In her short story, the story happened a few years before the collapse of apartheid. Van de Weaver of the Swamp said that a white South African, one of his black farm workers, killed him. The death attracted a lot of publicity, and the swamp soon found that many people had their own explanations for the incident. But there is one fact that they may never guess-he can't tell them.
"At that moment, I walked to the gun."
Gordimer
Marley van de Vivo said he shot and killed one of his farm workers.
An accident. There are guns every day of the week: the child is playing a deadly game with his father. Guns are revolvers in domestic target cities, and hunting accidents are like this in China. But these will not be reported on a global scale. Vandewich said he knew he would. He knows the story of white farmers in South Africa-the leader and commander of the local security commando regional party-and he, filming a black man who works for him, will be completely suitable for their South African version. It depends on them. They will be able to use it in boycotts and divestment activities. This will be another evidence of their national truth. Domestic newspapers will quote this story, because foreign countries have already appeared. After going back and forth, he and the man in black will become the figures who brutally attack the anti-apartheid banner in statistics, and the black people quoted by the unit in the United Nations-he is the "leading member" they will happily call the ruling party.
In the farming society, people understand his feelings. Bad enough to kill a person without helping the enemy of the party, government and country, indeed.
The truth they saw. They know that when reading the Sunday newspaper, van der Waals said that he was "very shocked" and that he would "take care of the children with his wife". Without those Americans and Britons, no one in China who wants to weaken the power of white people will believe him. And what will happen to them, he even said that the farm boy (according to a paper, if you can believe any of these reporters) sneered, "He is my friend. I have always regarded him as a hunter with people in the city and overseas. I don't know if this is true: farmers usually have a black boy who likes to take away the land. You can call it a kind of friend. Yes, friends are not only white people but also people who like themselves. You think about your house, pray in church, and work with the party Committee. But how do these people know? They don't want to know. They think all black people are like big mouth agitators in the town. The face of Van der Weaver in the photo was strangely opened-the neighbors remember that when I was a child, anyone who found you smiling at him would hide himself. Now everyone knows that he is a person who hides a thick and soft beard behind his mouth to express any change. In his eyes, he is always looking for something when he is talking to you or listening to you. It just shows what kind of impact can be achieved. When you see the photos in the newspaper, you feel sorry; Because if you have started in some rooms, you shouldn't.
There will be an investigation. Here, it is necessary-to stop the hypothesis of another case of farm workers' atrocities, although there is no doubt-the accident, and all the facts are fully admitted by Van de Weaver. When he spoke, he was at the police station when his dead buck arrived.
Captain Beach knew he was fine, and of course, he gave him brandy. William Vanderville, a tall, calm and clever man who inherited the best farm son of the old man, said. Black is the stone is dead. What to do for him. After Beech refused to tell anyone about brandy, Van der Waals said he was crying. He sobbed and his nose ran to his hands, like a dirty child. The captain was ashamed of him and went out to give him a chance to recover.
Marley van de Vyver said that he left his house and slaughtered it at three o'clock in the afternoon to protect his family from writhing in the jungle area of his farm. He loves wild animals and thinks it is the sacred duty of farmers to improve game like cattle. As usual, he asked his shed workshop to pick up Lucas, who showed his talent in machinery. For this reason, Van de Weaver said that he had taught a farm worker in his twenties to maintain tractors and other agricultural machinery. He shouted. Lucas and I jumped into the back of the truck according to the familiar procedure. He likes traveling and playing games, just like his employer used to. He leaned forward to support the cab below.
Van de Weaver showed the rifle and .300 bullet beside him in the cab. This rifle belongs to his father, because he is in the workshop himself.
No one has used a rifle since his father died (sergeant Beach wrote "pass"), so when he took the rifle out of a locker, he made sure it was not loaded. His father never allowed a loaded gun at home. He himself was taught from an early age to use a weapon that had never been mounted on a vehicle. However, this gun is loaded. On a dirt road, Lucas clapped his fist on the top of the cab three times to signal: look left. After seeing a turn and marking the flank with its excellent horn in the white ripple disguised as a shrub rake, Van der Weaver said that driving through the pothole was quite fast. Impact shooting rifle. Standing upright, it points to the top of the cab that leads directly to Lucas. ...
