Rage - Smith Wilbur (читать книги онлайн без сокращений .TXT) 📗
'Where I come from the man does the asking,' he chuckled.
'You are an old-fashioned chauvinist prude,' she told him.
As she clambered up onto the bunk he saw that her bottom was still bright pink from the cold waters of the bay; he found that peculiarly endearing and he was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of tenderness towards her.
'You are so gentle,' she whispered. 'So strong and yet so gentle." It was mid-morning before they felt hungry, and dressed only in one of her father's old fishing jerseys, Isabella raided the larder for their breakfast.
'How do you fancy smoked oysters and asparagus with your baked beans?" 'Won't your father miss you?" he asked as he opened the cans.
'Oh, Daddy is a push-over. He will believe anything I tell him. It's my grandmother we have to watch out for, but I've arranged with one of my girlfriends to cover for us." 'Ah, so you knew where we were going to end up?" he asked.
'Of course." She rolled her eyes at him. 'Didn't you?" They sat cross-legged on the bunk with the plates on their laps and Isabella tasted the mixture. 'It's ghastly,' she gave her opinion, 'if I wasn't starving I wouldn't touch it." 'Of course, you will see your mother while you are in London?" he asked, and the loaded spoon stopped half-way to Isabella's mouth.
'How did you know I was going to London - and how did you know my mother was there?" 'I probably know more about your mother than you do,' Lothar told her, and she replaced the spoon on her plate and stared at him.
'For instance?" she challenged.
'Well, for instance, your mother is a rabid enemy of this country.
She is a member of the banned ANC and of the anti-apartheid group.
She associates regularly with members of the South African Communist Party. In London she runs a safe house for political refugees and escaped terrorists." 'My mother?" Isabella shook her head.
'Your mother was deeply implicated in the plot to blow up the houses of parliament and assassinate most of the members of the House, including the prime minister - and your father and my father." Isabella was still shaking her head, but he went on expressionlessly, watching her with those golden leopard eyes.
'She was directly responsible for the death of her own father, your grandfather, Colonel Blaine Malcomess. She was an accomplice of Moses Gama who is now serving a life sentence for terrorism and murder, and if she had not escaped she would probably be in jail with him." 'No,' said Isabella softly. 'I don't believe it." She was amazed and distressed by the change in him. Minutes before he had been so gentle, now he was hard and cruel, wounding her with words as he went on, 'For instance, did you know that your mother was Moses Gama's lover, and that she bore him a son? Your ?. i half-brother is an attractive coffee colour." 'No!" Isabella recoiled, shaking her head in disbelief.
'How do you know all this?" 'From the signed confession of Moses Gama, the man himself. I can arrange for you to see a copy, but that is not really necessary.
You will almost certainly meet your bastard half-brother in London.
He is living there with your mother. His name is Benjamin Afrika." Isabella jumped up and carried her plate to the kitchenette. She dumped the food into the garbage bin and without looking around, she asked, 'Why are you telling me all this?" 'So that you will know your duty." 'I don't understand." She still would not look at him.
'We believe your mother and her associates are planning some sort of violent action against this country. We are not sure what it is.
Any information on their activities would be invaluable." Isabella turned slowly and stared at him. Her face was pale and stricken.
'You want me to spy on my own mother?" 'We simply would like to know the names of the people you meet in her company while you are in London." She was not listening. She cut in on what he was saying.
'You planned this. You picked me out, not because you thought I was attractive or sweet or desirable. You deliberately set out to seduce me, just for this." 'You are beautiful, not attractive. You are magnificent, not sweet,' he said.
'And you are a bastard, a ruthless heartless bastard." He stood up and went to where his clothes hung behind the door.
'What are you going to do?" she demanded.
'Get dressed and go,' he told her.
'Why?" 'You called me a bastard." 'You are." Her eyes were glutted with tears. 'An irresistible bastard.
Don't go, Lothar, please don't go." Isabella was relieved when her father told her that he was unable to fly to London with her and Michael. Meeting her mother again after all these years, and after what Lothar had told her, would be difficult enough, without her father there to complicate matters and confuse her feelings. She had, indeed, tried to beg off going to London herself.
She wanted to, be close to Lothar, but he had been the one who insisted she make the trip.
'I will be back in Johannesburg and we wouldn't see much of each other anyway,' he told her. 'And besides that you have your duty and you have given me your word." 'I know Daddy would give me a PR job with the company in Jo'burg. I could get a flat and we could see lots of each other, I mean lots and lots!" 'When you come back from London,' he promised.
There were representatives from South Africa House and the London office of Courthey Mining to meet Isabella and Michael at Heathrow and a company limousine to take them to the Dorchester.
'Pater always overdoes it by a mile,' Michael remarked, embarrassed by the reception. 'We could have taken a taxi." 'No point in being a Courtney, unless you get to enjoy it,' Isabella disagreed.
When Isabella was shown up to her suite which looked out over Hyde Park, there was an enormous bouquet of flowers waiting for her with a note: Sorry I can't be with you, darling. Next time we will paint the town bright scarlet together.
Your old Dad.
Even before the porter had brought her bags up, Isabella dialled the number that Tara had given her and she was answered on the third ring.
'This is the Lord Kitchener Hotel, may I help you?" It was strangely nostalgic to be greeted by an African accent in a strange city.
'May I speak to Mrs Malcomess, please?" In her letter Tara had warned her that she had reverted to her maiden name after the divorce.
'Hello, Mater." Isabella tried to sound natural when Tara came on the line, but Tara's delight was unrestrained.
'Oh Bella darling, where are you? Is Mickey with you? How soon can you get here? You have got the address, haven't you? It's so easy to find." Isabella tried to match Michael's enthusiasm and excitement as they drove through the streets of London and the taxi-driver pointed out the landmarks they passed, but she was in a funk at the prospect of seeing her mother again.
It was one of those rather seedy little tourist hotels in a side street off the Cromwell Road. Only part of the neon sign Was lit. 'The Ord Kitch', it flashed in electric blue, and on the glass of the front doo were plastered the emblems of the AA and Routiers and a blaze o credit card stickers.
Tara rushed out through the glass doors while they were stil paying off the taxi. She embraced Michael first, which gave Isabell a few moments to study her mother.
She had put on weight, her backside in the faded blue jeans wa: huge, and her bosom hung shapelessly in the baggy man's sweater.
'She's an old bag." Isabella was appalled. Even though Tara hoc never gone to any pains with her appearance, she had always had or air of freshness and neatness. But now her hair had turned grey, ant she had obviously made a half-hearted attempt to henna it back to it original colour, and then given up. The grey was streaked brassy ginger and violent mulberry red, and it was twisted up into a careless, bun at the nape of her neck from which parti-coloured wisps hoc escaped.
