Lola felt like a stranger at her own husband’s funeral reception. Which, she reflected, was probably fair given the circumstances.
Can you even be considered a widow if you had intended to become unwed?
Pondering the question, she finished off her ginger wine while sitting in her husband’s favourite old leather armchair. The law apparently believed so, leaving her now the sole owner of the farmhouse she sat in, with a fifty-percent interest in the land it dwelled on and the fish it cultivated.
Staring into her empty glass, she inhaled the Afrikaans soaking the farmhouse, not understanding a word of it. Looking up into the crowd of mostly strangers, she found Musa staring right back. He who owned the other half of the land and the aquaculture business, complete with a farmhouse of his own.
He raised a bottle of ginger wine and she nodded.
Musa made his way through the crowd with skill a preacher would envy, just the right amounts of self-assurance and gravitas expected for a man who had just lost his business partner.
When he reached her, he topped up her glass, asking, ‘What do you think?’
‘I miss Tequila,’ she responded. ‘How André could ever prefer this to ice wine, I’ll never understand.’
Musa cracked a smile, ‘You’ve always had expensive taste.’
She thought of the bamboo floors in Musa’s home, but rather than bring up his amusing hypocrisy, she said, ‘So that old bottle of whiskey that I’d been saving for your Christmas present…’
‘Will be a pleasure to receive,’ he said, before his glance darted to the left.
Her eyes followed, spotting André’s sisters approaching. ‘Hostia,’ she cursed softly.
‘Go,’ Musa said. ‘I’ll talk to them.’ He said before taking one last swig for strength.
She gave him a grateful nod, before liberating him of the bottle of ginger wine and tucking it under her arm. Snatching up her cane, she fled, straight out the back door, only to be greeted with more people. Men were braaing, children shrieking as they ran around messing up their Sunday best, and women’s heads all gathered closer as they gossiped, as if Lola would have been able to understand them even if they spoke at full volume.
Except one. Elspeth, the local minister’s wife. She who had started the rumours that Lola was running a strip club in the city.
‘Ag, the woman is just old-fashioned,’ André had dismissed.
‘And doesn’t like Catholics,’ Lola had snapped.
André had shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
That you never defend your wife? Sí, it does, Lola had thought. But she hadn’t said it. She wondered if things might have been different if she had.
‘Oh Lola, dear,’ Elspeth said, stretching out a hand, ‘this must be so difficult for you.’
Lola ignored the outreached arm. Everyone knew she didn’t shake hands, but oh, they still tried, preferring to believe she was a germaphobe rather than the truth: that it caused her immense pain and risked subluxations and dislocations. Never mind between the cane, the wine glass, and the bottle tucked under her arm, she didn’t have the limbs to spare.
‘Oh, you know what they say,’ Lola said sweetly, ‘Me cago en todo lo que se mueve,’ and kept on walking, ignoring the perplexed faces that she passed.
As she exited the garden, she wondered if André could hear her from where his spirit now dwelled, and if so, what he thought of her audaciousness, telling a minister’s wife that I shit on everything that moves. Once upon a time, he would have laughed. But with each added year to their marriage, the less amused he’d been of her salty mouth.
The warehouses loomed ahead. With nowhere else to go for privacy, she strode towards them. Stepping into the first one, the fug of catfish enveloped her like an unrelenting bear hug. The high ceilings helped with the air circulation, but nothing erased the heavy odour.
‘TC Boyle, you hijo de perra,’ she muttered, settling down on an abandoned feed crate.
The warehouse was far from luxurious, from a human perspective. It was metal walls, concrete flooring, dim green lighting, and rows and rows of large, blue tanks. Still, it was better than the people out there. Excluding Musa and his family. They were lovely, of course.
A drone buzzed by, with its camera’s large scanning eye hanging from its black belly. She raised her glass to it, ‘Cheers.’
The drone ignored her. She had no idea what it was doing.
Catfish were complicated, despite their simplicity. There were all sorts of things that needed to be monitored to keep them fat and happy: oxygen levels, the water’s pH, and how much feed was required. And while calling TC Boyle a son of a bitch might be deemed harsh, the fact she had to live with them really was all his fault.
‘Listen to this,’ André had said, holding up a copy of Boyle’s novel A Friend of the Earth, ‘in the future, we’re all going to be drinking sake and eating catfish.’
She had wrinkled her nose. ‘Catfish eat pigeons.’
‘Is your head really as soft as you look?’
My body is harder than your dick these days, she did not say. Because that had been during the period when she was trying to maintain peace and be understanding about his dwindling sex drive. Instead, she had gotten up, dug out the book Darwin Comes to Town and showed it to him. ‘See?’ she had said, ‘and this is non-fiction.’
