Naive, Yet Not So Innocent

My brother and I, were among those who turned up weekends after the next alone, and Martin Sher
too appeared to be the odd one out arriving at race meetings. The guys girls stepped out parked cars in
the wayside savanna. Were bikes wheeled to the registering stall, and alongside me, attention was
brought to the frame of Igors bike. When Basil Cohen, organizer of the race, brought all the attention to
letter decals which spelled Intercourse. In his reprimand, addressing Igor, he said, You take that off,
to let be understood, before the next time. Shy to ask, I attempted in depicting syllabic the vocabulary
for the severity attached to the word. In wonder, moved on to the starting line. There the bunch rode
off. Along the Randburg course each for himself. Guys tearing away tactics. Riding on these torture
machine, to an apparent dripping sweat shine every crushed stone embedded in the tarmac. Facing the
countryside loop at the thought of no return accumulating waving hills left behind, and bound to
neglect the relevance at understanding a word fading in the oubliette of time. Now, lining the shoulders
at the surging finishing line, finding earlier grouped girls around cars. Now exhausted, scattering in
couple a departure from the grounds.
A casual expression and dressed in Jeans and long sleeved shirt, standing in a flood of bright light at
the threshold of the open pair of French doors. Martin shed the frail stamina of tight cycling wear.
Unlike these serious club meetings, free stepping in open absent host doorways, of northern Johannesburg
suburban members rolling homes. Implicating my naivety, at being reared through childhood devoid of
birthday parties, hadnt dawned on asking my brother, Whats the occasion of the party? As Martin
greeted us with an exuberant and festive welcome, "Hi! Hi you guys. hiding his Sagittarius spirit draw
taut bow aiming the arrow at shooting bulls-eye, by the most unorthodox medical student behavior.
Settling in a striking contrast of another age, downtown in a heaven of modernity, accustom to
ascending increasing feathery airy in soft leather soles, stepping the broad granite treads in my tailor
made Italian shoes. Crossing the vitreous Fred Astaire Dance Studio watching at a detail close each of the
tall and the short studio hosts, graceful in motion around the visitors counter, mirror my outfit. For the
occasion when Im bound to dance with my coach, in a white ruffled shirt and cufflinks, a silk bow tie
matching the tailcoat collar and the hip strips down my tuxedo trousers. Stepping on to the cold gleam,
which efface the bare parquet floor, with an evanescent quicksilver bleeding into hollowing out a
cycloramic wall through the angles of the room. A few years earlier, since that first lesson stumbling over
feet, I soared on the ball of my feet virtually ice skating. Wining the preliminaries, and over time lagging
off a flair for classic music, to leave my restlessness excel through Latin American body movements.
Wasn't it strange were the first guests, I couldn't but see after haggling earlier on with my
brother? Sentient of Igors mind dropping out from escorted me, in pursuance of his proper course
through the bare cold fluorescent breezeway. I sensed my spirit escaping, spread, and feeding light
energy, when by sight I butted through a symmetric featured twin rear wall light fixtures attached with
bow strings the bundled and afloat bright multi-colored balloons. Sight tumbling over a white paper
draping table border to a skimpy garden furniture tubed lattice. Approached by sight the angelical dark
head girl poised left, and right the blond bent over, distinctive of ending service at each end the finger
food layout.
Heel over toes, Martin turned around ushering us a few strides inside, to paused extending a
dramatic hand sweep, saying, Lynette Jean. With a quiet obliging glance over his shoulder at us. he
conceded an exhausted chat, stepping off lowering a loose hand and lamenting drooping arms by his
flanks, he passed on the spot. Igor trailed him dissociating me, while I trawled by sight the assorted
food, and socially bound with an impregnated curiosity hinting in their wake to stay put.
In a grand eyeleting of an artisan ghosting the breaking out of a former large window, the neatening
off reveals and soffit to culminate in a shadowy cul-de-sac. There, Martins crescent path, bringing Igor
in his tracks to idle by the draping net curtains extended along the French doors. We both discovered in
our different ways, Martin moving over toward the rear wall, characteristic of the Warthog in the
Chinese calendar, as a distinctive pointer, in the foreground of the wide opening, in a skeptic discreet
manner wasnt going anywhere. Time in suspense invested good will, he didn't deserve to be let down,

and empathized with Martin, in anticipation of a feast not taking off.

