FROM THE BLACK NOTEBOOK
201
that even then
will
be sinking into their last resting place all about us.
I do not even mention the butterflies who, being incomparably more
beautiful, though probably not more useful, we will actively,- even
assiduously miss-if we are not more occupied with our more usual
decadent diversions."
We were wondering why he was deliberately twisting the knife
in the wound of Maryrose's brother's death. She was smiling pain–
fully. And Jimmy, tormented continuously by fear that he would
crash and be killed, had the same small wry smile as Maryrose.
"The point I am trying to make, comrades .. ."
"We know what point you are trying to make," said Willi,
roughly and angrily. Perhaps it was for moments like these that he
was the "father-figure" of the group, as Paul said he was. "Enough,"
said Willi. "Let's go and get the pigeons."
"It goes without saying, it
is
self-evident," said Paul, returning to
Stalin's favorite opening phrases just so as to hold his own against
Willi, "that mine host Boothby's pigeon pie
will
never get made if
we go on in
this
irresponsible fashion."
We proceeded along the track, among the grasshoppers. About
half a mile further on there was a small kopje, or tumbling heap of
granite boulders; and beyond it, as
if
a line had been drawn, the
grasshoppers ceased. They were simply not there, they did not exist,
they were an extinct species. The butterflies, however, continued
everywhere, like white petals dancing.
I think it must have been October or November. Not because of
the insects-I'm too ignorant to date the time of the year from them,
but because of the quality of the heat that day.
It
was a sucking,
splendid, menacing heat. Late in a rainy season there would have
been a champagne tang in the air, a warning of winter. But that day
I remember the heat was striking our cheeks, our arms, our legs,
even through our clothing. Yes, of course it must have been early in
the season, the grass was short, tufts of clear sharp green in white
sand. So that week-end was four or five months before the final one,
which was just before Paul was killed. And the track we strolled
along that morning was where Paul and I ran hand in hand that
night months later through a fine seeping mist to fall together in the
damp grass. Where? Perhaps near where we sat to shoot pigeons
for the pie.
