A woman sits at a breakfast table in a wall- papered kitchen drinking tea. Her son appears dressed in a pin- striped suit with braces straining over his protruding abdomen. He greets his mother hurriedly as he rushes past her to the entrance hall.  

He combs his hair in front of the entrance- hall mirror and puts on his hat. He takes his black leather briefcase and leaves the house. He makes his way down the road to the house of Mr. Barnaby.

TOULOUSE. Knock knock, Mr. Barnaby. It's Toulouse here, the town's salesman.

MR. BARNABY (voice ringing from inside). Toulouse! Hang on a second. Just a minute now. I won't be long. I'm almost finished getting ready.

Toulouse adjusts his necktie and runs his tongue along his upper teeth. A short, balding man opens the door.

MR. BARNABY. You're early today.

TOULOUSE. You're my first call this morning. May I come inside?

Mr. Barnaby stands aside to admit the salesman. Inside the two men sit down in armchairs facing one another. Mr. Barnaby slouches; Toulouse sits up very straight.

MR. BARNABY. What have you brought for me this morning, Toulouse?

TOULOUSE. This morning I'm going to sell you life insurance.

MR. BARNABY. But I'm not in danger of dying.

TOULOUSE. We're all in danger of dying sometime.

MR. BARNABY. Sometime. (Scratches his chin.) God knows.

TOULOUSE. Exactly. God knows. But I know a little something too: you have a twenty percent chance of having a heart attack.

MR. BARNABY (stunned but settles quickly). What must I do?

TOULOUSE. I am here to help you.

MR. BARNABY. When will I die?

TOULOUSE. I am a salesman, Mr. Barnaby.

MR. BARNABY. Will I go to heaven?

TOULOUSE. I don't see why not.

MR. BARNABY. I used to cheat Mr. Hawthorn, the town's tax collector.

TOULOUSE. No one will know.

MR. BARNABY. You know.

TOULOUSE. I'm the salesman.

MR. BARNABY. I once slept with Mildred, the butcher's wife. Twice actually, in the same night.

TOULOUSE. I'm not sure how appropriate this all is.

MR. BARNABY. Yes. (Crosses his legs.) Would you like some tea?

TOULOUSE. I would love some tea.

MR. BARNABY. Milk, no sugar?

TOULOUSE. Sugar, no milk.

MR. BARNABY. Two spoonfuls?

TOULOUSE. Please.

Mr. Barnaby goes to the kitchen and begins clattering the tea things. Toulouse rearranges the papers in his folder and puts his pen into his breast pocket. He checks his wristwatch.

TOULOUSE (calling through the doorway). Mr. Barnaby, how are you doing in there? I haven't much time left. Are you going to buy the life insurance?

MR. BARNABY (reappears looking flustered). Toulouse, you won't tell Mildred's husband, Mr. Johnston, will you? Puts the tea things down, gives Toulouse his cup.

TOULOUSE. Thank you.

MR. BARNABY. Are the Johnstons on your round this morning?

TOULOUSE (sips his tea). No, Johnston doesn't need life insurance.

MR. BARNABY. Right. Why is that?

TOULOUSE. I asked him. He said that he doesn't need it.

MR. BARNABY. It's settled then.

TOULOUSE. What is?

MR. BARNABY. I will buy life insurance. Johnston has Mildred; I have no one.

TOULOUSE. I'm sorry about that. Can I leave the forms on the table? (Holds up his teacup.) How many sugars did you put in this? It's not sweet at all.

MR. BARNABY. Two, like you said.

TOULOUSE. Heapfuls?

MR. BARNABY. Level.

TOULOUSE. Ah.

MR. BARNABY. Leave the forms, I'll go through them.

TOULOUSE (puts the papers down on the table). In your own time. 

MR. BARNABY. What about Mildred?

TOULOUSE. She'll go to heaven.

MR. BARNABY. Even without life insurance?

TOULOUSE. I'll have to talk to her husband about that.

MR. BARNABY. You said that you had spoken to him already.

TOULOUSE. I'll speak to him again.

MR. BARNABY. When?

TOULOUSE. Today. I'll try to catch George on his lunch break.

MR. BARNABY. Will Mildred be there?

TOULOUSE. I suppose. She keeps the house, cooks the meals.

MR. BARNABY. Will you give her this?

Presents a single pressed flower.

TOULOUSE (takes it). Who should I say it's from?

MR. BARNABY. Charles.  



II

Toulouse crosses the street to the Butterworth residence. He reads the information in his folder: Mrs. Butterworth, widow of Mr. Butterworth, previous owner of Butterworth & Butterworth Limited, antique traders. The Butterworth's only son, Manfred, took over the family business last year when his father was killed in an occupational accident. Manfred lives alone with his mother.

TOULOUSE (through the keyhole). Mrs. Butterworth! Mrs. Butterworth, it's Toulouse here! The town's salesman.

The door is opened by a tall, thin man in a dark suit.

MANFRED (puts on the latch). I was just leaving for work.

TOULOUSE. I've come to see your mother.

MANFRED. She can't afford to buy anything.

TOULOUSE. I'm selling life insurance today.

MANFRED. She can't afford it, Toulouse.

TOULOUSE. Then perhaps you can.

MANFRED. I need to go.

TOULOUSE. I have a job to do.

MANFRED. So do I. I was just leaving for it.

TOULOUSE. May I have a word with your mother?

MANFRED. No.

Toulouse tries to squeeze himself through the crack in the door. Manfred kicks his shin. Toulouse throws his body weight on the door's wooden panelling breaking the latch. Manfred leans his buttocks against the back of the door. The door swings a little in Manfred's direction, then a little in Toulouse's direction, and then back again in Manfred's direction.

MANFRED (screaming). Get out Toulouse!

TOULOUSE. Let me in!

MANFRED. Leave us alone!

TOULOUSE. Miser!

MANFRED. Peddler!

Mrs. Butterworth starts choking inside.

MANFRED (turning). Mother!

TOLOUSE. Mrs. Butterworth!

Mrs. Butterworth's coughing persists.

MANFRED. Mother! I'm coming!

TOULOUSE. Manfred! Mrs. Butterworth!

Toulouse steps away from the door and the door slams shut. He drops his briefcase to the floor, scattering his papers. He looks down for a long moment. Then he picks up the fallen forms, stuffs half of them into his briefcase, lodges the rest under his arm and runs home.  



III

Toulouse's house, in the kitchen. Toulouse's mother is standing by the sink when Toulouse arrives out of breath.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. What are you doing home so early?

TOULOUSE (collapses in a chair, takes off his hat and puts it down on the kitchen table). Mrs. Butterworth's sick.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Did you sell her life insurance?

