wheel was adorned by red and yellow tape wound tightly round it; and a steering knob had been fitted to it, made of transparent plastic or glass, through which a voluptuous nude blonde could be seen. From the mirror dangled a pair of miniature boxing gloves. The sheepskin covers on the seats were a venomous green. The radio was turned on loud, snatches of wild music interspersed with incomprehensible comments by the announcer of Radio Bantu.
Uncle Charlie’s Roadhouse marked the end of the city. Pale yellow and greyish brown, the bare veld of late summer lay flat and listless under the drab sky. A dull, dark cloud obscured the townships: there had been no wind all day to disperse the smoke from last night’s fires in a hundred thousand coal stoves.
“For how long have you been driving this car, Stanley?” Ben asked mechanically, just to break the silence, aware of his companion’s sullen disapproval of their excursion.
“This one?” Stanley shifted on his large buttocks with an air of proprietorial satisfaction. “Three years. I had a bubezi before this. A Ford. But the ctembalani is better.” In a sensual gesture, as if caressing a woman, he moved his hand along the curve of the wheel.
“You like driving?”
“It’s a job.”
It was difficult to draw anything from him today. His attitude suggested: You talked me into taking you there, but that doesn’t mean I approve.
“Have you been in the taxi business for a long time?” Ben persisted patiently.
“Many years, lanie ” – using again, but playfully, the contemptuous word of previous occasions. “Too much.” He opened up momentarily. “My wife keeps on nagging me to stop before someone tries to pasa me with a gonnie ” – making a stabbing gesture with his left hand to clarify the tsotsi expressions he seemed to relish; the Dodge swerved briefly.
“Why? Is it dangerous to drive a taxi?”
Stanley uttered his explosive laugh. “You name me something that isn’t dangerous, lanie.” Light flickered on his black glasses. “No, the point is this isn’t an ordinary taxi, man. I’m a pirate.”
“Why don’t you do it legally?”
“Much better this way, take it from me. Never a dull moment. You want to diet, you want to feel a bit of kuzak in your arse pocket, you don’t mind a touch of adventure – then this is the life, man. Spot on.” He turned his head, looking at Ben through his round dark glasses. “But what do you know about it, hey lanie?”
The derision, the aggressiveness in the big man unnerved Ben: Stanley seemed bent on putting him off. Or was it some sort of test? But why? And to what purpose? The unimaginative afternoon light kept them apart from each other, unlike their previous meeting, which had taken place in the dark: an evening which now, in retrospect, appeared almost unreal.
First, there had been the night of the news on the radio. The strange sensation of being totally alone in the house. Susan gone, Johan gone; no one but him. Earlier in the evening he’d been working in the study and it was almost nine o’clock before he went to the kitchen to find something to eat. He turned on the kettle for tea and buttered a slice of bread. In the food cupboard he found a tin of sardines. More for the sake of companionship than from curiosity he switched on the transistorradio for the news. Leaning against the cupboard he’d made for Susan years ago, he stood sipping his tea and started picking at the sardines with a small fork. Some music. Then the news. A detainee in terms of the Terrorism Act, one Gordon Ngubene. Long after the announcement had been made he was still standing there with the half-empty tin of sardines in his hand. Feeling foolish, as if he’d been caught doing something unseemly, he put it down and began to walk through the house, from one room to the other, quite aimlessly, switching lights on and off again as he went. He had no idea of what he was looking for. The succession of empty rooms had become an aim in
Uncle Charlie’s Roadhouse marked the end of the city. Pale yellow and greyish brown, the bare veld of late summer lay flat and listless under the drab sky. A dull, dark cloud obscured the townships: there had been no wind all day to disperse the smoke from last night’s fires in a hundred thousand coal stoves.
“For how long have you been driving this car, Stanley?” Ben asked mechanically, just to break the silence, aware of his companion’s sullen disapproval of their excursion.
“This one?” Stanley shifted on his large buttocks with an air of proprietorial satisfaction. “Three years. I had a bubezi before this. A Ford. But the ctembalani is better.” In a sensual gesture, as if caressing a woman, he moved his hand along the curve of the wheel.
“You like driving?”
“It’s a job.”
It was difficult to draw anything from him today. His attitude suggested: You talked me into taking you there, but that doesn’t mean I approve.
“Have you been in the taxi business for a long time?” Ben persisted patiently.
“Many years, lanie ” – using again, but playfully, the contemptuous word of previous occasions. “Too much.” He opened up momentarily. “My wife keeps on nagging me to stop before someone tries to pasa me with a gonnie ” – making a stabbing gesture with his left hand to clarify the tsotsi expressions he seemed to relish; the Dodge swerved briefly.
“Why? Is it dangerous to drive a taxi?”
Stanley uttered his explosive laugh. “You name me something that isn’t dangerous, lanie.” Light flickered on his black glasses. “No, the point is this isn’t an ordinary taxi, man. I’m a pirate.”
“Why don’t you do it legally?”
“Much better this way, take it from me. Never a dull moment. You want to diet, you want to feel a bit of kuzak in your arse pocket, you don’t mind a touch of adventure – then this is the life, man. Spot on.” He turned his head, looking at Ben through his round dark glasses. “But what do you know about it, hey lanie?”
The derision, the aggressiveness in the big man unnerved Ben: Stanley seemed bent on putting him off. Or was it some sort of test? But why? And to what purpose? The unimaginative afternoon light kept them apart from each other, unlike their previous meeting, which had taken place in the dark: an evening which now, in retrospect, appeared almost unreal.
First, there had been the night of the news on the radio. The strange sensation of being totally alone in the house. Susan gone, Johan gone; no one but him. Earlier in the evening he’d been working in the study and it was almost nine o’clock before he went to the kitchen to find something to eat. He turned on the kettle for tea and buttered a slice of bread. In the food cupboard he found a tin of sardines. More for the sake of companionship than from curiosity he switched on the transistorradio for the news. Leaning against the cupboard he’d made for Susan years ago, he stood sipping his tea and started picking at the sardines with a small fork. Some music. Then the news. A detainee in terms of the Terrorism Act, one Gordon Ngubene. Long after the announcement had been made he was still standing there with the half-empty tin of sardines in his hand. Feeling foolish, as if he’d been caught doing something unseemly, he put it down and began to walk through the house, from one room to the other, quite aimlessly, switching lights on and off again as he went. He had no idea of what he was looking for. The succession of empty rooms had become an aim in
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