MORRIS. Ethel Lange is a white woman!
ZACHARIAH. Wait . . . wait . . . not so fast, Morrie. I’m a sort of a slow man. We were talking about this letter, not her. Now tell me, what’s wrong with what you did read? Does she call me names? No. Does she laugh at me? No. Does she swear at me? No. Just a simple letter with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Here comes the clue. What sort of chap is it that throws away a few kind words? Hey, Morrie? Aren’t they, as you say, precious things these days? And this pretty picture of a lovely girl? I burn it! What sort of doing is that? Bad. Think, man, think of Ethel, man. Think! Sitting up there in Oudtshoorn with Lucy, waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting . . . for what? For nothing. For why? Because bad Zach Pietersen burnt it. No, Morrie. Good is good, and fair is fair. I may be a shade of black, but I go gently as a man.
MORRIS [pause]. Are you finished now, Zach? Good, because I want to remind you, Zach, that when I was writing to her you weren’t even interested in a single thing I said. But now, suddenly, now you are! Why? Why, I ask myself . . . and a suspicious little voice answers: is it maybe because she’s white?
ZACHARIAH. You want to hear me say it?
[Morris says nothing.]
It’s because she’s white! I like this little white girl! I like the thought of this little white girl. I’m telling you I like the thought of this little white Ethel better than our plans, or future, or foot salts or any other damned thing in here. It’s the best thought I ever had and I’m keeping it, and don’t try no tricks like trying to get it away from me. Who knows? You might get to liking it too, Morrie.
[Morris says nothing. Zachariah comes closer.]
Ja. There’s a thought there. What about you, Morrie? You never had it before—that thought? A man like you, specially you, always thinking so many things! A man like you who’s been places! You’re always telling me about the places you been. Wasn’t there ever no white woman thereabouts? I mean . . . you must have smelt them someplace. That sweet, white smell, they leave it behind, you know. [Nudging Morris.] Come on, confess. Of course, you did. Hey? I bet you had that thought all the time. I bet you been having it in here. Hey? You should have shared it, Morrie. I’m a man with a taste for thoughts these days. It hurts to think you didn’t share a good one like that with your brother. Giving me all the other shit about future and plans, and then keeping the real goosie for yourself. You weren’t scared, were you? That I’d tell? Come on. Confess. You were. A little bit poopy. I’ve noticed that. But you needn’t worry now. I’m a man for keeping a secret, and anyway, we’ll play this very careful . . . very, very careful. Ethel won’t never know about us, and I know how to handle that brother. Mustn’t let a policeman bugger you about, man. So write. Write! We’ll go gently with this one. There’ll be others. Later.
[Morris is defeated. He sits at the table. Zachariah fetches paper and pencil.]
So we’ll take her on friendly terms again. [Pause.] ‘Dear Ethel,’ [Morris writes.] ‘I think you’d like to know I got your letter, and the picture. I’d say Oudtshoorn seems okay. You were quite okay too. I would like to send you a picture of me, but it’s this way. It’s winter down here. The light is bad, the lake is black, the birds have gone. Wait for spring, when things improve. Okay? Good. I heard you ask about my car. Yes. I have it. We pumped the tyres today. And tomorrow I think I’ll put in some petrol. I’d like to take you for a drive, Ethel, and Lucy too. In fact, I’d like to drive both of you. They say over here I’m fast. Ethel, I’ll tell you this. If I could drive you, Ethel, and Lucy too, I’d do it so fast, fast, fast, fast, fast—’
MORRIS. Okay, Zach!
ZACHARIAH [pulling himself together]. ‘Ja! But don’t worry. I got brakes.’ [Pause.] ‘I notice your brother got boots. All policemen got boots. Good luck to him, anyway, and Lucy too. Write soon. Zachariah Pietersen.’ [Pause.] Okay, Morrie. There, you see! Just a simple letter with a little bit of this and a little bit of that and nothing about some things. When Ethel gets it she’ll say: ‘He’s okay. This Zachariah Pietersen is okay, Lucy!’ Oh, say something, Morrie.
MORRIS. Zach, please listen to me. [Pause.] Let me burn it.
ZACHARIAH. My letter?
MORRIS. Yes.
ZACHARIAH. The one we just done?
MORRIS. Yes.
ZACHARIAH. Ethel’s letter, now my letter!
[He gets up and takes the letter in question away from Morris.]
You’re in a burning mood tonight, Morrie.
MORRIS. Please, Zach. You’re going to get hurt.
ZACHARIAH [aggression]. Such as by who?
MORRIS. Ethel. Then yourself.
[Zachariah laughs.]
Oh yes. That. There in your hand. To Miss Ethel Lange. Oudtshoorn. You think that’s a letter? I’m telling you it’s a dream, and the most dangerous one. And now you have it on paper as well. That’s what they call evidence, you know. [Pause.] Shit, Zach, I have a feeling about this business, man!
ZACHARIAH. Oh come on, cheer up, Morrie. It’s not so bad.
MORRIS. But you’re playing with fire, Zach.
ZACHARIAH. Maybe. But then I never had much to play with.
MORRIS. Didn’t you?
ZACHARIAH. Don’t you remember? You got the toys.
MORRIS. Did I?
ZACHARIAH. Ja. Like that top, Morrie. I have always remembered that brown stinkwood top. She gave me her old cotton-reels to play with, but it wasn’t the same. I wanted a top.
MORRIS. Who? Who gave me the top?
ZACHARIAH. Mother.
MORRIS. Mother!
ZACHARIAH. Ja. She said she only had one. There was always only one.
MORRIS. Zach, you’re telling me a thing now!
ZACHARIAH. What? Did you forget her?
MORRIS. No, Zach. I meant the top. I can’t remember that top. And what about her, Zach? There’s a memory for you. I tried it out the other night. ‘Mother’, I said, ‘Mother’! A sadness, I thought.
ZACHARIAH. Ja.
MORRIS. Just a touch of sadness.
ZACHARIAH. A soft touch with sadness.
MORRIS. And soapsuds on brown hands.
ZACHARIAH. And sore feet.
[Pause. Morris looks at Zachariah.]
MORRIS. What do you mean?
ZACHARIAH. There was her feet, man.
MORRIS. Who had feet?
ZACHARIAH. Mother, man.
MORRIS. I don’t remember her feet, Zach.
ZACHARIAH [serenely confident]. There was her feet, man. The toes were crooked, the nails skew, and there was pain. They didn’t fit the shoes.
MORRIS [growing agitation]. Zach, are you sure that wasn’t somebody else?
ZACHARIAH. It was mother’s feet. She let me feel the hardness and then pruned them down with a razor blade.
MORRIS. No, Zach. You got me worried now! A grey dress?
ZACHARIAH. Maybe.
MORRIS [persistent]. Going to church, remember? She wore it going to—
ZACHARIAH. The butcher shop! That’s it! That’s where she went.
MORRIS.