TOULOUSE. Manfred wouldn't let me in.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Did you sell anyone life insurance?

TOULOUSE. Mr. Barnaby wanted it.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. He needs it.

TOULOUSE. What bracket do you think he falls into?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Barnaby? (Purses her lips.) Death by Falling.

TOULOUSE. What are the odds for that?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Nought- point- four percent.

TOULOUSE. How do you know this?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. It was in the Digest.

TOULOUSE. What else did the Digest say?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. That heart disease is the number one killer.

TOULOUSE. That's what I told Barnaby. What did the Digest say about life insurance?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. They were quoting the statistics this month. Next month they're going to give recommendations. I'm sure your life insurance will be in there.

TOULOUSE (drums his fingers on the table, turns to her). How are you feeling?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. A bit wheezy.

TOULOUSE. Have you taken your pump?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Yes. (Waves him away.) Will you bring brisket home for lunch?

TOULOUSE. How much do you want?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. A kilogram. We can finish it over the weekend.

TOULOUSE. Do we have mustard?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I'll check in the outside fridge.

She leaves the kitchen. Toulouse takes a form from his briefcase and begins to fill in his personal details. He stops at 'Next of kin' and crumples up the piece of paper.

Toulouse's mother comes back inside.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER (lifting her shoulders). No mustard.

TOULOUSE. Again?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I'll ask Mrs. Chaucer next door for some. I gave her a tub of butter last week. She owes us.

TOULOUSE. I can get mustard. It's easy for me to get it.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I'll get the mustard, you just get the meat.

TOULOUSE. How is Mrs. Chaucer?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. She's not well.

TOULOUSE. What's the matter with her?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I don't know. She doesn't like to talk about it.

TOULOUSE. How do you know that she'll have mustard?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Her niece makes sure that her pantry is well stocked in case anything should happen.

TOULOUSE. Like what?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. In case she should want anything.

TOULOUSE. What about the butter?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. She needed extra last week. She was baking a cake.

TOULOUSE (turns his hat around on the table).  When did Mr. Chaucer die?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. He's still alive.

TOULOUSE. Oh, I didn't know that. Do you think that I should try to sell them life insurance?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Not today.

TOULOUSE (clutches his stomach). I'm not feeling well.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER (moves closer to him). Toulouse, do you have a stomach ache? What's wrong? Are you hot? Do you have a fever? Is it a bug? I'm going to go get a thermometer.

She goes to the bathroom. When she returns Toulouse is making his way to the door, briefcase in hand.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Will you be home at one?

TOULOUSE (nods). With the brisket.

He leaves. Toulouse's mother puts the thermometer down onto the kitchen table next to her son's black felt hat. She bends down to the floor and picks up a small dried flower. She puts it in her apron pocket and wipes her hands on a dish cloth.  




IV

The Chaucer's living room. Mr. and Mrs. Chaucer are seated side by side on a couch. Mr. Chaucer is dressed in bed clothes. Mrs. Chaucer is wearing a prune- coloured tweed skirt- suit. Toulouse's mother is sitting opposite them in an armchair.

MRS. CHAUCER (clasping her hands). How is Toulouse, Rosemary?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. He's fine thank you, Charlotte. He's selling life insurance at the moment.

MR. CHAUCER. And how is that going?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. He's finding it difficult. People don't want to pay out.

MR. CHAUCER (shaking his head). For their lives. Isn't it crazy? (Turns to his wife, touches her wrist.) Are you hungry, Charlotte? Do you want something to eat? (Stands up.) Who wants cake? Charlotte makes the best cakes.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Oh, I know. I tried one once when-

MRS. CHAUCER. Isn't it a bit early for cake, Henry?

MR. CHAUCER. It's never too early for- (Turns to Toulouse's mother.) Would you like a slice of cake, Rosemary?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER (smiles weakly). Alright.

MRS. CHAUCER. Not for me, thank you.

Mr. Chaucer disappears into the kitchen.

MRS. CHAUCER (immediately to Toulouse's mother). He wanted to have children. I couldn't have children.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I'm sorry Charlotte.

MRS. CHAUCER. And now it's too late.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. But, if-

MRS. CHAUCER. It's too late.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I see.

MRS. CHAUCER. I think that he should leave me.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Now?

Mr. Chaucer brings the cake out on a tray and hands Toulouse's mother a serving.

MR. CHAUCER (smiling broadly). It's lemon- poppy seed. Charlotte's favourite.  



V

The Merrymans' house. Toulouse raps the metal door- knock.

TOULOUSE. Mr. Merryman, Mrs. Merryman, it's Toulouse here, the town's salesman.

Mrs. Merryman looks through the peephole but sees no one. Toulouse has bent down to tie his shoelace. She pulls the curtain adjacent to the door open and looks out onto Toulouse's well-oiled head.

MRS. MERRYMAN (opening the door). Toulouse, I was expecting you.

TOULOUSE (straightens up). That's interesting. Is your husband at home?

MRS. MERRYMAN. I'm afraid not.

TOULOUSE. What time will you be expecting him?

MRS. MERRYMAN. Only later this evening.

TOULOUSE. How do you feel about life insurance, Mrs. Merryman? May I have a glass of water?

MRS. MERRYMAN. Of course. Come inside.

He follows her in.

TOULOUSE (looking around). Where should I sit?

MRS. MERRYMAN (points to a few wooden chairs with paisley pillowcases grouped around a dining table). On any one of those chairs over there.

She goes to get Toulouse a glass of water from the kitchen. Toulouse chooses a chair next to the mantelpiece and sits down. He looks at the framed photographs of the Merryman family on display.

Mrs. Merryman returns and sets the glass down on the table in front of Toulouse. She sits across from him.

MRS. MERRYMAN (putting her elbows down). Tell me about life insurance, Toulouse.

TOULOUSE (takes three large gulps of water). How's Eugene?

MRS. MERRYMAN. He's a professional boxer now.

TOULOUSE. Really? I never knew that. How does that make you feel?

MRS. MERRYMAN. It's fine, as long as he doesn't get hurt. (Shifts her eyes.) How's your mother?


TOULOUSE. She has trouble breathing.

MRS. MERRYMAN. What's the matter?

TOULOUSE. We don't really know. (Looks at his briefcase. Looks at Mrs. Merryman.) Mrs. Merryman-

MRS. MERRYMAN. About the life insurance.

TOULOUSE. If Mr. Merryman takes out a policy on his life then he is both the policy holder and the party insured.

MRS. MERRYMAN. Alright.