Which André had taken the wrong way, assuming she was putting down his choice of reading material. ‘Maybe if you read more quality fiction,’ he sneered, ‘you’d have more imagination and appreciate the art.’
She’d snorted. As she was both a dancer and a successful club owner, his comment was so ridiculous it had not deserved a proper response. Besides, the world had enough problems, she didn’t need to surround herself with any more depressing tales. Romances had guaranteed happy endings, and non-fiction could provide interesting facts, like how catfish in France had adapted to hunting pigeons over a decade ago.
And that was about the only admirable thing she found about catfish. Because, while yes, André and TC Boyle had been right, catfish were now a major protein source during these complicated, but never boring, times, she detested the creatures.
At least I am not stuck drinking sake every night. Take that, TC Boyle.
‘But fishing is part of your heritage,’ André had said, in response to her lack of enthusiasm.
‘My abuelo fished on a boat,’ she’d replied.
‘Well,’ he’d said, ‘this is easier.’
‘There’s no beauty.’
He’d looked at her, agape, much like a cod, before saying, ‘Where was the beauty in your grandmother working in a fishing cannery until the day she died?’
‘Self-respect,’ she’d said, before storming out.
She could not believe he’d sunk so low as to insult her abuela. A job at a fishing cannery was not glamorous, to be sure, but the woman herself had been strong and generous, working until her late 70s, all while raising her errant daughter’s children, with never a complaint.
‘No, tell me, please, what have you got against catfish?’ André asked the day he and Musa broke ground for the first warehouse.
‘For starters,’ she had said, ‘a fish shouldn’t have a moustache.’
She had been trying to be funny. Then again, it wasn’t a lie. Moustaches were deceptive, desperate, or both. Yet she still smiled at the men in her club who had facial hair on their upper lips. But if a misguided soul ever asked her opinion on the matter, she gave it plainly, ‘Shave it off, señor, or grow it as part of a close-cropped beard.’
André had not been amused by her flippancy. Jabbing his finger at her, he spat, ‘This could be a real change for me. Making real money, hey,’ and the unspoken sat in the air between them hovered his next words: no longer having to borrow funds from you.
Not that she ever considered the money she put in their joint account a loan. He was her husband. She’d gladly shared what was hers. But he had not seen it that way.
She blamed his family, his outdated upbringing.
André, however, had blamed her.
Another drone came by. This one stopped, hovering near her face, lights flickering.
‘Musa?’ she asked, staring straight into the camera’s eye.
Because checking up on her via a drone was something Musa would do. The man would never crowd her space, or anyone else’s, which was probably why he was still happily married to the lovely Bongile. But even in this modern age, traditional roles ran deep, and he felt obliged to look after distressed women. Even those who were not his wife.
The drone did not respond. She took another sip from her glass––okay, okay, a glug, may her clients never know––and tried again. ‘Fernando?’
‘Sí,’ the drone said, over its tinny speaker.
She inwardly sighed. Fernando was not supposed to hijack other machines, but he possessed a rebellious side. His justification for the disrespect was always a matter of fact “For the greater good”.
Clearing her throat, she addressed Fernando through the drone, ‘I could not stand being in the house any longer.’
‘I am worried about you. Please, may I leave my room and meet you here?’
She shook her head. ‘The guests won’t like it.’
‘The guests don’t like you.’
‘Touché,’ she toasted. ‘And the feeling is mutual.’
The drone drew closer, leaving Lola feeling judged, which was probably an accurate assessment of the situation.
‘I will be discreet,’ Fernando said, and before she could reply, the drone drifted off, back to work with its mates above the rows of blue rectangular, tanks.
‘Obstinate android,’ she grumbled, knocking back more ginger wine.
This was the problem with allowing a machine to learn autonomously. With AGI, the android could disobey in ways a traditionally programmed intimacy and companion doll could not. But Fernando was such a dear; a gift from a wealthy Japanese client with access to the most advanced and exclusive technology. The man presented Fernando to her after she had spent the entire evening at the club sitting at the client’s upholstered booth, listening to him pour his heart out over his relationship troubles with his husband while they watched the dancers.
It had been no hardship, lending a listening ear, especially since on that particular evening she had not been able to perform due to yet another injury. So, she listened, full of empathy, observing that despite the different cultures, his relationship issues echoed so much of what she and André were grappling with. Before she wed, she had not understood that marriages didn’t always end due to betrayal. That there was an intangible essence in the relationship that could slowly dissolve, creating challenges in ways she’d never envisioned.
‘It’s as if we are communicating from different operating systems,’ the client had said.
Such an accurate analogy, even if she wasn’t the most clued-in person when it came to tech.
The encounter led to Fernando, named in honour of Fernando Bujones, a brilliant Latino dancer, although his discipline was ballet, not belly dancing.
