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SCENE THREE

A few days later.

Morris is at the table counting their savings—banknotes and silver. The alarm-clock rings. He sweeps the money into a tin which he then carefully hides among the pots on the kitchen-dresser. Next he resets the clock and prepares the footbath as in the first scene. Zachariah appears, silent and sullen, goes straight to the bed, where he sits.

MORRIS. You look tired tonight, old fellow.

[Zachariah looks at him askance.]

Today too long?

ZACHARIAH. What’s this ‘old fellow’ thing you got hold of tonight?

MORRIS. Just a figure of speaking, Zach. The Englishman would say Old boy’ . . . but we don’t like that ‘boy’ business, hey?

ZACHARIAH. Ja. They call a man a boy. You got a word for that, Morrie?

MORRIS. Long or short?

ZACHARIAH. Squashed, like it didn’t fit the mouth.

MORRIS. I know the one you mean.

ZACHARIAH. Ja, then say it.

MORRIS. Prejudice.

ZACHARIAH. Pre-ja-dis.

MORRIS. Injustice!

ZACHARIAH. That’s all out of shape as well.

MORRIS. Inhumanity!

ZACHARIAH. No. That’s when he makes me stand at the gate.

MORRIS. Am I right in thinking you were there again today?

ZACHARIAH. All day long.

MORRIS. You tried to go back to pots?

ZACHARIAH. I tried to go back to pots. ‘My feet’, I said, ‘are killing me.’

MORRIS. And then?

ZACHARIAH. He said, ‘Go to the gate or go to hell. . . Boy!’

MORRIS. He said ‘boy’ as well?

ZACHARIAH. He did.

MORRIS. In one sentence?

ZACHARIAH. Prejudice and inhumanity in one sentence!

[He starts to work off one shoe with the other foot and then dips the bare foot into the basin of water. He will not get as far as taking off the other shoe.]

When your feet are bad, you feel it, man.

[Morris starts helping Zachariah take off his coat. At this point Morris finds an envelope in the inside pocket oj Zachariah’s coat. He examines it secretly. Zachariah broods on, one foot in the basin.]

MORRIS. Zach, did you stop by the Post Office on your way back?

ZACHARIAH. Ja. There was a letter there.

MORRIS. I know there was. [Holding up the envelope.] I just found it.

ZACHARIAH. Good.

MORRIS. What do you mean, ‘good’?

ZACHARIAH. Good, like ‘okay’.

MORRIS [excited and annoyed]. What’s the matter with you?

ZACHARIAH. What’s the matter with me?

MORRIS. This is your pen-pal. This is your reply from Ethel!

ZACHARIAH. In Oudtshoorn.

MORRIS. But Zach! You must get excited, man! Don’t you want to know what she said?

ZACHARIAH. Sure.

MORRIS. Shall we open it then?

ZACHARIAH. Why not!

MORRIS [tears open the letter]. By God, she did it! She sent you a picture of herself.

ZACHARIAH [first flicker of interest]. She did?

MORRIS. So this is Ethel!

ZACHARIAH. Morrie. . . ?

MORRIS. Eighteen years . . . and fully . . . developed.

ZACHARIAH. Let me see, man!

[He grabs the photograph. The certainty and excitement fade from Morris’s face. He is obviously perplexed by something.]

Hey! Not bad. Now that’s what I call a goosie. Good for old Oudtshoorn. You don’t get them like this over here. That I can tell you. Not with a watch! Pretty smart, too. Nice hair. Just look at those locks. And how’s that for a wall she’s standing against? Ever seen a wall like that, as big as that, in Korsten? I mean it’s made of bricks, isn’t it!

MORRIS [snatching the photograph out of Zachariah’s hand and taking it to the window where he has a good look]. Zach, let me have another look at her.

ZACHARIAH. Hey! What’s the matter with you! It’s my pen-pal, isn’t it? It is!

MORRIS. Keep quiet, Zach!

ZACHARIAH. What’s this ‘keep quiet’?