TOULOUSE. If he takes out a policy on your life then he is the policy holder and you are the party insured.

MRS. MERRYMAN. What was Eugene like at school, Toulouse?

TOULOUSE. It was a long time ago. We weren't that close.

MRS. MERRYMAN. Did he have many friends?

TOULOUSE. It was a small school.

MRS. MERRYMAN. Do you think that we should buy him life insurance?

TOULOUSE. What weight class is he in?

MRS. MERRYMAN. Middle weight.

TOULOUSE. There's no guarantee. 

Hands her the forms.

MRS. MERRYMAN. I'll talk to my husband.

TOULOUSE (getting up). Will Eugene be home for the holidays?

MRS. MERRYMAN. I'm sure he will.

TOULOUSE. Tell him to call me, alright. You've got the forms?  



VI

George and Mildred Johnston's house. The baby is crying when Mrs. Johnston opens the front door to Toulouse. She is a stout young woman, wearing a shapeless cotton smock and her hair done up in a bun. She leaves Toulouse to find his own way in and runs to attend to the child.

Toulouse rocks back and forth on his heels in the living room with his hands in his pockets. Mrs. Johnston enters the room plaiting her hair.

TOULOUSE. Where's the baby?

MRS. JOHNSTON. She's asleep. She woke, I nursed her and now she's gone back to sleep. What is it that you want, Toulouse?

TOULOUSE. I'd like to speak to Mr. Johnston.

MRS. JOHNSTON. He'll be home shortly.

TOULOUSE. Where are the other girls? At school?

MRS. JOHNSTON. Yes. (She moves to pick up a doll from the floor and Toulouse catches sight of her ample bosom.) I've got laundry to do, if you'll excuse me.

TOULOUSE. Certainly.

Toulouse sits down at the table. Mr. Johnston comes in a few minutes later carrying three heavy parcels which he gives to his wife to take to the kitchen.

TOULOUSE (rising). Johnston, I need a brisket.

MR. JOHNSTON. Why didn't you go to the store, Toulouse? One of the boys out front would have helped you.

TOULOUSE. I wanted to come and ask you directly.

MR. JOHNSTON. Alright.

TOULOUSE. I need a brisket.

MR. JOHNSTON. Go to the store.

TOULOUSE. What about life insurance?

MR. JOHNSTON. We've discussed this already.

TOULOUSE. I'd like for you to reconsider.

MR. JOHNSTON. The answer is no.

Mrs. Johnston comes out from the kitchen, wiping her neck with the back of her hand.

MRS. JOHNSTON (addressing her husband). Will Toulouse be staying for lunch, George?

TOULOUSE. Oh, no, no, my mother is expecting me home any minute.

MR. JOHNSTON. I'm going to wash my hands. (Looks at his wife.) Mildred.

Toulouse follows Mrs. Johnston into the kitchen.

TOULOUSE (to Mildred). I came here because I'd like for George to buy life insurance for you and your family.

MRS. JOHNSTON (opens and closes the cupboard doors and fiddles with the knobs at the stove). What did my husband say?

TOULOUSE. He said that he would reconsider. He said that your opinion matters a great deal to him. He wants you to make the decision. (She shifts her head but says nothing. He catches her wrist as she walks past him to the oven.) Charles Barnaby sends his regards. 

He reaches into his pocket for the flower.

MR. JOHNSTON (poking his head through the doorway). How's it going in here?

TOULOUSE (clapping his hands). Oh George, Mildred is making the most delicious lunch!

MR. JOHNSTON (at the door). Nothing is going to happen, Toulouse. We can't afford it right now.

TOULOUSE. Speak to Mildred, George. She's worried about you.

MR. JOHNSTON (pained expression). She said that?

TOULOUSE. Look- a wife, three girls, a bun in the oven.

MR. JOHNSTON. Mildred's not pregnant.

TOULOUSE. Oh, excuse me. (Clears his throat.) Is there brisket in the store?

MR. JOHNSTON. How much do you want?

TOULOUSE. A kilogram.

MR. JOHNSTON. I'll call them and tell them that you're on your way to get it.

TOULOUSE. Thanks George. Be in contact.

Mr. Johnston closes the door.

Toulouse walks in the direction of Johnston's Butchers. He passes Mr. Barnaby.

MR. BARNABY. Toulouse! The town's salesman. How are the sales going? Up?

TOULOUSE. I can't speak right now, Mr. Barnaby. I'm in a hurry.

MR. BARNABY. When you are going to get married, Toulouse? You're not that young anymore, you know that. You can't wait forever. (Considers.) But I suppose that you have your mother. How is your mother?

TOULOUSE. Great, never been better.

He starts to sweat.

MR. BARNABY. Oh grand, grand. (Grips Toulouse's arm.) Did you tell Mildred?

TOULOUSE (pulling away). I haven't been there today. I've been busy. I've got to go. 

MR. BARNABY (releases his grip). Okay, Toulouse. No problem. Whenever you have a chance.

TOULOUSE. Sure, Barnaby, sure.  



VII

Toulouse's house. Toulouse's mother is standing on the back step waiting for him. He arrives carrying the brisket.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. You're late. They walk into the kitchen together.

TOULOUSE. I had to go to Johnston's house before I went to the store. Did you get the mustard? (She looks at him guiltily.) You didn't get the mustard. What happened? Didn't the Chaucers have mustard?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I couldn't ask her for it, Toulouse. I'm sorry, I couldn't ask her.

TOULOUSE (irritably). I told you to let me get the mustard. 

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I don't think that you should try to sell the Chaucers life insurance.

TOULOUSE. That's absurd. This is the time for them to buy life insurance. I'm going there tomorrow.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Please, go Monday.

TOULOUSE (turning away). What are we going to eat with the brisket?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I've made mashed potatoes.

TOULOUSE. What condiment?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Toulouse.

TOULOUSE. Johnston's have mustard on the counter.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. It doesn't matter.

TOULOUSE. It matters to me.

They sit down to eat.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. She asked about you, Charlotte.

TOULOUSE (cutting his food). What did you say?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. That it hasn't been easy for you, trying to sell life insurance.

TOULOUSE (looks up from his plate). You said that to a potential customer?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Forget it. Do you want peas? 

She offers him the bowl.

TOULOUSE. No. How are your lungs? Have you used the pump again?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Not since this morning. How are the Johnstons?

TOULOUSE. Mildred's pregnant.  

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Again? Poor girl.

TOULOUSE. Johnston denied it. He doesn't want anyone to know.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Who are you planning on calling on this afternoon?

TOULOUSE (wipes his mouth with a serviette). I was thinking of the Whitmores. 

