What does one say? Does one say, of course you are sorry? Does one say, of course, it is your son? How can one say it, when one knows what it means? Keep silent then, but the eyes are upon one. One knows what they mean. You mean ¦? he asked. Yes. He was there also.
John Kumalo whispers Tixo, Tixo. And again, Tixo, Tixo . Kumalo comes to him and puts his hand on his shoulders. There are many things I could say, he said. There are many things you could say. But I do not say them. I say only that I know what you suffer. Indeed, who could know better? Yes, that is one of the things I could say. There is a young white man at the Mission House, and he is waiting to take me now to the prison. Perhaps he would take you also. Let me get my coat and hat, my brother.
They do not wait for the tea, but set out along the street to the Mission House. Msimangu, watching anxiously for their return, sees them coming. The old man walks now more firmly, it is the other who seems bowed and broken. Father Vincent, the rosy-cheeked priest from England, takes Kumalo’s hand in both his own. Anything, he says, anything. You have only to ask. I shall do anything.
They pass through the great gate in the grim high wall. The young man talks for them, and it is arranged. John Kumalo is taken to one room, and the young man goes with Stephen Kumalo to another. There the son is brought to them. They shake hands, indeed the old man takes his son’s hand in both his own, and the hot tears fall fast upon them. The boy stands unhappy, there is no gladness in his eyes. He twists his head from side to side, as though the loose clothing is too tight for him. My child, my child. Yes, my father. At last I have found you. Yes, my father. And it is too late.
To this the boy makes no answer. As though he may find some hope in this silence, the father presses him. Is it not too late? he asks. But there is no answer. Persistently, almost eagerly, is it not too late? he asks. The boy turns his head from side to side, he meets the eyes of the young white man, and his own retreat swiftly. My father, it is what my father says, he answers. I have searched in every place for you.
To that also no answer. The old man loosens his hands, and his son’s hand slips from them lifelessly. There is a barrier here, a wall, something that cuts off one from the other. Why did you do this terrible thing, my child?
The young white man stirs watchfully, the white warder makes no sign, perhaps he does not know this tongue. There is a moisture in the boy’s eyes, he turns his head from side to side, and makes no answer. Answer me, my child. I do not know, he says. Why did you carry a revolver?
The white warder stirs too, for the word in Zulu is like the word in English and in Afrikaans. The boy too shows a sign of life. For safety, he says. This Johannesburg is a dangerous place. A man never knows when he will be attacked. But why take it to this house?
And this again cannot be answered. Have they got it, my child? Yes, my father. They have no doubt it was you? I told them, my father. What did you tell them? I told them I was frightened when the white man came. So I shot him. I did not mean to kill him. And your cousin. And the other? Yes, I told them. They came with me, but it was I who shot the white man. Did you go there to steal?
And this again cannot be answered. You were at the reformatory, my child?
The boy looked at his boot, and pushed it forward along the ground. I was there, he said. Did they treat you well?
Again there is a moisture in the eyes, again he turns his head from side to side, drops his eyes again to the boot pushing forward and backward on the ground. They treated me well, he said. And this is your repayment, my child?
And this again cannot be answered. The young white man comes over, for he knows that this does nothing, goes nowhere. Perhaps he does not like to see these two torturing each other. Well, Absalom? Sir? Why did you leave the work that I got for you?
And you too, young man, can get no answer. There are no answers to these things. Why did you leave it, Absalom?
There are no answers to these things. And your girl. The one we let you go to, the girl you worried over, so that we took pity on you.
And again the tears in the eyes. Who knows if he weeps for the girl he has deserted? Who knows if he weeps for a promise broken? Who knows if he weeps for another self, that would work for a woman, pay his taxes, save his money, keep the laws, love his children, another self that has always been defeated? Or does he weep for himself alone, to be let be, to be let alone, to be free of the merciless rain of questions, why, why, why, when he knows not why. They do not speak with him, they do not jest with him, they do not sit and let him be, but they ask, ask, ask, why, why, why, his father, the white man, the prison officers, the police, the magistrates, why, why, why. The young white man shrugs his shoulders, smiles indifferently. But he is not indifferent, there is a mark of pain between his eyes. So the world goes, he says. Answer me one thing, my child. Will you answer me? I can answer, father. You wrote nothing, sent no message. You went with bad companions. You stole and broke in and yes, you did these things. But why?
