A thief – that fears to waken
A household fast asleep?
And when ‘tis asked who knocks
Why slide you mutely out of sight
Waiting in concealment
Hearkening for the voice of whom you seek?
Perhaps you know he knows your knock
And would not raise a voice
For fear your call would scandalize the moral world
So patiently you wait
And hearing steps that only you can hear
Your eyes light up with love
As he with stealth transcending yours
Slides back the bolt and in his arms
Takes your sweetly scented arm
And savours more the fruit that, forbidden,
Delights the more . . .
He lingered with pleasure on the lines, saying again the more delightful ones: Your feet on pads of silence . . . But now the knock had become persistent. He groaned and got out of bed. When he opened the door, he drew back in surprise. A girl was standing there, nestling against the wall.
She could not be more than fourteen, but her breasts were taut and large with ripeness. She had sleepy eyes, a husky voice and soft lips. Sango had often seen her hawking lobsters, a Molomo Street delicacy. Her deep croaky voice set his blood afire.
‘Doctor . . . Doctor . . .’ He was not a doctor, and only the devil’s temptress could tell him where she had got the idea, but it pleased him. He looked up and down the corridor and saw that no one was in sight. This was temptation. She pushed her breasts against the door.
Sango kept the tremor out of his voice.
‘What is it?’
‘Doctor,’ she breathed, and cleared her throat. She made eyes at him. ‘Doctor, I heard you are going . . .’ Her bare smooth shoulders and rounded arms invited his fingers. He held back.
‘Now, girl, go to bed. Quick. All girls of your age are lying in their mother’s beds.’
He shut the door. ‘Phew!’
You who knock so secretly
Sidling up the door, your eyes in veils
Your feet on pads of silence . . .
He listened. She was still there. He could hear her moaning to be let in. He went to sleep still hearing her calling croakily, ‘Doctor . . .’ and brushing her hands against the door, ‘I want to tell you something. . . .’
6