Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

Ritual, 1969 [two stories]

was drunk, she thought, as she sloshed more wine into a tumbler and drank deeply.
 ‘Smells great!’ He was standing in the doorway, his hair still wet, his face gleaming, a pair of loose white linen trousers covering his lower half, while his chest was bare. She turned away quickly, again afraid to let her gaze linger over that taut, muscled skin, the black hair that gathered in the centre of his chest and ran in a line over his flat stomach. ‘Can I have a glass?’ he asked and when she looked up, she saw that he had put a t-shirt on. He began to potter about, arranging cutlery on the table in the adjoining room, lighting the candles.

Then he put music on; soft swirling pipes and insistent drums, the sound of a night far away in Morocco or Tunisia. Hand claps and a woman’s voice, a rhythmic ululating lament. She slopped the food onto plates, splashes of tomato everywhere, rice spilled on the stove top, the floor, the counter. ‘Can I help?’ he asked. She shook her head, unable to speak. A plate in each hand and the wine bottle tucked under her arm. ‘Oops,’ he said, coming closer, reaching behind her so that she thought for one moment he was going to put his arms around her. ‘You left the gas on.’ The pan that had held the rice was blackening and

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