[Morris throws the photograph down on the bed and finds the letter, which he reads feverishly. Zachariah picks up the photograph and continues his study.]

ZACHARIAH. You’re acting like you never seen a woman in your life. Why don’t you get a pen-pal? Maybe one’s not enough.

MORRIS [having finished the letter, his agitation is now even more pronounced]. That newspaper, Zach. Where is that newspaper?

ZACHARIAH. How should I know?

MORRIS [anguished]. Think, man!

ZACHARIAH. You had it. [Morris is scratching around frantically.] What’s the matter with you tonight? Maybe you threw it away.

MORRIS. No. I was keeping it in case . . . [Finds it.] Thank God! Oh, please, God, now make it that I am wrong!

[He takes a look at the newspaper, pages through it, and then drops it. He stands quite still, unnaturally calm after the frenzy of the previous few seconds.]

You know what you done, don’t you?

ZACHARIAH. Me?

MORRIS. Who was it, then? Me?

ZACHARIAH. But what?

MORRIS. Who wanted woman?

ZACHARIAH. Oh. Me.

MORRIS. Right. Who’s been carrying on about Minnie, and Connie, and good times? Not me.

ZACHARIAH. Morrie! What are you talking about?

MORRIS. That photograph.

ZACHARIAH. I’ve seen it.

MORRIS. Have another look.

ZACHARIAH [he does]. It’s Ethel.

MORRIS. Miss Ethel Lange to you!

ZACHARIAH. Okay, I looked. Now what!

MORRIS. Can’t you see, man! Ethel Lange is a white woman!

[Pause. They look at each other in silence.]

ZACHARIAH [slowly]. You mean that this Ethel . . . here . . .

MORRIS. Is a white woman!

ZACHARIAH. How do you know?

MORRIS. Oh for God’s sake, Zach—use your eyes. Anyway, that paper you bought was white. There’s no news about our sort.

ZACHARIAH [studying the photo]. Hey—you’re right, Morrie. [Delighted.] You’re damn well right. And this white woman has written to me, a hot-not, a swartgat. This white woman thinks I’m a white man. That I like!

[Zachariah bursts into laughter. Morris jumps forward and snatches the photograph out of his hand.]

Hey! What are you going to do?

MORRIS. What do you think?

ZACHARIAH. Read it.

MORRIS. I’m going to burn it.

ZACHARIAH. No!

MORRIS. Yes.

ZACHARIAH [jumps up and comes to grips with Morris who, after a short struggle, is thrown violently to the floor. Zachariah picks up the letter and the photograph. He stands looking down at Morris for a few seconds, amazed at what he has done]. No, Morrie. You’re not going to burn it, Morrie.

MORRIS [vehemently]. Yes, burn the bloody thing! Destroy it!

ZACHARIAH. But it’s my pen-pal, Morris. Now, isn’t it? Doesn’t it say here: ‘Mr Zachariah Pietersen’? Well, that’s me . . . isn’t it? It is. My letter. You just don’t go and burn another man’s letter, Morrie.

MORRIS. But it’s an error, Zach! Can’t you see? The whole thing is an error.

ZACHARIAH. Read the letter, man. I don’t know.

[The alarm-clock rings.]

MORRIS. Supper time.

ZACHARIAH. Later.

MORRIS. Listen—

ZACHARIAH. Letter first.

MORRIS. Then can I burn it?

ZACHARIAH. Read the letter first, man. Let’s hear it, what it says. [Handing Morris the letter.] No funny business, hey!

MORRIS [reading]. ‘Dear Zach, many thanks for your letter You asked me for a snap, so I’m sending you it. Do you like it? That’s my brother’s foot sticking in the picture behind the bench on the side—’

ZACHARIAH. Hey! She’s right! Here it is.

MORRIS. ‘Cornelius is a . . . policeman.’ [Pause.] ‘He’s got a motor-bike, and I been with him to the dam, on the back. My best friend is Lucy van Tonder. Both of us hates Oudtshoorn, man. How is Port Elizabeth? There’s only two movies here, so we don’t know what to do on the other nights. That’s why I want pen-pals. How about a picture of you? You got a car? All for now. Cheerio. Ethel. P.S. Please write soon.’

