pit of my gut. When my mother returned home half an hour later, I asked her if Midnight’s stay had anything to do with me. She replied that the African was here to help Papa, though she admitted that she didn’t have the vaguest idea what that meant. She also told me that she had been questioned by several women on our street about the strange, dark-complexioned “creature” they’d seen leaving our house.
“Over the next three weeks, John, we shall be hearing quite a bit of speculation,” she added, raising a finger of warning. “And I do not intend to add any kindling at all to that fire.”
We saw father and our African guest again before supper. Midnight was not terribly fond of shoes, and he left his, along with his stockings, at our door. His feet were small and highly arched. Like those of an elf.
At the supper table I picked at my sardines and managed, through sheer will, to eat an entire one, as well as several boiled potatoes, though I had no appetite at all.
Prior to coming to the table, Midnight removed from his fob pocket a child’s whistle and rattle, the very same one I had had as a toddler. It had a number of tiny metal balls chained to a central tube. He twirled it in his hands, making a tinkling sound that gave him great pleasure. He may have expected us to join him in appreciation of this trinket, but the only one who smiled at him was my father.
The African placed his toy down beside his plate and sat at our table in a most dignified and erect manner. After receiving permission from Papa, he started to eat. Mama and I watched him closely, hoping to find him wholly wanting for manners.
He had strong but delicate hands, like those of a weaver, I thought. Though he managed his knife and fork with a certain darting elegance, he used his fingertip to prompt a piece of potato onto the tines several times. Mother raised her eyebrows at these actions, storing each faux pas as ammunition. But what really bothered her was that he never said thank you — not when he was invited to sit, when butter was passed to him, or even when his wine cup was filled.
To each of these gestures, he simply smiled.
My mother was squinting, a sure sign that she would be engaging him in a prolonged interrogation in the near future. I was ready to back her sword-and-shield in any quarrel, since my parents had always insisted on my thank-yous at every opportunity.
“My husband tells me, sir, that you are from southern Africa,” Mama announced.
“That is correct-correct, madam,” Midnight said, smiling.
“It is
Papa took Mama’s hand in his and said, “Midnight often uses two words for emphasis, May.”
“Is that so? Well, then, where exactly are you
Papa laughed at her witticism but stifled his mirth when she frowned at him.
“I was born near the Hill of the Sky.”
“The Hill of the Sky?” she repeated disdainfully, skewering a piece of potato with her fork. “And what might that place be?”
“That place might be a great-great mountain that glows blue in the sunset.”
“Blue? How is it blue in the sunset, sir?”
“It is very, very blue.” He nodded eagerly. “As blue as can be.”
My mother narrowed her eyes again and licked her tongue over her lips as though preparing to dine on our guest. “‘Very, very blue,’” she echoed sarcastically. “‘As blue as can be.’ Yes, it must have indeed been that.”
I realized her tactic was to point out the peculiarity of his remarks by repeating them. It was a clever strategy that had the opposite effect on me, since hearing his expressions a second time only convinced me that he possessed an agile and creative mind.
“And how old might you be, sir?” she continued.
It was then that he told us he was the age of the wildflowers that blossomed in the year of the hailstorm over Gemsbok Valley. Unreceptive to his obvious flair for description, particularly given that English was not his native tongue, my mother insisted on a clearer answer. “But in years, how old?” she prompted, slamming down her fork in irritation.
Midnight smiled and shook his head apologetically.
Father gobbled down a steaming half-potato. Fanning the burning heat from his now open mouth, he replied, “It is hard to say, my dear. His people are Bushmen. They do not count their ages in years.” He downed his wine in one gulp and sighed with relief.
“That’s absurd,” Mother replied.
Father wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Might I inquire how many steps it takes for you to get to your mother’s house from here?”
“Naturally you may. And I have no idea.”
“That is because you measure the distance in the minutes it takes you. A Bushman measures his age differently than we might like, but to him it makes all the sense in the world.”
“What rubbish!” she exclaimed.
“Ridiculous it may be, May, but perfectly suited to his life.”
They frowned at each other and said nothing more. “What is a Bushman?” I asked, for I had never heard that name.
Father poured himself more wine. “The Bushmen were the first people to inhabit southern Africa. They are nomads and hunters, and they wander for hundreds of miles to follow the great rains across the desert, savanna, and jungle. I assure you, having seen them in action, that no swifter and more accurate hunter lives anywhere on earth. But of late they have been killed by the hundreds and dispersed by the Dutch and the English and even other Africans.”
He looked tenderly at our guest, who was gazing forlornly down at his plate. “Midnight was but a wee lad when he was stolen from his people. His parents were killed in a raid by a Dutch commander called Nel, a fearsome brute who killed thousands of Midnight’s people. The lad was carried back to the farm of one of Nel’s officers and made an errand boy. After that, he was abandoned and left to fend for himself. Through his own tracking skills, he found his way back to his people. Years later, in another raid, his new kin were all murdered. He was a young man by then and was sold again, this time to a Yorkshireman named Reynolds, who had a nearby vineyard. That is where I met him. So you see, there are good reasons why he does not know his age in ways we might understand.”
“If they are all such great hunters, Papa, then how were his parents killed?” At the time I was pleased that I might be giving offense with this indiscreet question.
Father placed an imaginary arrow into an invisible bow, aimed it at our garden window, and let it fly. “The bow is of little use against a musket, John. Even you know that.” He winked at me then, and I understood that he had used the word
Our guest continued to hang his head, plainly troubled. Tiny wrinkles, like the spokes of a wheel, spread on his skin from his almond-shaped eyes.
“So what can you tell us of Africa, sir?” Mother said.
Midnight had never sailed beyond the borders of Africa, so asking him to speak of his continent was tantamount to asking him to speak of the world itself — which is why, I believe, he gestured up toward our ceiling and said, “In the heavens are the stars, who are the great and powerful hunters. They dance to bring back the sun, just as the Bushman dances to bring back the moon.” Opening his hands to my mother and lifting them toward her as though presenting her with a precious gift, he added, “And then there is Mantis, who steps down from the sky to the desert.”
My mother was clearly taken aback by his beautiful words, to the extent that I believed he had won her over. But she cleared her throat and replied curtly, “Yes, well, that was very pretty, I am sure, but I do not see what it has to do with Africa.”
“Africa is where these things are known. Africa is memory.”
