At ease now, he stretched out his legs, smiled at passers-by. The park, even with its ragged lawn and fallen-down fence, provided some relief from the hot criss-cross of streets. Located on a busy intersection, it reminded him of those unexpected patches of green in the townships, where you could go without fuss. None of that ‘let's go to the park’ kind of ceremony that people so quickly acquired when they moved to the suburbs. Just tiny oases, where you could start off by yourself, a spontaneous decision to seek some solitariness, and the very peacefulness of you sitting on your own, sipping beer, would summon a whole group of bras to join you, all bringing along their own ‘ammo’. Soon there would be a group of guys squatting in a circle and talking bra-talk, a mellifluous flow of gruff observation and counter-observation, no topic serious enough or dwelt upon sufficiently to maroon the hazy passage of a pleasurable, forgetful afternoon.

No one pressed you for answers or confidences, you soon forgot the problem that had driven you and your pack of beer into the street, you were just one of the ‘manne’, deserving of your privacy. Until a wife or a mother, or a formidable duet of mother and wife, came along to tell you that this was no way to resolve your problems, drinking in the street like a kid, or worse still, like a tsotsi who had taken to petty crime because he couldn't face life. And drinking in public was a crime, petty or not.

The worst was when the cops arrived, all cold-eyed and admonishing, revving the engine of their van until you and your friends slowly dispersed, a herd of dumb, resentful beasts being driven from a favoured waterhole.

Silas cracked open his third beer, lay back on the grass, resting his head on the three remaining cans. The sun pressed down on his eyelids, a hot illumination that would soon make him feel drowsy. This must be the way blind people absorbed light into their heads: raising their faces to the sun, to Ra, god of the blind. Everyone needed real light, not just the artificial, thought-up light of the imagination.

‘God! You are so insensitive!’ Lydia would have said, had he repeated this thought to her. An innocuous, light-hearted thought, born in a truly carefree moment. She would punish him for it. Lydia had an unforgiving mind. What went on in her heart these days? Well, he'd find out soon. Have to tell her about Du Boise. Not good at keeping secrets … well, not really. It struck him that he and Lydia spoke very little these days, and when they did, it was about something practical, the car needing a service, the leaking taps, the length of the grass at the back of the house.