(Morris folds the letter.]

ZACHARIAH [gratefully]. Oh—thank you, Morrie.

[Holds out his hand for the letter.]

MORRIS. Can I burn it now, Zach?

ZACHARIAH. Burn it! It’s an all right letter, man. A little bit of this and a little bit of that.

MORRIS. Like her brother being a policeman.

ZACHARIAH [ignoring the last remark]. Hey—supper ready yet, man? Let’s talk after supper, man. I’m hungry. What you got for supper, Morrie?

MORRIS. Boiled eggs and chips.

ZACHARIAH. Hey, that’s wonderful, Morrie. Hey! We never had that before.

MORRIS [sulking]. It was meant to be a surprise.

ZACHARIAH. But that’s wonderful.

[Zachariah is full of vigour and life.]

No, I mean it, Morrie. Cross my heart, and hope to die. Boiled eggs and chips! Boiled eggs and chips . . . Boiled eggs and chips . . . I never even knew you could do it.

[Zachariah takes his place at the table, and stands the photograph in front of him. When Morris brings the food to the table, he sees it and hesitates.]

What’s it got here on the back, Morrie?

MORRIS [examines the back of the photograph]. ‘To Zach, with love, from Ethel.’

[Another burst of laughter from Zachariah. Morris leaves the table abruptly.]

ZACHARIAH [calmly continuing with his meal]. Hey—what’s the matter?

MORRIS. I’m not hungry tonight.

ZACHARIAH. Oh, you mean, you don’t like to hear me laugh?

MORRIS. It’s not that . . . Zach.

ZACHARIAH. But it is. It’s funny, man. She and me. Of course, it wouldn’t be so funny if it was you who was pally with her.

MORRIS. What does that mean?

ZACHARIAH. Don’t you know?

MORRIS. No. So will you please tell me?

ZACHARIAH. You never seen yourself, Morrie?

MORRIS [trembling with emotion]. I’m warning you Zach. Just be careful of where your words are taking you!

ZACHARIAH. Okay. Okay. Okay—

[Eats in silence.]

You was telling me about Oudtshoorn the other day. How far you say it was?

MORRIS [viciously]. Hundreds of miles.

ZACHARIAH. So far, hey?

MORRIS. Don’t fool yourself, Zach. It’s not far enough for safety’s sake. Cornelius has got a motorbike, remember.

ZACHARIAH. Ja. But we don’t write to him, man.

MORRIS. Listen. Zach, if you think for one moment that I’m going to write . . .

ZACHARIAH. Think? Think? Who says? I been eating my supper. It was good, Morrie. Boiled eggs and chips, tasty.

MORRIS. Don’t try to change the subject-matter!

ZACHARIAH. Who? Me?

MORRIS. Ja—you.

ZACHARIAH. I like that. You mean, what’s the matter with you? You was the one that spoke about pen-pals first. Not me.

MORRIS. So here it comes at last. I’ve been waiting for it. I’m to blame, am I? All right. I’ll take the blame. I always did, didn’t I? But this is where it ends. I’m telling you now, Zach, burn that letter, because when they come around here and ask me, I’ll say I got nothing to do with it.

ZACHARIAH. Burn this letter! What’s wrong with this letter?

MORRIS. Ethel Lange is a white woman!

ZACHARIAH. Wait . . . wait . . . not so fast, Morrie. I’m a sort of a slow man. We were talking about this letter, not her. Now tell me, what’s wrong with what you did read? Does she call me names? No. Does she laugh at me? No. Does she swear at me? No. Just a simple letter with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Here comes the clue. What sort of chap is it that throws away a few kind words? Hey, Morrie? Aren’t they, as you say, precious things these days? And this pretty picture of a lovely girl? I burn it! What sort of doing is that? Bad. Think, man, think of Ethel, man. Think! Sitting up there in Oudtshoorn with Lucy, waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting . . . for what? For nothing. For why? Because bad Zach Pietersen burnt it. No, Morrie. Good is good, and fair is fair. I may be a shade of black, but I go gently as a man.

