Read Online Bingo's Run by James A. Levine - Free Book Online

he always watched me. Days were spent listening to religion, reading, or learning the times tables. Everyone got a Bible with his name written on the inside cover. The books were kept in a pile by the back door. I never told anyone that I could already read and multiply numbers. Who would believe that a retard could read? Sister Margaret, the sadist nun, taught us. She was a skeleton—no fat, all mean. Her head was so sunk in, it looked as if it could be crushed with one stamp, like a tin can. Age had folded her double. But even though her body was frail, “mean” made her strong. She used her wooden ruler with such skill that even Smoking Boy cried after he spelled “divine” wrong. The good news was that Sister Margaret viewed teaching a retard as a waste of energy.
    In art class, I cut a hole inside my Bible, Father Matthew style. I hid the three bags of white and the money Wolf had given me in the hole. I had learned from Father Matthew that the Bible is an excellent place to hide things, because no one looks there. Anyway, at St. Michael’s there was almost no thieving, and I saw only one act of blood, aside from my own early experience of it. One boy found another boy searching his clothes. After he pounded the thief’s head on the stone floor, both boys got dressed. And that was that.
    On most days we went to Uhuru Park, which was about a half-hour walk from St. Michael’s. Scores got settled at the park, but since no one possessed anything of value, and there were no women to fight over, the fights and stare-downs were mainly for show. Most of the time, the children played. As a retard, I was left in peace. I started to understand Slo-George’s success in life.
    Runners who are not running must rest (Commandment No. 7). That way, they are ready for anything. While I was at St. Michael’s, I rested—except for Thursday mornings, when Father Matthew sent me out on a special project.
    A week after I arrived at St. Michael’s, big-breasted Plain Brunette told me to go to Father Matthew’s office. “Where that?” I said. You see, I am always thinking.
    The priest, in his black clothes, looked as if he never slept; his face was light yellow and plastic-looking. He stared at me from behind his desk. “Well, Bingo,” he said, “how are you settling in at St. Michael’s?”
    I said, “Good, ya,” but he wasn’t interested. I waited for him to get to the point.
    â€œBingo, now tell me, who is this Thomas Hunsa?”
    â€œHunsa an artist,” I said. I wondered why he asked me that.There was no art in his office—perhaps he wanted some. Father Matthew said nothing, and his silence forced me to speak into it. I said, “Thomas Hunsa a famous artis’ but he stopped his art.” I remembered what Hunsa had told me—about how he had cut up the American dealer boy and that Gihilihili wanted to find him. I added, “Cos Hunsa got old.”
    The priest spoke so slowly, each word sounded like an orphan from the others. “Bingo, I received a phone call. You are the only soul Thomas Hunsa will let visit his house. Is that so?”
    I said, “Yes, Father Matthew. I bring him special paint from a shop in Kibera. Ya see, he can’t get tha special white paint he need.”
    The priest smiled. I knew that he was the boss of bosses, but it was like at the Livingstone. At the Livingstone Hotel, you never say “white” or “dagga” or “drugs”; you say, “packages,” “special delivery,” and “presen’.” That is class. I could see that the priest understood class. “Is that so?” he said again.
    â€œYa,” I said, and nodded. His eyes watched mine. I stared straight back into the black of them. People look away when they lie (“I got no monay”; “I pay ya back tomorra”; “You so pretty”). Not me.
    The priest coughed.