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this all about?’ I said.
    He lowered his head under the glance of the light. ‘It’s not me, baas. I don’t know. Petrus he send me.’
    Irritated, I hurried him along to the huts. And there, on Petrus’s iron bedstead, with its brick stilts, was a young man, dead. On his forehead there was still a light, cold sweat; his body was warm. The boys stood around as they do in the kitchen when it is discovered that someone has broken a dish – uncooperative, silent. Somebody’s wife hung about in the shadows, her hands wrung together under her apron.
    I had not seen a dead man since the war. This was very different. I felt like the others – extraneous, useless. ‘What was the matter?’ I asked.
    The woman patted at her chest and shook her head to indicate the painful impossibility of breathing.
    He must have died of pneumonia.
    I turned to Petrus. ‘Who was this boy? What was he doing here?’ The light of a candle on the floor showed that Petrus was weeping. He followed me out the door.
    When we were outside, in the dark, I waited for him to speak. But he didn’t. ‘Now, come on, Petrus, you must tell me who this boy was. Was he a friend of yours?’
    â€˜He’s my brother, baas. He came from Rhodesia to look for work.’
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    The story startled Lerice and me a little. The young boy had walked down from Rhodesia to look for work in Johannesburg, had caught a chill from sleeping out along the way, and had lain ill in his brother Petrus’s hut since his arrival three days before. Our boys had been frightened to ask us for help for him because we had never been intended ever to know of his presence. Rhodesian natives are barred from entering the Union unless they have a permit; the young man was an illegal immigrant. No doubt our boys had managed the whole thing successfully several times before; a number of relatives must have walked the seven or eight hundred miles from poverty to the paradise of zoot suits, police raids and black slum townships that is their Egoli, City of Gold – the Bantu name for Johannesburg. It was merely a matter of getting such a man to lie low on our farm until a job could be found with someone who would be glad to take the risk of prosecution for employing an illegal immigrant in exchange for the services of someone as yet untainted by the city.
    Well, this was one who would never get up again.
    â€˜You would think they would have felt they could tell us ,’ said Lerice next morning. ‘Once the man was ill. You would have thought at least—’ When she is getting intense over something, she has a way of standing in the middle of a room as people do when they are shortly to leave on a journey, looking searchingly about her at the most familiar objects as if she had never seen them before. I had noticed that in Petrus’s presence in the kitchen, earlier, she had had the air of being almost offended with him, almost hurt.
    In any case, I really haven’t the time or inclination any more to go into everything in our life that I know Lerice, from those alarmed and pressing eyes of hers, would like us to go into. She is the kind of woman who doesn’t mind if she looks plain, or odd; I don’t suppose she would even care if she knew how strange she looks when her whole face is out of proportion with urgent uncertainty. I said, ‘Now I’m the one who’ll have to do all the dirty work, I suppose.’
    She was still staring at me, trying me out with those eyes – wasting her time, if she only knew.
    â€˜I’ll have to notify the health authorities,’ I said calmly. ‘They can’t just cart him off and bury him. After all, we don’t really know what he died of.’
    She simply stood there, as if she had given up – simply ceased to see me at all.
    I don’t know when I’ve been so irritated. ‘It might have been something contagious,’ I said.