The Walled Garden
âThe darkness outside was a measureless void, and he feared that the train was too deep in it to be able to return safely. He tried to concentrate on the noise of the wheels, but their rhythm was eccentric and only served to distract him and keep him awake.
Whenever Yusuf rolled too close, Kahlil kicked him away savagely. Mosquitoes wheeled around them, shrieking for blood with high-pitched wails. If the sheets slipped from their bodies the mosquitoes instantly gathered to their sinful feast. Yusuf dreamt he could see their jagged-edged sabres sawing through his flesh.
Kahlil told him, âYouâre here because your Ba owes the seyyid money. Iâm here because my Ba owes him money - only heâs dead now, Godâs mercy on his soul.
She seemed very old to Yusuf, cumbersome, bulky, and with a look of suffering when her face was unguarded. Her body shivered and straightened with an involuntary charge when she caught sight of him, and a small cry escaped her. If Yusuf had not seen her, she stalked him until he was near enough to squeeze him into her arms. Then, while he struggled and kicked she ululated with triumph and joy. On occasions when she could not sneak up on him, she approached him with ecstatic cries, calling him my husband, my master.
Several months after Yusufâs arrival - he had taught himself to lose count, and his perverse success made him understand that days could be as long as weeks if there was no desire for them - preparations were being made for a journey to the interior. Uncle Aziz spoke to Kahlil for long periods in the evening, sitting on the bench in front of the shop which the old men occupied during the day. A lamp burned brightly between them, flattening their faces into masks of frankness.
His hard-bitten air was a grotesque parody, making everyone laugh, for he was shrunken and unwell, dressed in rags, and was often beaten in the streets by other boys. No one knew where he slept for he had no home. Kahlil called him kifa urongo too. âAnother one. The original,â he said.
Every morning, the old gardener Hamdani came to attend to the secret trees and bushes, and clean the pool and water channels. He never spoke to anyone and went unsmiling about his work, humming verses and qasidas.
The Mountain Town
âEvery morning he began work without greeting anyone, filled his buckets and scooped the water out with his hand as he walked along the paths, as if nothing else existed apart from this garden and this work.
In the daylight he looked out of the window, searching the countryside and noting its changes. On their right distant hills were rising again, looking lush and dark. The air above the hills was thick and opaque, secreting a promise. On the parched plain through which the train was labouring, the light was clear. As the sun rose the air became gritty with dust. The scorched and dry plain was still covered with patches of dead grass which the rains would transform into lush savannahs. Clumps of gnarled thorn trees dotted the plain, which was darkened by scattered outcrops of black rock. Waves of heat and vapour rose from the burning earth, filling Yusufâs mouth and making him heave fire breath. At one station, where they stopped for a long time, a solitary jacaranda tree was in bloom. Mauve and purple petals lay on the ground like an iridescent rug. Beside the tree was a two-roomed railway store. On its doors hung enormous rusty padlocks and its whitewashed walls were spattered with laterite mud.
Later, when the night was deep into the small hours, their conversation became softer and more gloomy, punctuated by longer and more frequent yawns.
âI fear for the times ahead of us,â Hussein said quietly, making Hamid sigh wearily. âEverything is in turmoil. There Europeans are very determined, and as they fight over the prosperity of the earth they will crush all of us. Youâd be a fool to think theyâre here to do anything that is good. It isnât trade theyâre after, but the land itself. And everything in it⌠us.
One day theyâll make them spit on all that we know, and will make them recite their laws and their story of the world as if it were the holy word. When they come to write about us, what will they say? That we made slaves.
The Journey to the Interior
âKalasinga explained to him the mysteries of the engine, and Yusuf grasped something of this but was happier watching him magically coax the tangle of pipes and bolts into life. He heard about India, where Kalasinga had not been for many years, and South Africa, where he had lived as a child. Itâs a madhouse in South. All kinds of cruel fantasies have come true there. Let me tell you something about those Afrikander bastards, though. Theyâre crazy. I donât just mean wild and cruel, I mean round the loop. Hot sun has turned their Dutch brain to soup.
The scattered scrub took formidably gnarled and twisted forms, as if existence was a torture.
The Gates of Flame
âAfter a few days they knew they were close to the lake. The light ahead of them looked thicker, softer with the burden of water below. The thought of the lake made everyone happier.
They kept the canoes in close formation, close enough to throw snatches of song as each other and laugh at the replies. The travellers sat silently for the most part, troubled by the immensity of the water and the strong men in whose hands their lives lay. Most of them were not swimmers, even though their homes were by the sea. Their feet would cross a lifetime of mountains and plains but still retreat hurriedly from the hissing times which washed their shores.
A Clot of Blood
âTheir intrigues and hatreds and vengeful acquisitiveness had forced even simple virtues into tokens of exchange and barter. He would go away, there was nothing simpler. Somewhere where he could escape the oppressive claims everything made on him. But he knew that a hard lump of loneliness had long ago formed in his displaced heart, that wherever he went it would be with him, to diminish and disperse any plot he could hatch for small fulfilment.