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Valerie? She'll understand.  



VIII

Toulouse arrives at the Whitmores' house with his briefcase after lunch. Mrs. Whitmore is at home with her daughter, Alison.

MRS. WHITMORE (at the door). Toulouse, you obviously know Alison.

ALISON (demure). Hello Toulouse.

TOULOUSE (bowing his head). Alison. Mrs. Whitmore. 

MRS. WHITMORE (taking Alison's hand). Let's go into the living room.

They sit down on sofas opposite each other: Mrs. Whitmore and Alison on one side and Toulouse on the other.

MRS. WHITMORE. How is your mother, Toulouse? How is her bronchitis?

TOULOUSE. Asthma.

MRS. WHITMORE. Does she have asthma?

TOULOUSE. No one really knows what she has. (He has a dizzy spell, puts his head down to rest on his palm and closes his eyes.) I think that I may be ill.

MRS. WHITMORE (agitated, fanning her hands). Toulouse! Do you want a pill? Here, take a pill. 

Pops open her pillbox.

TOULOUSE. I think I better go.

MRS. WHITMORE. Toulouse! Take a pill!

ALISON. Mother! (Turns to Toulouse.) What do you do, Toulouse?

TOULOUSE. I'm a salesman.

ALISON. What do you sell?

TOULOUSE. Various things. (Shrugs.) Life insurance. That's actually why I'm here.

MRS. WHITMORE. Oh.

ALISON and MRS. WHITMORE together. Why?

TOULOUSE. About a job. In Mr. Whitmore's hardware store.

MRS. WHITMORE (frowning). As a salesman?

TOULOUSE. No, as a repairman.

MRS. WHITMORE. What do you want to repair?

TOULOUSE. Drains, floors, ceilings- anything.

MRS. WHITMORE. You'd be working in people's houses then, not in the store. Is that what you want, to fix people's houses?

TOULOUSE. Yes, that's what I want.

MRS. WHITMORE. You'll have to ask Rupert. It's his business.

TOULOUSE. I intend to. I was just wondering maybe if you could- 

Pauses.

MRS. WHITMORE. Toulouse?

ALISON. We'll talk to him.

TOULOUSE (drops his eyes). Thank you.

Toulouse stands up, loses his balance and falls back onto the sofa. He stands up again and starts to laugh. His laughter becomes louder, maniacal. Mrs. Whitmore looks at her daughter.

TOULOUSE (pulling himself together). Pardon me, Mrs. Whitmore. I seem to have lost myself there for a moment. (Looks at Alison.) It's been lovely seeing you.  



IX

Toulouse stops by the grocery store after leaving the Whitmores. He sees his mother in the aisle where they keep the sauces and relishes.

TOULOUSE. Mother, what are you doing here?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Toulouse. I came to buy mustard.

TOULOUSE. I came to buy mustard. (They turn to the shelves together.) I'm not going to the Chaucers.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER (turns to him). Not on Monday?

TOULOUSE. No.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Did you see the Whitmores?

TOULOUSE. Yes. Mrs. Whitmore is going to speak to her husband about finding me a job.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. As?

TOULOUSE. As a repairman.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER (smiles but conceals her smile). Oh.

TOULOUSE (casually). Alison was there. (Scrutinizing the jars.) I think that I might ask her out for dinner. (Turns to his mother.) Wholegrain or smooth?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I won't interfere.

TOULOUSE (helpless). Do you think that she'll say yes?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I'm sure that she will.

TOULOUSE. Who's going to get the mustard?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I will. Do you want to get it?

TOULOUSE. I'll get it.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Alright. Toulouse?

TOULOUSE. Yes?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. I'll see you at home. 

She turns to leave.

TOULOUSE (stops her). Are there any peas leftover?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. There should be some peas left.

TOULOUSE. I'd like to have peas for dinner with the brisket please.

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. Alright, I'll heat them up.

TOULOUSE. And potatoes?

TOULOUSE'S MOTHER. We can have potatoes too if you want.

TOULOUSE. Let's have potatoes. I'll be home soon.

At the beginning of 2010, a few months before the Soccer World Cup took place in South Africa, 'Love Equals Football' began appearing on surfaces around the Rosebank and Parkhurst suburbs in Johannesburg. 

The sign on Jan Smuts Avenue and the ones in Seventh were washed away by the rain. The chalkings along the bus shelter in Tyrwhitt Avenue were painted over (by the municipality?) and then drawn back on again. This happened several times. The chalk board on Fourteenth Street was recently updated ('Fourteenth Street 02').

