator was sparkling, new-made, as if I were the first to unseal its brushed-steel doors. I stepped inside, held my breath, pressed twenty-two. The machinery was quiet, barely a hum, and there was no sensation of movement; but still I sensed the dizzy speed of my ascent. Discreet amber numbers spooled higher – seventh floor, eighth. My heart winding tighter with every floor.

Alone in the lift, I examined myself. My reflection in machine’s steel sides was clouded, a girl unformed. I bared my teeth, turned left and right. My body was pleasingly elongated. I’d pulled my dark hair back into a ballerina bun, and my head looked small but long-necked, like a deer’s. I’d worn fitted dark clothes, those heeled shoes. Not my usual sloppy gear. I’d told myself they were working clothes: professional. But the shirt pulled tight on my breasts, the dark tailored trousers skimmed my thighs, and underneath there was new black lace underwear, a little scratchy and tight. I put my hand on my hips, slung one hip higher than the other, feeling the point of my hipbone in my palm.

I’d been a plump child and teenager, and I was still getting used to these new bones. I couldn’t stop looking at myself in mirrors, discovering new angles. I felt raw to things, dangerously light.

Twenty? You seem much more mature, if you don’t mind me saying. And you write?

He’d touched my shoulder as he’d said it, looking up from the table where he was signing copies of his latest book. Behind me, a long queue waited. His hair was graying but his eyes were alive with suggestion, causing the blood to rise up my neck to my cheeks. I was not surprised; this was what I’d known would happen. What I had been imagining all through both his readings, which I’d been so lucky to get into; and for a long time before that, staring at that black and white photo they use on all his back covers. The sombre one in which his hair, still dark, is swept back from his brow.

Of course I'd heard the stories. The public outbursts, the rivalries, the ex-wives and the lovers. He had a temper, they said. I wondered what it would take to make him raise that deep, smooth voice. To make it break.

I have a book, a manuscript. It’s not finished, but I thought, I hoped …

And I’d held out the fat envelope, trembling slightly. At that moment, I saw clearly what it was – a clumsy thing, adolescent, smudged – and nearly snatched it back in shame. But Bernard Muller was taking it from me, was weighing it in his hands, was looking into my eyes.

How wonderful. Come and see me this weekend – Sunday? Drop in, we can discuss your work in a more comfortable environment. My flat has great views.

I’d run that voice back and forth through my mind, fingering it like a bolt of cloth, all the time I was shopping for clothes. It had guided me to sheerer fabrics, tighter fits. To the lowslung tailored trousers, the slimline shirt. New bra and panties. The shoes.

But now, looking into the grain of the lift door – thirteenth floor, fourteenth – I wavered. The clothes were too much, too after-dark, too obvious. A blush pushed to my cheeks and I laid my face to the steel. I have thin skin; the blood shines through, so treacherous. I buttoned up my top button. And then the doors sucked open and I stepped into the brightness of the lobby beyond, and there was no retreating.

Perfect carpeted hush, the light steady and diffuse. I picked up the low hum of some electrical system, and the sound tightened my heart another turn. The door was at the end of the corridor, beyond a stairwell. I knocked and waited, not sure how to arrange my legs, how to fold my arms. I unbuttoned the shirt again, slouched a leg. Sucked in my cheeks just a little, tried to soften the clench of my jaw. Slouched the other leg. I was about to knock again when the security peephole went dark. Then came a series of clicks and scrabbles on the other side, as if of many complex locks and latches; whole minutes passed. At last the slide of a bolt.

The woman who opened the door was very tall, with broad shoulders. Her dressing gown, which she held tight around her body, emphasized a fine bust, hips, a long waist; thick gold hair fell messily to her shoulders. Her fingernails were perfect laquered ovals, pink against the emerald silk. She smelled both tawdry and expensive, of crumpled sheets and perfume. I was not good at putting ages to people, but I knew she was what I was not: a grown woman, full size, full formed. She tilted her head back to look at me over her cheekbones. Her nose was neat but emphatically hooked. The face of an eagle.

“Christ,” she said. “Now this.”

