May We Be Forgiven Part 69

"I went only to a missionary school for two years, but there are things I know. My family has been here for a very long time. I am all that remains."

"n.o.ble," I say.

He shakes his head. "I am not so n.o.ble, I am practical. I don't want my village to die. There was nothing left, no more reason for anyone to be here except that we have always been here. That is how Nate came to us. 'If you build it they will come,'" he says, and laughs. "I am quoting from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, when Richard Dreyfuss builds a mountain of mashed potatoes...." The way Sakhile says "potatoes," p.r.o.nouncing each syllable like it was a word itself, makes potatoes sound delicious.

"I think that's from Field of Dreams, the baseball movie with Kevin Costner. In Close Encounters, Dreyfuss says, 'I guess you've noticed something a little strange with Dad....'" I say the line without knowing how I even know it and make a mental note to watch the film again-clearly it had a big impact on me.

"Safe journey," Sakhile says. "Ulale kahle."

The night before we leave, everyone is outside playing Wiffle ball. Nate and Cy are coaching Ricardo. Madeline is cheerleading. It is twilight-the lightning bugs are blinking, and except for the mosquitoes, it is sublime. Ashley and Nate's embrace of Ricardo is unqualified-one never has a sense of the two of them apart from him or competing with him. He is their brother; he has been left to us and we to him.

I stand on the front steps, slightly apart, observing, as though I now hold knowledge that separates me from them-but I don't. They are simply engaged in what is before them, and I am thinking about what time we have to leave, about pa.s.sports, currency, and suitcases, while they are thinking it is summer and the day is perfect and I'm making spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s for dinner.

"Play with us," Ricardo calls to me. At first I don't respond. "Play," he demands.

"Where are the bases?" I ask.

"The azalea is first, rhododendron second, and the lilac by the driveway is third," Nate says.

I go up to bat. Ashley pounds her fist into her glove. "Sock it to me," she says.

I am 0 for 2 trying to read Cy's wobbly pitch when I connect-the hollow thwack of plastic on plastic sends the ball careening to the right, bouncing off the lamppost by the front door, skittering under the boxwood, and rolling down the hill inches ahead of Ashley, who pounces after it. I make it safely to third base. Madeline is up next; she bunts, and I slide into home (and gracefully excuse myself to ice what's left of my knees).

The next afternoon, the car for the airport comes early. Ricardo has never flown before and is baffled by the security process-taking off his shoes (and socks), his belt, emptying his pockets, which contain an inordinate amount of junk. On the other side the kids go to buy some gum; Ricardo's hunger for all things is immense-he wants comic books, soda, chocolate, pistachio nuts. His enthusiasm is so genuine that it's hard to say no. "Pick one," I say. "One of each?" he asks. "Just one," I say.

On board, he sits between Nate and me, with Ashley on my right-we are four in a row across the middle, holding hands for what Ricardo calls "blastoff." Whatever has been forgotten will remain forgotten until we are long gone. During the night, I wake up with his head resting on my chest like a bowling ball.

In Johannesburg, Cecily has arranged for a people minder, like an airport babysitter. She shuttles us around in a golf cart, letting the kids take turns beeping the horn, and off we go on a smaller plane to Durban.

The plane empties, we get off, we claim our bags, watch people come and go. Various people approach, asking if we need transportation.

"No," I say. "Someone is coming."

After twenty minutes, I call Sakhile.

"No one is there?" he asks. "You are kidding me? I'll call you back," he says. Minutes later, my phone rings. "Car trouble. We are making another plan. I will call you back with details."

We sit on our suitcases-conspicuously white in a sea that is everything but. I don't think I've been in a place that is so entirely other.

Thirty minutes later, a man arrives. "I am Manelisi, the cousin of n.o.buhle. Please come." Manelisi leads us to his bakkie, a small pickup truck with an extra seating area. The children sit behind me; I share the front with Manelisi. "I am a gardener," he says. "That is why the truck smells like dung-I did a big job today."

The truck doesn't smell like dung so much as earth. We ride with the windows open; I ask the children if it is too much air.

"No," they say, glad to be out of the plane and out of the airport, "it's good."

"Right now," Manelisi says, "we are going to pick up some packages." He looks at a map, and in about ten minutes we pull up in front of a place called Esther's Kitchen. Manelisi runs in, then returns with two helpers and numerous boxes, which they load into the back of the truck. Only later do I realize this is food for tomorrow's lunch, packed in dry ice. The helpers speak a language that is unfamiliar but sounds rhythmic and joyous.

"Okay," Manelisi says. "Now we get on a good road."

The radio is on-a contemporary blend of rock and hip-hop; I am comforted by the disc jockey's speaking in English.

