Hillela walked out of the shop. The manager came down the aisle, his male breasts spread by shoulders drawn back authoritatively. — These are your friends? I don’t want them here.—
— Calm down, old man. We don’t want to be here either, old man. — They talked all over him agilely. Looked for Hillela, but she was gone; out they sauntered.
Only when they had left did Sasha commit his kind of disloyalty to her, that she would never know. — I don’t know any of them. They walked in and started.—
That evening brother, sister and cousin gathered in the girls’ room; Hillela was at home, for once. Carole was grateful and shyly expressed her pleasure in whatever small ways she could when Hillela stayed in; they did not listen to, but she played again and again a record singing about love in a hoarse, laryngitic style that had become her unconfessed mating call. Carole was working in the library of a newspaper; Hillela was a temporary hand in a depot for a photographic laboratory. Like rookies in an army, these recruits to the world of daily bread-winning compared and gossiped about their holiday jobs. — I’d rather dig ditches. Anything’s better than selling people stuff for more money than you’ve paid for it. — The great-grandson of a Lithuanian pedlar was generations away from his progenitor’s necessity; and he was also Pauline’s son. — What about writing out dockets for little rolls of film all day long—‘Why aren’t they ready?’, ‘This print’s got a scratch’, “There’s something wrong with the colours’.—Well at least developing film is a service, it’s doing something for the money — But Hilly’s not the one who does it, is she? She’s just in between. — Most of the people in the big cities are just that. Taking money, handing over something they know nothing about. I’d rather dig ditches.—
The record had come to an end and Carole glided to place the arm at the start again without the other two noticing. Hillela addressed her male cousin’s lowered eyes and the mouth that adults interpreted as sulky but was an expression of need for answers they could not give him. — Most people know nothing about anything they do. About why they do anything. It’s just because they feel like it … it’s fun. Doesn’t mean anything. They just go ahead.—
If that might have signalled the surfacing of what had happened at the bottle store in her lunch hour, a confession or a defiance, how could one tell, with Hillela — incidents of that magnitude in the adolescent world which would have caused a family rumpus at Olga’s, where political passions were the politics of family relationships, at Pauline’s could not expect to attract any attention. Certainly not in comparison with what was about to happen in her house that night. Before Sasha could respond — if he would have responded at all — Bettie came in (Bettie never knocked on the children’s doors, even though they were grown up, now). — There’s someone who wants Miss Pauline. I told him she’s out but he says no, then he wants someone else to come.—
— Who is it? Man or woman?—
— A boy. (Bettie’s way of indicating a black man.) I think I see him sometime here before … He won’t say the name. — She was used to Pauline’s semi-clandestine black visitors; pulled a you-know-the-kind face: these people always got money out of Pauline, while she had to work for hers.
Sasha followed her, but came back at once. — He says he knows you, Carole. I’ve never seen the guy.—
He sat at the kitchen table with his elbow resting on it and the chair turned away, legs stretched and spread, smiling, a man in the self-confidence of his rotundity and charm. It was as if the three young people were arriving before him by appointment, for an interview. He leaned forward and held out a hand. — Carole, how’s it? Your mummy not here? You remember me, mmh?—
Carole’s voice rose to cover embarrassment at Bettie’s confining a friend of the family to the kitchen. — Oh yes! But come inside!—
— Donsi. Donsi Masuku. And I’ve seen your sister, too. So this’s the young man of the family—
In the livingroom he made himself comfortable. — When do you think she’ll come, your mother? Okay, whenever it is, that’s all right — I’ll wait. What’s your name? Sasha. Sa-sha. That’s a Russian name, ay? Sasha, can you get me a beer — why don’t we have a beer together? What kind of records have you got — I heard some music going … You got any Duke? How I love that man. I used to play trumpet, I used to play drums, one time … I was even with a group. Did you ever hear of the Extra Strongs — the name comes from those peppermint sweets, you know them, XXX Mints. Yes. That was our group. We took part in the Big Band shows, Soweto, Cape Town, Durban. We cut a disc. Old seventy-eight. One day if I find it, I’ll bring it to play for you, Carole, you’ll see. But nowadays I haven’t got the wind (slapping his belly) or it’s got stuck there inside (making them laugh at him). Haven’t got the time, maybe haven’t got the heart for it … Now — come on, Donsi, what’s the matter with you, man! Must never lose the heart, you know that — I’m telling you, kids, never lose the heart, because if you lose that … they’ve got you!—
Pauline and Joe walked in on him dancing with Carole and Hillela. Pauline’s eyes had a moment of stillness, hesitation, when she saw who he was: one of those whose followers said things, now, she had read out aloud. I want them to call us baas. Their wives are going to wash the clothes for our wives. I don’t want to be equal with Europeans. We left the African National Congress because we saw Europeans among us. But the innocent bodily warmth, the faint odour of black beneficed the house, absolved whiteness; she came forward in irresistible pleasure of release. Joe offered more beer and then excused himself; he had work to finish. — You legal men do your best for us, we know. — Joe smiled his creased smile. The compliment tossed at him was a convention of guestly graciousness, total insincerity innocent of critical innuendo: the delightful man knew Joe was aware he was an initiator of a move that blacks should not take bail and should refuse defence in the white man’s courts against the white man’s laws. — Lovely kids you’ve got. They’ve been giving me a good time. Really nice. And she can play the guitar — this one!—
— I’m so glad they looked after you. How are you, Donsi? Good god, you come out of detention looking as if you’ve been on holiday — I saw your name listed in the paper and I was so pleased … but I didn’t know where you’d be — somebody told me your wife and the children had gone to her mother somewhere in Natal.—
— Yes, mealie-pap, mealie-pap, nothing but mealie-pap, you put on weight, they fatten you up for the kill.—
— Well, you were never exactly dainty.—
— But it was muscle, you know? I’ve always been keen on body-building … but in there, man! Look — can I talk to you now? — He leaned in a swift sketch of urgency and confidentiality, then looked up beaming dismissal at the three young people. — Bye-bye girls, and thanks, hey. Bye, Sasha.—
As they left the room sharing the mood of his good nature he was already speaking at a different pitch, his chair pulled close to Pauline. — Bongi and our kids are there in the car. Outside your house.—
In the passage, Carole stopped. — All this time, in the car! Ma’ll be furious with me. Why didn’t he say … — Her brother, at once irritated by his sister’s subservience to their mother, left them, and her cousin soothed her by closing their bedroom door on the adults and making her giggle: —Can you just imagine Pauline sitting for an hour in a dark car while Joe was inside dancing?—