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It was that time of evening when the sun, although still in the sky, had given clear notice of its intentions. Shadows, lengthening, merged with one another; birds exchanged their late afternoon messages, reporting food here, shelter there, or drag noisy attention to the presence of some predator, a snake perhaps, lurking in a treetop. The soft light seemed to paint everything with warm gold, and for a moment he imagined the scene that was likely to play out in a few months time; of him coming up the drive and seeing Mma Makutsi waiting for him on the verandah, a fine stew bubbling away in the kitchen and then, maybe a bit laterbut not too late, he hoped running out to meet him and him holding them up to the sky, as love to be lifted, to their squeals of delight. As he approached the house, he felt a sudden rush of excitement. It really was happening; this really was his housetheir house; the low brick walls were his, the expanses of cement, laid where the floor would be, were made up of his cement, bought with his money. He could not help smiling, and he even said, Well, well, well, although there was nobody to hear him. Or so he thought. It was as he was stepping over one of the low walls in order to stand in what would in future be a bathroom that he heard the voice. Yes, Rra. Can I help you Phuti Radiphuti spun round. A short man in a set of blue overalls, a battered grey hat atop his head, had appeared as if from nowhere. I am Radiphuti, Phuti said. This is my house. The man wiped his hands on a piece of grimy towelling. I have heard of you, he said, switching to English; they had started in Setswana, but the man spoke hesitantly and with an accent. Mr. Putumelo has told us about you. He folded the piece of towel and put it into his blue overalls. Have you come to look at the house It seemed to Phuti to be a rather superfluous question. Of course he had come to look at the house. Why else would he be climbing over these little walls and standing in the middle of the future bathroom But he checked himself and simply nodded. We are making good progress, said the man. I am one of the carpenters, but I also do bricklaying and other things. My name is Thomas. Phuti reached out to shake the mans hand, which was rough to the touch, like sandpaper. That was the effect of lime; he had heard about how it pitted the skin. Lime and bricks. You are not from here, said Phuti. The man pointed. Up there. The other side Yes. There was hardship on the other side of the border; people crossed over to earn a living, to survive. It was not easy for them; those who stayed, or were sent back, had little to look forward to. The man rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot. I have been here for three years now. I have managed to be in work all that time. I have worked every day. Phuti frowned. Every day for three years Even Sundays The man nodded. Especially Sundays. I have not had one day off. Three years.

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Phuti was silent. It was not all that surprising, he supposed. Every thebe this man earned would be doing some important work up there; perhaps even paying for the drugs that kept some relative alive through the illness that stalked Africa, that could be kept at bay but only if you had the money, or somebody had the money, to pay. This will be a very good house, said the man. Lots of room. It is good to see a house with as much room as this. Phuti acknowledged the compliment. I designed it myself. There was a draughtsman who drew the plans, but I designed it. You have designed it very well, said Thomas. Everything will be in the right place. Perfect. They walked into what would be the living room. The walls there were slightly highertwo or three feet by nowand the bricklayer showed Phuti how they were constructed. I have asked for very goodquality bricks, said Phuti, examining the outer layer. These are the ones. They come from South Africa, I think. Mr. Putumelo ordered them specially. They are very expensive, said Thomas. Good bricks always are. And Im very pleased, said Phuti, that they are being laid by a good tradesman like you, Rra. Im very pleased. Thomas looked at him. There was something in his expression that disturbed Phuti, but he was unsure as to what it was. Distrust But why should this man distrust him, or even feel uneasy Was he working illegally That was perfectly possible, but then if it were the case that he did not have a work permit it would have been unlikely that he would have spoken so openly. Those who worked illegally kept to the shadows, claimed to be from the north of the country, protested that they had a Motswana parent; did anything but talk too openly about their necessarily clandestine lives. Thomas held Phutis gaze for a few moments, and then looked away. Is there something wrong asked Phuti. Thomas again fixed him with an intense stare. It was difficult for Phuti to look directly into his bloodshot eyesdisconcerted, he wanted to pass him something with which to wipe them. I cannot always say what Im thinking, muttered Thomas. Phuti thought about this. No, it is not always easy. He paused. A goaway birda grey louriehad perched on one of the acacia trees and uttered its accusing cry; the world, for some birds, was always unfair. As it was for some people too. But I think you can talk to me, Rra. You can talk to me if you are troubled in some way. I may not be able to help you, but it might help you just to say what you need to say.

Thomas shook his head. There are some things I cannot speak of. I have a family, you see, Rra, and I am sending money Phuti nodded. I know what you people do. It is a good thing. There was a world of difference between this mans circumstances and his own. Phuti was a citizen, and a secure one at that, of a wellordered country; this man, he imagined, had known real fear and could not return to a place that was his, his own, the place to which he was entitled. Nobody spoke for him; nobody. So I cannot say anything that would put my job at risk. Do you see that Phuti stiffened. There was only one way in which this could be interpreted: this man, this bricklayer from over the border, knew something about Mr. Putumelo that Mr. Putumelo did not want anybody to know. And that could be anything, ranging from not declaring income for tax purposes, to using stolen materials, or building unsafe structures He looked about the site. Was everything being built correctly, or was Mr. Putumelo cutting corners in exactly the way he condemned in others He decided to ask directly. Please tell me, Rra; please tell me man to man, as one brother to another; tell meis this house being built properly Thomas seemed to be taken aback by the question. But of course it is, Rra. Mr. Putumelo is a very good builder, and I can promise you that I am taking great care with the work I am doing. I would never build anything that was not solid. Phuti breathed a sigh of relief. So the disclosure, whatever it was, had nothing to do with his house. If Thomas did not want to make it, then he would not press him; he would not be at all surprised to learn that Mr. Putumelo was up to something, but what that might be was not really his business. Phuti himself was honestscrupulously sobut one honest man could not make the rest of the world honest, no matter how hard he tried: Where would he start Phuti bent down to examine one of the walls. They were in a part of the building where Thomas must have been working that day; the mortar around the bricks was wet to the touch, cool against the skin, soft too. Our house, thought Phuti. Our house. And then he thought of something that Mr. Putumelo had said. Your house has got my name on it. That was strange, but there were many aspects of the building trade that Phuti found odd, just as he had no doubt others found aspects of the furniture business hard to fathom. He completed his examination of the incipient wall. This is very well made, he said. This is very good work. It was: the wall hugged the plumb line, set by a practised and conscientious eye.