The room satiated by a tabletop on elaborate full view pair of heavy sinuous carved legs, across
which end shadowed a lady rearranging space. In a glitch of sight, the oldish-woman vanished, to
shadow a returned from work man apparition dressed in a dark business suite. As he roamed free
fingering bait off the dressed table, to contour the right corner. Down the aisle cleared of encumbering
chairs, through a resilient side step, he searched close on the table, backing-up with appetite finger
picking his cupped hand, bringing to mouth crumbs, and chewing. Identifying himself figuring in Martins
generation, with sportive unfit round forms, the context in which, I coupled brothers with each of the
girls.
At speaking distance of the dark head girl, at the drop of my curiosity, and thoughtless asking .
She in turn instinctive read in my peering eyes, to remark in answer; Those are their parent a
household of gynecologist! insinuative, All bar one, her eyes pointing to the guy in a business suit,
leaving me dumb, a bottom fell out, annihilating from fantasizing the subject. Shying away, wishing
someone to interceded, when in stealth my brother moved in. Speechless, by the arm he leads me aside.
I followed him turning away toward the open French doors, at the notion, After all, this is his milieu, I
find myself.
Suggestive eavesdropper, Igor took me in his confidence, and tactless in a warning tone of voice
said, [Flemish] Do you know who Lynette is? The name rhymed feminine and French. He insisted,
Shes Jeff's girl. Resilient in my curiosity, I didnt enter the equation of his concern, and let be a
brothers mind on the lurch. But he persisted, The fiance of Martins brother. Sudden as my brother
had appeared, he vanished from side, leaving me in a baffled wind bearing the fire of hinting at stealing
another guys girl.
The girls cleared a palmar floor at the breezeway table, by the ends of a mythical horseshoe luck
drain. Through the glitch of my eyesight survey, reappearing shadowing through the light stifling aisle.
Perceptive in the right corner door swings. Allusive waitering an in-and-out of the kitchen. They
appeared the leader of my intrigue, to a rising ephemeral shadow in the somber depth of the room. A
father expressed curiosity projected against the rear wall. By the kitchen door swing arising draft, a
mother appeared hearty busy. Approaching with a pair of serving platters at hand, wishing the best of
worlds for her children. In ignorance by the evanescent spectral shades of the oldish-man, she squared up
to the table head placing the trays. In her retrieving gait, she distinctive expressed, Its your party. I'll
make myself scarce now.
In my palmar comfortable zone, from my last glance of Igor restless, and Martin listless, evacuated
from idling in a breezeway spot. Leading me on finding the deserted figures. Abreast and from the
threshold of the French doors, they looked out. Watching the still flocculated branches ceased by the
dark night, flirting light ramifying dabs hollowing through the distant gateway. The crazy paving lies
rising in the shadows and bringing forth in stealth an agent, which emerged a trickling shadowy guest
they welcomed on inside. In ongoing chatters leading an essential Disk Jockey short of the dining table
in the left corner to the space occupied by a Hi-Fi towering set. left audible in their clearing moment, a
music enhancing atmosphere.
Like a surging flame, the blond girl rose form nowhere, on the spot where my brother and I, earlier
left off after a vitalizing exchange of Hi How do you do? and Martin eloquent detachment
stimulated a break. Standing by and waiting for guest to arrive, she took the Initiative, asking, What do
you do?"
I'm in construction, I replied of my fluent dreams, and in a wild thoughtless flip of mind returned
the question, asking, And you?
I'm a student teacher, she said, and eloquent went on insisting a plural tone incorporating my
brother, asking, Where do you [two] stay?
At Kyalami, I said, taking for granted an accrued popularity, with a teenager afterthought of a

rooted bifurcation lost in the savanna when we emigrated. We were immersed by the hosing Formula
One international competition, when Papenphous manager, Mr. Lockwood authorizing us through the
race track gates at peddling our fresh picked peaches.
Obliging in a mutual exchange, I asked, And you?"
"Orange Grove," she replied. In mind I jumped on my bike in the direction of the Mia. Riding the
countryside road converging with the Pretoria road. these roads that were marked by their length and
difficulties reaching the leveling out plateau. In the extent from the city outskirts, switching to Louis
Botha Avenue and prolonging through the suburbs against a rising view of the Hilbrow. there, by the
road sweep through the piedmont, I rest my mind in the vague but popular Little Italy before the
Death Bend.
