“Uh . . .” I kneeled next to her.
“Smell it,” she said, lowering her nose to the floor. “Go on,” she urged again, when she saw I hadn’t jumped.
I leaned in and put my nose to the floor, taking a small sniff.
“No—a big sniff. Inhale.” She squished her nose to the floor and took it all in. “Do you smell that?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I smell nothing.”
“Exactly. You would never know this is made with cow dung, just like my Xhosa ancestors used.”
“Sorry. WHAT?!” I sat up.
“I know. It’s very exciting.” She stood up and we continued our tour of the house. I was told things I had never heard about before: crystals in the geysers to neutralize chemicals in the water, moss carpets, bamboo water pipes . . .
Zintle finished showing me the house and we stood by the door again. “So, what do you think?” she asked.
“Gorgeous,” I said. “I really must get my husband here to see the place.”
“Well, this is my card.” She handed me her business card and I looked down at it. “Hemp-seed paper,” she said quickly. “As this estate’s official realtor, I think it’s essential that I represent its unique selling points.” She smiled. She’d already said that to me. It made me wonder if she didn’t really believe in all this stuff and was actually just going along with it. I smiled at her. I could relate to going along with something you didn’t necessarily believe in, or like. Like me pretending I enjoyed watching sports on Sundays, because my cousins did and I was just trying to fit into the strange family I’d been thrust upon.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said, meaning it. “So . . . tell me—” I was trying to act casual—“I heard there was a really large, old willow tree here. I would love to see it.”
“Yes, it’s over 200 years old. Unfortunately, it’s on a neighbor’s property, and, until you buy here, I’m not sure they would be comfortable with you going there.” She smiled at me again.
“I understand.” My stomach dropped.How the hell was I going to get to that willow tree?
“I’m sorry, I have to run; will you be okay getting out?” she asked.
I jumped. “Do you mind if I use the loo first?” I asked.
She looked reticent for a moment, but then leaned in and whispered, “I won’t tell if you don’t.” She gave me a quick wink and I ran into the guest toilet.
I was so desperate to get my pants off and pee, it rushed out like the Niagara Falls the second I sat down. Private investigators must really train their bladders in some special way. If I was a P.I., I would completely blow my cover when I went looking for a toilet every few hours.
I reached for the toilet paper and stopped.What the hell?It was brown. I pulled a sheet off and it was as rough as sandpaper, and were those . . . ? I examined the fibrous-looking paper and I swear I saw a small twig in it. I wiped and it felt like I’d just run a grater over my lady parts.
“Don’t you love the handmade toilet paper?” I heard Zintle say from behind the door.
“Mmmm,” I muttered. “Divine!”
“It’s amazing how versatile cow dung is!”
“Cow . . . ?” I dropped the paper in the bowl and tried not to gag! This place wasnotfor me.
