Bloodlines Read Online Free PDF

“And Steven, there is one more thing I would ask of you.”
    “What’s that?”
    “When you were a child, you called me Khabazela. It’s what you called me when we last met, at a small farmhouse outside Johannesburg, when I rescued a little boy who had climbed too far up a pear tree and couldn’t get down without some help. I may have changed since then,” he laughed, “but not as much as I assume you have. I would like for you to call me Khabazela again.”
    At the mention of being rescued from a pear tree a wave of images and sensations surged through me; I felt buffeted by them as if by driven water, and when they receded I was left dry, but shaken. There was the feel of a comforting hand on my ankle and a voice urging me to step down to the next branch. I didn’t remember the farmhouse he mentioned, but I saw it—a little frame house secluded in a forest of smallish trees and bushes. Many were fruit trees in full bloom, and I was aware of the colors—oranges and reds, dusky purple and yellow—and of the mixed sweetish odors of wild fruit on the trees and on the ground. There were four or five children with me, and we were playing hide and seek. I was surprised to see that they were black children, because I don’t remember having anything but white playmates.
    Nestled among the trees was a small, peeling wood frame farmhouse, and standing beside the front door were two people talking intently to each other—one was a tall black man. As soon as my memory registered that the other figure was my mother, the current seemed to cut out, and the image disappeared. I had no idea where it came from, or where it went. And for the first time I realized that although I had no memory of this man, I did know him.
    “Khabazela,” I said, trying out the name. It was strangely comfortable on my tongue.
    “Yes?” he answered.
    I didn’t want to tell him what I remembered; not yet, not until I had a better understanding of what had happened. And I was just beginning to have an inkling of how much I didn’t know.
    “I was calling you by your name,” I said, “as you asked.”
    “Thank you, Steven,” he replied. “That means a great deal to me. Now go and read your father’s words to you. We will talk again.”
    We ended our conversation, and I sat in silence for a long time. I had the sense that I was on a journey I hadn’t planned, along an unmarked road. I had no idea where I was going, and wondered whether I would be the same person when I arrived at my destination.
    There was only one way to find out. I reached for my father’s manuscript, and began reading.

    .
    two
    L ENNY

    Boston, 2001
Steven:
    When I first began writing this, I wanted to do it in partnership with you, to give you the personal and family history that I have so long avoided sharing. I wanted to be face to face with you as the reasons for my avoidance became clear. I had a fantasy of being able to relive the experiences, see the expressions on your face, and, I hoped, be the recipient of your forgiveness while I was still able to appreciate it. What I really wanted was to feel the relief of being held to account. Selfish, I suppose.
    Sadly, I lacked the courage. You long ago stopped asking questions about the past, and you have indicated by your actions, and by the distance you maintain from me, that you feel at peace with what you don’t know. Perhaps I should have let well enough alone, but it became clear some months ago that I could not go to my grave in silence. This will make no sense to you now, I know, but you will at some point learn about our history from a perspective different from mine. I know nothing about how this other perspective will paint me, but I can be sure that it will not portray me as I would wish. And if I want a fair hearing, I need to speak out now.
    I waited too long; should have begun long ago, when you had time in your life for me, when you were younger, less experienced, and less impatient than you are now