The boy seizes upon the word that is given him. It was bad companions, he said. I need not tell you that is no answer, said Kumalo. But he knows he will get no other this way. Yes, I see, he said, bad companions. Yes, I understand. But for you, yourself, what made you yourself do it?
How they torture one another. And the boy, tortured, shows again a sign of life. It was the devil, he said.
Oh boy, can you not say you fought the devil, wrestled with the devil, struggled with him night and day, till the sweat poured from you and no strength was left? Can you not say that you wept for your sins, and vowed to make amends, and stood upright, and stumbled, and fell again? It would be some comfort for this tortured man, who asks you, desperately, why did you not struggle against him? And the boy looks down at his feet again, and says, I do not know. The old man is exhausted, the boy is exhausted, and the time is nearly over. The young white man comes to them again. Does he still wish to marry the girl? he asks Kumalo. Do you wish to marry this girl, my son? Yes, my father. I shall see what I can do, says the young man. I think it is time for us to go. May we come again? Yes, you may come again. We shall ask the hours at the gate. Stay well, my child. Go well, my father. My child, I think you may write letters here. But do not write to your mother till I see you again. I must first write to her. It is good, my father.
They go, and outside the gate they meet John Kumalo. He is feeling better, the big bull man. Well, well, he says, we must go at once and see a lawyer. A lawyer, my brother. For what should we spend such money? The story is plain, there cannot be doubt about it. What is the story? asks John Kumalo. The story? These three lads went to a house that they thought was empty. They struck down the servant. The white man heard a noise and he came to see. And then ¦and then ¦my son ¦mine, not yours ¦shot at him. He was afraid, he says. Well, well, says John Kumalo, that is a story. He seems reassured. Well, well, he says, that is a story. And he told you this in front of the others? Why not, if it is the truth?
John Kumalo seems reassured. Perhaps you do not need a lawyer, he said. If he shot the white man, there is perhaps nothing more to be said. Will you have a lawyer then?
John Kumalo smiles at his brother. Perhaps I shall need a lawyer, he says. For one thing, a lawyer can talk to my son in private.
He seems to think, then he says to his brother, You see, my brother, there is no proof that my son or this other young man was there at all. Yes, John Kumalo smiles at that, he seems quite recovered. Not there at all? But my son Yes, yes, John Kumalo interrupts him, and smiles at him. Who will believe your son? he asks.
He says it with meaning, with cruel and pitiless meaning. Kumalo stands bereft, and the young white man climbs into the car. Kumalo looks to him for guidance, but the young man shrugs his shoulders. Do what you will, he says indifferently. It is not my work to get lawyers. But if you wish to go back to Sophiatown, I shall take you.
Kumalo, made still more nervous by this indifference, stands outside irresolute. His irresolution seems to anger
the young white man, who leans out of the window and speaks loudly. It is not my work to get lawyers, he says. It is my work to reform, to help, to uplift.
With his hand he makes an angry gesture of uplifting, and then draws back his head into the car and makes as if to start. But he changes his plan and leans out again. It is a wonderful work, he says, a wonderful work, a noble work. He withdraws again, then leans out again and talks to Kumalo. You must not think a parson’s work is nobler, he says. Perhaps he is speaking too loudly, for he lowers his voice and speaks through tight and angry lips. You save souls, he says, as though it is a grim jest to save souls. But I save souls also. You see people come into the world and you see them go out. And so do I. I saw this Absalom born into a new world and now I shall see him go out. He looks at Kumalo fiercely. We shall see him go out, he says. He draws back again, and grips the wheel as though he would break it. Are you coming to Sophiatown? he asks.
But Kumalo shakes his head, for how shall he climb into the car with this stranger? The young man looks at John Kumalo and he puts out his head again and says to him, you are a clever man, he says, but thank God you are not my brother. He starts the car with a great noise, and goes off with a great sound of sliding wheels, still speaking angrily to himself.