MORRIS [pause]. Are you finished now, Zach? Good, because I want to remind you, Zach, that when I was writing to her you weren’t even interested in a single thing I said. But now, suddenly, now you are! Why? Why, I ask myself . . . and a suspicious little voice answers: is it maybe because she’s white?

ZACHARIAH. You want to hear me say it?

[Morris says nothing.]

It’s because she’s white! I like this little white girl! I like the thought of this little white girl. I’m telling you I like the thought of this little white Ethel better than our plans, or future, or foot salts or any other damned thing in here. It’s the best thought I ever had and I’m keeping it, and don’t try no tricks like trying to get it away from me. Who knows? You might get to liking it too, Morrie.

[Morris says nothing. Zachariah comes closer.]

Ja. There’s a thought there. What about you, Morrie? You never had it before—that thought? A man like you, specially you, always thinking so many things! A man like you who’s been places! You’re always telling me about the places you been. Wasn’t there ever no white woman thereabouts? I mean . . . you must have smelt them someplace. That sweet, white smell, they leave it behind, you know. [Nudging Morris.] Come on, confess. Of course, you did. Hey? I bet you had that thought all the time. I bet you been having it in here. Hey? You should have shared it, Morrie. I’m a man with a taste for thoughts these days. It hurts to think you didn’t share a good one like that with your brother. Giving me all the other shit about future and plans, and then keeping the real goosie for yourself. You weren’t scared, were you? That I’d tell? Come on. Confess. You were. A little bit poopy. I’ve noticed that. But you needn’t worry now. I’m a man for keeping a secret, and anyway, we’ll play this very careful . . . very, very careful. Ethel won’t never know about us, and I know how to handle that brother. Mustn’t let a policeman bugger you about, man. So write. Write! We’ll go gently with this one. There’ll be others. Later.

[Morris is defeated. He sits at the table. Zachariah fetches paper and pencil.]

So we’ll take her on friendly terms again. [Pause.] ‘Dear Ethel,’ [Morris writes.] ‘I think you’d like to know I got your letter, and the picture. I’d say Oudtshoorn seems okay. You were quite okay too. I would like to send you a picture of me, but it’s this way. It’s winter down here. The light is bad, the lake is black, the birds have gone. Wait for spring, when things improve. Okay? Good. I heard you ask about my car. Yes. I have it. We pumped the tyres today. And tomorrow I think I’ll put in some petrol. I’d like to take you for a drive, Ethel, and Lucy too. In fact, I’d like to drive both of you. They say over here I’m fast. Ethel, I’ll tell you this. If I could drive you, Ethel, and Lucy too, I’d do it so fast, fast, fast, fast, fast—’

MORRIS. Okay, Zach!

ZACHARIAH [pulling himself together]. ‘Ja! But don’t worry. I got brakes.’ [Pause.] ‘I notice your brother got boots. All policemen got boots. Good luck to him, anyway, and Lucy too. Write soon. Zachariah Pietersen.’ [Pause.] Okay, Morrie. There, you see! Just a simple letter with a little bit of this and a little bit of that and nothing about some things. When Ethel gets it she’ll say: ‘He’s okay. This Zachariah Pietersen is okay, Lucy!’ Oh, say something, Morrie.

MORRIS. Zach, please listen to me. [Pause.] Let me burn it.

ZACHARIAH. My letter?

MORRIS. Yes.

ZACHARIAH. The one we just done?

MORRIS. Yes.

ZACHARIAH. Ethel’s letter, now my letter!

[He gets up and takes the letter in question away from Morris.]

You’re in a burning mood tonight, Morrie.

MORRIS. Please, Zach. You’re going to get hurt.

ZACHARIAH [aggression]. Such as by who?

