what am I ; and now through the force of his crucifarce or crucifiction by the black man leaping on him out of the sky it changed again and was a burning question.
What am I for?
So he moved round the curious tropical city. Where he walked now, clad in black and with a face that might have been cut out of particoloured wood, the old men sitting on the iron seats under the orange trees fell silent until he had passed towards the other end of the park.
Convalescing, Matty wandered round and round. He sampled the few chapels and those who moved towards him to ask him to take off his hat, came close, saw what they saw and went away again. When he could walk as far as he liked he would go and watch the Abos in their lean-tos and shacks round the edge of the city. Most of the time their actions were only too easily to be understood; but now and then they would do something, no more than a gesture, it may be, that seemed to interest Matty profoundly, though he could not tell why. Once or twice it was a whole mime that absorbed him—a game perhaps with a few sticks, or the throwing of pebbles with marks on them, then the absorbed contemplation of the result—the breathing, the blowing, the constant blowing—
The second time he saw an Abo throw the pebbles, Matty hurried back to the room he had been found in the Temperance Hotel. He went straight through into the yard and picked up three pebbles and held them—
Then stopped.
Matty stood for half-an-hour, without moving.
Then he laid the pebbles down again. He went to his room, took out his Bible and consulted it. Then he went to the State House but could not get in. Next morning he tried again. He got no further than the polished wooden information desk where he was received courteously but got no understanding. So he went away, bought matchboxes and then was to be seen, day after day, arranging them before the door of the State House, higher and higher. Sometimes he would get them more than a foot high, but they always fell down again. He gathered groups for the first time in his life, children and layabouts and sometimes officials who stopped on their way in or out. Then the police moved him away from the door out on to the lawns and flowerbeds; and there,perhaps because he had moved away from officialdom, people and children laughed at him louder. He would kneel and build his tower out of matchboxes; and sometimes, now, he would blow at them like an Abo blowing on the pebbles and they would all fall down. This made people laugh and that made children laugh; and now and then a child would dart forward while the tower was abuilding and blow it down and everyone would laugh and sometimes a naughty boy would dart forward and kick it over and people would laugh but also cry out and object in a friendly manner since they were on Matty’s side and hoped one day he would manage to get all the matchboxes balanced one on the other since that seemed to be what he wanted. So if a naughty, energetic boy—but they were all naughty, energetic boys and quite capable of saying “Go up Baldhead!” except that they did not know what was under the hat and there are no bears in the Northern Territory—kicked, struck, spat, jumped and knocked the matchboxes over, all the grown-ups would cry out, laughing, shocked, nice women out to do the shopping, and pensioners, cry out—“Oh no! The little bastard!”
Then the man in black would move back on his knees and sit on his upturned heels and he would look round slowly, round under the brim of his black hat sweeping round at the laughing people; and because his face like particoloured wood was inscrutable and solemn, they would fall silent, one by one on the, by now, watered grass.
After seven days Matty added to his game. He bought a clay pot and gathered twigs; and this time when everyone started laughing at his matchboxes, Matty put the twigs together with the pot on top and tried to light them with the matches but could not. Crouched
What am I for?
So he moved round the curious tropical city. Where he walked now, clad in black and with a face that might have been cut out of particoloured wood, the old men sitting on the iron seats under the orange trees fell silent until he had passed towards the other end of the park.
Convalescing, Matty wandered round and round. He sampled the few chapels and those who moved towards him to ask him to take off his hat, came close, saw what they saw and went away again. When he could walk as far as he liked he would go and watch the Abos in their lean-tos and shacks round the edge of the city. Most of the time their actions were only too easily to be understood; but now and then they would do something, no more than a gesture, it may be, that seemed to interest Matty profoundly, though he could not tell why. Once or twice it was a whole mime that absorbed him—a game perhaps with a few sticks, or the throwing of pebbles with marks on them, then the absorbed contemplation of the result—the breathing, the blowing, the constant blowing—
The second time he saw an Abo throw the pebbles, Matty hurried back to the room he had been found in the Temperance Hotel. He went straight through into the yard and picked up three pebbles and held them—
Then stopped.
Matty stood for half-an-hour, without moving.
Then he laid the pebbles down again. He went to his room, took out his Bible and consulted it. Then he went to the State House but could not get in. Next morning he tried again. He got no further than the polished wooden information desk where he was received courteously but got no understanding. So he went away, bought matchboxes and then was to be seen, day after day, arranging them before the door of the State House, higher and higher. Sometimes he would get them more than a foot high, but they always fell down again. He gathered groups for the first time in his life, children and layabouts and sometimes officials who stopped on their way in or out. Then the police moved him away from the door out on to the lawns and flowerbeds; and there,perhaps because he had moved away from officialdom, people and children laughed at him louder. He would kneel and build his tower out of matchboxes; and sometimes, now, he would blow at them like an Abo blowing on the pebbles and they would all fall down. This made people laugh and that made children laugh; and now and then a child would dart forward while the tower was abuilding and blow it down and everyone would laugh and sometimes a naughty boy would dart forward and kick it over and people would laugh but also cry out and object in a friendly manner since they were on Matty’s side and hoped one day he would manage to get all the matchboxes balanced one on the other since that seemed to be what he wanted. So if a naughty, energetic boy—but they were all naughty, energetic boys and quite capable of saying “Go up Baldhead!” except that they did not know what was under the hat and there are no bears in the Northern Territory—kicked, struck, spat, jumped and knocked the matchboxes over, all the grown-ups would cry out, laughing, shocked, nice women out to do the shopping, and pensioners, cry out—“Oh no! The little bastard!”
Then the man in black would move back on his knees and sit on his upturned heels and he would look round slowly, round under the brim of his black hat sweeping round at the laughing people; and because his face like particoloured wood was inscrutable and solemn, they would fall silent, one by one on the, by now, watered grass.
After seven days Matty added to his game. He bought a clay pot and gathered twigs; and this time when everyone started laughing at his matchboxes, Matty put the twigs together with the pot on top and tried to light them with the matches but could not. Crouched
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