Kumalo looks at his brother, but his brother does not look at him. Indeed he walks away. Wearily, wearily, he goes from the great gate in the wall to the street. Tixo, he says, Tixo, forsake me not. Father Vincent’s words come back to him, anything, anything, he said, you have only to ask. Then to Father Vincent he will go.
15
KUMALO RETURNED TO Mrs. Lithebe’s tired and dispirited. The two women were silent, and he had no desire to speak to them, and none to play with his small nephew. He withdrew into his room, and sat silent there, waiting till he could summon strength enough to go to the Mission House. But while he sat, there was a knock at his door, and Mrs. Lithebe stood there with the young white man. Fresh from the pain of their encounter, Kumalo shrank from him; and at that sign, the young man frowned, and spoke to Mrs. Lithebe in Sesuto, so that she withdrew. Kumalo stood up, an old bowed man. He sought for humble and pleading words, but none came to him. And because he could not look at the young man, he fixed his eyes on the floor. Umfundisi. Sir?
The young man looked angrier than ever. I am sorry, umfundisi, that I spoke such angry words, he said. I have come to speak to you about this matter of a lawyer. Sir?
Indeed it was hard to speak to a man who stood thus before one. Umfundisi, do you wish me to speak to you?
Kumalo struggled within himself. For it is thus with a black man, who has learned to be humble and who yet desires to be something that is himself. Sir, he said again. Umfundisi, said the young man patiently, I know how it is. Will you not sit down?
So Kumalo sat down, and the young man, still frowning angrily, stood and talked to him. I spoke like that because I was grieved and because I try to give myself to my work. And when my work goes wrong, I hurt myself and I hurt others also. But then I grow ashamed, and that is why I am here.
And then because Kumalo was still silent, he said, do you understand? And Kumalo said, yes, I understand. He turned his face so that the young man could see that the hurt was gone out of it. I understand completely, he said. The young man stopped frowning. About this lawyer, he said. I think you must have a lawyer. Not because the truth must not be told, but because I do not trust your brother. You can see what is in his mind. His plan is to deny that his son and the third man were with your son. Now you and I do not know whether that will make matters worse or not, but a lawyer would know. And another thing also, Absalom says that he fired the revolver because he was afraid, with no intention of killing the white man. It needs a lawyer to make the court believe that that is true. Yes, I see that. Do you know of any lawyer, of your Church maybe? No, sir, I do not. But it was my plan to go to see Father Vincent at the Mission House, when I had rested for a while. Are you rested now? Your visit has put a fresh heart into me, sir. I felt ¦. Yes, I know.
The young man frowned and said, as if to himself, it is my great fault. Shall we go then?
So they walked to the Mission House, and were shown into Father Vincent’s room, and there they talked for a long time with the rosy-cheeked priest from England. I think I could get a good man to take the case, said Father Vincent. I think we are all agreed that it is to be the truth and nothing but the truth, and that the defense will be that the shot was fired in fear and not to kill. Our lawyer will tell us what to do about this other matter, the possibility, my friend, that your nephew and the other young man will deny that they were there. For it appears that it is only your son who states that they were there. For us it is to be the truth, and nothing but the truth, and indeed, the man I am thinking of would not otherwise take the case. I shall see him as soon as possible. And what about the marriage? asked the young man. I shall ask him about that also. I do not know if it can be arranged, but I should gladly marry them if it can be.
So they rose to separate, and Father Vincent put his hand on the old man’s arm. Be of good courage, he said. Whatever happens, your son will be severely punished, but if his defence is accepted, it will not be extreme punishment. And while there is life, there is hope for amendment of life. That is now always in my mind, said Kumalo. But my hope is little. Stay here and speak with me, said Father Vincent. And I must go, said the young white man. But umfundisi, I am ready to help if my help is needed.
