Thomas again fixed him with an intense stare. It was difficult for Phuti to look directly into his bloodshot eyes—disconcerted, he wanted to pass him something with which to wipe them.

“I cannot always say what I’m thinking,” muttered Thomas.

Phuti thought about this. “No, it is not always easy.” He paused. A go-away bird—a grey lourie—had perched on one of the acacia trees and uttered its accusing cry; the world, for some birds, was always unfair. As it was for some people too. “But I think you can talk to me, Rra. You can talk to me if you are troubled in some way. I may not be able to help you, but it might help you just to say what you need to say.”

Thomas shook his head. “There are some things I cannot speak of. I have a family, you see, Rra, and I am sending money …”

Phuti nodded. “I know what you people do. It is a good thing.” There was a world of difference between this man’s circumstances and his own. Phuti was a citizen, and a secure one at that, of a well-ordered country; this man, he imagined, had known real fear and could not return to a place that was his, his own, the place to which he was entitled. Nobody spoke for him; nobody.

“So I cannot say anything that would put my job at risk. Do you see that?”

Phuti stiffened. There was only one way in which this could be interpreted: this man, this bricklayer from over the border, knew something about Mr. Putumelo that Mr. Putumelo did not want anybody to know. And that could be anything, ranging from not declaring income for tax purposes, to using stolen materials, or building unsafe structures … He looked about the site. Was everything being built correctly, or was Mr. Putumelo cutting corners in exactly the way he condemned in others?

He decided to ask directly. “Please tell me, Rra; please tell me man to man, as one brother to another; tell me—is this house being built properly?”

Thomas seemed to be taken aback by the question. “But of course it is, Rra. Mr. Putumelo is a very good builder, and I can promise you that I am taking great care with the work I am doing. I would never build anything that was not solid.”

Phuti breathed a sigh of relief. So the disclosure, whatever it was, had nothing to do with his house. If Thomas did not want to make it, then he would not press him; he would not be at all surprised to learn that Mr. Putumelo was up to something, but what that might be was not really his business. Phuti himself was honest—scrupulously so—but one honest man could not make the rest of the world honest, no matter how hard he tried: Where would he start?