orange-backed books with black penguins on the spines. Joshua tried to read them sometimes, struggling over the words; he smuggled them out to the room so his mother could read with him.
“I was lucky,” she told him. “I went to a mission school. They were good teachers. Now I am glad because I can read with you.”
Joshua liked to borrow the old Enid Blytons on the bottom shelf. They were easy to read, though the world she wrote about was strange. There was a girl called George. And a boy called Julian. There was danger but it was only pretend danger, angry men who did not ever do anything really bad, and picnics by the sea, and parents at the end, and safety, and cocoa, and a dog called Timmy.
There were never policemen who beat you for no reason. There were never adults who behaved inexplicably. There was never, ever murder, blood, or death.
Oh, the stories he could tell! He had learned most of them from his grandmother, but he liked to embellish them with extra bits. He told them to Tsumalo sometimes, sitting in the shed at night, talking with a little candle stuck on the packing case at the end of the bed.
“. . . And then they ran away to the mountains and lived on
suurvygies
and eucalyptus leaves and baked tortoise forever and ever and ever.”
How Tsumalo laughed! He took Joshua’s head in his hands and gazed at him and said: “If I ever have a son, I want him to be just like you!”
But sometimes Tsumalo would want to lie and read quietly, and he would shake his head and say, “Yes, yes!” to himself, and Joshua would be forced to read the comics that he had already read:
Superman
and
Batman and Robin, Richie Rich
and
Archie and Veronica.
He liked Veronica. He thought she was like Anna. She was so mean. He thought he would like to be like that — then no one would ever dare to be mean to him.
Other times, Tsumalo would make him read aloud. It was supposed to be good for him. “If you are going to be a free man, you must know how to read well,” said Tsumalo. “It is the most important thing in the world. If you can read, you can teach yourself anything. Anything!”
And he would stop and gaze out the window of the shed with its tacked-on flowered curtain that Beauty had made, and narrow his eyes and say dreamily, “Yes, you must learn how to read like a white boy.”
M ummy says you’re going to kill us all.”
Joshua turned around. He had the polish and cloth in his hand. He couldn’t see where the voice was coming from, but he knew it was Anna’s. He put the tin down carefully by Robert’s car. Was she in the tree?
“Over here, you
moegoe
!” But he still couldn’t see her.
“Pssst!”
He looked at the fence. He could see the knothole. Nothing.
He shrugged, picked up the tin, and dolloped some of the pink gunk onto the red hood of the Alfa. There was a jagged hole in its smooth surface. He would have to be careful.
He could feel the outrage coming from behind him, and he smiled to himself as he spread the polish.
There was a hot breath at his elbow. He looked down at Anna. He hadn’t realized how small she was. She was wearing a striped T-shirt that failed to quite meet the waistband of her shorts, exposing a creamy roll of flesh.
“Hey,” he said. “Where’s your pretty dress?”
“I hate dresses! I’m a tomboy!”
He handed her the cloth without comment and went to get another. As he rounded the corner of the house, she called after him: “Hey, boy!”
He turned.
“Are you? Going to kill us all?”
“Not if you polish that car properly!” he said. He was impressed at his own daring.
Robert was coming down the back stairs from the
stoep.
“Hey, how’re you doing? How’s that car coming?” The blue eyes were blurry, Joshua could see. There was a beer in his hand. “Where’s Tsumalo?”
“I don’t know, Master,” said Joshua, giving the little bob of respect he’d been taught.
“Don’t call me Master!” Robert laughed. “Let no man call me
“I was lucky,” she told him. “I went to a mission school. They were good teachers. Now I am glad because I can read with you.”
Joshua liked to borrow the old Enid Blytons on the bottom shelf. They were easy to read, though the world she wrote about was strange. There was a girl called George. And a boy called Julian. There was danger but it was only pretend danger, angry men who did not ever do anything really bad, and picnics by the sea, and parents at the end, and safety, and cocoa, and a dog called Timmy.
There were never policemen who beat you for no reason. There were never adults who behaved inexplicably. There was never, ever murder, blood, or death.
Oh, the stories he could tell! He had learned most of them from his grandmother, but he liked to embellish them with extra bits. He told them to Tsumalo sometimes, sitting in the shed at night, talking with a little candle stuck on the packing case at the end of the bed.
“. . . And then they ran away to the mountains and lived on
suurvygies
and eucalyptus leaves and baked tortoise forever and ever and ever.”
How Tsumalo laughed! He took Joshua’s head in his hands and gazed at him and said: “If I ever have a son, I want him to be just like you!”
But sometimes Tsumalo would want to lie and read quietly, and he would shake his head and say, “Yes, yes!” to himself, and Joshua would be forced to read the comics that he had already read:
Superman
and
Batman and Robin, Richie Rich
and
Archie and Veronica.
He liked Veronica. He thought she was like Anna. She was so mean. He thought he would like to be like that — then no one would ever dare to be mean to him.
Other times, Tsumalo would make him read aloud. It was supposed to be good for him. “If you are going to be a free man, you must know how to read well,” said Tsumalo. “It is the most important thing in the world. If you can read, you can teach yourself anything. Anything!”
And he would stop and gaze out the window of the shed with its tacked-on flowered curtain that Beauty had made, and narrow his eyes and say dreamily, “Yes, you must learn how to read like a white boy.”
M ummy says you’re going to kill us all.”
Joshua turned around. He had the polish and cloth in his hand. He couldn’t see where the voice was coming from, but he knew it was Anna’s. He put the tin down carefully by Robert’s car. Was she in the tree?
“Over here, you
moegoe
!” But he still couldn’t see her.
“Pssst!”
He looked at the fence. He could see the knothole. Nothing.
He shrugged, picked up the tin, and dolloped some of the pink gunk onto the red hood of the Alfa. There was a jagged hole in its smooth surface. He would have to be careful.
He could feel the outrage coming from behind him, and he smiled to himself as he spread the polish.
There was a hot breath at his elbow. He looked down at Anna. He hadn’t realized how small she was. She was wearing a striped T-shirt that failed to quite meet the waistband of her shorts, exposing a creamy roll of flesh.
“Hey,” he said. “Where’s your pretty dress?”
“I hate dresses! I’m a tomboy!”
He handed her the cloth without comment and went to get another. As he rounded the corner of the house, she called after him: “Hey, boy!”
He turned.
“Are you? Going to kill us all?”
“Not if you polish that car properly!” he said. He was impressed at his own daring.
Robert was coming down the back stairs from the
stoep.
“Hey, how’re you doing? How’s that car coming?” The blue eyes were blurry, Joshua could see. There was a beer in his hand. “Where’s Tsumalo?”
“I don’t know, Master,” said Joshua, giving the little bob of respect he’d been taught.
“Don’t call me Master!” Robert laughed. “Let no man call me
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