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taken care of her mother to the end. She hadn’t wanted to die in the hospital—they beat women with AIDS in the hospital, she said, they accused them of sleeping around, of asking for it. Her mother had died like a plague victim, in her arms, seventy-five pounds of little more than tears. After that, Miriam could have treated the whole world. The whole world was sick. Especially Africa.
    Children were playing a game of
morabaraba
with little stones in the packed lobby of the dispensary. Neuman spotted the young nurse surrounded by patients, her hair carefully braided and her white blouse clinging nicely to her breasts. Miriam waited while he walked toward her. A dream that faded as soon as he spoke.
    â€œI didn’t see you go,” he said by way of apology.
    â€œI got tired of waiting for you. I have work.” She pointed to the syringes rolling on the tray.
    She was sulking. Or pretending to.
    â€œI wanted to thank you for taking care of my mother,” he said.
    â€œIt’s my job.” Her coppery eyes sparkled like fireworks.
    â€œI didn’t even pay your fare,” he said, holding out a fifty-rand bill.
    Miriam pocketed the money without batting an eyelid. It was three times what the ride had cost, but that would teach him to be so unpleasant, handsome as he was.
    â€œYou know I would have done it for nothing,” she said all the same. “Your mother helped me a lot when I started at the dispensary.”
    â€œShe’d help stones to get on their feet.”
    â€œAre you comparing me to a stone?” she said, sweetly.
    â€œA precious stone—at least for her,” he hastened to add. “Thanks again.”
    She looked him up and down. Zulus sometimes went on and on when trying to be polite, but this strange specimen had an ulterior motive, and his beautiful eyes wouldn’t make the slightest difference.
    â€œI’m looking for a boy,” he said. “Simon Mceli. He was treated here some time ago. About ten years old. His mother was a
sangoma
in the township.”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said, a faraway look in her eyes. “But it must be written down somewhere.”
    Miriam seemed much more intrigued by the scar on his forehead, which she had only just noticed.
    â€œCan you show me?” he insisted.
    She nodded, breathing heavily—at least he had thanked her—and went into the adjoining office to consult the medical records. Miriam pulled out a metal drawer and looked through the patient files. The room was small, hot and damp, and she could feel his breath on her shoulder. She was slightly uncomfortable, the two of them in here together.
    â€œYes,” she said after a moment, pulling a file from the sliding drawer. “Simon Mceli. He was here in January 2006.”
    â€œWhat was wrong with him? Asthma?”
    â€œI can’t tell you that,” she replied, impishly. “I’m not even sure I should be doing this at all.”
    He thought she was acting strangely. “Can you at least tell me his last known address?”
    â€œ124 Biko Street, Block C.”
    It was a five-minute drive from there.
    â€œThanks,” he said.
    Miriam felt hot in her white blouse. No ventilation. She tried to find something witty to say to keep him, but it was as if the walls didn’t want them here anymore. In a flash, he was gone.
    Â 
    Block C was a poor area filled with corrugated iron houses, often with backyard shacks attached, where neighbors gathered to watch television. The place was like an accident waiting to happen. Since the last tourist bus carrying whites looking to salve their conscience in the post-apartheid period had fallen victim to a gang of robbers, whites had stopped coming here, apart from members of the NGOs that operated in the township. The tour operators had fallen back on minibuses, which were less ostentatious, for carefully targeted visits—schools, handicraft stalls,