The men from the Horn especially
quiet this morning. They know not to reveal their true feelings, even to a
trusted friend. Not publicly in front of others. A couple of references to the
event passed without comment. The local Liberal candidate at the recent state
election seemed to assume the lads were more or less dependable on the matter.
Talk veered in other directions. With his limited English Fausi managed a
couple of irrelevant jokes.
One note came from Y. the
musician-carpenter. To a seated fellow Sudanese he delivered a little speech in
Arabic from his feet on his way out the door. Voice large enough for all the ears. A poet as well as singer, Y. has
called himself. The general reception throughout the cafe was clear without any head-turning. A
minute or so of closely channelled voice in a persuasive, ardent, albeit level
tone, unintelligible for all but the name: BOB MARLEY.
Questioned before he got out the door,
Y. confirmed the matter.
— Yes, gone. But the—forefingers
drilling either side of his temples—is alive.
No comments:
Post a Comment