May We Be Forgiven

talking, Ricardo leans over and tells me that when he’s thirteen he wants to come back to this place for his bar mitzvah, and that he also needs to get his penis “fixed.”
    “I think it’s better to just be the way you are,” I say, trying to stay focused on Nate.
    “How come you and Nate get to have a better penis than me?”
    “Ricardo, I hear what you’re saying, and I promise you it’s something we can talk about when we get home, but it’s not something we’re going to deal with in South Africa. And there is no such thing as a better penis. … Have you noticed that the boys in South Africa have the same kind of penis as you?” I say, directing his attention back to Nate.
    “Yeah,” he says, “poor boys have bad penis,” he mutters. “I want to have a rich man’s cock.” He looks down at his lap.
    I am devastated by his reading of the situation and his use of the word “cock.”
    Nate concludes by reading a poem he wrote at school, and everyone applauds.

    S akhile takes the stage. “Nate and the family of Nate—you come to us to celebrate this rite of passage to go from boy to man—but also from friends and relatives to being a family. Your belief in our village reminded us to believe in ourselves and demanded that we do more for ourselves—that we work harder. That hard work made us stronger—we had gotten soft and we were sad and sorry for ourselves, we had seen many hard things. You came like fresh air that says, Think outside of yourself, think forward, and I am so happy now, and we are not alone—we have a big world. And our friendship showed me that black and white can come together, can be true friends. We lived a long time carrying a great weight, and it will take a long time to feel our lightness. Someone once told me there are people you do not know—strangers—who care very much about you. I did not understand what that could mean until now. I wanted to thank you.” He pauses. “Your father’s friend Sofia and I talked a long time about traditions. And for this bar-mitzvah day we decided to do something very American—a celebration of independence. So for lunch we will have a giant barbecue of hamburgers and hot dogs.”
    “An all-you-can-eat buffet,” Ricardo says, “and it’s free. …”
    I see the village women scurrying around to indulge our very American fantasy and worry that it’s wrong, and at the same time it’s clear how much they are loving it, how much the images of American culture have become part of their dream. Sofia has thought of everything: ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, dill pickles, helium balloons.
    During lunch Nate asks me, “Does my father know we’re here?”
    “I don’t think so,” I say. “Do you want him to know?”
    Nate shrugs and takes another hot dog.
    As lunch is winding down, the village children vanish—I assume gone off to play, but they return wearing the blue-and-white soccer jerseys and carrying in the cake. They sing “Happy Birthday” and joyously add the verse “You look like a monkey and you live in a zoo,” and they think it is so funny.
    Nate cuts the cake. He leans over and says, “I always thought you were an asshole, just another one of them, someone who couldn’t do anything, who couldn’t be trusted. Now you’re like a real person—it’s cool.”
    Everyone is wearing a Nate shirt, everyone is playing soccer, even the old women. While the game is on, Sakhile says to me, “There is someone I want you to meet this afternoon, someone special to me, Londisizwe, the inyanga —medicine man—he is like my brother.”
    “What does he do?”
    “A little of everything. He gives me powder for my feet to stop the itching. I am allergic to dirt—can you imagine the joke of that, living here and allergic to dirt?” Sakhile laughs and raises his pants to show me that he is wearing shoes and socks—tall white crew socks.
    Londisizwe arrives during the soccer game; he looks older than Sakhile. He introduces himself. “I want to thank you for the supplies. Many of the things you brought are for my medicine bag. We are just enough in the twenty-first century that people believe everything can be fixed—I am no longer a medicine man, I am like a repairman, Mr. Maytag.”
    I laugh.
    “It’s not really so funny when you think about it,” he says.
    I nod. We watch the soccer game.
    “You have a beautiful family.”
    “Thank you,” I say.
    Ashley runs over—she needs my help in putting her hair up. I