'Do you know that the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows?' she asks him. She puts her serviette down onto the table and joins her hands together. 'That's what makes her enigmatic. It's not the smile; it's the lack of eyebrows. She's missing a feature.'
'Hmmm.' He begins to chew more thoughtfully.
'Have you ever noticed that?' she says. 'The lack of eyebrows?'
He swallows. 'No, not as such. But now that you mention it I can't imagine her with eyebrows.'
'Apparently they were there. Da Vinci did paint them in- the eyebrows and the eyelashes- but they've faded with time.'
'How do they know that they were there?'
'A French engineer produced a high- resolution photograph of the painting. He magnified the Mona Lisa's face twenty- four times. When he examined it he found a single brushstroke of a single hair on the left brow.'
'And from that he concluded that she had eyebrows?'
'He also saw some fading around the eye area which he said was indicative of cleaning. A restorer or curator could have washed off the eyebrows and eyelashes. I've seen a virtual restoration of the painting. With the eyebrows put back in.'
'And? What does she look like?'
'She doesn't look like the Mona Lisa.'
'She doesn't look like the Mona Lisa only with eyebrows?'
'No, she looks like someone else.'
She sprinkles a small amount of salt onto the tablecloth in front of her and makes a circle in it with her ring finger, first clockwise and then anticlockwise. He takes a sip of his drink. He watches her. She's about to say something when the waiter comes to clear their plates. 'Yes, I'm finished,' she tells him. 'Thank you.'
He nods to the waiter for the bill. When the man's left he says to her, 'You didn't eat very much.'
'I wasn't hungry.'
'Are you ill?'
'No, I just wasn't hungry.'
'You like this restaurant.'
'I do like this restaurant. I wasn't hungry today.'
'You would tell me if you were ill wouldn't you?'
'Of course.'
'What were you going to say?'
'When?'
'Before the waiter came. You were going to say something.'
'I don't remember.'
He looks up. 'Here he comes again. What should I tip him? We come here often.'
She shrugs.
He gives the waiter his card and the man takes it to the front desk. 'Let me help you into your coat,' he says to her. 'While we're waiting. I'll help you to put it on.'
They stand up together and he comes around the table to stand behind her. He helps her with the right arm first, then the left arm, and then brings the coat up over her shoulders. She buttons it up while he puts on his own coat. 'I wonder if they'll bring mints,' he says.
'How much did it come to? The lunch.'
'It doesn't matter.'
'What did you tip him?'
'The usual.'
'What's the time?'
He looks at his wristwatch. 'Two thirty. You really should get a watch.'
'Why? Does it annoy you when I ask for the time?'
The waiter comes and he signs the slip. Then he says to her, 'They did.'
'What?'
'They brought mints. Do you want one?' He holds one out in his hand.
'No,' she shakes her head.
He puts one in his mouth and the other in his coat pocket. He turns to her. 'Should we go?'
'Yes, it's getting stuffy in here.'
He takes her arm and they move towards the door. The maitre d' says, 'See you,' he says, 'Yes,' she says, 'Thank you,' and they leave the restaurant.
She stands a moment on the step outside. He steps down so that they're the same height. 'What?' he says to her.
'My shoes. They're a bit tight.'
'What are we going to do?'
'Nothing. I'll manage. It's only a few blocks.' She steps down next to him. The wind stirs and she takes his arm to steady herself. They begin to walk.
He points out a child on a bicycle. The girl's father is running behind her. 'This is not the place to teach your daughter how to ride a bike,' he says.
'Where would be better?'
'Somewhere more secluded. This is a public street. There are cars driving up and down here all the time. It's dangerous.'
'He's watching her. He's right behind her.'
'Still.'
She puts her free hand into her coat pocket. 'You sister Catherine is coming to us for tea tomorrow,' she tells him.
'Why?'
'She wants to see you.'
'She wants to see you.'
'She wants to see both of us.'
'Will Thomas come?'
'No, he's away.'
'Away?'
'Away on business.'
'I never knew that he travelled for work.'
'Apparently he does.'
'Well that's why she's coming then. She's lonely.'
'That's alright.'
'She's afraid of being lonely. Not everyone gets lonely in the way that Catherine does. She gets nervous.'
'She's unsettled without him.'
A car drives past. 'Three cars have driven up the road since we left the restaurant,' he says. 'I'm not sure how many have driven down. This is no place to teach your child how to ride a bike.'
'Do you like Thomas?' she asks him.
His head's turned the other way. 'What?' He turns back to the front.
'Thomas. Your brother- in- law. Do you like him?'
'He's alright.'
'Alright?'
'He's bearable. He's not much company but he's a presence for Catherine. She's grown accustomed to having him around. He's comforting to her.'
'How long have they been married for?'
'Four years.'
'Do you think that they'll have children?'
'I don't know. What do you think?'
'I'm not sure either.'
'She'll smother them.'
'She'll be a good mother.'
'She'll worry too much. Like my mother did with us.' He looks up at the grey sky. 'It looks like it's going to rain,' he says. 'We better hurry. How are your feet?'
'They're fine.' She blows a puff of steam out of her mouth. 'You know that Dora Maar was barren,' she says. He stops and turns to her and their arms fall apart. 'Dora Maar,' she says. 'Picasso's mistress. She was barren. She couldn't have children.'
'I know what barren means.'
'Why are you so irritable? Are you still upset about that child on the bicycle?'
'What made you think of that?' he says. 'What made you think of Dora Maar?'
