I’m sweeping up the leaves on the pavement, fantasizing about my options, when Magda walks up.
“I want all the leather sofas treated with beeswax and polished to a shine today. Carly is complaining her cupboards are full of dust. Unpack everything and wipe down the shelves. Her closet can do with a good reorganization.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want dinner to be served an hour earlier, tonight. I have an appointment after.”
“I’ll make sure it’s ready.”
“Tomorrow you need to start taking down the curtains and wash them. Start with the bedrooms. You can do one room every day.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She checks her watch. “Don’t wait for the afternoon to sweep the pavement. It has to be done every morning at eight. The neighbors must think we’re pigs living in a pigsty.”
“I’ll do it at eight.”
“Are you any good with a sewing machine?”
“I’ve never used one.”
“Better learn. You can adjust the hems of the new curtains I bought for the lounge.”
The delivery van pulls up, thankfully saving me from more tasks she can think up, as I have to check and sign for the produce.
For the rest of the day, I race through my chores, skipping lunch and teatime. It’s hard not to stress over screwing up a task or failing to execute it when your life’s in the balance. I haven’t slept enough in weeks, and I haven’t studied in days. I missed deadlines for two assignments and only got extensions because of my good grades, but no matter how fast I work, there’s always more work and too little time. My mentor warned me if I miss another deadline, I’d get a zero for the assignment. She can’t keep on making exceptions for me.
* * *
During the next two weeks, Gabriel is hardly home. When he comes to me at night, there are lines of strain on his face. I don’t ask about his business, but from the way he takes me, hard and relentless, I know in his own way, he’s as stressed as I am, so I don’t complain. When I’m at Kris’ house, I cook, clean, help in the clinic, and spend as much time with Charlie as I can. At night, I try to catch up with my outstanding projects, but I’m several weeks behind. I sleep between four and five hours per night, returning to my studies when Gabriel leaves me to go back to his own room. I don’t dare confess to him in the fear that he’ll take it away from me, and I can’t lose my dream. Despite the explosive sex, I’m still property. Nothing but an amusing toy. Gabriel takes care of me like one would maintain an expensive car or look after a cute pet. Copious amounts of coffee keep me awake and jittery during the day. It’s only by sheer willpower that I finish the tasks Magda doles out. The harder she pushes me, the harder I try. The more she demands, the more I deliver.
It’s a bright December morning when half a kudu carcass is dropped off in the kitchen.
“A gift from business colleagues who went hunting,” she says, regarding the piece of meat with her hands on her hips.
It’s not hunting season. “Where does it come from?”
“A friend did some culling on a game farm up north.”
“What shall I do with it, ma’am?”
“Marie used to process the meat. The leg is good for biltong. You can use the offcuts for sausage.”
I’ve never chopped up half an antelope, but I’m not going to admit it. When she’s gone, I do an internet search and come up with page that gives detailed illustrations on how to process a carcass. It’s too heavy for me to handle alone, so when Quincy walks past the kitchen with Bruno, I ask him to help. Together, we use the meat axe to chop the meat into smaller, more manageable pieces. He helps me to set up the electric meat saw and grinder on the island counter. While he’s cleaning the blades for me, I order the intestines for the sausage from a local butcher.
“All ready,” he says. “Need some help with the grinding?”
“I’m good, thank you.” I’m proud that I figured it out.
“Just shout.” With a wave, he’s off.
For the next hour, I cut the bigger pieces into smaller parts, keeping the strips for the biltong aside, while soaking the offcuts in a solution of vinegar and salt for the sausage. It’s a long and time-consuming process. I’m stressed about preparing dinner, but I can’t cook in the dirty kitchen. I’ll have to disinfect the countertops, first.
My phone beeps while I’m pushing the meat through the blades to make sirloin steaks. Normally, I won’t interrupt my work to check my messages, but the beep tone tells me it’s from my mentor, Aletta. I flick the switch on the saw and gingerly fish the phone from my apron pocket between my thumb and forefinger. The message hits me like a hammer between the eyes.