MORRIS. Ethel. Then yourself.

[Zachariah laughs.]

Oh yes. That. There in your hand. To Miss Ethel Lange. Oudtshoorn. You think that’s a letter? I’m telling you it’s a dream, and the most dangerous one. And now you have it on paper as well. That’s what they call evidence, you know. [Pause.] Shit, Zach, I have a feeling about this business, man!

ZACHARIAH. Oh come on, cheer up, Morrie. It’s not so bad.

MORRIS. But you’re playing with fire, Zach.

ZACHARIAH. Maybe. But then I never had much to play with.

MORRIS. Didn’t you?

ZACHARIAH. Don’t you remember? You got the toys.

MORRIS. Did I?

ZACHARIAH. Ja. Like that top, Morrie. I have always remembered that brown stinkwood top. She gave me her old cotton-reels to play with, but it wasn’t the same. I wanted a top.

MORRIS. Who? Who gave me the top?

ZACHARIAH. Mother.

MORRIS. Mother!

ZACHARIAH. Ja. She said she only had one. There was always only one.

MORRIS. Zach, you’re telling me a thing now!

ZACHARIAH. What? Did you forget her?

MORRIS. No, Zach. I meant the top. I can’t remember that top. And what about her, Zach? There’s a memory for you. I tried it out the other night. ‘Mother’, I said, ‘Mother’! A sadness, I thought.

ZACHARIAH. Ja.

MORRIS. Just a touch of sadness.

ZACHARIAH. A soft touch with sadness.

MORRIS. And soapsuds on brown hands.

ZACHARIAH. And sore feet.

[Pause. Morris looks at Zachariah.]

MORRIS. What do you mean?

ZACHARIAH. There was her feet, man.

MORRIS. Who had feet?

ZACHARIAH. Mother, man.

MORRIS. I don’t remember her feet, Zach.

ZACHARIAH [serenely confident]. There was her feet, man. The toes were crooked, the nails skew, and there was pain. They didn’t fit the shoes.

MORRIS [growing agitation]. Zach, are you sure that wasn’t somebody else?

ZACHARIAH. It was mother’s feet. She let me feel the hardness and then pruned them down with a razor blade.

MORRIS. No, Zach. You got me worried now! A grey dress?

ZACHARIAH. Maybe.

MORRIS [persistent]. Going to church, remember? She wore it going to—

ZACHARIAH. The butcher shop! That’s it! That’s where she went.

MORRIS. What for?

ZACHARIAH. For tripe.

MORRIS. Tripe? Stop, Zach. Stop! This is beginning to sound like some other mother.

ZACHARIAH [gently]. How can that be?

MORRIS. Listen, Zach. Do you remember the songs she sang?

ZACHARIAH. Do I! [He laughs and then sings:]

‘My skin is black

The soap is blue,

But the washing comes out white.

I took a man

On a Friday night;

Now I’m washing a baby too.

Just a little bit black,

And a little bit white,

He’s a Capie through and through.’

[Morris is staring at him in horror.]

MORRIS. That wasn’t what she sang to me. ‘Lullabye baby’, it was, ‘You’ll get to the top.’ [Anguish.] This is some sort of terrible error. Wait . . . wait! I’ve got it . . . Oh, God, please let it be that I’ve got it! [To Zachariah.] How about the games we played? Think, Zach. Think carefully! There was one special one. Just me and you. I’ll give you a clue. Toot-toot. Toot-toot.

ZACHARIAH [thinking]. Wasn’t there an old car?

MORRIS. Where would it be?

ZACHARIAH. Rusting by the side of the road.

MORRIS. Could it be the ruins of an old Chevy, Zach?

ZACHARIAH. Yes, it could.

MORRIS. And can we say without tyres and wires and things?

ZACHARIAH. We may.

MORRIS. . . . and all the glass blown away by the wind?

ZACHARIAH. Dusty.

MORRIS. Deserted.

ZACHARIAH. Sting bees on the bonnet.

MORRIS. Webs in the windscreen.