'I was just musing.'
'Catherine's not barren.'
'I never said that she was.'
'She will be able to have children.'
'I wasn't implying otherwise.'
'You made a perverse connection.'
'I never made a connection between your sister and Dora Maar.'
'How else could the conversation have turned in this way?'
'We were talking about Da Vinci, I was talking about Picasso.'
'You were talking about Dora Maar, the woman in tears. The woman with a cat.'
'Dora Maar au chat,' she says. 'Picasso bought her a cat. After her dog died, he bought her a cat. She couldn't stand it.' She brushes the hair from her eyes. 'Dora Maar, the weeping woman. Picasso said that she was always weeping.' He says nothing. 'Alright, come,' she says to him, 'let's change the subject. Let's talk about George Orwell.'
They walk on. She takes his arm. He hesitates but then lets her. 'George Orwell?' he says. 'What about George Orwell?'
'George Orwell married his second and last wife, Sonia Brownell, at the age of forty- six. He was suffering from tuberculosis then and the wedding took place by his bedside.'
'Did it last?'
'Orwell died three months later. Sonia said that the reasons why George married her were obvious but the reasons why she married him were not.'
'Did he love her?'
'His first wife died ten years after their wedding. He proposed marriage to four women after her death. Sonia accepted.'
'Sonia married a ghost.'
'That's what the writer Frances Partridge said. She said that marriage to a dying man is no marriage at all.'
'Had Sonia married before Orwell?'
'I don't think so.'
'Are you cold?' he asks her.
'No, I'm fine.'
'Here, put your hand into my pocket.' He takes her hand in his and puts their clasped hands into the pocket of his coat. 'Is your other hand in your pocket?' He leans forward to look.
'I haven't finished telling you about Sonia yet,' she says.
He moves back in line with her. 'There's more?'
'Yes.'
'I'm listening.'
'After Orwell died Sonia married Michael Pitt- Rivers, reportedly a homosexual, and later had affairs with Lucian Freud and Victor Pasmore.'
'How do you know all of this?'
'I like George Orwell.'
'I like Victor Pasmore.' They smile at each other. 'How are your feet?' he says.
'My feet are fine. Stop asking me about my feet. They're fine.'
'There's not much left to go. We're almost there.' It begins to drizzle and he opens up the emerald green umbrella that he has been using as a walking stick. 'Come closer,' he says to her and they huddle together underneath it.
'Now you tell me something,' she says to him.
'About what?'
'About anything.'
'Let me think.' He wrinkles his nose. 'What can I tell you? I can tell you about Francis Bacon.'
'The philosopher?'
'The philosopher, scientist and lawyer.'
'Tell me about him.'
'He said that wives are the mistresses of young men and that companions are old men's nurses.'
'What was Sonia Brownell?'
'I'm not sure that she was much of a companion.'
'Some people think that she was there for Orwell during a painful time in his life. That she was a companion.'
'I'm sure that others would disagree.'
'Did Francis Bacon marry?'
'He married at forty- five, Alice Barnham, the thirteen- year old daughter of an English parliamentarian. He disinherited her after he suspected that she was secretly involved with a John Underhill. The Barnham-Bacon marriage was said to be a political one anyway. Bacon had a preference for young, Welsh minions.'
'What happened to Alice?'
'She married Underhill two weeks after Bacon's death from pneumonia.'
'And?'
'Her and Underhill became estranged a decade later. He maintained that their manservant had stolen her affections.' He points to the staircase leading to their apartment. 'We have reached the door,' he says.
She stops. 'What happened? With John and Alice.'
'Underhill moved to another property.'
They walk up the stairs.
'What about her?'
'She continued to live in the mansion with the servant, who was married all this time you should know.' He begins to close the umbrella. 'Let's go inside.'
'Did Alice leave heirs?'
'No. She signed half of her property to the servant and the other half to her nephew before she died. Come, it's cold.' He opens the door.
'Leave the umbrella outside,' she tells him.
'Yes.' He leans it against the wall.
When they're inside he helps her out of her coat, hangs it onto the stand and then takes off his own.
'George Orwell had a son,' she says. 'An adopted child. Richard.'
He leads her into the sitting room and they settle down on the couch.
'Richard Orwell,' he says.
She takes off her shoes and spreads her feet in between the cushions. 'My feet are fine,' she tells him.
'Good.'
'Why is it so quiet when it's cold and cloudy like this?' She looks out of the window.
'I think that it's got something to do with the density of the air,' he says. 'I don't know exactly.'
'What should we do?' She looks at him.
'Read?'
'What are you reading?'
He picks up a book from the side table. 'A very long novel,' he says. 'I don't think that I'll ever get through it.'
'Leave it.'
'I can't. I can't when I've started a book.'
'You can start another book.'
'I have to finish this one first.'
'You're going to spend a lot of time reading things that you don't like. Leave it. You don't always have to push through.'
'I want to read it.' He takes her hand.
'I'm sorry about Catherine,' she says.
'There's nothing to be sorry about.'
'I'm sorry about what I said about Dora Maar. I'm sorry if it upset you.'
'That's alright.'
'She said that all of Picasso's paintings of her were lies anyway.'
'What?'
'Dora Maar. She said that Picasso painted Picassos. None of his portraits were of Dora Maar.'
'What happened to her? What happened to her after Picasso?'
'She said, After Picasso, God. She turned to Catholicism. But nothing could replace him. She died alone in Paris.'

