Free Jump and Other Stories by Nadine Gordimer Page B

He described streets and cities and cafés and bazaars—it wasn’t at all like her idea of desert and oases.—But there are palm trees?—
    â€”Yes, nightclubs, rich people’s palaces to show tourists, but there are also factories and prison camps and poor people living on a handful of beans a day.—
    She picked at the grass: I see.—Were you—were your family—do you like beans?—
    He was not to be drawn; he was never to be drawn.
    â€”If you know how to make them, they are good.—
    â€”If we get some, will you tell us how they’re cooked?—
    â€”I’ll make them for you.—
    So one Sunday Vera told her mother Rad, the lodger, wanted to prepare a meal for the family. Her parents were rather touched; nice, here was a delicate mark of gratitude, such a glum character, he’d never shown any sign before. Her father was prepared to put up with something that probably wouldn’t agree with him.—Different people, different ways. Maybe it’s a custom with them, when they’re taken in, like bringing a bunch of flowers.—The meal went off well. The dish was delicious and not too spicy; after all, gingerbread was spiced, too. When her father opened a bottle of beer and put it down at Rad’s place, Vera quickly lifted it away.—He doesn’t drink, Dad.—
    Graciousness called forth graciousness; Vera’s mother issued a reciprocal invitation.—You must come and have our Sunday dinner one day—my chicken with apple pie to follow.—
    But the invitation was in the same code as ‘See you later’. It was not mentioned again. One Sunday Vera shook the grass from her rug.—I’m going for a walk.—And the lodger slowly got up from his chair, put his newspaper aside, and they went through the gate. The neighbours must have seen her with him. The pair went where she led, although they were side by side, loosely, the way she’d seen young men of his kind together. They went on walking a long way, down streets and then into a park. She loved to watch people flying kites; now he was the one who watched her as she watched. It seemed to be his way of getting to know her; to know anything. It wasn’t the way of other boys—her kind—but then he was a foreigner here, there must be somuch he needed to find out. Another weekend she had the idea to take a picnic. That meant an outing for the whole day. She packed apples and bread and cheese—remembering no ham—under the eyes of her mother. There was a silence between them. In it was her mother’s recognition of the accusation she, Vera, knew she ought to bring against herself: Vera was ‘chasing’ a man; this man. All her mother said was—Are you joining other friends?—She didn’t he.—No. He’s never been up the river. I thought we’d take a boat trip.—
    In time she began to miss the cinema. Without guile she asked him if he had seen this film or that; she presumed that when he was heard going out for the evening the cinema would be where he went, with friends of his—his kind—she never saw. What did they do if they didn’t go to a movie? It wouldn’t be bars, and she knew instinctively he wouldn’t be found in a disco, she couldn’t see him shaking and stomping under twitching coloured lights.
    He hadn’t seen any film she mentioned.—Won’t you come?—It happened like the first walk. He looked at her again as he had then.—D’you think so?—
    â€”Why ever not. Everybody goes to movies.—
    But she knew why not. She sat beside him in the theatre with solemnity. It was unlike any other time, in that familiar place of pleasure. He did not hold her hand; only that time, that time in the kitchen. They went together to the cinema regularly. The silence between her and her parents grew; her mother was like a cheerful bird whose cage had been covered.