Cry, The Beloved Country Part 8

But the good Mrs. Lithebe was there, and she and Gertrude talked long and simply about things dear to the heart of women, and they worked and sang together in the performance of the daily tasks.

Yes, it was to the small serious boy that he turned for his enjoyment. He had bought the child some cheap wooden blocks, and with these the little one played endlessly and intently, with a purpose obscure to the adult mind, but completely absorbing. k.u.malo would pick the child up, and put his hand under the s.h.i.+rt to feel the small warm back, and tickle and poke him, till the serious face relaxed into smiles, and the smiles grew into uncontrollable laughter. Or he would tell him of the great valley where he was born, and the names of hills and rivers, and the school that he would go to, and the mist that shrouded the tops above Ndotsheni. Of this the child understood nothing; yet something he did understand, for he would listen solemnly to the deep melodious names, and gaze at his uncle out of wide and serious eyes. And this to the uncle was pleasure indeed, for he was homesick in the great city; and something inside him was deeply satisfied by this recital. Sometimes Gertrude would hear him and come to the door and stand shyly there, and listen to the tale of the beauties of the land where she was born. This enriched his pleasure, and sometimes he would say to her, do you remember, and she would answer, yes, I remember, and be pleased that he had asked her.

But there were times, some in the very midst of satisfaction, when the thought of his son would come to him. And then in one fraction of time the hills with the deep melodious names stood out waste and desolate beneath the pitiless sun, the streams ceased to run, the cattle moved thin and listless over the red and rootless earth. It was a place of old women and mothers and children, from each house something was gone. His voice would falter and die away, and he would fall silent and muse. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps he clutched suddenly at the small listening boy, for the little one would break from the spell, and wriggle in his arms to be put down, to play again with his blocks on the floor. As though he was searching for something that would put an end to this sudden unasked-for pain, the thought of his wife would come to him, and of many a friend that he had, and the small children coming down from the hills, dropping sometimes out of the very mist, on their way to the school. These things were so dear to him that the pain pa.s.sed, and he contemplated them in quiet, and some measure of peace.

Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who indeed knows why there can be comfort in a world of desolation? Now G.o.d be thanked that there is a beloved one who can lift up the heart in suffering, that one can play with a child in the face of such misery. Now G.o.d be thanked that the name of a hill is such music, that the name of a river can heal. Aye, even the name of a river that runs no more.

Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who knows for what we live, and struggle, and die? Who knows what keeps us living and struggling, while all things break about us? Who knows why the warm flesh of a child is such comfort, when one's own child is lost and cannot be recovered? Wise men write many books, in words too hard to understand. But this, the purpose of our lives, the end of all our struggle, is beyond all human wisdom. Oh G.o.d, my G.o.d, do not Thou forsake me. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, if Thou art with me....

But he stood up. That was Msimangu talking at the door. It was time to continue the search.

And this is Shanty Town, my friend.

Even here the children laugh in the narrow lanes that run between these tragic habitations. A sheet of iron, a few planks, hessian and gra.s.s, an old door from some forgotten house. Smoke curls from vents cunningly contrived, there is a smell of food, there is a sound of voices, not raised in anger or pain, but talking of ordinary things, of this one that is born and that one that has died, of this one that does so well at school and that one who is now in prison. There is drought over the land, and the sun s.h.i.+nes warmly down from the cloudless sky. But what will they do when it rains, what will they do when it is winter?

It is sad for me to see.

Yet see them building over there. And that they have not done for many a year. Some good may come of this. And this too is Dubula's work.

He is everywhere, it seems.

See, there is one of our nurses. Does she not look well in her red and white, and her cap upon her head?

She looks well indeed.

The white people are training more and more of them. It is strange how we move forward in some things, and stand still in others, and go backward in yet others. Yet in this matter of nurses we have many friends amongst the white people. There was a great outcry when it was decided to allow some of our young people to train as doctors at the European University of the Wit-watersrand. But our friends stood firm, and they will train there until we have a place of our own. Good morning, nurse.

Good morning, umfundisi.

Nurse, have you been working here long?

Yes, as long as the place is here.

