he suddenly stops the car.
“A little detour,” he says.
He does a U-turn and we drive towards Belmont.
I think of Uncle Robson who works at the Lobels’ factory down one of these side roads; whenever he comes to visit, he brings
us two or three loaves of bread, which have not risen well or are slightly burnt, and some buns.
We pass the industrial sites (in my head I say out loud all the names of the factories along the road) and finally he stops
at a gate.
He shows the guard some papers and says his name and then I hear, “Sarah Price.”
I read the sign on the guard post: welcome to ingutsheni mental hospital.
After checking the papers and names against the information on his clipboard, the guard unlocks the gate.
Ian parks the car in the visitors’ section.
“Wait here,” he says. “And keep the doors locked. I won’t be long.”
I sit in the car and watch him walk up the dirt path, jump up some steps, and wait at the door.
I watch him disappear inside.
On the dirt path there is a man mumbling to himself and twisting his hair. Every now and then he throws his hands in the air
and clutches at it as if he is trying to catch butterflies or flying ants. Then he goes back to mumbling and twisting his
hair. I turn my head and watch the woman sitting on a bench suddenly jump up and stamp her feet on the ground. And then she
bends down and starts scratching at it with her fingers. I see attendants in white walking along paths, and over by the walls,
there are men, women standing. I am hot in the car. I unwind the window. The air is so still and quiet. One of the attendants
looks at me and waves. I wave back. I put the palm of my hand on the metal of the car. It’s burning. I look by the bench again
and see the attendant who waved pull the woman from the ground and call out to the men and women by the wall. There are cars
and trucks outside, but this place seems to make everything silent, a world in itself.
“Shit, I hate this,” he says when he comes back. “I’d rather be dead than…”
And then he’s quiet.
He drives for a long while, holding the steering wheel so tight as if he wants to snap it in two.
At a robot he says, “When I’ve made some real dosh I’ll find something better, private. I’ll sort it out.”
He is talking to himself, making plans, and then he remembers me. “Now you
really
know Bullies, warts and all, heh.”
He looks at me and tries to smile. I look out at the robot and watch it turn green.
For a long time we drive without talking until I say to him, “Do… do white people get put in there, too?”
He brakes hard and for a while there is just his breathing.
He opens the door, slams it, and stands outside.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean…”
He is punching his right palm with his left fist.
“No problem,” he snaps, looking at the stray dog that has stopped to take a look at us. “Just a question.”
But he doesn’t answer it and I don’t ask him again.
25.
I can’t sleep
.
I go to the kitchen and I take out the Histalax cough mixture. I take the bottle to my room. I put it on my lips. I open my
mouth. I drink and drink.
Geraldine always carried a bottle with her at school when a test was coming. She said it calmed her nerves. She would take
swigs of it in the toilets.
I put the bottle back in the fridge and I go back to my room. I lie on my bed. I see Ian standing. He’s wearing a blue shirt,
which brings out his eyes. He’s swaying this way and that. And he is saying something I can’t hear. And then, it’s morning.
The room smells of chloroform and the frogs are lying on the white sheet waiting. The frog makes me want to cry. He should
be out jumping and croaking, but he is here waiting for me to cut him up, to show off his heart and lungs, pin them on a board.
I don’t want to do it. But I have to. I pick up the scalpel and I press it on the frog’s stomach. I can’t remember how I’m
“A little detour,” he says.
He does a U-turn and we drive towards Belmont.
I think of Uncle Robson who works at the Lobels’ factory down one of these side roads; whenever he comes to visit, he brings
us two or three loaves of bread, which have not risen well or are slightly burnt, and some buns.
We pass the industrial sites (in my head I say out loud all the names of the factories along the road) and finally he stops
at a gate.
He shows the guard some papers and says his name and then I hear, “Sarah Price.”
I read the sign on the guard post: welcome to ingutsheni mental hospital.
After checking the papers and names against the information on his clipboard, the guard unlocks the gate.
Ian parks the car in the visitors’ section.
“Wait here,” he says. “And keep the doors locked. I won’t be long.”
I sit in the car and watch him walk up the dirt path, jump up some steps, and wait at the door.
I watch him disappear inside.
On the dirt path there is a man mumbling to himself and twisting his hair. Every now and then he throws his hands in the air
and clutches at it as if he is trying to catch butterflies or flying ants. Then he goes back to mumbling and twisting his
hair. I turn my head and watch the woman sitting on a bench suddenly jump up and stamp her feet on the ground. And then she
bends down and starts scratching at it with her fingers. I see attendants in white walking along paths, and over by the walls,
there are men, women standing. I am hot in the car. I unwind the window. The air is so still and quiet. One of the attendants
looks at me and waves. I wave back. I put the palm of my hand on the metal of the car. It’s burning. I look by the bench again
and see the attendant who waved pull the woman from the ground and call out to the men and women by the wall. There are cars
and trucks outside, but this place seems to make everything silent, a world in itself.
“Shit, I hate this,” he says when he comes back. “I’d rather be dead than…”
And then he’s quiet.
He drives for a long while, holding the steering wheel so tight as if he wants to snap it in two.
At a robot he says, “When I’ve made some real dosh I’ll find something better, private. I’ll sort it out.”
He is talking to himself, making plans, and then he remembers me. “Now you
really
know Bullies, warts and all, heh.”
He looks at me and tries to smile. I look out at the robot and watch it turn green.
For a long time we drive without talking until I say to him, “Do… do white people get put in there, too?”
He brakes hard and for a while there is just his breathing.
He opens the door, slams it, and stands outside.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean…”
He is punching his right palm with his left fist.
“No problem,” he snaps, looking at the stray dog that has stopped to take a look at us. “Just a question.”
But he doesn’t answer it and I don’t ask him again.
25.
I can’t sleep
.
I go to the kitchen and I take out the Histalax cough mixture. I take the bottle to my room. I put it on my lips. I open my
mouth. I drink and drink.
Geraldine always carried a bottle with her at school when a test was coming. She said it calmed her nerves. She would take
swigs of it in the toilets.
I put the bottle back in the fridge and I go back to my room. I lie on my bed. I see Ian standing. He’s wearing a blue shirt,
which brings out his eyes. He’s swaying this way and that. And he is saying something I can’t hear. And then, it’s morning.
The room smells of chloroform and the frogs are lying on the white sheet waiting. The frog makes me want to cry. He should
be out jumping and croaking, but he is here waiting for me to cut him up, to show off his heart and lungs, pin them on a board.
I don’t want to do it. But I have to. I pick up the scalpel and I press it on the frog’s stomach. I can’t remember how I’m
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