Read Online Life and Times of Michael K by J. M. Coetzee - Free Book Online
Authors: J. M. Coetzee
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He slept close to the embers, oblivious of the night noises, the tiny scurryings across the pebbles, the rustle of feathers in the trees.
Having once crossed the fence into the veld, he found it more restful to walk across country. He walked all day. In the fading light he was lucky enough to bring down a turtle-dove with a stone as it came to roost in a thorntree. He twisted its neck, cleaned it, roasted it on a skewer of wire, and ate it with the last can of beans.
In the morning he was woken roughly by an old countryman in a tattered brown army coat. With strange vehemence the old man warned him off the land. ‘I just slept here, nothing else,’ K objected. ‘Don’t come looking for trouble!’ said the old man. ‘They find you in their veld, they shoot you! You just make trouble! Now go!’ K asked for directions, but the old man waved him off and began to kick dirt over the ashes of the fire. So he retreated, and for an hour trudged along the highway; then, feeling safe, he recrossed the fence.
From a feeding trough beside a dam he scooped half a tinful of crushed mealies and bonemeal, boiled it in water, and ate the gritty mush. He filled his beret with more of the feed, thinking: At last I am living off the land.
Sometimes the only sound he could hear was that of his trouserlegs whipping together. From horizon to horizon the landscape was empty. He climbed a hill and lay on his back listening to the silence, feeling the warmth of the sun soak into his bones.
Three strange creatures, little dogs with big ears, started from behind a bush and raced away.
I could live here forever, he thought, or till I die. Nothing would happen, every day would be the same as the day before, there would be nothing to say. Tbe anxiety that belonged to the time on the road began to leave him. Sometimes, as he walked,he did not know whether he was awake or asleep. He could understand that people should have retreated here and fenced themselves in with miles and miles of silence; he could understand that they should have wanted to bequeath the privilege of so much silence to their children and grandchildren in perpetuity (though by what right he was not sure); he wondered whether there were not forgotten corners and angles and corridors between the fences, land that belonged to no one yet. Perhaps if one flew high enough, he thought, one would be able to see.
Two aircraft streaked across the sky from south to north leaving vapour trails that slowly faded, and a noise like waves.
The sun was declining as he climbed the last hills outside Laingsburg; by the time he crossed the bridge and reached the wide central avenue of the town the light was a murky violet. He passed filling stations, shops, roadhouses, all closed. A dog began barking and, having begun, went on. Other dogs joined in. There were no street lights.
He was standing before a display of children’s clothing in a dim shop window when someone passed behind him, halted, and came back. ‘It’s curfew when the bell goes,’ said a voice. ‘You’d better get off the street.’
K turned. He saw a man younger than himself wearing a green and gold track suit and carrying a wooden tool-chest. What the stranger saw he did not know.
‘Are you all right?’ said the young man.
‘I don’t want to stop,’ said K. ‘I’m going to Prince Albert and it’s a long way.’
But he went home with the stranger after all and slept at his house, after a meal of soup and pan-bread. There were three children. All the while K ate, the youngest, a girl, sat on her mother’s lap staring and, though her mother whispered in her ear, would not take her eyes off him. The two elder children kept their gaze severely on their plates. After hesitating, K spoke of his journey. ‘I met a man the other day,’ he said, ‘who told methey shoot people they find on their land.’ His friend shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of that,’ he said. ‘People must help each other, that’s what
Having once crossed the fence into the veld, he found it more restful to walk across country. He walked all day. In the fading light he was lucky enough to bring down a turtle-dove with a stone as it came to roost in a thorntree. He twisted its neck, cleaned it, roasted it on a skewer of wire, and ate it with the last can of beans.
In the morning he was woken roughly by an old countryman in a tattered brown army coat. With strange vehemence the old man warned him off the land. ‘I just slept here, nothing else,’ K objected. ‘Don’t come looking for trouble!’ said the old man. ‘They find you in their veld, they shoot you! You just make trouble! Now go!’ K asked for directions, but the old man waved him off and began to kick dirt over the ashes of the fire. So he retreated, and for an hour trudged along the highway; then, feeling safe, he recrossed the fence.
From a feeding trough beside a dam he scooped half a tinful of crushed mealies and bonemeal, boiled it in water, and ate the gritty mush. He filled his beret with more of the feed, thinking: At last I am living off the land.
Sometimes the only sound he could hear was that of his trouserlegs whipping together. From horizon to horizon the landscape was empty. He climbed a hill and lay on his back listening to the silence, feeling the warmth of the sun soak into his bones.
Three strange creatures, little dogs with big ears, started from behind a bush and raced away.
I could live here forever, he thought, or till I die. Nothing would happen, every day would be the same as the day before, there would be nothing to say. Tbe anxiety that belonged to the time on the road began to leave him. Sometimes, as he walked,he did not know whether he was awake or asleep. He could understand that people should have retreated here and fenced themselves in with miles and miles of silence; he could understand that they should have wanted to bequeath the privilege of so much silence to their children and grandchildren in perpetuity (though by what right he was not sure); he wondered whether there were not forgotten corners and angles and corridors between the fences, land that belonged to no one yet. Perhaps if one flew high enough, he thought, one would be able to see.
Two aircraft streaked across the sky from south to north leaving vapour trails that slowly faded, and a noise like waves.
The sun was declining as he climbed the last hills outside Laingsburg; by the time he crossed the bridge and reached the wide central avenue of the town the light was a murky violet. He passed filling stations, shops, roadhouses, all closed. A dog began barking and, having begun, went on. Other dogs joined in. There were no street lights.
He was standing before a display of children’s clothing in a dim shop window when someone passed behind him, halted, and came back. ‘It’s curfew when the bell goes,’ said a voice. ‘You’d better get off the street.’
K turned. He saw a man younger than himself wearing a green and gold track suit and carrying a wooden tool-chest. What the stranger saw he did not know.
‘Are you all right?’ said the young man.
‘I don’t want to stop,’ said K. ‘I’m going to Prince Albert and it’s a long way.’
But he went home with the stranger after all and slept at his house, after a meal of soup and pan-bread. There were three children. All the while K ate, the youngest, a girl, sat on her mother’s lap staring and, though her mother whispered in her ear, would not take her eyes off him. The two elder children kept their gaze severely on their plates. After hesitating, K spoke of his journey. ‘I met a man the other day,’ he said, ‘who told methey shoot people they find on their land.’ His friend shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of that,’ he said. ‘People must help each other, that’s what
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