'Short back and sides,' he nodded to the barber.
'Why not try something new, Jake? Something different. Fifty's a big year.'
'That's what you said about forty, Trick. You said that forty was a big year.'
'Yeah I did? Well, fifty's bigger then. There are more numbers.'
'There are not more numbers in fifty, Trick. Forty has two numbers: four and zero. So too does fifty have two numbers: five and zero. True, five is greater than four, but fifty does not have more numbers in it than forty does.'
'Stop being such a tight-arse, Jake, it's your birthday.' Trick brushed him lightly at the back of his neck.
'Straight back and sides, Trick, and watch where you put those scissors.'
'Geez Earl, you ever hear of somebody being so itty-bitty on their birthday?' Trick jabbed his neighbouring colleague with his right elbow.
'I sure as have never,' Earl said although he had only just dropped into the conversation now, busy as he was giving his client a close shave. 'Doesn't ol' Jake want something new? Something more suave?' He pronounced the word 'suave' so that it came out like 'saav'. Saab with a v, a very long v.
'That's what I been asking him,' Trick pointed the scissors in Jake's direction. Jake was unmoved. Trick carried on, 'I'm trying to help you, Jake, to be helpful. Pic-tor-ial. Picture this.' He stepped towards Earl and the two of them began to sing, 'Country roads, take me home, to a place I belong. West Virginia,' Earl's close shave burst in, 'Mountain momma. Take me home,' the three of them harmonized, Earl and Trick holding hands by now, 'country roads.'
Jake liked that melody. He had heard a sweet, broad-shouldered girl play it on her guitar in a hillbilly tavern in a hillbilly town once. It had made his heart leap.
'Is that a bit of saline misting up the eyes then, Jakie?' Trick taunted him.
'Leave him be,' Earl said, suddenly composed, shameful. 'It's the fella's birthday.'
Trick spoke to the coloured lady who was sweeping up multicoloured wisps of hair with a broom. 'Bring Jake here a coffee, will you,' he said to her. 'With foam.' He swiveled back to look at Jake. 'Earl and I got ourselves a foamer.' He was proud. 'A small tornado for whipping.' Jake was thinking about falling leaves, snow on his galoshes. Trick was saying, 'We saw it being advertised on one of those infomercials. What's the name of that company that makes all those products for sale at unbeatable prices? You know the one,' he was searching himself, 'Vermark?'
'Verimark,' Earl interceded.
Jake was trying not to make too much of the fact that he was reminiscing. He looked straight ahead and focused on his reflection: drooping mouth, nose growing slightly to the left, sagging, watery eyes that were pinkish. When the coffee arrived he swallowed it in three short gulps and then scooped up the remaining foam with his teaspoon like a child digging for the last of his ice-cream at the bottom of the cone. Trick and Earl exchanged glances, satisfied.
Trick had acquired his moniker as a youngster. He couldn't pronounce the 'tr' in the word 'trick'; he said 'tick'. His older brother Trevor - being a 'tr' man himself - teased him tirelessly ('Hey Trick, you wanna hear a joke? What's a tic that's handicapped called? Spastic. What's a tic that's anxious called? Neurotic. Ha, ha.') On it went. Later the lines were marginally more sophisticated ('A tic that's acerbic? Caustic. A tic that's cynical? Sarcastic.') The name stuck. ('Everyone can pronounce your nickname but you!' Trevor roared). Trick's real name was Raymond.
'Kind of the opposite of Trick when you think about it,' Jake said. 'Raymond's a good, honest name. Raymonds are good, hardworking people. You ever heard of a Raymond being convicted of a felony? No. Raymond owns the corner café, his father's furniture business, the CNA.' What he really meant was that Raymonds are unmagical. There isn't anything mysterious about a Raymond. Raymonds become hairdressers.
'Earl, however,' Earl said trumpeting his own origin, 'now the name Earl is majestic. Royal,' he dragged out the second vowel so that it sounded like 'royaal'.
Jake was short for Jacob. His brother was Jasper, his sister Jolyn. His mother had a thing for Js. She liked how the letter was drawn onto the page. She liked its shape; she said that it was unusual. 'Not as straight up and down as a T, nor as curvy as an S. Wonderfully asymmetrical.' She was big on imperfection. 'No point in trying to be perfect, Jasper, Jake and Jo,' she said. 'Nothing in it besides for a lot of hard edges. Like being square.'
Jake didn't like to be called Jake; he would rather be known as Jacob. But after Jasper, three years the elder, declared his brother 'Jake' when Jake was too small to protest, there was no going back. Then it was all 'Jake this' and 'Jake that'. ('Jake, won't you pass Mommy the salad dressing? Thank you my angel. Thank you Jake.') Jasper was Jasper John - kind of like the artist Jaspers Johns - and Jolyn liked to be called 'Jo'. Everyone was sorted except for Jake.
'And it's been like that ever since,' Jake said into the mirror talking to Trick and Earl.
The close shave had since departed: paid his fee and slapped the birthday boy on the back with a 'Hip hip hooray!' before taking to the street.
'You mean you being called Jake or you being unsorted-like?' Trick asked.
'Both.' He gave a heavy sigh.
'So you telling me,' Earl said furrowing his brow and scratching the wrinkles that he had created,' all this time, all the time that you been coming to Trick and me here. What's it been now, Trick?'
'Going on twenty years,' Trick said.
'Going on twenty years,' Earl said. 'All this time you haven't once asked us to call you Jacob instead of Jake?'
'I've been coming here for twenty-three years,' Jake said.
'That's even worse!'
'When everybody's called you Jake your whole life, what difference are a couple of extra people going to-'
'A couple of extra people, eh?' Earl huffed and puffed. 'You hear that, Trick? Jake here - ahem, Jacob - says we are just a couple of extra people to him. No more than a couple of extra people. Two nobodys.'
The cuckoo poked its head out from the cuckoo clock and announced that it was noon. Earl went outside for a cigarette.
'I wanted them to call me Chico,' Trick went on. Like the place in California? Jake wondered. 'Like Chico Marx,' Trick said, 'the eldest of the Marx brothers. They called him Chico for chicken-chaser. Lady chicks, that is.' His real name was Leonard.
Jake noted, noticing not for the first time, that the salon's mirrors were decorated on their outskirts with a mix- up of stickers, most of them faded and torn. On the mirror in front of which he was seated today, on this day in March - his fiftieth birthday - there were four adhesives. The first was for the swimwear range, Labamba: stained- glass colours, cartoon of a girl in a tanga bathing suit. The second looked like it could have been a bumper sticker: thick-mustard yellow rectangle with dark font spelling 'think bike'. The third was a full-length miniature of Trick's favourite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, Michelangelo. The fourth was a clown holding a tube of Mentadent P toothpaste: 'Mentadent P is for me!'
'I told Trev that it'd be rad,' Trick was saying. 'I could be Chico and he could be Groucho. He wasn't much keen on it though and I don't know why. Groucho was the most famous of the bunch.'
Earl came back inside. 'It's raining,' he said.
'Yes, Earl, that sometimes happens.'
Earl's 12 o'clock appointment arrived. He wanted his hair done like Tom Cruise in Top Gun.
'Did Tom Cruise have a hairstyle in Top Gun?' Jake whispered to Trick.
'Looked pretty natural to me.'
'What about Tom Cruise in Cocktail?' Earl suggested.
'Haven't seen it,' the guy said.
Earl was persistent, 'You know the one with Elisabeth Shue where they kiss in the water and the Beach Boys perform 'Kokomo' on the soundtrack?' The guy stared at him blankly, his mouth closed. Earl raised his eyebrows. Obviously not his cup of tea. 'Oh well,' he said.
'Flugelbinders,' Jake said.
'What?' They all turned to look at him.
'When Jordan, Elisabeth's character, suggests to Flanagan, Tom's character, that the little plastic thingamajigs at the end of shoelaces are called flugelbinders.'
'Don't know what you're talking about,' Earl said.
'What?' Jake said. 'It's one of the most important scenes in the movie. I can see it clearly now. It starts off with Flanagan twirling one of those tiny paper umbrellas that are used to adorn cocktails. Then he says to Elisabeth - to Jordan - 'You know there's a guy-'
'Sorry buddy.' Earl walked away, leading his client to the washbasin.
'Flanagan was wearing a patterned shirt and white canvas plimsolls!' Jake had become hysterical.
Earl mouthed the words, 'Memory problems' to his twelve o'clock.
'Are you sure that it's the same movie?' Trick asked Jake.
'Of course!' he screamed.
'Look, I'm sure that it's in there somewhere,' Trick softened his tone seeing as though Jake was obviously upset. 'Do you want another coffee?' he tried to placate him. 'Clarice!' He raised his voice into the air. 'Clarice!'
'No,' Jake said sulkily, 'I don't want another coffee. Hell, what's taking you so long, Trick? I mean with the haircut. It's nearly lunchtime.'
'I'm doing it extra nice for you today, Jake. For your birthday.'
'Thanks.'
'Look, Jake, you ain't getting any younger or any prettier-'
'This is news.'
'- so you might as well start working on your personality.'
'It's never too late!' Earl shouted from the back.
'How old's that geezer anyway?' the man with the wet hair asked.
'I'm in no mind for this, Trick,' Jake said.
'Who's ever in the mood for a change, Jakie?' 'Jakie' was worse than Jake. 'What you ought to be looking for is 'no mind'. Mushin no shin: that's Eastern for 'mind of no mind'. Then nothing will affect you.'
'Some people can tolerate adjustment more easily than others,' Jake said, defending his position. 'Some people have a natural inclination to move while others prefer to keep still. I prefer to keep still. Isn't that what the Zen masters are always saying: be still.'
'There is Zen, Jake, and then there is stasis. You are sacrificing your psycho-social development.' He sheared a bit more hair than was necessary. 'Have you ever been in love?'
Earl came over to ask Trick about the colour of a certain tint. Jake heard them saying something about 'Tom Cruise- Brown Colour Number One'. Then there was an eruption of laughter.
'Do you know what the litmus test is?' Trick asked Jake.
'The litmus test?'
'The litmus test. The litmus test is used to determine the acidity of a given solution. Blue litmus paper turns red under acidic conditions and red litmus paper turns blue under alkaline conditions. The strip acts as a pH indicator: it reveals the relative tendency of a solution towards acidity or alkalinity. You see Jake, solutions are rarely purely acidic or purely alkaline. There are only relative tendencies towards equilibrium, towards neutral. So don't worry, everything will be fine. You'll see.'

