200
DO R I S L ES
Sl.N 6
And Esther said, "God has not been in this house since half·
past five on Saturday last." And went out.
Right. I got dressed, and went down the main street, drawing
looks from the Monday morning citizens, all of whom had probably
been watching us staggering along last night from behind their black
drawn curtains. I reached the veld and there was Hans. A wind had
got up, a hot dust-devilish wind, and it blew about red dust and bits
of grit, and leaves and dead grass into the blue sky, and those pale
dry bushes that leave their roots and go bouncing and twirling
all
over the empty sand, like dervishes, round and round, and then
up and around, and there was Hans, letting out yelps and cries and
shouts, and he was chasing about after screws of paper that were
whirling around among all the dust and stuff.
I helped him. The thorn tree had three squirls of paper tugging
and blowing from spikes of black thorn, so I collected those, and we
ran after the blowing white bits that had the black beautiful script
on them, and we got perhaps a third back. Then we sat under the
thorn tree, the hard sharp black shadows over us and the sand, and
we watched a dust-devil whirling columns of yellow sand and
his
poems up and off into the sky.
I said: "But Hans, you could write them down again, couldn't
you? You couldn't have forgotten them, surely?"
And he said: "But Martin, anyone can read them now, don't
you see that man? Esther could come out here next afternoon off,
and pick anyone of those poems up off the earth and read
it.
Or
suppose the Predikant or the Mayor got their hands on them?"
Then I understood. I promise you,
it
had never crossed rriy
domkop
mind until that moment. I swear it. I simply sat there,
sweating out guilt and brandy, and I looked at that poor madman,
and then I remembered back ten years and I thought: You idiot.
You fool.
Then at last I got intelligent and I said: "But Hans, even
if
Esther and the Predikant and the Mayor did come out here and
pick up your poems, like leaves, off the bushes, they
couldn~t
under·
stand one word, because they are written in that slim black script
you worked out for yourself."
I saw his poor crazy face get more happy, and he said: "You
think so, Martin? Really? You really think so?"
