Then he stood up, and looked round the room, and they watched him. He took his coat from a nail, and put it on, and he put his hat on his head, and took his stick in his hand. And so dressed he turned to them, and nodded to them again. But this time they did not know what he said.

You are going out my friend?

Do you wish to come to the prison, umfundisi? I have arranged it for you.

And k.u.malo nodded. He turned and looked round the room again, and found that his coat was already on him, and his hat; he touched both coat and hat, and looked down at the stick that was in his hand.

My brother first, he said, if you will show me the way only.

I shall show you the way, my friend.

And I shall wait at the Mission, said the young man.

As Msimangu put his hand to the door, k.u.malo halted him. I shall walk slowly up the street, he said. You must tell them - he pointed with his hand.

I shall tell them, my friend.

So he told them, and having told them, closed the front door on the wailing of the women, for such is their custom. Slowly he followed the bent figure up the street, saw him nodding as he walked, saw the people turning. Would age now swiftly overtake him? Would this terrible nodding last now for all his days, so that men said aloud in his presence, it is nothing, he is old and does nothing but forget? And would he nod as though he too were saying, Yes, it is nothing, I am old and do nothing but forget? But who would know that he said, I do nothing but remember?

Msimangu caught him up at the top of the hill, and took his arm, and it was like walking with a child or with one that was sick. So they came to the shop. And at the shop k.u.malo turned, and closed his eyes, and his lips were moving. Then he opened his eyes and turned to Msimangu.

Do not come further, he said. It is I who must do this.

And then he went into the shop.

Yes, the bull voice was there, loud and confident. His brother John was sitting there on a chair talking to two other men, sitting there like a chief. His brother he did not recognize, for the light from the street was on the back of the visitor.

Good afternoon, my brother.

Good afternoon, sir.

Good afternoon, my own brother, son of our mother.

Ah my brother, it is you. Well, well, I am glad to see you. Will you not come and join us?

k.u.malo looked at the visitors. I am sorry, he said, but I come again on business, urgent business.

I am sure my friends will excuse us. Excuse us, my friends.

So they all said stay well, and go well, and the two men left them.

Well, well, I am glad to see you, my brother. And your business, how does it progress? Have you found the prodigal? You will see I have not forgotten my early teaching altogether.

And he laughed at that, a great bull laugh. But we must have tea, he said, and he went to the door and called into the place behind.

It is still the same woman, he said. You see, I also have my ideas of - how do you say it in English? And he laughed his great laugh again, for he was only playing with his brother. Fidelity, that was the word. A good word, I shall not easily forget it. He is a clever man, our Mr. Msimangu. And now the prodigal, have you found him?

He is found, my brother. But not as he was found in the early teaching. He is in prison, arrested for the murder of a white man.

Murder? The man does not jest now. One does not jest about murder. Still less about the murder of a white man.

Yes, murder. He broke into a house in a place that they call Parkwold, and killed the white man who would have prevented him.

What? I remember! Only a day or two since? On Tuesday?

Yes.

Yes, I remember.

Yes, he remembers. He remembers too that his own son and his brother's son are companions. The veins stand out on the bull neck, and the sweat forms on the brow. Have no doubt it is fear in the eyes. He wipes his brow with a cloth. There are many questions he could ask before he need come at it. All he says is, yes, indeed, I do remember. His brother is filled with compa.s.sion for him. He will try gently to bring it to him.

I am sorry, my brother.

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 k.u.malo whispersTixo, Tixo . And again,Tixo, Tixo . k.u.malo 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 k.u.malo's hand in both his own. Anything, he says, anything. You have only to ask. I shall do anything.

They pa.s.s through the great gate in the grim high wall. The young man talks for them, and it is arranged. John k.u.malo is taken to one room, and the young man goes with Stephen k.u.malo 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 k.u.malo. 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 k.u.malo.

Do you wish to marry this girl, my son?