"Did you grow up in the village?" I don't know what it was called before "Nateville."

"No," he says. "We are from pineapple farmers in Hluhluwe."

As we are leaving Durban, we pa.s.s what look like slums-shacks with tin roofs, homes made of random sc.r.a.ps of wood, metal, and brick. Boys walk barefoot along the edge of the road.

"What direction are we traveling?" I ask.

"North," Manelisi says.

"And what time does it get dark?"

"In winter, between five and six."

Outside of Durban, the expanse of land seems infinite and undiscovered. The tires of the bakkie hum as they roll along the highway. In the distance, electric lines rise like giant twenty-first-century figures. Small bunkerlike houses dot the landscape.

"What is that?" Ricardo asks, pointing to an animal at the edge of the road.

"Baboon," Manelisi says, as he changes the radio station to one where the DJ speaks what I a.s.sume is Zulu.

The landscape is richly green and hilly in the late-afternoon light. I put down the sun visor and look at the children behind me in the small mirror. Ashley and Ricardo have been lulled to sleep by the ride and the wind in their faces. Nate, awake, seems unusually quiet.

"You okay?"

"What if it was all a fantasy, what if it's not like I remember?" he asks.

"It will be different," I tell him. "Things change, you've changed, but whatever it is-it will be."

And we lapse into a long silence.

"We're here," Nate shouts enthusiastically, as we turn onto a secondary road. As soon as the car stops beside a small group of buildings in the middle of nowhere, Nate jumps out.

"Ninjani," he says, greeting everyone. "Ngikukhumbulile kangaka! You have gotten so big," he says to the children.

"Ninjani," I say, getting out of the car and helping Ricardo and Ashley climb out of the back.

"I am Sakhile," a man says, putting his hand out to me-he looks younger in person. "Welcome."

"Thank you," I say.

"We will take you to your room," he says. "And then we must begin, we are off schedule." He waves the printout that Sofia sent him.

The village is smaller than I imagined, less a village and more a small grouping of about fifteen to twenty houses with dirt paths between buildings. Sakhile leads us to the school; others walk behind us, carrying our bags and watching from a distance, as though wondering who we are, that we are being treated so differently.

"This is our school," Sakhile says proudly, showing me a low building that looks like a suburban recreation center. "We set you up in here because the toilet is good."

"Thank you."

"I do not mean to rush you, but we must go quickly or we will miss sundown."

I catch a glance of the sheet Sakhile is holding-various elements have been highlighted in yellow, green, or pink.

4:30 P.M. ARRIVAL.

4:35 P.M. GREETING OF THE VILLAGE OFFICIALS.

4:40 P.M. FAMILY SHOWN TO QUARTERS.

4:45 P.M. WASH UP.

5:00 P.M. PREPARE FOR LIGHTING OF CANDLES (SEE ATTACHED).

5:15 P.M. SABBATH BLESSINGS.

6:00 P.M. DINNER.

PLEASE PROVIDE BOTTLED WATER FOR THE FAMILY AND ENCOURAGE THEM TO DRINK.

I had no idea how deeply orchestrated all of this would be-we are being handled like rock stars or heads of state.

Ashley pulls a nice dress out of her carry-on bag and quickly changes. I go into the bathroom and wash my face and hands.

"Life here is simple," Ashley says. "I like it-it's like being on a camp-out."

"Yes, but this is the way it is all the time," I say. "The basic elements are the daily struggle. No one here is worrying about what college they're going to get into."

"That's good, right?" Ricardo asks.

"It's different," I say, ushering the kids down the hall.

At a table in one of the cla.s.srooms, they have set up silver candlesticks, a silver goblet, and a loaf of challah covered in a cloth.

The entire village is here, filling the room, eyes on Nate.

Ricardo and Nate take their places at the front of the room and begin to sing "Lekhah Dodi" as Ashley walks down the aisle-draped in a white lace shawl and matching kippah, which I have never seen before.

When the song is finished, Nate begins: "Thank you for inviting me and my family to celebrate this special occasion with you. My family doesn't have many traditions, we are not very religious, so these traditions are really those of my ancestors. What I take away from the Friday-night service is the importance of pausing to take notice of each other, to give thanks that the week has pa.s.sed and that we are still here-and, in the middle of our busy lives, to make time to connect with our families and our heritage. Mostly, I want you to know how glad I am to be here. I would like to introduce you to my brother, Ricardo, and my sister, Ashley, who is now going to light the Sabbath candles."

Ashley steps forward. "On the Sabbath we say three prayers, one while lighting the candles, one for the bread, and one for the wine. Tonight, in the absence of my mother, I will light the candles."

