her eyes that gaze restlessly
up at the ceiling in the middle of a sentence. She does not baby her sub b’s as Vilho did. She reads fast and doesn’t pause
to explain what the words mean. And when she teaches the alphabet, we note with interest that she does not sing it. But the
small boys seem to love her more for not talking down to them, for treating them like her little soldiers of the dangling
feet.
23
STUDY HOUR
A nother of the principal’s tortures, a bit of daily imprisonment in the name of holy education.
If they refuse book learning, then we must foist it upon their shoulders so that they may carry it like honorable oxen.
And it’s an hour and a half, not an hour.
Pohamba and I are on duty. We sit bunkered down in the staff room while mayhem reigns in the unsupervised classrooms. From
the Standard Fives, the sound of broken glass. In the courtyard, a couple of Standard Sevens are fencing with our teacher
brooms. We hear nothing, see nothing. We’re eating yesterday’s cold fish and chips and playing War. Fast rounds, plapping
down the cards as quick as we can. It’s the Cincinnati Kid versus the Man. Three out of five for who gets to leave early.
In between chips, Pohamba chews on a chicory root, which is supposed to improve his virility. It isn’t making him very good
at War.
“That was my take,” I say.
“I had a jacko,” Pohamba says.
“Three’s wild.”
“Seven.”
“It was seven last time.”
“Where’s the vinegar? How can the Man eat fish and chips without vinegar? It was seven.”
“Three.”
“Take it. It’s your conscience.”
Next round he loses again. I get up to leave.
“Wait,” he says. “Did she speak to you?”
“No.”
“Look at you?”
“No.”
“Play for Thursday.”
“Your credit’s no good.”
He snaps off a little chicory. “What if I give you some of this here root, Kid?” Whence from beneath the outside ledge of
the staff-room window, a TransNamib hat rises. And a godhead thunders:
Hear this, idle suitors! While you sit there playing games! Know this: During the great Herero rebellion, during a break in
that slaughter, two German officers once played cards—cards!—on the naked buttocks of a captured Herero princess. Imagine
it. Think of a card slapping on flesh and its reverberations. Titillated? Go ahead, be titillated!
Forgive us. We got titillated. Because he invited us, cajoled us, and the hour and a half wasn’t getting any shorter. And
so—mid-War, the cards in our sweaty hands—we indulged. We thought of her young body arching off a table, and cards —
Then the hat in the window rumbled again.
Thrilled? All right, then. You had it your way. Now see it another. Think of how still that girl must have held. How long
the game lasted. What the smoke was like in the tent. Was ash flicked on skin? Was it better than what else she knew could
happen? Or did that happen too? Of course it did. Her relatives who live among us are all the evidence we need. Yes, it certainly
got worse some nights. And you may in the filth of your imaginations take it that far. But I ask that you consider only the
rudimentary evil of the game itself. Now add a voice
—Gruss Gott!—
And laughter and the reek of the cigars . . .
There were afternoons when any sort of idle entertainment spurred his umbrage. Such diversions, Obadiah said, contributed
to the disintegration of civilization. Thus, he ambushed us with history, rose up from the window, and bombasted.
“Revolted?” he said.
We nodded.
“It won’t do. Revulsion only makes a man turn away. I demand you look at her again, see her again —”
“Demand?” Pohamba said. “We’re only trying to get through the day here.”
Obadiah raised the brim of his hat and peered at Pohamba. Of all things, this he understood, but when he was sober, he pretended
he didn’t. Drunk, he carried his own aches. Sober, he lugged the burdens of the world. Today on his
up at the ceiling in the middle of a sentence. She does not baby her sub b’s as Vilho did. She reads fast and doesn’t pause
to explain what the words mean. And when she teaches the alphabet, we note with interest that she does not sing it. But the
small boys seem to love her more for not talking down to them, for treating them like her little soldiers of the dangling
feet.
23
STUDY HOUR
A nother of the principal’s tortures, a bit of daily imprisonment in the name of holy education.
If they refuse book learning, then we must foist it upon their shoulders so that they may carry it like honorable oxen.
And it’s an hour and a half, not an hour.
Pohamba and I are on duty. We sit bunkered down in the staff room while mayhem reigns in the unsupervised classrooms. From
the Standard Fives, the sound of broken glass. In the courtyard, a couple of Standard Sevens are fencing with our teacher
brooms. We hear nothing, see nothing. We’re eating yesterday’s cold fish and chips and playing War. Fast rounds, plapping
down the cards as quick as we can. It’s the Cincinnati Kid versus the Man. Three out of five for who gets to leave early.
In between chips, Pohamba chews on a chicory root, which is supposed to improve his virility. It isn’t making him very good
at War.
“That was my take,” I say.
“I had a jacko,” Pohamba says.
“Three’s wild.”
“Seven.”
“It was seven last time.”
“Where’s the vinegar? How can the Man eat fish and chips without vinegar? It was seven.”
“Three.”
“Take it. It’s your conscience.”
Next round he loses again. I get up to leave.
“Wait,” he says. “Did she speak to you?”
“No.”
“Look at you?”
“No.”
“Play for Thursday.”
“Your credit’s no good.”
He snaps off a little chicory. “What if I give you some of this here root, Kid?” Whence from beneath the outside ledge of
the staff-room window, a TransNamib hat rises. And a godhead thunders:
Hear this, idle suitors! While you sit there playing games! Know this: During the great Herero rebellion, during a break in
that slaughter, two German officers once played cards—cards!—on the naked buttocks of a captured Herero princess. Imagine
it. Think of a card slapping on flesh and its reverberations. Titillated? Go ahead, be titillated!
Forgive us. We got titillated. Because he invited us, cajoled us, and the hour and a half wasn’t getting any shorter. And
so—mid-War, the cards in our sweaty hands—we indulged. We thought of her young body arching off a table, and cards —
Then the hat in the window rumbled again.
Thrilled? All right, then. You had it your way. Now see it another. Think of how still that girl must have held. How long
the game lasted. What the smoke was like in the tent. Was ash flicked on skin? Was it better than what else she knew could
happen? Or did that happen too? Of course it did. Her relatives who live among us are all the evidence we need. Yes, it certainly
got worse some nights. And you may in the filth of your imaginations take it that far. But I ask that you consider only the
rudimentary evil of the game itself. Now add a voice
—Gruss Gott!—
And laughter and the reek of the cigars . . .
There were afternoons when any sort of idle entertainment spurred his umbrage. Such diversions, Obadiah said, contributed
to the disintegration of civilization. Thus, he ambushed us with history, rose up from the window, and bombasted.
“Revolted?” he said.
We nodded.
“It won’t do. Revulsion only makes a man turn away. I demand you look at her again, see her again —”
“Demand?” Pohamba said. “We’re only trying to get through the day here.”
Obadiah raised the brim of his hat and peered at Pohamba. Of all things, this he understood, but when he was sober, he pretended
he didn’t. Drunk, he carried his own aches. Sober, he lugged the burdens of the world. Today on his
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