Life and Times of Michael K by J. M. Coetzee Read Free Book Online Page A

but was not sure what he would do with it. He plodded past truck after truck; he passed the truckload of sheep, packed so tight that some stood on their hind legs; he passed a group of soldiers around a fire who paid no attention to him. At the rear of the convoy two beacons stood flashing, and further on a tarbucket burned in the middle of the road, tended by no one.
    Once the convoy was behind him K relaxed, thinking he was free; but at the next bend in the road a soldier in camouflage uniform stepped from behind the bushes pointing an automatic rifle at his heart. K stopped in his tracks. The soldier lowered his rifle, lit a cigarette, took a puff, and raised the rifle again. Now, K judged, it pointed at his face, or at his throat.
    ‘So who are you?’ said the soldier. ‘Where do you think you are going?’
    About to reply, K was cut short. ‘Show me,’ said the soldier. ‘Come. Show me what’s in there.’
    They were out of sight of the convoy, though faint music still came on the air. K lifted the suitcase off his shoulder and opened it. The soldier waved him back, pinched out his cigarette, and in a single movement overturned the case. Everything lay there in the road: the blue felt slippers, the white bloomers, the pink plastic bottle of calamine lotion, the brown bottle of pills, the fawn plastic handbag, the floral scarf, the scallop-rim scarf, the black woollen coat, the jewelry box, the brown skirt, the green blouse, the shoes, the other underwear, the brown paper packets, the white plastic packet, the coffee tin that rattled, the talcum powder, handkerchiefs, letters, photographs, the box of ashes. K did not stir.
    ‘Where did you steal all this?’ said the soldier. ‘You’re a thief, aren’t you? A thief running away over the mountains.’ He proddedthe handbag with his boot. ‘Show me,’ he said. He touched the jewelry box. He touched the coffee tin. He touched the other box. ‘Show me,’ he said, and stepped back.
    K opened the coffee tin. It contained curtain rings. He held them out in the palm of his hand, then poured them back into the tin and closed it. He opened the jewelry box and held it out. His heart thundered in his chest. The soldier stirred the contents around, picked out a brooch, and stood back. He was smiling. K closed the box. He opened the handbag and held it out. The soldier gestured. K emptied it on the road. There was a handkerchief, a comb and mirror, a powder compact, and the two purses. The soldier pointed and K handed him the purses. He slipped them into his tunic pocket.
    K licked his lips. ‘That’s not my money,’ he said thickly. ‘That’s my mother’s money, that she worked for.’ It was not true: his mother was dead, she had no need of money. Nevertheless. There was a silence. ‘What do you think the war is for?’ K said. ‘For taking other people’s money?’
    ‘
What do you think the war is for
,’ said the soldier, parodying the movements of K’s mouth. ‘Thief. Watch it. You could be lying in the bushes with flies all over you. Don’t you tell me about war.’ He pointed his gun at the box of ashes. ‘Show me,’ he said.
    K took off the lid and held out the box. The soldier peered at the plastic bag. ‘What’s that stuff?’ he said.
    ‘Ash,’ said K. His voice was steadier now.
    ‘Open it,’ said the soldier. K opened the bag. The soldier took a pinch and smelled it cautiously. ‘Jesus,’ he said. His eyes met K’s.
    K knelt and packed his mother’s things back into the suitcase. The soldier stood aside. ‘So can I go now?’ said K.
    ‘Papers in order—you can go,’ said the soldier. K hoisted the stick with the suitcase on to his shoulder.
    ‘Just a minute,’ said the soldier. ‘You work for the ambulance or something?’
    K shook his head.
    ‘Just a minute, just a minute,’ said the soldier. He took one of the purses from his pocket, peeled a brown ten-rand note from the roll, and flicked it in K’s direction. ‘Tip,’