have to justify his actions to me? “My mother was a good woman, sir.” “I know.” “She loved me.” “She did.” “She said that it was important—important to be clean.” In this way the boy spoke—simply, calmly. Was it with passion as well? His face was small and black. His eyes were small and black. He looked at me—directly he looked. “Do you have a mother, sir?” “A mother?” “Is she good?” “Good?” “Does she tell you, sir, tell you to be clean?” In this way he spoke. On and on he spoke. They were strange words. But he believed in his words. He believed in them, he believed! And was that not the key? “The ball was dirty, sir—I cleaned it.” “I know.” “I cleaned it, I cleaned it. Did I not do the right thing?” Clean, clean, how he insisted on that. I tried to explain to the boy—explain about that day. But how far away it seemed. I tried to apologize to him. But how silly it seemed. He knew about the world, he knew what was important—or did he? Did he have time for such things? “There are good people in the world, sir.” “Good people?” “There are bad people in the world, sir.” “Bad people?” “My mother was a good person. The sir is an important man. Is he a good person as well?” “There are wise people in the world, sir.” “Wise people?” “My mother was a wise person. The sir is an important man. Is he a wise person as well?” In this way he spoke. On and on he spoke. He spoke with pride. He spoke with feeling. Was it with insolence as well? It was twilight now, the sun was beginning to set. Soon it would get dark (but did the boy care?). There was a reason for his words (what reason?). There was a meaning to his words (what meaning?). “My mother was a wise person. The sir is an important man. Is he a wise person as well?” In this way he spoke. On and on he spoke. The minutes passed. Perhaps, at last, the boy grew tired. Perhaps, at last, he had exhausted himself. He looked at me, he smiled. He looked at me, he stared. Then he bowed. He picked up his things—his shoe-polish kit, his old green towel. With such purpose he picked them up, with such concentration. And he continued on his way. theMeadow 47
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