Mr and Mrs thought there would be something about him on the news, but they were mistaken.
“It’s too early.”
“It’s too late.”
The sun sank. Nieuwenhuizen looked at the wall and at the house. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but even as the sun dropped behind the Malgases’ roof, the suns in their wall sent out a host of lack-lustre rays, which got longer and longer, so that they appeared to be rising.
Nieuwenhuizen picked up the portmanteau and found his way to the edge of the plot. He sat on the verge, in the fallen darkness, holding up one finger, looking down the street.