‘You are not bringing a sex robot into my house!’ André had bellowed.
‘Shh,’ she had said, ‘you’ll hurt Fernando’s feelings. Besides, he’s mostly built for companionship, like having a friend that listens and gives advice.’
‘Ja right, you telling me he doesn’t know how to fuck?’
‘If you are curious, please, you are welcome to ask him, yourself.’
‘He’s a machine. A bunch of bolts, and microchips designed for a woman’s pleasure.’
‘Sí,’ she had said, ‘but most importantly, he can dance.’ Which at the time, meant everything.
For that was one thing André had always refused to do, even at their wedding. It had been she who had danced, alone, for him and their guests.
Back then, she hadn’t minded. But as time moved on, she longed for a partner who would try to participate in something she enjoyed. After all, she had dug deep to muster interest in André’s endeavours, including trying to be a good sport about the catfish.
The warehouse’s heavy metal door slid open with a moan, cutting off her navel-gazing. Fernando’s tall, elegant form stepped into the dim light. He was an exquisite work of art, clearly designed by a man who appreciated the beauty of men. He had the body of a classical dancer, strong, with long lines, slim, toned hands, and high cheekbones. Usually, the only discernible difference between him and a living, breathing, Japanese man was his skin was too perfect; as if he was Photoshopped. But in the warehouse lighting, it gave him a greenish, almost alien pallor.
As Fernando approached, she admired the cut of his well-tailored suit. He could wear it despite the heat, thanks to not having to concern himself with sweat stains.
‘Vete a freír a espárragos,’ she told him, despite secretly being pleased to see him.
Fernando smiled at the insult. At first such phrases confused him. Now, he found it amusing that humans would say things such as, ‘Go fry an asparagus,’ yet mean ‘go fuck yourself’.
Fernando stopped beside her and pulled up another empty feed crate. He studied her face before setting a gentle, comforting hand on her exposed knee, where the hem of her plain black shift dress had ridden up.
‘You are unhappy,’ he stated in a calm, soft voice.
‘Sí, Fernando, I may not have wanted to be married to him any longer, but I certainly didn’t wish him dead. It was those catfish, full of cholesterol.’
He nodded, as if he understood, which maybe he did. He was certainly programmed to behave as such.
Fernando turned his intention to the rest of the warehouse. ‘I was not expecting to find you here, but then I thought about where you could go that other humans would not follow.’
‘Sí,’ she murmured, ‘you were exactly right.’
He gave her knee a reassuring squeeze, as he continued to watch the drones fly over the tanks. Minutes ticked by, as she sipped the ginger wine, in comforting silence. It wasn’t until she topped up her glass that she spoke again.
‘He never understood how much I hated catfish.’
Fernando turned his head to look at her with unhuman grace but said nothing. That was the quality that she most admired in him, how he seemed to instinctively know when no verbal response was required. He just listened.
‘They’re just so American. I did not travel over 9,000 miles, and whatever that is in kilometres-’
‘Fourteen thousand, four hundred, and eighty-four, point naught, nine, six,’ Fernando supplied.
‘Sí, gracias,’ she said, ‘just so I could live surrounded by catfish. I mean, why not pick trout?’
‘South Africa does have a native catfish breed, much like the United States had trout until the water became too warm.’
She glared at Fernando, who blinked back, entirely unaffected.
‘Now you sound like André. He was always going on about water temperatures, too, saying that the cooling required for trout was uneconomical.’
Fernando nodded. ‘I have spoken to Musa at length on the subject. He said that while catfish farming had initially failed in the country at the end of the last century, it was due to poor marketing.’
‘Now advertising,’ she sighed, ‘that I understand.’ She lifted her wine glass and Fernando raised a brow.
‘It’s my husband’s funeral,’ she snapped.
‘I am only concerned that you will be stiff and sore come morning.’ He sent a pointed look at her cane, resting at her feet, which were clad in ridiculous heels. That was the glorious thing about belly dancing, unlike other disciplines such as flamenco, you did it barefoot, and it was easier on the joints.
‘Sí, sí. But I am having a bad day and am not up for a lecture.’
Fernando fell silent, which André had never done when it came to her health.
‘If it hurts so much, stop,’ André would tell her.
‘Dancing is my life, my soul, my everything.’
‘But you are always in pain. Look at you, you’re relying on that cane more and more.’
Which was true. As she aged, the more she needed to utilise braces, kinesiology tape, and walking aids. Although how much she relied on them depended on the day. But what she could never make her husband understand was that rest didn’t make the pain vanish. In fact, it often made it worse, despite the need for it.
‘You must keep moving while you ensure to get plenty of rest,’ all the doctors and physios would tell her. ‘Ehlers-Danlos syndrome means your body needs more muscle tone, not less, with plenty of breaks in between.’
