Beautiful Screaming of Pigs by Damon Galgut Read Free Book Online Page B

table with a plastic cloth on it and an old woman sitting on the other side. She
had a cataract in one eye, and a blue cloth tied around her head, and her expression didn’t visibly alter when my mother went to embrace her effusively. ‘This is Elizabeth,
Godfrey’s mother,’ she said. ‘My son, Patrick.’ The old lady sat stiffly, her arid hands on the table playing with a small, orange pen. The colour of this object, its
anomalous presence, drew my eyes down to it, but she just kept turning it in her stiff hands.
    We sat, while Godfrey brewed a pot of tea on an electric plate. He performed his alchemy in silence, while my mother chattered anxiously about the long drive up here, the heat, the excitement in
the air. Then, as he thumped two smoking mugs down on the table, he said abruptly, ‘Andrew Lovell’s been killed.’
    ‘Who? Oh, him, God. What happened?’
    ‘He was shot. I heard just now. Somebody in a car, they have no clues.’
    ‘That’s terrible. I can’t believe it.’
    ‘Biscuit?’ Godfrey said, holding out a tin.
    ‘I’ve lost my appetite. Have a biscuit, Patrick.’
    ‘Who’s Andrew Lovell?’ I said.
    Godfrey’s eyes settled appraisingly on me. My mother said:
    ‘He was an activist, darling. He worked for SWAPO.’
    ‘Who shot him?’
    ‘Don’t be so ignorant, Patrick. South Africa did it, obviously. Some undercover agent, one of their hitmen.’
    ‘But why?’
    ‘How can you be so naïve?’ But she didn’t explain. She sipped her tea and looked at Godfrey, her gaze softening sentimentally. ‘Are you hungry yet?’
    ‘I have to go to Swakopmund,’ he said.
    ‘What? When? Not now. .. ?’
    ‘Not now. In the morning. Andrew was organising a rally there, I have to take over from him. And there is going to be a memorial service.’
    ‘God. Swakopmund. This is very sudden.’
    ‘Is your car okay for the trip?’
    ‘My car... ? We’re going in my car... ? Yes, it’ll be okay.’ She became peevish as the inconvenience of it hit her. ‘I thought we were going to stay in Windhoek. I
don’t want another long drive.’
    ‘I’m sorry about that. But this is what’s happened. We’ll be back in time for the elections.’ He was looking at me again. ‘Maybe Patrick would like to stay
here.’
    ‘No,’ my mother said, ‘he can’t stay on his own. He’ll come along. You’ll like Swakop, darling,’ she assured me, ‘it’s very pretty. On the
coast, north of Walvis Bay.’
    ‘I know where it is,’ I said. ‘I was in this country before, remember?’
    I’d spoken sharply, but the silence that followed was more watchful than angry. Godfrey shook the biscuit tin and said, answering her earlier question, ‘Yes, I’m hungry.
Let’s go.’
    On the way out the dog came running out of the darkness again. But this time its rush was friendly; Godfrey went down on one knee to pet it. And as he looked up at me, grinning, I saw that he
was just a young man, not much older than me, who also, perhaps, felt a little shy and awkward in my company.
    The restaurant was up a winding staircase, on a sweltering balcony, jammed with umbrellas and people. My mother had told me that it was a site famous for local revelry, that
had only recently opened its doors to all races. The manager, an anaemic German with a lick of blond hair, fussed us to a table at the far edge, overlooking the street.
    ‘You would like wine?’ Our Aryan host smiled tightly.
    ‘Beer,’ Godfrey said.
    My mother ordered a bottle of wine for me and her. She had recently become vegetarian again and she wanted only a salad to eat. Godfrey ordered a steak, and – after a hesitation – I
followed him. Then she and Godfrey slipped into a closed conversation, whispering to each other and giggling, while I leaned on the railing and watched small events in the street. The wine went
straight to my head and turned my tiredness into lightness: it felt pleasant to be here.
    They were busy re-connecting after their