Watching at intervals, the combing of a lock of hair from her forehead. An index finger grab and
brushed back of the hand, slips underneath lanky strands falling over her shoulder, to released discrete
clipped over her ear an hairpin style. I came back from an evanescent semitrance mental trip, by the grip
of a torturous way over the hill into downtown Johannesburg. Routine Saturdays confluent gathering of
riders arriving at the Deal and Huth cycle store. Meeting Basil Cohen attending cyclist in waiting, while
his mother cashed in from behind the counter the leavers. In turn before a shadowy workshop in the
depth figures fine aligning glittering wheels. Paying for new performance tires on the hour of closing for
the weekend. In my dreams, I hear the girl say, "We're just friends I came with Martin," and woke up.
hilarious as the Beast and the Beauty scenario of dissonant characteristics. Friends, I exclaimed.
Insisted, Friends with Martin Sher? In an attempt to cultivate the flagrant disparate living statue of
patience, with Martin dithering in a ceaseless escape around the breezeway. A spectral of appearances,
that nothing mattered enough to be serious for, hardly imaginable, Martin with a girl?
Louder and distinct, a profusion of voices breaks down my mind niggling a courteous flaw recalling
her name. Pursuing a curious draw of sight sweep over my shoulder. Flinch from wing drawn net
curtains to a distinctive source far beyond the open French doors. Answered by a watchful Martin and
Igor on standby. Inciting an energetic soar, uttering louder an exchange welcoming the trickle of an
invasive brawl. Together they forged a passage through the breezeway. Pause by the Hi-Fi set, in a turn
of Disc Jockey at the epic of disco music.
From the distant driveway approaching voices, which in a sense of fulfillment of an uncouth frog
croak-laughter, audible associated Dave Ellen. I glanced at friends moving through the narrow opening,
and with a repeated rupturing "Ha!-A-a-a," crossed the bright breezeway insinuative and loud; leading
triggering off the start of the party. The group paused before crossing into the dining room. Cherished
the corner where Daves enticing jokes. His guffaw surges. His waiting in guise, for his circle of friends
to catch on. Inciting successive rounds, with a pyrotechnics controlling sequence of laughters, which
caught on with a wild fire at voicing out watching girls. Gradually the girls backed out the circle,
shadowing through the aisles, regrouping by the sombre table head into chatting.
Standing foolish at the deserted end of the breezeway, rather in a chaotic milieu, than lending an
ear to a Strauss Waltz. Demanding in style by extending a hand and bowing before the lady, Would you
like to dance? They always answered, Sure. But I had grown eloquent lax and hereditary leading the
girls away by the fingertips through a staccato step and roll of the hips Samba beat. Hence, an arm hook
and crotchet fingers entry for jiving figures. I emerged from that comfort zone, encroaching ethereal and
voluntary integrating a disco atmosphere. In unison with the girl picking up a beat, squared up as she
steps away from the buffet, launching a through-body snake dance rest a subtle rhythmic step, shaking to
rhyme with the music.
Feet tacky on the flagstone floor, dreadful idling in mind a restraining competitive skating across
gleaming studio parquet floors. I thought nevertheless, and converted to a moment at letting off steam.
By a mental leaped getting to know the girl, dawned on me that I hadnt grasped the girls name from
Martins earlier snappy introduction. Glancing at the other angle of the breezeway as an inspiring source,
to engross the crouching group of friends blooming to a stand by. listening to short cuts of music, before
collapsing heads together. Audible; the tracks screeched by pressing the fast forward button, then fast

rewind, onto inserting another audio compact cassette. In time thrown in a confusion, constraint at
finding a beat, my mind drops a dissonant disco music, like a foreign vocabulary. Diverted from a
nonsensical sequence of stand by, a mentalistic observation of the girl, cool in her expression to fall in a
growing familiarity. Short of ideas expressing a failing recollection of her name. Over time, obsessive
abscess burst in an abrupt questioning, "What's your name again," with an ambivalent shame, I peered in
her eyes.
She voiced an audible, "Jn," and at a lack of profiling a francophonic conceivable childhood school
girl; Lia, Martine, Chantal, Janette, Nicole. She repeated in the same missing pitch, and I responded
bluntly, "I didn't get it."
I stopped her by pleading, "Can you spell it out?" no sooner aroused by a childhood idiotic
sensation, when existing in a surplus weight during elementary school years, teachers trawling a full class
of schoolmates bog me into the ridicule. In a self-aware annihilation, I leaned forward. I moved an ear
closer to her mouth muffing out interfering sounds, sentient of a notion, Rare is she, who didnt have
the slightest mocking timber of voice, as she spelled "j-e-a-n."
