Read Online You Can't Get Lost in Cape Town by Zoë Wicomb - Free Book Online

out.’
    â€˜Oh no,’ I remonstrate anxiously. I can only think of crossing the room in slow motion, elephantine, as my lumbering thighs rub together. A deadly silence except for the nylon scratching of left pantyhose against right, then right against left, before the ambiguous sound from the lungs of that bulwark rings plangent in my ears. I do not recognise this register; can a whistle be distorted by slow-motion? I fail to summon the old familiar sound, its pitch or timbre. Some day, I think wildly, there will be a machine to translate a whistle, print it out boldly as a single, unequivocal adjective: complimentary . . . or . . . derisive? A small compact machine to carry conveniently in the pocket which will absorb the sound as confidently as I have done. The meaning must lie there in the pitch, audible, measurable; otherwise, surely, we would never have considered it as anything other than a sound, an expression of time. How did we ever know with such certainty that it spelled admiration?
    Moira is determined to go until I say, ‘They will whistle as we approach.’
    She slumps back in her chair and tugs listlessly at her skirt that has risen above the knee. In the seated position these shrinking hemlines assert a dubious freedom. We console ourselves that we might have risked it in last year’s skirts and curl our toes newly released from the restrictive points of last year’s shoes.
    When James strides over he stands for a moment with one foot on the chair while he lights a cigarette and languidly savours the smoke before it curls out of his nostrils.
    â€˜Hey,’ he teases as his eyes fall on my folder. ‘Have you done that essay yet? Retief asked after you this morning.’
    I have no desire to banter with him. Has it occurred to James that Retief has no idea who any of us are? James turns the chair around and sits astride it, spreading his legs freely. He does not read the resentment in our unyielding postures.
    The day slips into mid-winter. The sky darkens and a brisk rain beats against the glass. The wind tugs at the building, at this new brick and glass box placed in a clearing in the bush, and seems to lift it clean off the ground.
    â€˜My word,’ says James and treats us to a lecture on the properties of glass as building material. It is clear that he will nurse the apple of knowledge in his lap, polish its red curve abstractedly until we drool with anticipation. Only then will he offer us little lady-like bites, anxious for the seemly mastication of the fruit and discreet about his power to withdraw it altogether.
    â€˜Come on, what’s all this about?’ Moira asks, pointing to the table at the back.
    â€˜We’re organising the action for this afternoon’s memorial service. We must be sure that nobody goes. If we . . .’
    â€˜But no one would want to go,’ I interrupt.
    â€˜The point is that there are too many cowards who don’t want to but who are intimidated into going. Fear of reprisals is no small thing when there is a degree at stake, but if no one, and I mean not a soul, goes, then there’ll be nothing to fear. Obviously we can’t call a public meeting soit’s up to every one of us to get round and speak to as many people as possible. Everyone must be reassured that no one will go. You two are going to Psychology next, aren’t you? So make sure that you get there early and get the word around. I’ll miss it and go to Afrikaans-Nederlands I instead. There’ll be someone in every lecture room this morning and a couple of chaps are staying in here. Mr Johnson and others are going round the library. The idea is that every student must be spoken to before one o’clock.’
    We nod. I had hoped to miss all my classes today in order to finish the essay. I shall have to think of something since Retief will certainly not accept it after today, especially not after the boycott of the service.
    â€˜Do you feel