Before I could speak she turned around and walked away into the dim room behind, letting the silk fall open from her shoulders. She had an erect carriage, but as she walked away I saw she favoured one side. In fact she was limping.

“Take off your shoes,” she said over her shoulder. A flutter of silk as she turned into a room halfway down the passage.

Uncertainly, I stepped inside. Against the walls was a neat row of men’s shoes: polished brogues, sandals, tennis shoes. To save the floors, I supposed; they were gleaming wood.  There was also one pair of knee-high leather boots – crocodile skin, needle toes, spike heels – which had been carelessly tossed to one side. I took off my own black shoes and saw how cheap and dull they looked; and so much smaller.

In the shock of entry, I stood listening, although I could hear very little over the panic of my heart.  It was a large, high room, but dark. Tall orange curtains fell across the picture windows that lined the room to the left. The morning sunlight lit them with glowering colour, but did not penetrate. In the dimness I sensed disorder: a sharp disturbance in the air, a suspended energy, as if a very loud noise had just stopped.

“I need a cigarette,” she called.

She was in the bedroom. Lying back on the cushions of a double bed, her gown slpping open. I looked away from the heavy globe of one exposed breast. Smooth, strong legs were crossed at the ankles. She had an extaordinary body, long and full like a big voluptuous doll. But there was strain in the pose: her head was lifted slightly to watch me.

“Cigarette,” she said.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Here.” She nodded at the bedside table.

I went close to pick up the pack of smokes and the lighter and pass them to her. She fumbled, and at last gave up with a cry, letting the unlit cigarette fall into her lap and curling her hand into her chest. There was something wrong with it, with both her hands. She tried to push herself up on the pillows but whimpered again, and fell back clumsily.

“Oh,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“So you’re here for Bernard, I take it?” she said, talking over me. She looked at me sideways, almost sly. Hair fell across her mouth and she blew it away.

“Maybe I should go.”

“Well Bernard was here,” she said. “Look – see.” She held up her hands to me, laughed. “Look at the size of it. This one’s broken, I think.”

I saw now that one wrist was badly swollen; the knuckles of the other hand were red and scuffed and she held them stiffly. One fingernail was snapped.

“Do you want – should I call a doctor?”

She snorted. My bare feet felt cold as she stared at them, and then moved her gaze up my body to my face. I stood quite still. The only movement I could not control was that of the blood into my cheeks, again.

“I just came to pick up my manuscript,” I said.

“Did you, darling,” she said. “Now please would you light my fucking cigarette. I can’t do it myself, you see.”

I placed a cigarette between her lips and lit it. A broad mouth, beautiful full lips, clearly defined. Lines were beginning to cut down on either side of her nose, but they only added emphasis to her features. I watched her smoke, the cigarette propped between cramped fingers. At length she finished, let the butt fall on the floor. It singed a black mark on the wood.

“So. I need a hand here,” she said. I stood, reaching out to take her arm. She yelped and pulled away.

“Not that arm, Jesus!” I went around and supported her under the other arm as she rolled off the bed and struggled erect. Her armpits smelled strongly of sweat and scent.

“Over there.” She nodded towards the dressing-table and I led her there. After staring bleakly into the mirror for a while, she tried to hold her hairbrush but I could see that her hand was weak. She shoved the brush at her hair, and then let it drop with an irritated click of the mouth.

“Please,” she said.

I picked up the brush. Her hair was tangled, and not like mine: the thickness and wave so different that I didn’t know how to shape it. I had to lay my left palm flat on her head to hold it still while I brushed. Up close, I could see that the honey colour was dye, the silver roots showing; but the texture was still lush. The hair, catching on my fingers, felt dead and warm and damp. I controlled the urge to rip my hands away, pull out the clinging strands and run.

In the mirror, my body was eclipsed behind hers. Heat came through the silk of her gown, from her fleshy back, her sculpted neck. I could not ignore the marks that reddened her throat like a rash, or her suddenly wet eyes. But when I tried to meet her gaze in the mirror she evaded me so fiercely, and with such tensed shoulders, that I knew I should not speak. Slowly her back straightened and her shoulders pulled back, and she was queenly again.

