Read You Can't Get Lost in Cape Town for Free Online Page B

east-facing wall, rolls her shoulders and like a cat rubs against the bricks to relieve the itching of her back. Which must mean something ominous, such a sudden and terrible itch, and as she muses on its meaning, on its persistence, the rebellious flesh seems to align itself with the arrangement of bricks now imprinted on her back. She longs for the hot press of the sun that will brand the pattern of narrow new bricks into her flesh, iron the itch out of existence. She will never get used to this Cape Town weather so cold and wet in winter. It’s about time summer showed its face; there hasn’t been any sunshine for days. As for the itch, who thinks of conditions of the flesh that have just disappeared? When it should be freshest in the memory, that is the time when we do not think of an itch at all.
    â€˜Ag, a person mustn’t complain,’ she mutters to herself. ‘This is the first morning of spring and even if it’s not going to last, there’s enough warmth to be soaked up against this wall.’
    If only she knew what the omen was, for it’s no good disregarding these things; they’ll catch up with you all the same. Now, if it had been yesterday – and did she notyesterday look up at a hesitant sun and toy with the idea of taking her coffee outside, to lean against this nice wall? – yes, if it had been yesterday then she would have been able to exclaim as Charlie’s Springbok radio bleeped the news, ‘This is so. An itch of the back early in the morning means there’s going to be an assassination.’
    And as she drains her coffee grounds into the rough grass she remembers. Beatrice’s wool. She promised to get to Bellville South after work to get a couple of ounces from her lay-by at Wilton Wools. Perhaps it’s not an omen but a reminder: the itch leading to the bricks leading to the pattern in Beatrice’s nimble hands. Knit four, purl one, chanting earnestly as she clicks her bricks into place. And the wool cleverly chosen by Beatrice to build a jersey in the colours of bricks and mortar. Ooh that child of hers is now clever. She can do just about anything with her hands and also her head, of course, because if your hands can do good so must the head. That is what the Apostle says and quite right too since it’s all part of the same person.
    As Tamieta braces herself for the day of labour in the canteen, her eyes fall on the bricks of this nice new wall and to her surprise must admit that it is not the colour of bricks at all. Really these are a greyish-black, with iridescent blue lights admittedly, but certainly not brick-red or brick-brown. Well, at least it isn’t just our people who get it wrong; as far as she can think, people just haven’t noticed, or people in spite of the evidence just go on talking nonsense. But she castigates herself for having been duped by a false association. She ought to have seen the futility of a reminder so early in the day when there is no need to remember. And now at this very moment the itch returns with new virulence. Tamieta has never known her flesh threaten to break free of its containing skin; suchan itch must have a marrow-deep meaning.
    Raising her head in order to scratch more effectively, she sees the first student settling into a seat on the top floor of the library. She has never been in there, even though it is the block closest to the cafeteria. Here, along these paths linking the four buildings that the government has given specially for our people, this is where Beatrice will walk one day, flying in and out of glass doors in her baby-louis heels and a briefcase bulging under her arm. But her skirts will be a decent length, not creeping above the knees like a few of the girls have started wearing them.
    She climbs the steps to the cafeteria kitchen just as Charlie’s sing-song voice calls, ‘Tamieta, the mutton is chopped.’ He has a voice to match his swagger and her ears