And did you ever know a young man, Absalom k.u.malo?

Yes, that I did. But he is not here now. And I can tell where he stayed. He stayed with the Hlatshwayos, and they are still here. Do you see the place where there are many stones so that they cannot build? See, there is a small boy standing there.

Yes, I see it.

And beyond it the house with the pipe, where the smoke is coming out?

Yes, I see it.

Go down that lane, and you will find the Hlatshwayos in the third or fourth house, on the side of the hand that you eat with.

Thank you, nurse, we shall go.

Her directions were so clear that they had no difficulty in finding the house.

Good morning, mother.

The woman was clean and nice-looking, and she smiled at them in a friendly way.

Good morning, umfundisi.

Mother, we are looking for a lad, Absalom k.u.malo.

He stayed with me, umfundisi. We took pity on him because he had no place to go. But I am sorry to tell you that they took him away, and I heard that the magistrate had sent him to the reformatory.

The reformatory?

Yes, the big school over there, beyond the soldiers' hospital. It is not too far to walk.

I must thank you, mother. Stay well. Come, my friend.

They walked on in silence, for neither of them had any words. k.u.malo would have stumbled, though the road was straight and even, and Msimangu took his arm.

Have courage, my brother.

He glanced at his friend, but k.u.malo's eyes were on the ground. Although Msimangu could not see his face, he could see the drop that fell on the ground, and he tightened his grip on the arm.

Have courage, my brother.

Sometimes it seems that I have no more courage.

I have heard of this reformatory. Your friend the priest from England speaks well of it. I have heard him say that if any boy wishes to amend, there is help for him there. So take courage.

I was afraid of this.

Yes, I too was afraid of it.

Yes, I remember when you first became afraid. The day at Alexandra, when you sent me on, and you returned to speak again to the woman.

I see that I cannot hide from you.

That is not because I am so wise. Only because it is my son.

They walked out of Shanty Town into Orlando, and out along the tarred street that leads to the high road to Johannesburg, to the place where the big petrol station of the white people stands at the gates of Orlando; for the black people are not allowed to have petrol stations in Orlando.

What did the woman say to you, my friend?

She said that these two young men were in some mischief. Many goods, white people's goods, came to the house.

This reformatory, can they reform there?

I do not know it well. Some people say one thing, some the other. But your friend speaks well of it.

And after a long while, during which Msimangu's thoughts had wandered elsewhere, k.u.malo said again, It is my hope that they can reform there.

It is my hope also, my brother.

After a walk of about one hour, they came to the road that led up to the reformatory. It was midday when they arrived, and from all directions there came boys marching, into the gates of the reformatory. From every place they came, until it seemed that the marching would never end.

There are very many here, my friend.

Yes, I did not know there would be so many.

One of their own people, a pleasant fellow with a smiling face, came up to them and asked them what they wanted, and they told him they were searching for one Absalom k.u.malo. So this man took them to an office, where a young white man enquired of them in Afrikaans what was their business.

We are looking, sir, for the son of my friend, one Absalom k.u.malo, said Msimangu in the same language.

Absalom k.u.malo. Yes, I know him well. Strange, he told me he had no people.

Your son told him, my friend, that he had no people, said Msimangu in Zulu.

He was no doubt ashamed, said k.u.malo. I am sorry, he said to Msimangu in Zulu, that I speak no Afrikaans. For he had heard that sometimes they do not like black people who speak no Afrikaans.

You may speak what you will, said the young man. Your son did well here, he said. He became one of our senior boys, and I have great hope for his future.

You mean, sir, that he is gone?

Gone, yes, only one month ago. We made an exception in his case, partly because of his good behaviour, partly because of his age, but mainly because there was a girl who was pregnant by him. She came here to see him, and he seemed fond of her, and anxious about the child that would be born. And the girl too seemed fond of him, so with all these things in mind, and with his solemn undertaking that he would work for his child and its mother, we asked the Minister to let him go. Of course we do not succeed in all these cases, but where there seems to be real affection between the parties, we take the chance, hoping that good will come of it. One thing is certain that if it fails, there is nothing that could have succeeded.

