Another Country (Part One)

It was an uncomfortable ride in every sense: hot, and jarring, and filled with foreboding.

Emily was wearing the low-cut navy dress that Richard liked so much, and he absently watched his wife's full breasts swaying to the rhythm of their ancient taxi as it bounced along the rutted track that led to the hotel. Emily herself stared dismissively out of the dust-yellow window: but from the set of her jaw, Richard knew that she was barely keeping her temper in check.

As they neared their destination, his wife finally turned her elegant face towards his. "How dare you?" she demanded. "First that poor young girl at breakfast, and then twice at the market this afternoon."

"I'm sorry, Em," Richard replied unhappily.

Emily returned her gaze to the African grassland scrolling past outside. "You can save that for when I get you indoors."

Richard shifted in his seat, as if anticipating further discomfort, and tried a meaningful glance to remind her they were not alone. "Darling, please..."

There was an audible snort from the front seat, and in the rear view mirror the driver's eyes signalled his amusement. That devil, thought Richard bitterly. All the bloody same. Couldn't speak a word of English when we asked him about the fare, but oh, he's having fun at my expense now.

He glared at the back of the man's muscular brown neck as the vehicle found another pothole.

"Slow down." The driver ignored him. "Nciphisa ijubane, you idiot!"

The man broke into a grin, but kept his foot down.

At last the Victoria Hotel swung into view within its oasis of palms. Its grandeur had faded since its Empire heyday, but even so the three-story white stuccoed walls gleamed imposingly in the afternoon sun. Richard peeled one sweat-adhered arm from the cab's leather seat cover and fumbled for his wallet in the pocket of his slacks. The smirking driver took the offered notes with a mocking "Thank you, boss." He made no attempt to open the doors - but in any case Emily was already gone, striding purposefully across the gravel driveway.

In the hotel foyer, 19-year old Dupé stiffened slightly as the well dressed English couple appeared through the revolving door. She used the mirror she had been polishing to smooth the black skirt of her maid's uniform and straighten her white lace collar - and also to steal a glance at the foreign visitors.
They looked to have had some sort of argument, she thought, and that was not surprising. In the two weeks since their arrival she had grown to like the woman well enough - but the man was a pig who just that morning had publically shamed her over a small accident.

Her face grew hot at the memory of the spilled orange juice, the man's snarl and public scolding - and the words he had used when his wife had told him to calm down.

The woman was retrieving their room key from reception while her husband stood grim-faced behind her. A thought seemed to strike her as she turned away from the desk: "Oh, and do you have a large clothes brush I can use?"

"Certainly, madam," responded the receptionist brightly. "I'll have the maid bring one up to your room. Of course, if you would prefer, we do provide a full laundry and valet service."

This offer brought a smile and a shake of the head. "Thank you. Just the brush will do nicely."

Ten minutes later, Dupé was riding the hotel's clattering elevator to the top floor with the requested implement in her hands. Although happy to escape her cleaning duties for a few moments, the young maid was apprehensive. She did not want to have to speak to the man again.

She paused outside the door of room 306, turning the heavy hardwood brush over and over in her hands. It occurred to her that she could simply leave it outside, knock quietly and be gone: by the time anyone answered she could be taking the elevator back to the safety of the ground floor. As she bent down to lean the brush against the door frame, she heard the English woman's voice through the heavy oak panelling.

"...nt to hear from you right now is 'yes ma'am or 'no ma'am.' If we're to have a lesson in respect - and believe me, we are - then you can start with me."

The man's response was barely audible: perhaps he was in the bathroom.

After a furtive glance along the corridor, Dupé rested one ear lightly against the door and waited guiltily for the conversation to resume. When it did not, she straightened, took another deep breath and knocked.

After a few seconds, the door swung open and the pretty English woman stood backlit by the afternoon sun from the window. When she saw the heavy brush that the maid was cradling, she smiled broadly. "Special delivery, Richard!" she called over her shoulder.

Following her gaze, Dupé saw that the man was not in the bathroom after all. He was stood in the far corner of the room with his face to the wall, his hands were clasped behind his head, and he was quite, quite naked.