When the young man had gone, Kumalo and the English priest sat down and Kumalo said to the other, you can understand that this has been a sorrowful journey. I understand that, my friend. At first it was a search. I was anxious at first, but as the search went on, step by step, so did the anxiety turn to fear, and this fear grew deeper step by step. It was at Alexandra that I first grew afraid, but it was here in your House, when we heard of the murder, that my fear grew into something too great to be borne.
The old man paused and stared at the floor, remembering, indeed quite lost in remembering. He stared at it a long time and then he said, Msimangu said to me, why fear this one thing in a city where there are thousands upon thousands of people? That comforted me, he said.
And the way in which he said, that comforted me, was to Father Vincent so unendurable, that he sat there rigid, almost without breathing, hoping that this would soon be finished. That comforted me, said Kumalo, yet it did not comfort me. And even now I can hardly believe that this thing, which happens one time in a thousand, has happened to me. Why, sometimes, for a moment or two, I can even believe that it has not happened, that I shall wake and find it has not happened. But it is only for a moment or two. To think, said Kumalo, that my wife and I lived out our lives in innocence, there in Ndotsheni, not knowing that this thing was coming, step by step. Why, he said, if one could only have been told, this step is taken, and this step is about to be taken. If only one could have been told that. But we were not told, continued Kumalo. Now we can see, but we could not see then. And yet others saw it. It was revealed to others to whom it did not matter. They saw it, step by step. They said, this is Johannesburg, this is a boy going wrong, as other boys have gone wrong in Johannesburg. But to us, for whom it was life and death, it was not revealed.
Father Vincent put his hand over his eyes, to hide them from the light, to hide them from the sight of the man who was speaking. He would himself have spoken, to break the painful spell that was being woven about him, but something told him to leave it. What was more, he had no words to say. There is a man sleeping in the grass, said Kumalo. And over him is gathering the greatest storm of all his days. Such lightning and thunder will come there as have never been seen before, bringing death and destruction. People hurry home past him, to places safe from danger. And whether they do not see him there in the grass, or whether they fear to halt even a moment, but they do not wake him, they let him be.
After that Kumalo seemed to have done with speaking, and they were silent a long time. Fath
er Vincent tried a dozen sentences, but none seemed fitting. But he did say, my friend, and although he said nothing more, he hoped that Kumalo would take it as a signal that other words would follow, and himself say nothing more.
So he said again, my friend. Father? My friend, your anxiety turned to fear, and your fear turned to sorrow. But sorrow is better than fear. For fear impoverishes always, while sorrow may enrich.
Kumalo looked at him, with an intensity of gaze that was strange in so humble a man, and hard to encounter. I do not know that I am enriched, he said. Sorrow is better than fear, said Father Vincent doggedly. Fear is a journey, a terrible journey, but sorrow is at least an arriving. And where have I arrived? asked Kumalo. When the storm threatens, a man is afraid for his house, said Father Vincent in that symbolic language that is like the Zulu tongue. But when the house is destroyed, there is something to do. About a storm he can do nothing, but he can rebuild a house. At my age? asked Kumalo. Look what has happened to the house that I built when I was young and strong. What kind of house shall I build now? No one can comprehend the ways of God, said Father Vincent desperately. Kumalo looked at him, not bitterly or accusingly or reproachfully. It seems that God has turned from me, he said. That may seem to happen, said Father Vincent. But it does not happen, never, never, does it happen. I am glad to hear you, said Kumalo humbly. We spoke of amendment of life, said the white priest. Of the amendment of your son’s life. And because you are a priest, this must matter to you more than all else, more even than your suffering and your wife’s suffering. That is true. Yet I cannot see how such a life can be amended. You cannot doubt that. You are a Christian. There was a thief upon the cross. My son was not a thief, said Kumalo harshly. There was a white man, a good man, devoted to his wife and children. And worst of all devoted to our people. And this wife, these children, they are bereaved because of my son. I cannot suppose it to be less than the greatest evil I have known. A man may repent him of any evil. He will repent, said Kumalo bitterly. If I say to him, do you repent, he will say, it is as my father says. If I say to him, was this not evil, he will say, it is evil. But if I speak otherwise, putting no words in his mouth, if I say, what will you do now, he will say, I do not know, or he will say, it is as my father says.