Blood Knot and Other Plays. Athol Fugard
I don’t write letters.
MORRIS. I will write them for you.
ZACHARIAH. Then it’s your pen-pal.
MORRIS. NO, Zach. You tell me what to say. You see, she writes to you. She doesn’t even know about me. Can’t you see it, man? A letter to Mr Zachariah Pietersen—from her.
ZACHARIAH. I don’t read letters.
MORRIS. I’ll read them to you.
ZACHARIAH. From a woman.
MORRIS. From a woman. You can take your pick.
ZACHARIAH [now really interested]. Hey!
MORRIS. There’s so many.
ZACHARIAH. Is that so!
MORRIS. Big ones, small ones.
ZACHARIAH. What do you know about that!
MORRIS. Young ones, old ones.
ZACHARIAH. No. Not the old ones, Morrie. [Excited.] The young ones, on the small side.
MORRIS. Just take your pick.
ZACHARIAH. Okay. I will.
MORRIS. Now listen, Zach. When you get your pay tomorrow, go to a shop and ask for a newspaper with pen-pals.
ZACHARIAH. With pen-pals.
MORRIS. That’s it. We’ll study them and you can make your pick.
ZACHARIAH. And I can say what I like? Hey! What do you know! Pen-pals!
[The alarm-clock rings.]
Pen-pals!
[Zachariah flops back on his bed laughing. Morris drifts to the window.]
MORRIS. Wind’s coming up. You sleepy?
ZACHARIAH. It’s been a long day.
MORRIS. Okay, I’ll cut it short. Your turn to choose the reading tonight, Zach.
[Morris fetches the Bible from the shelf over his bed. He hands it to Zachariah who, with his eyes tightly closed, opens it and brings his finger down on the page.]
Four?
[Zachariah nods. Morris reads.]
‘And if thou bring an oblation of a meat offering baken in the oven, it shall be unleavened cakes of fine flour mingled with oil, or unleavened wafers anointed with oil; and if thy oblation be a meat offering baken in a pan, it shall be of fine flour, unleavened, mingled with oil. Thou shalt part it in pieces and pour oil thereon. It is a meat offering.’
ZACHARIAH. Sounds nice, hey?
MORRIS. You need an oven, Zach. Think of those you love. Ask for what you really want.
ZACHARIAH. Dear God, please bring back Minnie.
MORRIS. Is that all?
ZACHARIAH. Amen.
[Morris replaces the Bible, finds needle and cotton, and then takes Zachariah’s coat to the table.]
MORRIS. I’m helping you, aren’t I, Zach?
ZACHARIAH. Ja.
MORRIS. I want to believe that. You see . . . [Pause.] There was all those years, when I was away.
ZACHARIAH. Why did you come back?
MORRIS. I was passing this way.
ZACHARIAH. So why did you stay?
MORRIS. We are brothers, remember.
[A few seconds pass in silence. Morris threads his needle and then starts working on a tear in Zachariah’s coat.]
That’s a word, hey! Brothers! There’s a broody sound for you if ever there was. I mean . . . take the others. Father. What is there for us in . . . Father? We never knew him. Even Mother. She died and we were young. That’s the trouble with ‘Mother’. We never said it enough.
[He tries it.]
Mother. Mother! Yes. Just a touch of sadness in it, and a grey dress on Sundays, soapsuds on brown hands. That’s the lot. Father, Mother, and the sisters we haven’t got. But brothers! Try it. Brotherhood. Brother-in-arms, each other’s arms. Brotherly love. That’s a big one, hey, Zach? Zach?
[He looks at Zachariah’s bed.]
Zachie? Zachariah!
[He is asleep. Morris takes the lamp, goes to the bed, and looks down at the sleeping man. He returns to the table, picks up the Bible and after an inward struggle speaks in a solemn, ‘Sunday’ voice.]
‘And he said, what hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand. When thou tillest the ground it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength, a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.’
[Pause.]
Oh Lord, Lord. So I turned around on the road, and came back. About this time, a year ago. It could have been today. I remember turning off the road and heading this way. I thought: it looks the same. It was. Because when I reached the first pondokkies and the thin dogs, the wind turned and brought the stink from the lake. No one recognized me after all those years. I could see they weren’t sure, and wanting to say ‘Sir’ when I asked them the way. Six down, they said, pointing to the water’s edge. So then there was only time left for a few short thoughts between counting doors. Will he be home? Will I be welcome? Be forgiven? Be brave, Morris! I held my breath . . . knocked . . . and waited . . .
[Pause.]
You were wearing this old coat . . .
[Morris puts on Zachariah’s coat. It is several sizes too large.]
It’s been a big help to me, this warm, old coat. You get right inside a man when you can wrap up in the smell of him. It prepared me for your flesh, Zach. Because your flesh, you see, has an effect on me. The sight of it, the feel of it . . . It feels, you see . . . I saw you again after all those years . . . and it hurt, man.
SCENE TWO
The next evening.
Zachariah sits disconsolately on the bed, his feet in the basin. Morris is studying a newspaper.
MORRIS. Well, Zach, you ready? There’s three women here. The young ladies Ethel Lange, Nellie de Wet, and Betty Jones.
ZACHARIAH. So what do we do?
MORRIS. I’ll get the ball rolling with this thought. They are all pretty good names. Ethel, Nellie, and Betty. Good, simple, decent, common names. About equal, I’d say.
ZACHARIAH [hopefully]. There’s no Connie there, is there Morrie?
MORRIS. No. Now, before you decide, let me tell you about them.
ZACHARIAH. What do you know about them?
MORRIS. It’s written down here. That’s why you bought the paper. Listen . . . [Reads.] ‘Ethel Lange, 10 de Villiers Street, Oudtshoorn. I am eighteen years old and well-developed and would like to correspond with a gent of sober habits and a good outlook on life. My interests are nature, rock-and-roll, swimming, and a happy future. My motto is, “Rolling stones gather no moss.” Please note: I promise to reply faithfully.’ How’s that?
ZACHARIAH. Well-developed.
MORRIS. She gives you a clear picture, hey! Here’s the next one. [Reads.] ‘Nellie de Wet’ . . . she’s in Bloemfontein . . . ‘Twenty-two and no strings attached. Would like letters from men of the same age or older. My interests are beauty contests and going out. A snap with the first letter, please.’ [Pause.] That’s all there is to her. I think I preferred Ethel.
ZACHARIAH.