Bitter Eden: A Novel by Tatamkhulu Afrika Read Free Book Online Page B

have, but a red light flashes on, loud as a scream, and I simply say, ‘So Tony, the producer, lets me pretty up there free of charge.’
    ‘He’s your friend?’ The voice behind me is carefully saying nothing at all and I know I am going to try and walk softly even though I am wondering why the hell I should ?
    ‘No, only Douglas is my friend. But Tony’s OK,’ which he is though everybody knows he’s also a raving queer.
    ‘Then why the favours?’ persists the voice, shading now from offhand into chill, and I know walking softly is going to be no way to go.
    ‘Because you’ll be seeing me in one of his plays soon. That is, if you’re interested enough to come.’
    He says nothing, only grunts as he heaves himself back onto his back and I see red. ‘Come off it!’ I quietly rage, not wanting those around us to hear. ‘Not everybody on the stage is a poof. Or do you think I’m a poof, in which case,’ and now I also turn back onto my back, ‘nice body or not, get off its lovely arse and come at me like a man. This is prison , pal, and you live and let live; and you entertain yourself as best you can or go mad; and if a poof can put on a play better than you can, then you let the poof do it and stop acting like an old woman who’s got a hand up her leg.’
    Then I wait, my heart and gut flopping over like a fish that’s hooked because this is a boxer and, if he does get up, he’s going to do, at least, that Ite dentist’s job on my teeth and I have got enough problems with them as it is. But he merely asks, his tone as back to normal as though he hasn’t heard a thing I have said, ‘What is “smaak”?’ and I am scrabbling to get my bearings before I remember and say, ‘“like”. The Ites like musicals and plays,’ and he nods with a solemnness that betrays that he is not as comfortable as he pretends, then goes on, ‘So you are saying I have to go on the stage to get my hair cut?’ and suddenly we are both laughing, he whooping it up in a way that means now it is OK again.
    But he is serious about the haircut, so I explain, ‘You can pay for a haircut. We’ve got real barbers here. We’ve got real just about anything here. You go two huts up from the theatre and you’ll find the pint-sized shack where the barbers will do anything you ask except give you a shampoo. The Ites not only know about it – they run it. In the mornings, they hand the barbers the cutthroats, scissors, clippers, you name it, and in the evenings they check that everything’s still there, then take it all away again. Not forgetting, of course, the commandant’s share of the poor guys’ earnings for the day.’
    ‘Yes, but how am I going to pay? I’ve no money on me!’
    ‘Didn’t they hand you any Red Cross grub and smokes when you first came?’ He nods. ‘Do you smoke?’ He says no. ‘So what did you do with the cigarettes?’
    ‘I stashed them. I always stash anything I don’t need because you never know.’
    ‘You’re damned right you never know. You hang onto those beauties because they’ll buy you your haircut and a span of other things you’re going to want.’
    He stares at me, perplexed. ‘Look, they’re your money , man! In this camp, there are those who smoke and those that don’t. Those that smoke like to smoke more than they like to eat, so they will flog you their Red Cross grub – or even the camp swill – for cigarettes, and you grow fat while they grow thin like those seven lean kine the Bible goes on about. This is a cruel world, pal. Then there are those who like to both smoke and eat. They are the gambling boys – the Mafia. Every day, all day, sometimes half the night, they play cards. For what? Cigarettes. Play till they are rich beyond any decent slob’s dreams. Then they smoke some of the cigarettes, spend some to buy extra food, spend some more when they hire serfs to do the chores they are now too busy gambling to do themselves. This is where my mate and I come in. We