Everyone pushes closer to the front. All eyes are on Ashley, as if she is going to perform a magic trick. She lights the candles, then covers her eyes and recites: "Baruch atah Adonai, E1oheinu, melekh ha'olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat."

Ricardo says, "This is the blessing for the bread: Praised are You, Lord our G.o.d, King of the universe, Who brings bread from the Earth."

"And the blessing of the wine," Nate says: "Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha'olam borei p'ri hagafen."

The service is turned over to Nate. "Since I was here two years ago, I have been through a lot. It is our tradition after a death for the immediate family to grieve for a year, and so, since my mother was killed this past year, I have gone every Friday evening to the chapel at my school and I have spoken to my mother. I have prayed for my mother, for my family, and for all of us. And while this may not be the traditional way, I always conclude with this prayer, which I think works well whether one is Christian or Jewish: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want...."

As Nate begins to recite, the whole village joins in-those who don't know it by heart have cheat sheets. Goose b.u.mps run up and down my spine.

"And in the Jewish religion there is a special memorial prayer we say, Av Harachamim-and I would like to ask Ashley and Ricardo, who also lost his family this year, to join me." The children solemnly recite the prayer in English. And when they are done Nate says, "We would now like to invite you to come and taste the challah bread and have a sip of wine-grape juice for the children." Ashley and Ricardo break the challah, and the village children each come forward for a piece of the bread.

"Like candy floss," one of the children says, and Ricardo laughs, and the ice is broken. And as children can do so effortlessly, we instantly go from the most solemn to joyous.

There are small cups of wine for each of the adults. "Good stuff," one of the men says to me as he waits to get another cup. "Thela iwayini."

"One per customer," Nate says.

"Ubani iugama lakho?" the man asks me-I don't have a clue.

"He wants to know your name," Nate says, translating for me.

"My name is Harold."

"Igama lami ngiungu, Harold," Nate translates.

"Harry," the man says, "I thank you for the wine."

"When did you guys pull this together?" I ask Ashley and Ricardo.

"Sofia is very bossy," Ricardo says. "Whatever she tells you-you do." In the main room of the school, long tables have been set up. "We have some things from your world and some from ours," Sakhile says, motioning that I should sit next to him. The women of the village carry out bowls of matzoh-ball soup. I recognize the plates-they are ones that Sofia picked out, melamine, which the school will be able to keep and use for years to come. There is also fish in cream sauce and chopped liver from the caterer in Durban, with pieces of hard-boiled egg diced in just like my great-aunt Lena's. And for the children there is plain pasta with red sauce and grated cheese on the side; they seem deeply relieved to be eating something familiar. I am feeling very grateful to Sofia.

The broth is warm, and salty-the elixir of the ages. The matzoh ball is plump, soft on the outside, hard in the center. If George were here he'd make a crack about how Jewish women love to serve a man his b.a.l.l.s. Either the fleeting thought of George or my sudden awareness that it is now completely dark outside floods me with anxiety. When it was still light, I could see my way out, but now we are trapped for the night, and I must surrender to the experience.

"And we have a traditional stew-inyama yenkomo," Sakhile says, capturing my attention. "My wife made it, you must have some." I taste the stew; the meat has a stringy texture, the sauce is spicy and sweet. At first I do not like it, but then it grows on me. "And this," he says, filling my gla.s.s, "is homemade beer-tshwala."

While we are still eating, the teacher stands up. "Nathaniel, I had not yet arrived when you visited two years ago, but we speak often of your generosity. The children have prepared a song for you." Each child pulls out a bright plastic recorder. Weee-dee de de deee dee de deee dee dee weeamumuawahhhh. The notes climbing and falling-wee-ummm mummm awah...

Sakhile leans over and says, "Eem boo beh means 'lion.' It is an old South African song. Sofia suggested it-I did not know it was so popular for you."

"It's a cla.s.sic," I say, singing along, "...mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight."

After dinner there is dancing with music from a boom box, and then some drum playing. One by one the villagers leave; Nate wants to stay up with his friends.

"No," I say. "Tomorrow is a big day, it's time for bed."

"You must listen to your father," Sakhile says. I'm not sure Sakhile notices his error, but Nate and I do. Nate says nothing, and I am pleased.

Before going to bed, I bring Sakhile the things he asked for. "Who is the wok for?"

"It is a surprise for my mother," he says. "In the house where she works she saw one on a cooking show on television, and she couldn't stop talking about it." He picks up the wok and turns it over. "How do you turn it on?"

I can't help but laugh. "You put it over a fire or an electric burner, and it gets very hot...."

He nods. "Then what's so special about it?" he says, mystified.

"I think it's about the shape," I say.