This is a statement of what happened. Although there is such a person standing in the district, Van der Weaver said that the oath is a ceremony of truth. It has been recorded and will appear in the files of local police stations, as long as Vandewell expresses his life, in addition, through the lives of his children Magnus, Helena and Karel-unless the situation in all parts of the country gets worse, the example of black thugs in towns has spread to rural areas, and many city police stations have been burned down. Because no government can do anything to appease those hybrids and whites who encourage them. Not satisfied with them, in the city: black people can sit and drink white people. Now, immoral behavior is gone, but black people sleep with white people ... it's not even a crime.
Van der Weaver said that there are high security fences with thorns around the farmhouses and gardens, and his wife, Arida, thinks that she will fully share the effect of artificial flow with the tree fern under the jacaranda. There is a Skywalker who likes to erect flagpoles in the backyard. All his vehicles, including the truck where the black man died, have whips that swing like when the driver hits a pothole antenna. They are part of the security system maintained by farmers in this area, and contact each farm and all other farms by radio 24 hours a day. This kind of thing happens from time to time, from crossing the border into remote farms with mines to killing white farmers and their families during a Sunday picnic on their land. The pothole may have caused a mine, said Van de Weaver. The boy with his farm may have died. When the neighbors called on the communication system and said that they were embarrassed by a boy named "Business" and Van de Weaver, they still had something to say: Things could have been worse.
It is obvious from the quality and coffin accessories that farmers helped the funeral. And a thick burial means a lot of darkness; See how they deprive themselves. One thing about them is that when they are alive, they follow the burial society closely, so they will not go to the unmarked grave of boxwood. The young wife (of course) is pregnant with another little guy, wearing all kinds of oversized red dancing shoes, and her stomach is tilted under her arm. He is too young to understand what happened. He is witnessing this day. But whether it's humming or not, it's not that he doesn't know why he's dating solemnly. Black people reveal everything about young children. They can't protect them from sight, fear and pain. White people do their way.
It is this young wife, pushing her head, crying like a child, sobbing this relative, breasts. For Van der Weaver, or all the work at present is the work of those families. During the weeding and harvesting season, women and children work for him, wrapped in blankets, singing on trucks, doing it at sunrise and resting at sunset. The mother of the deceased was a woman in her forties who couldn't be faster than her (they began to have children in adolescence), but she matured to a great extent to her own parents, who were already old Van der Weaver, working in a black dress swamp, like their daughter, when she was a child. Her parents held her as if she were a prisoner or a crazy woman. But she said nothing and did nothing. She didn't look. She didn't look. Van de Weaver said his gun truck had left. She stared at the grave. Nothing can make her look up. I don't have to worry that she will look up at him. His wife, Arida, was beside him. To show due respect, like any white funeral, she wore a dark blue and cream hat, and this summer she wore a church hat. She always supported it, but he didn't seem to notice it. This indifference and preparation-his mother said that he didn't get along well as a child-she accepted herself, but unfortunately, this has prevented him from being nominated because he should run for the party as a district Council candidate. He didn't let her clothes, or anyone else's intimate party, touch him. He also stared at the grave. The dead man's mother and he stared at the communication grave between blacks and whites, and then the gun in the cab rang.
In the past, the moment when the gun was fired was a highly exciting moment through the roof of the cab, because the bullet was a pass between the young black and white farmers outside the car. For a moment, there was no need for any explanation. Although they were often around the farm, the farmer would pass by the young man without saying hello, as if he didn't know him. When the bullet went, Van der Weaver said that he saw the twist and fell down in fear. The horse was walking in the report. At this moment, he heard a "bang" behind him, and the past window saw the car that the young man had fallen. He was sure that he jumped up and overturned-scared like a stag. The farmer almost laughed with the rescuer, ready to make fun of him, because he opened his door, and it seemed impossible to cause harm through bullets on the roof.
Because of fear, the young man did not laugh with him. The farmer took him in his arms and got on the truck. He's sure, sure he can't die. But the blood of the young black man finally got on the farmer's clothes, soaked his body and let him drive.
How do they know when they submit newspaper clippings? The evidence proves that when looking at photos, look at his face! Guilty! They are right! How can they know that when the police station and the evidence of what is happening now and what laws have committed crimes in the past, they will make up. How do they know? They don't know. -What? Through the negligence and ruthlessness of white people, whether the black youth are the children of farmers; He is his son.