Read Online Life and Times of Michael K by J. M. Coetzee - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: J. M. Coetzee
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I believe.’
K allowed this utterance to sink into his mind. Do I believe in helping people? he wondered. He might help people, he might not help them, he did not know beforehand, anything was possible. He did not seem to have a belief, or did not seem to have a belief regarding help. Perhaps I am the stony ground, he thought.
When the light was switched off, K lay for a long time listening to the stirring of the children, whose bed he had taken and who now slept on a mattress on the floor. He woke once during the night with the feeling that he had been talking in his sleep; but no one seemed to have heard him. When he woke next there was a light on and the parents were getting their children off to school, trying to hush them for the sake of the guest. Mortified, he slipped on his trousers under the bedclothes and stepped outdoors. The stars were still shining; in the east there was a pink glow on the horizon.
The boy came to summon him to breakfast. At the table the urge again came over him to speak. He gripped the edge of the table and sat stiffly upright. His heart was full, he wanted to utter his thanks, but finally the right words would not come. The children stared at him; a silence fell; their parents looked away.
The two elder children were instructed to walk with him as far as the turnoff to Seweweekspoort. At the turnoff, before they parted, the boy spoke. ‘Are those the ashes?’ he said. K nodded. ‘Would you like to see?’ he offered. He opened the box, unknotted the plastic bag. First the boy smelled the ashes, then his sister did the same. ‘What are you going to do with them?’ asked the boy. ‘I am taking them back to where my mother was born long ago,’ said K. ‘That was what she wanted me to do.’ ‘Did they burn her up?’ asked the boy. K saw the burning halo. ‘She didn’t feel anything,’ he said, ‘she was already spirit by then.’
It took him three days to cover the distance from Laingsburgto Prince Albert, following the direction of the dirt road, making wide circles around farmhouses, trying to live off the veld but for the main part going hungry. Once, in the heat of the day, he stripped off his clothes and submerged himself in the water of a lonely dam. Once he was called to the roadside by a farmer driving a light truck. The farmer wanted to know where he was going. ‘To Prince Albert,’ he said, ‘to visit my family.’ But his accent was strange and it was clear that the farmer was not satisfied. ‘Jump in,’ he said. K shook his head. ‘Jump in,’ repeated the farmer, ‘I’ll give you a ride.’ ‘I’m OK,’ said K, and walked on. The truck drove off in a cloud of dust; and at once K left the road, cut down into a river-bed, and hid till nightfall.
Remembering the farmer afterwards, he could recall only the gaberdine hat and the stubby fingers that beckoned him. On each joint of each finger there was a little feather of bronze hair. His memories all seemed to be of parts, not of wholes.
On the morning of the fourth day he was squatting on a hill watching the sun come up over what he knew at last to be Prince Albert. Cocks crowed; light blinked on the windowpanes of houses; a child was driving two donkeys down the long main street. The air was utterly still. As he descended the hillside towards the town, he began to be aware of a man’s voice rising up to meet him in an even and unending monologue without visible origin. Puzzled, he stopped to listen. Is this the voice of Prince Albert? he wondered. I thought Prince Albert was dead. He tried to make out words, but though the voice pervaded the air like a mist or an aroma, the words, if there were words, if the voice were not simply lulling or chanting tones, were too faint or too smooth to hear. Then the voice ceased, giving way to a tiny faraway brass band.
K joined the road that entered the town from the south. He passed the old millwheel; he passed fenced gardens. A pair of liver-coloured dogs galloped
K allowed this utterance to sink into his mind. Do I believe in helping people? he wondered. He might help people, he might not help them, he did not know beforehand, anything was possible. He did not seem to have a belief, or did not seem to have a belief regarding help. Perhaps I am the stony ground, he thought.
When the light was switched off, K lay for a long time listening to the stirring of the children, whose bed he had taken and who now slept on a mattress on the floor. He woke once during the night with the feeling that he had been talking in his sleep; but no one seemed to have heard him. When he woke next there was a light on and the parents were getting their children off to school, trying to hush them for the sake of the guest. Mortified, he slipped on his trousers under the bedclothes and stepped outdoors. The stars were still shining; in the east there was a pink glow on the horizon.
The boy came to summon him to breakfast. At the table the urge again came over him to speak. He gripped the edge of the table and sat stiffly upright. His heart was full, he wanted to utter his thanks, but finally the right words would not come. The children stared at him; a silence fell; their parents looked away.
The two elder children were instructed to walk with him as far as the turnoff to Seweweekspoort. At the turnoff, before they parted, the boy spoke. ‘Are those the ashes?’ he said. K nodded. ‘Would you like to see?’ he offered. He opened the box, unknotted the plastic bag. First the boy smelled the ashes, then his sister did the same. ‘What are you going to do with them?’ asked the boy. ‘I am taking them back to where my mother was born long ago,’ said K. ‘That was what she wanted me to do.’ ‘Did they burn her up?’ asked the boy. K saw the burning halo. ‘She didn’t feel anything,’ he said, ‘she was already spirit by then.’
It took him three days to cover the distance from Laingsburgto Prince Albert, following the direction of the dirt road, making wide circles around farmhouses, trying to live off the veld but for the main part going hungry. Once, in the heat of the day, he stripped off his clothes and submerged himself in the water of a lonely dam. Once he was called to the roadside by a farmer driving a light truck. The farmer wanted to know where he was going. ‘To Prince Albert,’ he said, ‘to visit my family.’ But his accent was strange and it was clear that the farmer was not satisfied. ‘Jump in,’ he said. K shook his head. ‘Jump in,’ repeated the farmer, ‘I’ll give you a ride.’ ‘I’m OK,’ said K, and walked on. The truck drove off in a cloud of dust; and at once K left the road, cut down into a river-bed, and hid till nightfall.
Remembering the farmer afterwards, he could recall only the gaberdine hat and the stubby fingers that beckoned him. On each joint of each finger there was a little feather of bronze hair. His memories all seemed to be of parts, not of wholes.
On the morning of the fourth day he was squatting on a hill watching the sun come up over what he knew at last to be Prince Albert. Cocks crowed; light blinked on the windowpanes of houses; a child was driving two donkeys down the long main street. The air was utterly still. As he descended the hillside towards the town, he began to be aware of a man’s voice rising up to meet him in an even and unending monologue without visible origin. Puzzled, he stopped to listen. Is this the voice of Prince Albert? he wondered. I thought Prince Albert was dead. He tried to make out words, but though the voice pervaded the air like a mist or an aroma, the words, if there were words, if the voice were not simply lulling or chanting tones, were too faint or too smooth to hear. Then the voice ceased, giving way to a tiny faraway brass band.
K joined the road that entered the town from the south. He passed the old millwheel; he passed fenced gardens. A pair of liver-coloured dogs galloped
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