Grandpa Joe & Co Denis Hirson (bio) 1 Grandpa Joe had stamps on envelopes in his cupboard that I wanted,such as ones with little oranges like light bulbs dotting orange trees;he had a smile that I wanted, and words that I wanted, but I got nonesince I was my father's son. Come on, Grandpa Joe, come outof your armchair of silence in the sitting room, sunken in old airthickly silted as the bottom of a pond. Sometimes the dead appearto be less absent than the living, and you've been gone so long.Come away from the fern with its green fishing-rod branches,the cheeks of the chiffon curtain breezing in over your bald head.Don't let a single suave voice from Springbok Radio detain you,nor the sticky smell rising from sweets and wine in the sideboard.Pack in the game of patience you've been playing over and over,stack the magazines which you use for cover. Grandpa Joe, unbend.Down the passage the phone is ringing, and it's me at the far end. 2 Hlo, he would say. Two syllables punched into one, first soundI'd heard him say all day, but most often the call was not for him.He'd leave the Bakelite receiver dangling over the mauve flowersof the passage runner, then who knows where in his mind he'd go."Joe," Granny Lily would call him for lunchtime soup and stewand he'd troop into the kitchen with his mute army of solitude,then twenty minutes later troop out again, leaving behind himthe echo of clipped, galloping cutlery, a shadow where he had sat:a man who cannot inhabit his own life constantly drops the dark,saturated blot of absence along his path. Yet this in-grown manwas an electrician. Across the sorry rectangle of the backyard:the workshop he would enter, bowing among the dust moteslike a lone visitor in a rusty house of prayer, screwdriver, pliersor soldering iron in hand, getting other people's lights to shine. [End Page 14] 3 End of December, 1921. Joe could hardly have seen his first son,my newborn father; seems he baled out before his marriage crashed.Gold price rock bottom, no raise for a lowly electrician like him,Lily's family breathing down his neck, where in the world could he go?The streets of Johannesburg were heating up with summer and guns,by March there was war all along the Rand. Commandos, bandoliers,tin-can hand-grenades, trenches: white miners did not want blacksemployed in their place, undercutting their wages. Out of the blue,their bosses claimed the colour-bar was wrong. Near Fordsburgcrowds sat on timber, absorbed in the shooting. Over Ellis Parkstrafing planes flew so low you could make out the pilots' faces.Where was Joe? Did he see the bombs and the blood in the streets,think of the pogroms he'd dodged in Latvia? Five years laterhe was back, wedging himself into the heartbreak of his home. 4 The Colosseum was one of those cinemas in the middle of townwith names that beat their chests, and uniformed usherettesleading you with a little diamond light down lush invisible carpetsto a seat in the middle of the night. There was His Majesty's,The Monte Carlo, The Empire, The Twentieth Century, nothing less.The Colosseum had a crushed ruby festoon curtain that could liftover a whole live spectacle for an audience of two thousand and more;stalls, dress, and upper circles, the works. But what made it the bestwere the miles of stars winking down from what wasn't a ceiling,turrets of little castles glowing from what weren't walls but the sidesof another country. 1933: Grandpa Joe was among those who'd lightedthe whole place up, down to the last spliced wire. Elsewhere:I suppose he was always best off elsewhere, dreaming of a starlethe could go waltzing with, through that endlessly deep velvet heaven. 5 Yeoville, early 1960s. Mr. Squire outside Squire's, moustachestretching over his smile, limp...
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