“It’s done,” I said, the hair combed out at least, the strands persuaded flat.

She nodded. I pulled back the chair and she hobbled to the centre of the room, shrugged her gown to the ground, and stood tall.

She was no longer a very young woman.  Her skin was slightly creased and scuffed with the marks of age; but she was long and strong, her skin bronze in the low light, almost golden in the reflection. Shaved everywhere. Her breasts and buttocks were rounded, her shoulders straight, the muscles in her back clearly defined. She did not look like a woman who has been beaten up. She looked like a woman who had been in a fight; like a wounded warrior.

“Fetch me my clothes,” she said, not looking at me. Her tone was distant. Her eyes were fixed on her own body in the mirror, staring as she touched the marks on her arms and her neck. I turned and found the underwear lying on the floor. Leopard print, a matching set. Tacky, sexy, expensive. She put her feet through the holes in the panties and I drew them up, face flaming and turned away. I had never been so close to another woman’s body, except perhaps my mother’s. I looped the bra straps over her arms and fastened the hooks behind her back; she managed to ease her breasts into the cups by herself, hooking her thumbs under the wiring and bending slightly, wincing. 

Her dark-brown wrap dress was easier. A heavy slithery material, cut to hold her curves. She led me barefoot to the front room. I stood the leather boots upright for her to step into, and zipped them up one by one, kneeling at each of her feet in turn.

“Bag,” she said. “My makeup’s in there.”

I had not thought I would ever do this for another person. I barely knew how to put makeup on myself, then; but under her terse instruction I twisted out the lipstick and carefully filled in her lips with deep blood colour. Her lips were so well defined it was easy, like colouring in. The silvery green eyeshadow was trickier, and she impatiently twitched her face away from my attempt with the mascara. But she let me dust her cheekbones the colour of rust. Under my hands, I saw her features fix and still, and start to emit a cold, impenetrable shine. At last I stepped away.

I put the makeup kit back in the leather bag and hung it off her shoulder. Then I opened the front door for her, and walked a step behind her as she headed for the lift doors. I pressed the button.

Just before the lift arrived, she turned to look down at me. Magnificent, restored: as if her body had grown younger and stronger with every sumptious layer of silk and paint.

“Stay, if you like,” she said, “He’ll be back soon. I’m sure he’s eager to see you.” Her eyes were clear and her voice strong, each word precisely cut.

The lift was swift in arriving. She stepped inside, facing away. Pressed the button for the ground floor with her thumb, without a flinch. I watched her face in reflection. Her image was golden and sharp. Hers was the form for which this machine had been made, for which its sides had been polished to a shine. And then the doors pulled closed across this vision, and she was gone.

The lobby was silent again. I went back into the flat and pulled back the long curtains, wanting to find my bearings. On the other side of the picture windows, there opened out a blue, enormous view: the side of Signal Hill; the tiny bright houses and mosques, the harbour, the sea. So high.

None of it mattered, I thought, as long as I stayed up here on the twenty-second floor. All this belonged to the sky world, to dreams. Only when my feet touched ground again would time resume, would anything be real.

In the sunlight spilling into the room, I saw now what I hadn‘t wanted to see before: the broken glass, the overturned furniture. On the wall, a framed print of the familiar author photograph. Blown up large, but revealing nothing new, no detail that I’d overlooked. It remained a stranger’s face. Those two handsome profiles, his and hers, must have clashed ferociously: kisses like bites. How much I’d wanted, only this morning, his teeth against my neck.

Under the photo was a telephone table, and I saw that something had slipped behind it and lay against the wall. It was my book, still in its envelope, untouched. I bent to pull it out, brushed off the dust.

I put on my shoes and went out into the lobby. The numbers above the lift door were changing: someone was coming up. I pushed open the fire door into the stairwell.

Twenty-two floors is a long way to walk in heels, in shoes that still need wearing in. But I could do it. You only get blisters once, and then the shoes are yours. I tucked my manuscript beneath my arm and started down.