At two o’clock, as sleep gradually took over and the tin roof dripped with dew in tiny, tortuous rivulets, there was commotion once again: we were being woken up. Clad in pajamas, we were made to stand in the corridor between the two columns of beds. After a check to see that we were all present, we were marched off to the bathrooms, ten meters away. The timing was deliberate: the air was ice-cold and windy, and fat clouds loomed in the sky, as though it was going to rain. We stood under the acacia trees, a mat of dead leaves underfoot, our bodies quaking as much as our teeth clattered, and awaited our fate. Dew dripped from the leaves above, driving all semblance of sleep from our eyes and fatigue from our bodies.
Bullies armed with sticks lined up in front of and behind us, and their leader issued our orders: we had to do pushups, situps and then frog-kicks. We were reminded that we were completely in the hands of these boys, and that the more cooperative we were, the better for us it would be. I kept my head down, determined to survey the lay of the land before deciding how best to go about striking back. The weak and the slow, tormented by cramp and semi-paralysis, got kicked and cracked on the head. The drills went on for a long time because we were generally slow, unused to such rigors. The bullies exercised sadistic patience, making sure that everyone got there with time.
Finally, with leaves and dirt on our clothes and in our hair, we were lined up and ordered to open our flies. “Play the fiddle, Bushmen. The fiddle, you nincompoops. As soon as you ejaculate, you retire to bed.” How on earth could one get even a mild erection? The penises looked like shriveled worms, sprouting mushrooms or coiled centipedes.
Two Bushmen left early that morning, one saying that he had come to become a priest, not a criminal, but the priests didn’t seem too impressed. After all, many were called but few were chosen, and he who loved himself more than God was not worthy of the call. Didn’t the chaff, in the end, separate itself from the grain? Didn’t the dead bury themselves? Ships which broke up after the first storm weren’t fit for the voyage, we learned.
On the fourth night, just as the extravaganza hit its peak, someone pulled my left arm, dislocating it. I screamed. The boys panicked and fled. The infirmarian was eventually called, and I got the necessary attention. I was haunted by the fear that this time my hand was going to remain paralyzed and would wilt and become totally useless. I moved my things to the infirmary. I exaggerated my affliction and enjoyed temporary immunity. This was my salvation from the horrors of Sing-Sing. Ensconced in the stark pale blue walls of the infirmary, overlooking the woods, I was safe. Nobody ordered me around. Nobody teased me or forced me to do anything for his pleasure. I slept as much as I wanted. I dodged mass and any other activity I did not like. For the first time since my arrival, I had time to think.
I wasn’t very interested in finding out exactly who had pulled my arm. Given the circumstances, it could have been anybody. After all, boys were doing what the staff let them get away with. What could I do about it? How could I lay my hands on the staff? For the time being, all I had to do was survive and wait for a chance to act.
I was already thinking about getting myself a bodyguard, someone like Dummy A or Cane. I had noticed a shabby, loud bruiser called Lwendo. He went after the newcomers with a vengeance, beating them, calling them names, confiscating their things, forcing them to carry his bathwater to the bathrooms, eating their food and making them wash his clothes on the weekend. My uneducated guess was that he was screaming for attention, somebody to make him feel big. I decided to give it to him in exchange for protection.
I went to him one afternoon and volunteered to do for him all the things he found too demeaning for a second-year student. I promised to sweep under his bed, to clean his shoes, to wash and iron his clothes and to fetch him water during the drought.
“Bushman, you are out of your mind,” he said, laughing derisively. “You are a cripple. You can hardly wipe your own bottom, and yet you are volunteering to work for me? How will you do that?”
“This arm is going to heal sooner than you expect. I can already move my fingers. In a fortnight I will be at your service.”
“Go and work for Jesus in exchange for a miracle cure,” he said, laughing smugly.
“I am serious.” Silence descended on us. The first bell had rung for class; within five minutes the second one would ring, and everybody had to be in class by then. Black-trousered, white-shirted shadows wheeled past us with a crunching of shoes.
“I’ve got it,” he said, flaring up. “You are a spy, Bushman. Who sent you to keep an eye on me? The rector or one of those bloody priests? Do you think I am stupid? Get out of my way, Bushman.”
“I am not a spy. I would never even think of it. I swear by my broken arm.”
“All right, Bushman. I accept your offer, but I am warning you. If you fool with me, I will throw live coals on you one good Saturday afternoon, you understand? Now, what do you want from me?”
“I want your mates to leave me alone. One of them dislocated my arm, and he hasn’t even got the decency to come and apologize. I don’t expect him to. But I don’t want any of them in my way.”
“I will see what I can do, Bushman,” he said, smiling victoriously. Behind his back, in the middle of which a trail of sweat showed, I said, “One day you will stop calling me Bushman.”
As soon as Lwendo agreed to swat my flies, I started planning my liberation. I wasn’t going to be his lackey for a whole year. Blackmail was in my blood; it was just a matter of time before it ensnared him. Above all, I didn’t like him, and I didn’t value his company. He was too loud, too shabby and too tactless for my taste. My plan was to use him, abuse him and then drop him in the gutter where he belonged.
I despised manual labor. My stint with the despots had cast my attitude in stone. My next maneuver was to get myself a white-collar job, say, in the library, sacristy, infirmary or laboratory. I needed to find some priest to impress with so much false enthusiasm that he would recommend me.
The priest in charge of the sacristy was too much of an actor to be ensnared by the wiles of an amateur. He did not encourage familiarity either. His big, small-eyed face had an eternal frown on it, and his long frame made him seem as if he were always looking for something on the ground or in the air. Stolen altar wine and steel balls, boys said. He was an incurable grouch who believed that we were having a very easy life. He often said that the seminaries of today were watered-down versions of the old ones, in the days when priests were men. I, like many other boys, detested his sourpuss attitude and kept out of his way. The common joke was that he had pissed all the steel out of his balls because it could not stand the temperature of his displeasure.
My most realistic prospect was Fr. Kaanders, a retired Dutch missionary, who was in charge of the library. The library was not a popular place: most boys would not be caught dead reading a book which was not compulsory. I felt that if I turned on my charm, the old man would eventually be trapped in my designs.
I attacked the library with a vengeance. I was always the first person to arrive and the last to leave. When I entered, I would walk very slowly along the bookshelves, stopping now and then to pick up a volume. I would wipe it quickly, almost absentmindedly, open the pages and pretend to be absorbed. I would look at a picture page, think private thoughts or simply kill time, and hope that Kaanders was watching. When I felt that it was time to replace the volume, I would close the book, carefully part the other volumes and put it back. I would then move to another shelf and do the same thing all over again. After making the rounds of the shelves, I would remove two or three volumes, place them on a desk and read a favorite book. In the meantime, I pretended to consult the bigger volumes.