In the whims of exalting, Ive got it? Stronger than me, tumbled over my tongue, knife slicing
unpoetical, to say [French] Jean?" questioning the fundamental English appropriation, I said, "That's a
boy's name?" I glanced around hiding my blunder, to resort to an apologetic shot, saying, "In French
you pronounce it like John."
The Twist steps glow of a flame surging through my body, entrancing way out a breach of
confidence. Ceased by time in the fever without paying attention to the lyrics, rather through the lengths
of songs pulsating a double beat Swing. When in a following rock-and-roll cuts, audible; resolute with
destined words, ...Why do fools fall in love... Hence, without specific meaning. Unless, I glanced in
facing mirrors. Following through quicksilver miner tunnel tapering a point of infinity circling my
existential closing of the symbolic meaning.
Then rhymed in mind, ...I could have danced all night... and in a glitch of time, Jean had
vanished from sight. I sought after the girl around about the floor, to find in my dismay tabletops
littered with food and drink leftovers. As I stood by, my eardrum bearing the grunt of a neglected music,
sentient of a germinating loss. I entertained myself by watching a trickle of home goers passing by
through the French doors. Distancing evanescent silhouettes along crazy paving light dab, in depth hollow
out through flocculent branches. Shadowy figures penetrating the dark street to vanish with an orientation
outreaching circle for their vehicle. I turned sight to the sourcing angle. Watching Igor knitting a way inand-out a disarray of little conversation groups, far from sticking imagining at inciting a winding down
partying crowd. He spun out their circles approaching. Regretful, read my thought, and caught him at
speaking distance, saying, [Flemish] Come we can leave now!"
Igor in a winding tone of voice said, [Flemish] already now ! In a sprouting agitation, We
cant be leaving now . Turning around brushing by sight both rooms, persistent pleading, It is too
early to leave . sweeping every corner, arguing, Wait a little longer. Accounting for troupes behind
doors, after an hesitation, he grew realistic, wondering, Who is still there?
Igor, I exclaimed, at intercepting his hallucination, while he observed the little group of friends
over his shoulder moving out the shadowy left dining room aisle. I stepped back, insistent, to bring him
breaking into the reality, saying, Everyone is gone! In a glitch of sight he returned integrating by
Dave's in burst of laughters, which Martin uplifted with a few loud approaching guys trail the end of
partying. Flagrant expressive, Igor left a notion, 'Even without contact lenses,' when across the dining
table he stalked Jean's return from back of the room closed doors. She appeared by my side, to the genie
of Igor eavesdropping in a warm current to my restless mind. Jean asked me, Will you came to
Lynette's twenty-first? In pride I configured a reply, as my brother wiggled up front, and wedging in
taking my breath away, he answered, Sure, we'll come!"
As the invitation feathery ruffled my senses, arousing a sense of accomplishment, from the milieu with
a distant perspective. I insisted, saying to my brother, [Flemish] Igor, Its late. Come, lets go home

now. the Lion in him in retreat, with an amazing watchful eye, giving me the silent treat. Left to stand
alone by the littering buffet table, ruminating, a soaring urge, to leap through time, anxious closing a
gap between now and a futuristic event.
My brother facile in a backward cat walk, leads a psychic holding back of the little group, which I
joined, from being left behind, out through the French doors. A gang in gay coils, in turn of role, heel
over toe, moving toward the exit along the driveway. Cracking jokes with reciprocative guffaws prolific
echoes through the early morning air. Laughter and cheers fell flat beyond the gates as the shadowy
figures dispersed and disappeared in the dark street. At silent intervals of humble motors starting up,
among which soared a powerful cylindric awaking. Igor and I, in our stride, immersed by the dissonant
echoes off the rocky mountain cliffs. We pulled our step down the hill, crossed the scent of the earlier
screechy tires burned rubber on the tarmac. a few strides further, fetching off side the lonesome reflective
undulations shaping the pickup cabin head underscored by the tailgate. ethereal in the cool air we
crossed a cloud of unburned fuels. Audible to the engine roar through the valley, sharp as nails on black
slate. I mapped tracking back, earlier in the evening, our way through the Northcliff Corner. Where the
southward thunderous roar, like an arrowhead through the air, a disregard for traffic lights, and left
rumbling aloft the ground, the thoroughfare past the West Park cemetery.