There is something awkward about the figure walking along the road. The gait appears almost uncertain, the feet paying careful attention to where they step. Small rucksack hooked over the shoulders. Long black sleeves under the Free State sun. I slow down. A man, I see now. Eyes still cast towards the earth. In the shadow of his hat, a greyish beard.
I stop. “Hi, hello. Is everything okay? Can I offer you a lift?”
The man approaches in silence. When he stops beside the car, he looks back towards Smithfield, then in the direction of Rouxville. When he finally makes eye contact, I detect a hint of a smile. More in the eyes than around the mouth.
“Good afternoon. I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” The voice sounds friendly.
A pair of spectacles hangs on a string around his neck. In one hand he carries an unusual little cool bag. I clearly look at it for slightly too long.
“Padkos. Actually, tonight’s supper. Where are you heading?”
It feels like that should have been my line.
“Just to Rouxville. I’m writing a story about the town.”
His eyes squint towards Rouxville. What is he wondering? What does he see?
“My plan was to spend today and tomorrow walking the stretch between Smithfield and Rouxville,” he says. “I grew up in the area and I’m working on a book where much of the landscape and its people come to the surface. But your arrival seems to be an act of providence. Maybe I should join you in getting to know the town and find out what fresh insights you have?”
What do I have here? Why do wanderers always have the strangest tales? My hesitance must seem obvious, because he adds: “I can tell you many stories about Rouxville.”
Had he not spoken so beautifully, I’d have