Belly dancing was low impact, graceful, and suited her curvy figure. It flattered her elegantly long neck, while hiding her stocky legs under fabulously flamboyant skirts. Her natural flexibility was a boon, and her ample bust was considered an asset, which was not the case in most other forms of dance. Without the art form in her life, she had nothing to elevate her above the daily toil of living in pain. When she danced, especially on stage, there was an incredible rush. As if, in those moments, she was living a life in an alternative universe, one where her body didn’t feel like a cage.
The warehouse’s door moaned open again , and Fernando rose to his feet with the elegance of a machine that would never know pain.
‘Only me,’ Musa said, stepping inside. ‘I merely wanted to let you know that the last of the guests have departed.’
‘Gracias,’ she said.
‘Bongile and I would like to have you both over for brunch tomorrow.’
Lola smiled, touched both by Musa and his wife’s generosity as well as their inclusion of Fernando. ‘Sí, gracias, we would like that very much.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Fernando said.
‘Good, good,’ Musa said, opening the warehouse door. He paused, before stepping out, ‘Then come by around eleven.’
When all was silent again, Fernando reached out, offering his hand. ‘May I escort you back to the house?’
She nodded, and in the simmering heat of the late afternoon, they made their way back to the farmhouse.
It was empty, as Musa had promised. Clean and tidy, too. She wondered if André’s sisters had done it, or Bongile and her daughters. In any case, she doubted that the men had helped, because some things never change.
It was easier to focus on such cynical thoughts than to confront what she was ignoring.
Fernando, however, had no such qualms. He picked up the urn sitting on the dining table, and thoughtfully examined it. She never understood what went through his computer brain. Was he comparing it to various urns and burial customs throughout history? Taking its dimensions?
He turned his gaze towards her. ‘Have you decided what to do with the ashes?’
‘Musa claims André wanted to be spread across the land,’ she said, sliding into a dining room chair, ‘but his sisters want them, so I don’t know.’
Fernando set the urn down and moved behind her. The moment his hands began to rub her shoulders a tear escaped. It was so unexpected, she almost gasped.
‘What would you like to do with them?’ Fernando asked. His voice was soft, compassionate.
She bit her lip, then stopped, scolding herself for reverting to an old, teenage habit of hers she’d believed she had long ceased. ‘I have no idea.’
Fernando said nothing.
‘I never hated him, even at the absolute worst, there was still a part of me that cared. It was only that we needed different things from each other, things neither of us could give.’
‘You need to say good-bye.’
Another tear escaped. ‘Sí, I know, but I don’t know how.’
A minute passed in quiet, with only Fernando massaging her aching shoulders.
‘What do you believe André first loved about you?’
‘My dancing.’ She didn’t even have to consider the answer. ‘Which was why it always made me so mad when he wanted me to quit. If that’s what he enjoyed most about me, how could he ask me to stop being myself?’
‘Maybe there was something else about you that he loved more, that he was willing to see you never dance again.’
She had never thought of it like that and now it was too late to ask André if this was true.
With an inward sigh, she craned her neck to gaze up at Fernando’s face. He replied with a soft smile, as his thumb moved to trace her cheekbone.
Tender, perfect, it was tempting to simply continue to sit and enjoy his artful touch. Yet, he was correct, she needed to say goodbye to the man she’d once sworn “until death do us part.”
A vow they’d both kept, unintentionally.
Rising out of her chair, she took her cane and kicked off her ridiculous shoes. Moving to an open space of the room, she began to dance. Over the years, she had adapted; the cane had morphed from a prop to being like a limb. Her hips glided as they shimmied, her chest rose and popped, while her belly rolled.
There was no music. But there had not been on the day they met. André had wandered into the club, lost in the city, looking for directions, hours before they were officially open, but the doorman had stepped out for a quick smoke and the farmer had slipped in.
There André had been, in faded blue jeans, a khaki short-sleeve button down and Grasshopper boots, looking woefully out of place as he stood amongst the empty club’s opulent sophistication. But he’d stood in quiet awe as she practised on the stage without an audible note in the air. When she’d finished, he’d bowed.
No applause.
That small difference had meant something to her then.
As it did to this day.
For in that moment, it had felt as if someone was honouring her art, rather than her ability to entertain.
She could still recall the number she’d been practising, even though it had been over seventeen years ago. The choreography ran through her blood, and she gave it new life in the farmhouse, as she danced for her lover of the past and the one in the present. With each flick of the hip, a twist at the waist, a curve of the spine, a lift of the chin, she found the weight she’d been carrying in her bones lightened. It was as if her body knew what her heart had failed to achieve: how to move between a complicated grief and the need to celebrate that she was still alive.
