Tused to think of him as an ordinary, good-natured, harmless, lunremarkable man. The sort of person university friends, bu ‘was a total stranger. Or does that sound melodramat ‘easy torrid oneself of the habits of half lifetime devoted to writ ing romantic fiction. “Tender loving tales of rape and murder.” But I'm serious. His death challenged everything I'd always thought orfelt about him. It was reported in a humdrum enough fashion — page four, third column of the evening paper. Johannesburg teacher killed in aci it-and-run driver. Mr st night, on his way to fe Susan, two daughters anda young son. Barely enough for a shrug or a shake of the head. But by that time his papers had already been dumped on me. Fol- Jowed by this morning’s letter, a week after the funeral. And here I’m stuck with the litter of another man’s life spread over my desk. The diaries, the notes, the disconnected scribblings, the old accounts paid and unpaid, the photographs, every- thing indiscriminately lumped together and posted to me. In ‘our student days he constantly provided me with material for my magazine stories in much the same way, picking up ten 9