Olga had come back from the Maputo mortuary at five in the afternoon. She had left her brother-in-law in a coffin of pale wood and signed two sheets for the delivery of the body to Inhambane. The amba tray she had rinsed under the tap, because at the mortuary they had given it to her to rinse her hands, and she had carried it home out of habit.

At home were her husband's things.

Her husband was still in South Africa, at Mossel Bay, at the Vleesbaai farm where he had been the gardener for fourteen years. Her husband was still alive. Her husband did not know that his brother — her brother-in-law — had been burned alive inside the tin shack, one Saturday night, when the foreigners had made their rounds. Her husband did not know that she had already come back to Maputo with the body. Her husband knew nothing.

It was five in the afternoon.

Olga had taken her husband's glasses from the room, because he had forgotten them at home the last time he had come, at Easter. She had set them on the kitchen table, with the temple piece toward her. Then she had taken the old wallet, the one he no longer carried but kept at the back of the drawer, and set it beside the glasses, at the right distance. Then the work boots, the ones he had used on the building site before moving to the garden, and set them under the table, in line. Then the photograph of their son with his sixth-grade diploma.

Four things. She had looked at them.

Olga, ever since she had married, lined things up. Her father was a fisherman at Inhambane and said that when the sea is heavy you line up the nets, you line up the buoys, you line up the fish by size. Olga had learned at home. She had gone on doing it in her own home. When her husband came back for Easter, she lined up his clothes on the chair, because he had two weeks and should not have to think about it.

Now he was not at home. He was at Mossel Bay. He was in a shack on the farm, with three other Mozambicans, and on Friday night the foreigners had come with the bottles. They had not reached Vleesbaai. They had reached Mossel Bay north, the shack of her brother-in-law. Her brother-in-law had called her at ten at night. He had said: Olga, burn everything. He had said: Olga, tell my brother the fire reached the well. Then he had coughed twice, and after that no more.

Olga had called her husband at a quarter past ten. Her husband had said: I'm coming. She had said: don't come. The boss won't pay you the fortnight if you come now. Stay. Finish the month. He had said: yes. She had set off at eleven for Mossel Bay, on the half-past-twelve coach, and had arrived at six the next morning. She had taken her brother-in-law's body. She had brought it back to Maputo. Now she was home, and her husband's things were on the table.

The phone rang.

Olga dried her hands on the dishcloth. She looked at her husband's things. The glasses, the wallet, the boots under the table, the photograph of their son. She thought: if I tell him to come back today, he loses the month's money and loses his place. She thought: if I tell him nothing, he finishes the month and comes back in July. She thought: if I tell him to come back today, he knows his brother died burned. If I tell him to finish the month, he knows it all the same, because at Mossel Bay even the ground knows the news.

The phone rang again.

Hello.

Olga.

It's me.

I know.

…

Olga.

Tell me.

I was about to call you.

Olga closed her eyes. On the table, her husband's things were at the right distance, in a row, like her father's buoys.

She said: come back.

Her husband stayed silent. Behind his voice Olga heard the noise of a coach engine starting up. Her husband said: yes. Tonight I'll take the nine o'clock one. Olga said: yes. Then she said: the boss? Her husband said: he won't pay me, I know. Olga said: all right. Her husband said: Olga, where have you put him? Olga said: at Inhambane. Tomorrow. Her husband said: all right.

They stopped speaking.

Olga set down the receiver. She looked at the table. Her husband's things were at the right distance. She thought that in twelve hours he would be there, in front of those things, and that he would put them back in their place in the drawers. And that she, then, could stop lining up other people's things.

She poured the water into the amba tray. She put her hands inside. The water was lukewarm.

Outside, above the market of Mafalala, it began to grow dark. She sat down. She waited.