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happened to your first wife?’
    â€˜It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some other time.’
    â€˜Do you have pictures?’
    â€˜I don’t collect pictures. I don’t collect women.’
    â€˜Aren’t you collecting me?’
    â€˜No, of course not.’
    She gets up, strolls around the room picking up her clothes, as little bashful as if she were alone. He is used to women more self-conscious in their dressing and undressing. But the women he is used to are not as young, as perfectly formed.
    The same afternoon there is a knock at his office door and a young man enters whom he has not seen before. Without invitation he sits down, casts a look around the room, nods appreciatively at the bookcases.
    He is tall and wiry; he has a thin goatee and an ear-ring; he wears a black leather jacket and black leather trousers. He looks older than most students; he looks like trouble.
    â€˜So you are the professor,’ he says. ‘Professor David. Melanie has told me about you.’
    â€˜Indeed. And what has she told you?’
    â€˜That you fuck her.’
    There is a long silence. So, he thinks: the chickens come home to roost. I should have guessed it: a girl like that would not come unencumbered.
    â€˜Who are you?’ he says.
    The visitor ignores his question. ‘You think you’re smart,’ he continues. ‘A real ladies’ man. You think you will still look so smart when your wife hears what you are up to?’
    â€˜That’s enough. What do you want?’
    â€˜Don’t you tell me what’s enough.’ The words come faster now, in a patter of menace. ‘And don’t think you can just walk into people’s lives and walk out again when it suits you.’ Light dances on his black eyeballs. He leans forward, sweeps right and left with his hands. The papers on the desk go flying.
    He rises. ‘That’s enough! It’s time for you to leave!’
    â€˜ It’s time for you to leave! ’ the boy repeats, mimicking him. ‘OK.’ He gets up, saunters to the door. ‘Goodbye, Professor Chips! But just wait and see!’ Then he is gone.
    A bravo, he thinks. She is mixed up with a bravo and now I am mixed up with her bravo too! His stomach churns.
    Though he stays up late into the night, waiting for her, Melanie does not come. Instead, his car, parked in the street, is vandalized. The tyres are deflated, glue is injected into the doorlocks, newspaper is pasted over the windscreen, the paintwork is scratched. The locks have to be replaced; the bill comes to six hundred rand.
    â€˜Any idea who did it?’ asks the locksmith.
    â€˜None at all,’ he replies curtly.
    After this coup de main Melanie keeps her distance. He is not surprised: if he has been shamed, she is shamed too. But on Monday she reappears in class; and beside her, leaning back in his seat, hands in pockets, with an air of cocky ease, is the boy in black, the boyfriend.
    Usually there is a buzz of talk from the students. Today there is a hush. Though he cannot believe they know what is afoot, they are clearly waiting to see what he will do about the intruder.
    What will he do indeed? What happened to his car was evidently not enough. Evidently there are more instalments to come. What can he do? He must grit his teeth and pay, what else?
    â€˜We continue with Byron,’ he says, plunging into his notes. ‘As we saw last week, notoriety and scandal affected not only Byron’s life but the way in which his poems were received by the public. Byron the man found himself conflated with his own poetic creations – with Harold, Manfred, even Don Juan.’
    Scandal. A pity that must be his theme, but he is in no state to improvise.
    He steals a glance at Melanie. Usually she is a busy writer. Today, looking thin and exhausted, she sits huddled over her book. Despite himself, his heart goes out to her. Poor little bird, he thinks, whom I have