now—the concrete knowledge of these was hers but provided too scanty a trail for her to follow him by.
—There’s Bongani. The Zulu, he works as an inspector for the Cleansing Department. Dressed up in a uniform on his bicycle. He stays with Nomvula in her room.—
—They didn’t mind him living in the yard … Mnnn. And what happened to Nomvula? Where did she go now?—
He sat down on the small low bench placed inside the hut against the wall, where male strangers sat when they came to visit. The single source of light, from the doorway, axed the interior diagonally; on the one side, women, the planes of the bay of mud plaster behind them lifted into ginger-gold, richly-moted relief like the texture of their faces, on the other, the man in darkness. His hands were on his knees. They could see his fingernails and his eyes. Perhaps he had shrugged to show he didn’t know. When his wife had assumed he wasn’t going to bother to answer—and she didn’t need an answer, anyway; the Zulu was the answer that satisfied her, her further question was a distraction of others’ attention from that satisfaction—he spoke from his corner. —I don’t know where she is. What happened to her. If she reached her family in …—His voice trailed off, confused, as if he had forgotten a place-name; or could not speak it.
Chapter 12
The clay vessels maureen used to collect as ornaments were now her refrigerator and utensils. Vermin, fowls, weak and savage cats who tailed her openly or secretly for their survival, scenting food on her hands, hearing the proximity of food in her footsteps, domestic pigs who followed her in the hope of picking up her excrement, were reinforced in numbers by the birth of a litter to one of the cats. The creature settled itself on the haversack Bam used as a pillow. He tipped her gently off. Gina and Victor brought a plastic-net sack of the kind in which oranges were sold, back there, and substituted it as a nest for the litter. But a man came with the face of aggrieved sullenness that was familiar, the face that had been appearing for generations at the back door, asking for but not expecting to get justice, only the redress of a handout. Maureen knew who he was; she had watched him, passing time for herself in silence with what passed it for him, as he unravelled the synthetic fibre of an orange-sack, smoothed it into lengths and knotted, then plaited these to make a strong, bright rope. The couple made out that he wanted the sack back; the children had stolen it.
Victor’s look went from mother to father like a hand to a holster. —It was lying around! A whole lot of them, just lying around under a tree. We just took it!—
Gina was aghast at the enormity of the accusation as she had been at tale-telling at school. —An old orangebag! Who’s going to steal a bit of rubbish! Anyway, we brought a bag of oranges, didn’t we, ma, didn’t we, one of those old bags is our bag. This is our bag, one of them’s ours , isn’t it. How can you steal something that’s thrown away?—
—But those orange-sacks are something he uses for his work, Gina—
—What can he use them for? What ‘work’?—
—He makes rope. They’re his material.—
Victor was angry with a white man’s anger, too big for him. —He mustn’t say I stole. I just took stuff that gets thrown away, nobody wants—
But all the parents did was give the man a two-rand note, and Bam patted him on the back with gestures of apology and assumption that adults must make allowances for the actions of children.
Victor stood giddy with the force of spent emotion, after the man had gone. —Gee, two rands for an old orange-bag. I could buy one of those vintage buggy miniatures for that. I’ll get him some old orange-bags if he’ll pay me two rands.—
His father laid the same calming hand on him, a palm lightly on his head. —If he had two rands to pay for an old orange-bag, he’d be able to buy a rope instead,
—There’s Bongani. The Zulu, he works as an inspector for the Cleansing Department. Dressed up in a uniform on his bicycle. He stays with Nomvula in her room.—
—They didn’t mind him living in the yard … Mnnn. And what happened to Nomvula? Where did she go now?—
He sat down on the small low bench placed inside the hut against the wall, where male strangers sat when they came to visit. The single source of light, from the doorway, axed the interior diagonally; on the one side, women, the planes of the bay of mud plaster behind them lifted into ginger-gold, richly-moted relief like the texture of their faces, on the other, the man in darkness. His hands were on his knees. They could see his fingernails and his eyes. Perhaps he had shrugged to show he didn’t know. When his wife had assumed he wasn’t going to bother to answer—and she didn’t need an answer, anyway; the Zulu was the answer that satisfied her, her further question was a distraction of others’ attention from that satisfaction—he spoke from his corner. —I don’t know where she is. What happened to her. If she reached her family in …—His voice trailed off, confused, as if he had forgotten a place-name; or could not speak it.
Chapter 12
The clay vessels maureen used to collect as ornaments were now her refrigerator and utensils. Vermin, fowls, weak and savage cats who tailed her openly or secretly for their survival, scenting food on her hands, hearing the proximity of food in her footsteps, domestic pigs who followed her in the hope of picking up her excrement, were reinforced in numbers by the birth of a litter to one of the cats. The creature settled itself on the haversack Bam used as a pillow. He tipped her gently off. Gina and Victor brought a plastic-net sack of the kind in which oranges were sold, back there, and substituted it as a nest for the litter. But a man came with the face of aggrieved sullenness that was familiar, the face that had been appearing for generations at the back door, asking for but not expecting to get justice, only the redress of a handout. Maureen knew who he was; she had watched him, passing time for herself in silence with what passed it for him, as he unravelled the synthetic fibre of an orange-sack, smoothed it into lengths and knotted, then plaited these to make a strong, bright rope. The couple made out that he wanted the sack back; the children had stolen it.
Victor’s look went from mother to father like a hand to a holster. —It was lying around! A whole lot of them, just lying around under a tree. We just took it!—
Gina was aghast at the enormity of the accusation as she had been at tale-telling at school. —An old orangebag! Who’s going to steal a bit of rubbish! Anyway, we brought a bag of oranges, didn’t we, ma, didn’t we, one of those old bags is our bag. This is our bag, one of them’s ours , isn’t it. How can you steal something that’s thrown away?—
—But those orange-sacks are something he uses for his work, Gina—
—What can he use them for? What ‘work’?—
—He makes rope. They’re his material.—
Victor was angry with a white man’s anger, too big for him. —He mustn’t say I stole. I just took stuff that gets thrown away, nobody wants—
But all the parents did was give the man a two-rand note, and Bam patted him on the back with gestures of apology and assumption that adults must make allowances for the actions of children.
Victor stood giddy with the force of spent emotion, after the man had gone. —Gee, two rands for an old orange-bag. I could buy one of those vintage buggy miniatures for that. I’ll get him some old orange-bags if he’ll pay me two rands.—
His father laid the same calming hand on him, a palm lightly on his head. —If he had two rands to pay for an old orange-bag, he’d be able to buy a rope instead,
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