about his middle a magnificent belt, gleaming with engraved silver buckles and medallions.
The man in the photograph was Tromp Bierman aged no more than twenty-five, cleanshaven, his hair parted in the middle and plastered flat with brilliantine, his powerful body marvellously muscled, his clenched fists held before him, crouching in the classic stance of the pugilist. A small table in front of him held a treasure of glittering cups and sporting trophies. The young man smiled out of the photograph, strikingly handsome, and in Manfred's eyes, impossibly dashing and romantic.
You are a boxer, he blurted out, unable to contain his wonder and admiration, and the Trumpet of God was cut off in mid-blast. The great shaggy head lowered, the eyes blinking as they readjusted to reality and then swivelling to follow Manfred's gaze.
Not just a boxer, said Uncle Tromp. But a champion.
Light heavyweight champion of the Union of South Africa. He looked back and saw the expression on Manfred's face, and his own expression warmed and melted with remembrance and gratification.
Did you win all those cups, and that belt? I surely did, Jong.
I smote the Philistines hip and thigh. I struck them down in their multitudes. Did you only fight Philistines, Uncle Tromp? They were all Philistines, Jong. As soon as they stepped into the ring with me they became Philistines and I fell upon them without mercy, like the hammer and the sword of the Almighty. Tromp Bierman lifted his clenched fists in front of him and shot out a swift tattoo of punches, firing them across the desk, stopping each blow only inches from Manfred's nose.
I made my living with these fists, jong. All corners at ten pounds a time. I fought Mike Williams and put him down in the sixth, the great Mike Williams himself. He grunted as he weaved and boxed in his chair Ha! Ha! Left! Right!
Left! I even thrashed the black Jephta, and I took the title from Jack Lalor in 1916. I can still hear the cheers now as Lalor hit the canvas. Sweet, my Jong, so very sweet, he broke off, and replaced his hands in his lap, his expression becoming dignified and stern once again. Then your Aunt Trudi and the Lord God of Israel called me from the ring to more important work. And the gleam of battle lust faded regretfully from Uncle Tromp's eyes.
Boxing and being champion, that would be the most important thing for me, Manfred breathed, and Tromp's gaze focused thoughtfully upon him. He looked him over carefully from the top of his cropped head to his large but well-proportioned feet in battered velskoen.
YOU want to learn to fight? He dropped his voice, and glanced at the door, a conspiratorial gesture.
Manfred could not answer; his throat was closed with excitement, but he nodded vigorously and Uncle Tromp went on in his normal piercing tones.
Your Aunt Trudi doesn't approve of brawling. Quite right too! Fisticuff s are for hooligans. Put the thought from your mind, Jong. Think on higher planes. He shook his head so A vigorously that his beard was disarranged, it took that effort to dislodge the notion from his own head, and he combed his beard with his fingers as he went on.
TO return to what I was saying. Your aunt and I think it best that you drop the name De La Rey for the time being.
You shall adopt the name Bierman until the notoriety of your father's trial fades. There has already been too much mention of that name in the newspapers, those organs of Lucifer. Your aunt is quite right in not allowing them into this house. There will be a great hoo-ha once the trial of your father begins in Windhoek next month. It could bring shame and disgrace on you and this family. My father's trial? Manfred stared at him without comprehension. But my father is dead. Dead? Is that what you thought? Tromp stood up and came around the desk. Forgive me, Jong. He placed both his huge hands on Manfred's shoulders. I have caused you unnecessary suffering by not speaking of this earlier. Your father is not dead. He has been captured by the police, and he will stand trial for his life at the Supreme Court in Windhoek on the twentieth of next month. He steadied Manfred as the boy reeled at the impact of the words and then went on with a gentle rumble. Now you understand why we want you to change your name, Jong. Sarah had hurried through her ironing and sneaked out of the house. She was perched now on top of the woodpile with her knees drawn up under her chin, hugging her legs with both arms as she watched Manfred at work. She loved to watch him with the axe. It was a long two -handed axe, with a red-painted head and a bright edge to the blade. Manie sharpened it on the whetstone until he could shave the fine gold hair off the back of his hand with it.
He had taken off his shirt and given it to her to hold. His chest and back were all shiny with sweat. She liked the way he smelled when he sweated, like newly baked bread, or like a sun-warm fig just picked from the tree.
Manfred laid another log in the cradle and stood back. He spat on the palms of his hands. He always did that and she involuntarily worked up a ball of spit in her own mouth in sympathy. Then he hefted the long axe and she tensed herself .
Five times table, he ordered, and swung the axe in a long looping blow. It hummed faintly over his head as he brought it down. The bright blade buried itself in the log with a clunk and at the same instant Manie gave a sharp explosive grunt of effort.
Five ones are five, she recited in time to the swinging axe.
Five twos are ten. Manie grunted and a white wedge of wood flew as high as his head.
Five threes are fifteen. The axe head spun a bright circle m the yellow light of the lowering sun, and Sarah chanted shrilly as the wood chips pelted down like hail.
The log dropped from the cradle in two pieces just as Sarah cried, 'Five tens are fifty. Manie stepped back and leaned on the axe handle, and grinned at her.
Very good, Sarie, not a single mistake. She preened with pleasure, and then stared over his shoulder, her expression suddenly stricken and guilty. She leapt down from the woodpile and in a swirl of skirts scampered back up the path to the house.
Manie turned quickly. Uncle Tromp was leaning against the corner of the tool-shed watching him.
I'm sorry, Uncle Tromp. He ducked his head. I know she shouldn't be here, but I just can't send her away. Uncle Tromp pushed himself away from the wall and came slowly to where Manfred stood. He moved like a great bear with long arms dangling, and he circled Manfred slowly, examining him with a small distracted frown creasing his forehead.
Manfred squirmed self-consciously, and Uncle Tromp prodded his gut with a large painful finger.
