The Late Bourgeois World

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I opened the telegram and said, ‘He’s dead —’ and as I looked up into Graham Mill’s gaze I saw that he knew who, before I could say. He had met Max, my first husband, a few times, and of course he had heard all about him, he had helped me get to see him when he was in prison. ‘How?’ he said, in his flat professional voice, putting out his hand for the telegram, but I said, ‘Killed himself!’ — and only then let him have it.

It read MAX FOUND DROWNED IN CAR CAPETOWN HARBOUR. It had been sent by the friend with whom probably he had been staying; I have not heard from Max for more than a year, he didn’t even remember Bobo’s birthday last month. ‘Doesn’t say when it was,’ Graham said.

‘Last night, or early this morning, must have been.’ My voice came out cold and angry; I could hear it. It made Graham nervous, he nodded slowly while staring away from me. ‘Otherwise it would have been in the morning paper. I don’t think I looked at the late news —’

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