My grandfather was a formidable character. He had a fair-sized beak nose and lips that would spittle when he spoke. He wore spectacles, which looked like magnifying glasses, and which made his eyeballs appear ginormous. I would exaggerate my expression in our exchanges so that we might understand each other better.

I thought that he would be upset when my uncle, Rueben, moved away. But he said only, 'That's just the way that life is, my boy.' He was always saying, 'That's just the way that life is' to me. When he said 'my boy' like that, just like that, his eyes would grow bigger and I would shrink.

My grandfather and Uncle Reuben had never really gotten on, or let us say, they hadn't come to terms. In my grandfather's presence, Uncle Reuben would scratch his head and stare at the floor and my grandfather would raise his voice louder and louder and Uncle Reuben would scratch his head and wring his hands too much, much too much, and my head would dart from my uncle to my grandfather to my uncle, until somebody- usually my father- would come in to break up the scene.

My grandmother was not alive when I was born. She had died during the birth of Reuben, a fact from which Reuben had never fully recovered and that my grandfather had never fully forgiven. My grandfather was terrified of dying, but he was composed in his living. He would dress every morning as if for his own funeral- smoky grey suit, starched shirt with cufflinks, dark tie- and would sit at our kitchen table sipping tea throughout the day and spurning each of us in turn: me, on my way to school and back again, my mother, in and about the house, and my father before and after the office. Grandfather spoke in clipped phrases, 'Yes today, please', 'No not tomorrow', 'Please pass the sugar'.

He was a contentious figure between my mother ('This cannot go on forever, Michael'), my father ('This will go on for as long as it needs to'), and me ('What's going on?'). When Grandfather slipped, fell and fractured his hip and had to spend several weeks in the hospital, my mother's step and breath became lighter. But when Grandfather returned with a walking cane and a frown, everybody resumed their normal pace.

My grandfather carried a gold- rimmed pocket watch and I would ask him, 'Grandpa, what is the time?' and he would slip the glass pendulum from the satin of his breast pocket, and say, 'Half past five' or 'A quarter before seven' or 'Nearly the hour of nine'- almost bathtime, almost dinnertime, almost bedtime - but never enough time.

Grandfather slurped his tea and suggested to my parents that they have another child to keep me company, that it should be a girl, and that they should name her 'Rose.' My mother said that it wasn't like choosing a film from the video store, and besides, she already had her hands full with me and my father and my grandfather.

On Sundays we would go to the Zoo Lake to feed the ducks, and Grandfather would give each one a different name (Leon/Knox/Penelope/Jo-anne) even though they all looked exactly the same. In the winter, he wore his coat collar in the style of a spy - high up and curved around the neck - so as to shut out the world around him and contain his privacy. My grandfather had the hardiness of a Cossack: steady and ever ready for confrontation. The roughness of his palms compared to his refined frame, slight from disuse, always struck me as undignified. He liked the month of July; it was cold, but at least it was definite: no surprises.

He had come by ship from Eastern Europe with a burden on his back and a chip on his shoulder. The Kishinev Pogrom erupted after a Russian boy was found killed in Dubăsari. My grandfather's chances were 50: 50. He could take them and run and he did.

'Why South Africa, Grandpa?'

'Because it was safer here,' he said. 'My eldest brother brought us out. We were eight - two girls and six boys. I was the second youngest.'

He had no friends, and had no intention of making any. He met and married my grandmother in Johannesburg. She was an immigrant from Palanga, on the west coast of Lithuania. My great-grandmother baked kitke to sell on the Sabbath, and as a girl, my grandmother would run from village to village with the loaves. Because she was one of the few who could read and write, the townspeople would bring her their letters. My grandmother's family was set to sail for America, but then the Titanic sank.

My grandfather disliked all this talk of 'fighting for one's country', the search for 'identity'. His philosophy was in subjectivity: the only reality. When I first learnt of a rhyming couplet, I wrote one about my grandfather:

My grandfather taught me a thing or two about history,
He said, 'My boy, there will never be another man like me.'

I would dedicate much verse to him: his unwavering gaze, his bushy brow, the sharpness of his tongue. I allowed him the words that he had omitted. My grandfather used to say that Donne had it wrong, that man is an island unto himself, and only much later, when I was older, did I perceive that my grandfather's constant criticism was the poor façade of a man lost at sea.

I remember when he used to ring the bell for mealtimes. He would ring it and then wait. Ring again, and wait. Waiting for nothing to happen. He had gotten used to nothing happening.

I remember when we were playing scrabble one night and Marc's younger brother, Kevin, asked him what had brought him to the Macrobiotic Study House in the first place and he had said 'brown rice', and I had smiled because I knew that he was telling the truth. But I was much more interested in Marc, who was from California and who wore his cap backwards and who told me that he had never met anyone like me before in his life. But Marc, in his own words, 'couldn't write for shit', and our correspondence ended shortly after I had returned home from America. Marc told me that I needed someone who could keep up with my word count.

Ben never told me anything about himself except that he grew up in Brooklyn, when I asked. I gathered that he had been working as a chef at the Study House for almost eight years, and I presumed that something in him was broken and that it was easier for him to hide away there than to risk living somewhere with something that nobody could fix.

I remember that he used to smell of alcohol on his days off and it made me sad. Valerie, one of the volunteers who was working in the kitchen, told me that Ben never lost his temper, ever, and I knew that his calm was more than just a little bit bordering on melancholy. When Valerie nicked her index finger with a knife, Ben bandaged it and said that everything would be okay.

I remember on one of our days off when I bumped into him at Walmart in one of the small towns surrounding the Study House in the Berkshire Mountains. I saw that he was buying some DVDs. Movies were his great escape, he told me. I noticed that one of movies that he was buying was Dying Young, and it made me even sadder. He asked me what I was buying and I said 'earrings' and we both realized how silly this was.

I remember when I was walking the grounds of the Study House one cold and sunny morning, and I saw him bringing raw vegetable peels and leftover grain to the compost heap, out the back, next to the garden that he was planting. He didn't see me.

'Raccoooon,' he shouted, but nothing happened.

'Raccoooon.' Nothing happened. He looked up at the sun.

A little while later, the raccoon, a juvenile who had become dependent on the human food waste of the Study House, appeared and Ben gave it its space to eat undisturbed. When he saw me, he told me that if you kept very quiet and very still, the raccoon would come and eat out of your hand when you offered it food. So, I kept very quiet and very still and the raccoon came to eat out of my hand. Ben laughed because he could see that I was happy there with him in the sun, feeding the raccoon.

I asked Ben why Thanksgiving was always on the last Thursday of November, and he shrugged and said that maybe it was because both Thursday and Thanksgiving started with a 'Th'. Ben showed me the difference between a penny and a dime, and together we counted up how many pennies are in a dime and how many dimes are in a dollar. I thought about how many Rands make up a hundred dollar bill.

When I left, I hugged Ben goodbye and told him that in a funny kind of way, I would miss him. He said that I should come back and visit but we never spoke again. I thought about writing him the other day, but I couldn't think of anything to say that would make it better.