ZACHARIAH. Nothing in the boot.

MORRIS. And us?

ZACHARIAH. In it.

MORRIS. We are? How?

ZACHARIAH. Side by side.

MORRIS. Like this?

[He sits beside Zachariah.]

ZACHARIAH. Uh-huh.

MORRIS. Doing what?

ZACHARIAH. Staring.

MORRIS. Not both of us!

ZACHARIAH. Me at the wheel, you at the window.

MORRIS. Okay. Now what?

ZACHARIAH. Now, I got this gear here and I’m going to go.

MORRIS. Where?

ZACHARIAH. To hell and gone, and we aren’t coming back.

MORRIS. What will I do while you drive?

ZACHARIAH. You must tell me what we pass. Are you ready? Here we go!

[Zachariah goes through the motion of driving a car. Morris looks eagerly out of the window.]

MORRIS. We’re slipping through the streets, passing houses and people on the pavements who are quite friendly and wave as we drive by. It’s a fine, sunny sort of a day. What are we doing?

ZACHARIAH. Twenty-four.

MORRIS. Do you see that bus ahead of us?

[They lean over to one side as Zachariah swings the wheel. Morris looks back.]

Chock-a-block with early morning workers. Shame. And what about those children over there, going to school? Shame again. On such a nice day. What are we doing?

ZACHARIAH. Thirty-four.

MORRIS. That means we’re coming to open country. The houses have given way to patches of green and animals and not so many people anymore. But they still wave . . . with their spades.

ZACHARIAH. Fifty.

MORRIS. You’re going quite fast. You’ve killed a cat, flattened a frog, frightened a dog . . . who jumped!

ZACHARIAH. Sixty.

MORRIS. Passing trees, and haystacks, and sunshine, and the smoke from little houses drifting up . . . shooting by!

ZACHARIAH. Eighty!

MORRIS. Birds flying abreast, and bulls, billygoats, black sheep . . .

ZACHARIAH. One hundred!

MORRIS. . . . cross a river, up a hill, to the top, coming down, down, down . . . stop! Stop!

ZACHARIAH [slamming on the brakes]. Eeeeeoooooooaah!

[Pause.] Why?

MORRIS. Look! There’s a butterfly.

ZACHARIAH. On your side?

MORRIS. Yours as well. Just look.

ZACHARIAH. All around us, hey!

MORRIS. This is rare, Zach! We’ve driven into a flock of butterflies.

ZACHARIAH. Butterflies! [Smiles and then laughs.]

MORRIS. We’ve found it, Zach. We’ve found it! This is our youth!

ZACHARIAH. And driving to hell and gone was our game.

MORRIS. Our best one! Hell, Zach, the things a man can forget!

ZACHARIAH. Ja, those were the days.

MORRIS. God knows.

ZACHARIAH. Goodness, hey!

MORRIS. They were that.

ZACHARIAH. And gladness too.

MORRIS. Making hay, man, come and play, man, while the sun is shining . . . which it did.

ZACHARIAH. Hey—what’s that . . . that nice thing you say, Morrie?

MORRIS ‘So sweet—

ZACHARIAH. Uh-huh.

MORRIS. ‘—did pass that summertime

Of youth and fruit upon the tree

When laughing boys and pretty girls

Did hop and skip and all were free.’

ZACHARIAH. Did skop and skip the pretty girls.

MORRIS. Hopscotch.

ZACHARIAH. That was it.

MORRIS We played our games, Zach.

ZACHARIAH. And now?

MORRIS. See for yourself, Zach. Here we are, later, and now there is Ethel as well and that makes me frightened.

ZACHARIAH. Sounds like another game.

MORRIS. Yes . . . but not ours this time. Hell, man, I often wonder.

ZACHARIAH. Same here.

MORRIS. I mean, where do they go, the good times, in a man’s life?

ZACHARIAH. And the bad ones?

MORRIS. That’s a thought. Where do they come from?

ZACHARIAH. Oudtshoorn.