Nadine Gordimer - Jump and Other Stories

Then I catch on what kind of white she is; so I tell her, yes, the government kicked us out from our place, and she say to the young man, You see?

He want to know why I’m not in the place in the Cape Flats, why I’m so far away here. I tell them I’m working in Pietersburg. And he keep on, why? Why? What’s my job, everything, and if I don’t understand the way he speak, she chips in again all the time and ask me for him. So I tell him, panel beater. And I tell him, the pay is very low in the Cape. And then I begin to tell them lots of things, some things is real and some things I just think of, things that are going to make them like me, maybe they’ll take me all the way there to Pietersburg.

I tell them I’m six days on the road. I not going to say I’m sick as well, I been home because I was sick — because she’s not from overseas, I suss that, she know that old story. I tell them I had to take leave because my mother’s got trouble with my brothers and sisters, we seven in the family and no father. And s’true’s God, it seem like what I’m saying. When do you ever see him except he’s drunk. And my brother is trouble, trouble, he hangs around with bad people and my other brother doesn’t help my mother. And that’s no lie, neither, how can he help when he’s doing time; but they don’t need to know that, they only get scared I’m the same kind like him, if I tell about him, assault and intent to do bodily harm. The sisters are in school and my mother’s only got the pension. Ja. I’m working there in Pietersburg and every week, madam, I swear to you, I send my pay for my mother and sisters. So then he say, Why get off here? Don’t you want us to take you to Pietersburg? And she say, of course, they going that way.

And I tell them some more. They listening to me so nice, and I’m talking, talking. I talk about the government, because I hear she keep saying to him, telling about this law and that law. I say how it’s not fair we had to leave Wynberg and go to the Flats. I tell her we got sicknesses — she say what kind, is it unhealthy there? And I don’t have to think what, I just say it’s bad, bad, and she say to the man, As I told you. I tell about the house we had in Wynberg, but it’s not my grannie’s old house where we was all living together so long, the house I’m telling them about is more the kind of house they’ll know, they wouldn’t like to go away from, with a tiled bathroom, electric stove, everything. I tell them we spend three thousand rands fixing up that house — my uncle give us the money, that’s how we got it. He give us his savings, three thousand rands. (I don’t know why I say three; old Uncle Jimmy never have three or two or one in his life. I just say it.) And then we just kicked out. And panel beaters getting low pay there; it’s better in Pietersburg.

He say, but I’m far from my home? And I tell her again, because she’s white but she’s a woman too, with that grey hair she’s got grown-up kids — Madam, I send my pay home every week, s’true’s God, so’s they can eat, there in the Flats. I’m saying, six days on the road. While I’m saying it, I’m thinking; then I say, look at me, I got only these clothes, I sold my things on the way, to have something to eat. Six days on the road. He’s from overseas and she isn’t one of those who say you’re a liar, doesn’t trust you — right away when I got in the car, I notice she doesn’t take her stuff over to the front like they usually do in case you pinch something of theirs. Six days on the road, and am I tired, tired! When I get to Pietersburg I must try borrow me a rand to get a taxi there to where I live. He say, Where do you live? Not in town? And she laugh, because he don’t know nothing about this place, where whites live and where we must go — but I know they both thinking and I know what they thinking; I know I’m going to get something when I get out, don’t need to worry about that. They feeling bad about me, now. Bad. Anyhow it’s God’s truth that I’m tired, tired, that’s true.

They’ve put up her window and he’s pushed a few buttons, now it’s like in a supermarket, cool air blowing, and the windows like sunglasses: that sun can’t get me here.

The Englishman glances over his shoulder as he drives.

‘Taking a nap.’

‘I’m sure it’s needed.’

All through the trip he stops for everyone he sees at the roadside. Some are not hitching at all, never expecting to be given a lift anywhere, just walking in the heat outside with an empty plastic can to be filled with water or paraffin or whatever it is they buy in some country store, or standing at some point between departure and destination, small children and bundles linked on either side, baby on back. She hasn’t said anything to him. He would only misunderstand if she explained why one doesn’t give lifts in this country; and if she pointed out that in spite of this, she doesn’t mind him breaking the sensible if unfortunate rule, he might misunderstand that, as well — think she was boasting of her disregard for personal safety weighed in the balance against decent concern for fellow beings.

He persists in making polite conversation with these passengers because he doesn’t want to be patronizing; picking them up like so many objects and dropping them off again, silent, smelling of smoke from open cooking fires, sun and sweat, there behind his head. They don’t understand his Englishman’s English and if he gets an answer at all it’s a deaf man’s guess at what’s called for. Some grin with pleasure and embarrass him by showing it the way they’ve been taught is acceptable, invoking him as baas and master when they get out and give thanks. But although he doesn’t know it, being too much concerned with those names thrust into his hands like whips whose purpose is repugnant to him, has nothing to do with him, she knows each time that there is a moment of annealment in the air-conditioned hired car belonging to nobody — a moment like that on a no-man’s-land bridge in which an accord between warring countries is signed — when there is no calling of names, and all belong in each other’s presence. He doesn’t feel it because he has no wounds, neither has inflicted, nor will inflict any.

This one standing at the roadside with his transistor radio in a plastic bag was actually thumbing a lift like a townee; his expectation marked him out. And when her companion to whom she was showing the country inevitably pulled up, she read the face at the roadside immediately: the lively, cajoling, performer’s eyes, the salmon-pinkish cheeks and nostrils, and as he jogged over smiling, the unselfconscious gap of gum between the canines.

A sleeper is always absent; although present, there on the back seat.

‘The way he spoke about black people, wasn’t it surprising? I mean — he’s black himself.’

‘Oh no he’s not. Couldn’t you see the difference? He’s a Cape Coloured. From the way he speaks English — couldn’t you hear he’s not like the Africans you’ve talked to?’

But of course he hasn’t seen, hasn’t heard: the fellow is dark enough, to those who don’t know the signs by which you’re classified, and the melodramatic, long-vowelled English is as difficult to follow if more fluent than the terse, halting responses of blacker people.

‘Would he have a white grandmother or even a white father, then?’

She gives him another of the little history lessons she has been supplying along the way. The Malay slaves brought by the Dutch East India Company to their supply station, on the route to India, at the Cape in the seventeenth century; the Khoikhoi who were the indigenous inhabitants of that part of Africa; add Dutch, French, English, German settlers whose back-yard progeniture with these and other blacks began a people who are all the people in the country mingled in one bloodstream. But encounters along the road teach him more than her history lessons, or the political analyses in which they share the same ideological approach although he does not share responsibility for the experience to which the ideology is being applied. She has explained Acts, Proclamations, Amendments. The Group Areas Act, Resettlement Act, Orderly Movement and Settlement of Black Persons Act. She has translated these statute-book euphemisms: people as movable goods. People packed onto trucks along with their stoves and beds while front-end loaders scoop away their homes into rubble. People dumped somewhere else. Always somewhere else. People as the figures, decimal points and multiplying zero-zero-zeros into which individual lives — Black Persons Orderly-Moved, — Effluxed, — Grouped — coagulate and compute. Now he has here in the car the intimate weary odour of a young man to whom these things happen.