The Rowing Lesson Read Online Free PDF Page B

five children I’ve delivered? Dokter God! (pointing that same jabbing finger up into the sky, making the sign for God.)
    Two nights before you left, I took you to see Guys and Dolls at the Martin Beck Theatre on Forty-fifth Street, in the dazzling heart of the city. I wore big earrings, a swingy black dress, my hair pulled back. You sat tilted forward on the edge of your seat as Nathan Lane and Faith Prince sang and danced the Damon Runyon stories of your youth. Bloody marvelous! you said, turning to me at intermission, the high beams of your enthusiasm shining right at me. I can’t believe I’m here, my girl. You did me a big favour. A wave of feeling spread across your features, black eyes softening, a rueful smile catching at me.
    Harry the Horse! Nicely-Nicely Johnson! Mindy’s Restaurant! Maxie knew pages and pages off-by-heart. Me and him and Mickey Levin used to go to . . . never mind. Before your time. Still, District Six was full of all kinds of characters. It’s all gone now. Those bastards bulldozed the life out of Cape Town. Your mother and I saw it coming. It was not long after the war when the Nationalists came into power and the signs went up, Blankes, Nie-Blankes . Well it’s all changing again. Who knows what’s going to happen. It’s bloody fascinating, though. I just hope I live long enough to see the verkramptes verkramped !
    The curtain lifted on the Second Act. The lights sparkled on your glasses. We leaned forward in unison, uncomfortably twinned. Later, over a prized Pinotage you brought all the way from South Africa in your hand-luggage, you made one of your toasts, to mine host and mine heir! To my youngest. You swirled the black-red wine, took a concentrated sip. To Betsy Klein. President, secretary and treasurer. . . .
    I waved my hands at you. Dad, please!
    Chaps, you know what Hannes Laubscher, the winemaker, said? This Pinotage isn’t for sissies. I’ve had it for five years now, sitting in my cellar, waiting for the right occasion. I don’t drink this kind of wine with everyone. You took a big sip, filling your mouth, your head tilted back slightly. It’s their first crop from some new plantings. William held his glass to the light. Lots of red fruit, he reported, after tasting it. Sleek body. Vanilla and prune on the finish.
    Bullshit, man, you told him, as you drained your glass. Here, have some more. Do you know what a Pinotage is made of? you barked at William. Well, it’s a blended wine, Pinot Noir and Cinsault, you told him, topping up his glass and yours.
    There are all kinds of wine drinkers, William. Those who like to talk, those who like to drink and then there are the chaps who make the wines. Those blokes are the ones you can trust. I’ve learned a lot, you know, even though I don’t trample the grapes myself. I hear it from the horse’s mouth, right from the farmers themselves when they come into my surgery complaining about their wives and their workers, when they sit there with chest pains and high blood pressure because it rained too much or too little.
    You know what makes Robertson special?
    (Robertson is a town, I muttered to William.)
    The southeaster in the summer, cooling off the vineyards in the late afternoon. Limestone soil. Where we are, the soil is mostly alluvial, with a little clay. Now they’re starting to plant up in the hills. Maybe we should open the Meerlust Rubicon, let it breathe a little. Hell’s teeth, man. Meerlust’s a place to see. Those buggers have been in business since 1693.
    William, I’d love to take you around, show you the Boland. You’ve got to meet the people, talk to them, seeing what’s going on. Never mind the politics. It’s the most beautiful place you’ll ever see. Betsy can tell you about the mountains, the Hex River Valley. You haven’t tasted a grape until you’ve had an Alphonse Lavalle, our Hanepoot, our Barlinkas. I had a patient once, in Sandhills. Farmed export grapes. We used to picnic near there. Betsy,