And is he now married, sir?

No, umfundisi, he is not. But everything is arranged for the marriage. This girl has no people, and your son told us he had no people, so I myself and my native a.s.sistant have arranged it.

That is good of you, sir. I thank you for them.

It is our work. You must not worry too much about this matter, and the fact that they were not married, the young man said kindly. The real question is whether he will care for them, and lead a decent life.

That I can see, although it is a shock to me.

I understand that. Now I can help you in this matter. If you will sit outside while I finish my work, I will take you to Pimville, where Absalom and this girl are living. He will not be there, because I have found work for him in the town, and they have given me good reports of him. I persuaded him to open a Post Office book, and he already has three or four pounds in it.

Indeed I cannot thank you, sir.

It is our work, said the young man. Now if you will leave me, I shall finish what I have to do and then take you to Pimville.

Outside the pleasant-faced man came and spoke to them and hearing their plans, invited them to his house, where he and his wife had a number of boys in their charge, boys who had left the big reformatory building and were living outside in these free houses. He gave them some tea and food, and he too told them that Absalom had become a head-boy, and had behaved well during his stay at the reformatory. So they talked about the reformatory, and the children that were growing up in Johannesburg without home or school or custom, and about the broken tribe and the sickness of the land, until a messenger came from the young man to say that he was ready.

It was not long before the motorcar had reached Pimville, which is a village of half-tanks used as houses, set up many years before in emergency, and used ever since. For there have never been houses enough for all the people who came to Johannesburg. At the gate they asked permission to enter, for a white man may not go into these places without permission.

They stopped at one of these half-tank houses, and the young white man took them in, where they were greeted by a young girl, who herself seemed no more than a child.

We have come to enquire after Absalom, said the young white man. This umfundisi is his father.

He went on Sat.u.r.day to Springs, she said, and he has not yet returned.

The young man was silent awhile, and he frowned in perplexity or anger.

But this is Tuesday, he said. Have you heard nothing from him?

Nothing, she said.

When will he return? he asked.

I do not know, she said.

Will he ever return? he asked, indifferently, carelessly.

I do not know, she said. She said it tonelessly, hopelessly, as one who is used to waiting, to desertion. She said it as one who expects nothing from her seventy years upon the earth. No rebellion will come out of her, no demands, no fierceness. Nothing will come out of her at all save the children of men who will use her, leave her, forget her. And so slight was her body, and so few her years, that k.u.malo for all his suffering was moved to compa.s.sion.

What will you do? he said.

I do not know, she said.

Perhaps you will find another man, said Msimangu bitterly. And before k.u.malo could speak, to steal away the bitterness and hide it from her - I do not know, she said.

And again before k.u.malo could speak, Msimangu turned his back on the girl, and spoke to him privately.

You can do nothing here, he said. Let us go.

My friend.......

I tell you, you can do nothing. Have you not troubles enough of your own? I tell you there are thousands such in Johannesburg. And were your back as broad as heaven, and your purse full of gold, and did your compa.s.sion reach from here to h.e.l.l itself, there is nothing you can do.

Silently they withdrew. All of them were silent, the young white man heavy with failure, the old man with grief, Msimangu still bitter with his words. k.u.malo stood at the car though the others were already seated.

You do not understand, he said. The child will be my grandchild.

Even that you do not know, said Msimangu angrily. His bitterness mastered him again. And if he were, he said, how many more such have you? Shall we search them out, day after day, hour after hour? Will it ever end?

k.u.malo stood in the dust like one who has been struck. Then without speaking any more he took his seat in the car.

Again they stopped at the gate of the village, and the young white man got out and went into the office of the European Superintendent. He came back, his face set and unhappy.

I have telephoned the factory, he said. It is true. He has not been at work this week.

At the gates of Orlando, by the big petrol station, they stopped yet again.

Would you like to get out here? the young man asked. They climbed out, and the young man spoke to k.u.malo.

I am sorry for this, he said.

Yes, it is very heavy. As if his English had left him, he spoke in Zulu to Msimangu.

I am sorry too for this end to his work, he said.