The Walled Garden
âThe darkness outside was a measureless void, and he feared that the train was too deep in it to be able to return safely. He tried to concentrate on the noise of the wheels, but their rhythm was eccentric and only served to distract him and keep him awake.
Whenever Yusuf rolled too close, Kahlil kicked him away savagely. Mosquitoes wheeled around them, shrieking for blood with high-pitched wails. If the sheets slipped from their bodies the mosquitoes instantly gathered to their sinful feast. Yusuf dreamt he could see their jagged-edged sabres sawing through his flesh.
Kahlil told him, âYouâre here because your Ba owes the seyyid money. Iâm here because my Ba owes him money - only heâs dead now, Godâs mercy on his soul.
She seemed very old to Yusuf, cumbersome, bulky, and with a look of suffering when her face was unguarded. Her body shivered and straightened with an involuntary charge when she caught sight of him, and a small cry escaped her. If Yusuf had not seen her, she stalked him until he was near enough to squeeze him into her arms. Then, while he struggled and kicked she ululated with triumph and joy. On occasions when she could not sneak up on him, she approached him with ecstatic cries, calling him my husband, my master.
Several months after Yusufâs arrival - he had taught himself to lose count, and his perverse success made him understand that days could be as long as weeks if there was no desire for them - preparations were being made for a journey to the interior. Uncle Aziz spoke to Kahlil for long periods in the evening, sitting on the bench in front of the shop which the old men occupied during the day. A lamp burned brightly between them, flattening their faces into masks of frankness.
His hard-bitten air was a grotesque parody, making everyone laugh, for he was shrunken and unwell, dressed in rags, and was often beaten in the streets by other boys. No one knew where he slept for he had no home. Kahlil called him kifa urongo too. âAnother one. The original,â he said.
Every morning, the old gardener Hamdani came to attend to the secret trees and bushes, and clean the pool and water channels. He never spoke to anyone and went unsmiling about his work, humming verses and qasidas.
The Mountain Town
âEvery morning he began work without greeting anyone, filled his buckets and scooped the water out with his hand as he walked along the paths, as if nothing else existed apart from this garden and this work.
In the daylight he looked out of the window, searching the countryside and noting its changes. On their right distant hills were rising again, looking lush and dark. The air above the hills was thick and opaque, secreting a promise. On the parched plain through which the train was labouring, the light was clear. As the sun rose the air became gritty with dust. The scorched and dry plain was still covered with patches of dead grass which the rains would transform into lush savannahs. Clumps of gnarled thorn trees dotted the plain, which was darkened by scattered outcrops of black rock. Waves of heat and vapour rose from the burning earth, filling Yusufâs mouth and making him heave fire breath. At one station, where they stopped for a long time, a solitary jacaranda tree was in bloom. Mauve and purple petals lay on the ground like an iridescent rug. Beside the tree was a two-roomed railway store. On its doors hung enormous rusty padlocks and its whitewashed walls were spattered with laterite mud.
Later, when the night was deep into the small hours, their conversation became softer and more gloomy, punctuated by longer and more frequent yawns.
âI fear for the times ahead of us,â Hussein said quietly, making Hamid sigh wearily. âEverything is in turmoil. There Europeans are very determined, and as they fight over the prosperity of the earth they will crush all of us. Youâd be a fool to think theyâre here to do anything that is good. It isnât trade theyâre after, but the land itself. And everything in it⌠us.
One day theyâll make them spit on all that we know, and will make them recite their laws and their story of the world as if it were the holy word. When they come to write about us, what will they say? That we made slaves.
The Journey to the Interior
âKalasinga explained to him the mysteries of the engine, and Yusuf grasped something of this but was happier watching him magically coax the tangle of pipes and bolts into life. He heard about India, where Kalasinga had not been for many years, and South Africa, where he had lived as a child. Itâs a madhouse in South. All kinds of cruel fantasies have come true there. Let me tell you something about those Afrikander bastards, though. Theyâre crazy. I donât just mean wild and cruel, I mean round the loop. Hot sun has turned their Dutch brain to soup.
The scattered scrub took formidably gnarled and twisted forms, as if existence was a torture.
The Gates of Flame
âAfter a few days they knew they were close to the lake. The light ahead of them looked thicker, softer with the burden of water below. The thought of the lake made everyone happier.
They kept the canoes in close formation, close enough to throw snatches of song as each other and laugh at the replies. The travellers sat silently for the most part, troubled by the immensity of the water and the strong men in whose hands their lives lay. Most of them were not swimmers, even though their homes were by the sea. Their feet would cross a lifetime of mountains and plains but still retreat hurriedly from the hissing times which washed their shores.
A Clot of Blood
âTheir intrigues and hatreds and vengeful acquisitiveness had forced even simple virtues into tokens of exchange and barter. He would go away, there was nothing simpler. Somewhere where he could escape the oppressive claims everything made on him. But he knew that a hard lump of loneliness had long ago formed in his displaced heart, that wherever he went it would be with him, to diminish and disperse any plot he could hatch for small fulfilment.