Брайс Кортни - The Power of One

She turned to look up at Hoppie. ‘They fit good,’ she said.

Hoppie waited until she was back behind the counter. ‘Okay, now we make a swap. Those tackies for these tackies.’ He placed my old tackies in front of her.

The lady stood looking at Harry Crown’s tackies and then shook her head slowly. ‘I cannot do this,’ she said quietly.

Hoppie leaned his elbows on the counter so he was looking directly into her eyes. His back was straight, his jaw jutted out and his head was held high, his whole body seemed to be threatening her. He allowed his silence to take effect, forcing her to speak again.

‘These are not the same, where did you buy these tackies?’ She picked up one and examined the sole, then she turned towards the door behind the counter and said something in a strange language. In a few moments we were joined by a man with the same straight black hair and brown skin but dressed in a shirt and pants just like everyone else. The lady handed the tackie to the man, speaking again in the strange language. He seemed much older than she, old enough to be her father. The man turned to Hoppie.

‘We cannot make a change, this tackie is not the same. See here is the brand, made in China.’ He tapped the sole of the tackie with his forefinger. Then he walked over to the bundle on the counter and pulled one tackie loose from the pile. ‘See, by golly, here is altogether another brand and not from China, this time made in Japan. That is a different place you see, this is a different tackie. You did not buy this tackie from Patel & Son. You must pay me three shilling.’

Hoppie appeared not to have heard, and leaning over the counter he tapped the man on the shoulder. ‘Outside it says Patel & Son, this is your daughter but where is your son, Patel?’

Patel’s face lost its aggrieved look. ‘My son is very-very clever. A very-very clever student who is studying at University of Bombay. Every month we are sending him money and he is sending us letters. Soon he will be returning BA and we will be most overjoyed on his returnings.’

‘Sixpence and these tackies, Patel. I can’t be fairer than that, man,’ Hoppie said emphatically. Patel bent and twisted the tackie in his hand, a sour look appearing on his face.

‘One shilling,’ he said suddenly.

‘Sixpence,’ Hoppie said again. Patel shook his head.

‘Too much I am losing,’ he said.

Hoppie looked at him. ‘Patel, this is my last and final offer and only if the boy gets a bansela , I’ll give you another tickey, take it or leave it, man!’ Patel shook his head and clucked his tongue and finally nodded. Hoppie took the ninepence out of his pocket and put it on the counter. The beautiful lady held out a yellow sucker.

‘Here is your bansela ,’ she said with a smile and I caught another glimpse of the diamond. I thanked her for the sucker, wondering what yellow tasted like. I still had one red one and with this one I would have two for the fight tonight.

‘Thank you, Hoppie,’ I said, looking down proudly at my new white tackies. I can tell you they looked good and I could walk in them just like that.

‘Better take them off, Peekay. If you’re going to be in my corner tonight we don’t want you wearing dirty tackies, man,’ Hoppie said with a grin. I took the tackies off and Hoppie tied the laces in a knot and hung them around my neck. I turned to thank Patel. He seemed to have become very excited and was pointing to Hoppie.

‘Meneer Kid Louis, I am very-very honoured to meet you! All week, my golly, I am hearing about you and the fisticuffs business. This morning only, the telephone from my brother in Mica and my brother in Letsitele is ringing for placing a wager. My goodness gracious, now I am meeting the person myself!’

Hoppie laughed, ‘Bet the ninepence you rooked out of me on me and it will pay for your son’s education, Patel.’

‘No, no, we are doing much, much better. Ten pounds we are wagering on Kid Louis.’

‘Holy shit! Ten pounds! That’s twice as much as I win if I win.’

Patel proffered the ninepence he had been holding. ‘Please take it back, Meneer Kid Louis, it will bring very-very bad luck if I am keeping this money.’

Hoppie shrugged and pointed to me. ‘Give it to the next welterweight contender.’

‘You are a boxer also?’

I nodded gravely, in my head it seemed almost true. Patel dug into his pocket and produced a handful of change, he dropped the ninepence amongst the coins and selected a shilling. ‘Here is for you a shilling,’ he said fearfully. Turning to Hoppie he said: ‘Please, you must be fighting very-very hard tonight.’

Hoppie grinned at him. ‘You don’t know what you just did, Patel, but it is a very good omen.’

‘Thank you, Mr Patel,’ I said, my hand closing around the silver coin. Granpa’s change was safe again and I must say it was a load off my mind.

As we left the shop Hoppie gave me a bump with his elbow. ‘You’re a funny little bugger, Peekay. You don’t call a blêrrie coolie “Mister”. A coolie is not a Kaffir because he is clever and he will cheat you any time he can. But a coolie is still not a white man!’

‘That lady had a diamond in her tooth, Hoppie.’

‘Yeah, the bastards have got lots of money all right. You never see a poor charah . Behind the shop is probably a big V8 Pontiac.’

‘What if she swallows it?’

‘What?’

‘The diamond… if it comes loose or something?’

Hoppie laughed. ‘They’d be sifting through kak for days!’

We stopped at a café and Hoppie bought two bottles of red stuff. The old lady behind the counter took them out of an ice box, opened them, popped a sort of pipe only made of paper into the tops and handed them to us. I watched to see how Hoppie did it and then I did it too. Tiny bubbles ran up the bottle and went up my nose and it tasted wonderful. On the side were the words American Cream Soda. The stuff was like a raspberry sucker only different. It was the first bottled soft drink I had ever tasted.

We arrived at the railway club just before five o’clock. The club manager, who came onto the verandah to meet us, said the temperature was still in the high nineties, the rains were overdue and there was already severe drought in the Kruger National Park at the far end of the Murchison range.

The club was cool with polished red cement floors and large ceiling fans. The manager told us the boys from the mine had already arrived and the railway boys, including Hoppie’s seconds, were with them in the billiard room having a few beers. Hoppie took my hand and we followed the manager into the billiard room.

The room contained three large tables covered in green stuff on which were lots of pretty coloured balls. Men with long sticks were knocking the balls together all over the place. In the far corner some twenty or so men were seated at a long table covered in aeroplane cloth on which were lots of brown bottles. They all stopped talking as we walked in. Two of them put down their glasses, rose from the table and came towards us smiling. Hoppie shook them by the hand and seemed very happy to see them. He turned to me and said: ‘Peekay, this is Nels and Bokkie. Nels, Bokkie, this is Peekay, the next welterweight contender.’ Both men grinned and said hello and I said hello back. We walked over to the group of men who had remained sitting around the long table.

Bokkie cleared his throat and put his hand on Hoppie’s shoulder. He was a big man with a huge round tummy, and a very red face with a flat nose that appeared to have been broken several times. I noticed that Hoppie was staring at a man who was sitting at the table with a jug of beer in front of him. The man was looking straight back at Hoppie, and their eyes were locked together for a long time. Hoppie was still holding my hand and although his grip didn’t seem to increase I could feel the sudden tension. At last the man grinned and dropped his eyes and reached out for his glass.