Inspiring Women Fall 2017

sister finds the idea of Curtis at a craft table
making earrings extremely funny. Renée
sends me occasional updates and tells me
how much she enjoys Curtis’s company, how
she loves listening to the boys tell stories and
play the piano. Chris also plays alto and
baritone saxophone, so there’s a lot of music
in the house.
Somerset College has organized a handful
of exchange-student events, including a
weeklong “survival” camping trip for the
thirty international students who are currently
visiting the school. Renée sends photos of
Curtis and Chris—two happy boys at an
e l e p h a n t
r e s e r v e ,
cautious boys
p e t t i n g a
c h e e t a h ,
somber boys on
the boat to the
i n f a m o u s
Robben Island,
and joyful boys
on the top edge
o f T a b l e
M o u n t a i n ,
looking as if they
might leap into
the abyss.
Curtis writes to us about seeing genuine
poverty for the first time. He writes about
long hikes, and the Stellenbosch wildflowers,
and the way ostriches hang out roadside
and baboons run wild. He writes about the
view from the Cape of Good Hope, where
the Atlantic and Indian oceans meet.
***
Later in the fall Chris arrives at Frankfurt
International Airport to spend eight weeks
with us. It’s six in the morning, the plane is
early, and we arrive on the other side of the
Customs/Immigration area just as South
African passengers begin to trickle through
the sliding glass doors. I hate these doors.
They never stay open long enough to
determine who’s on the other side.
“Do you see him?” I ask Curtis.
“Nope,” he says. “Yes. Wait. No.
Maybe.”
The sliding doors close. It’s freezing cold in
the international-arrivals area. I’m holding
hot chocolate and a large cinnamon pastry
for Chris.
The doors slide open.
“There he is!” says Curtis.
“Where?” I say.
I stand on my toes and the hot chocolate
sloshes over my hand.
“There! I think I see his jacket.”
The doors close. Open. Close. Open. Close.
Fifteen minutes later Chris emerges. He’s a
great-looking kid with dark hair, a crooked
smile, and greenish-blue eyes. He and Curtis
hug while I stand
to the side and
watch.
I dump the cold
hot chocolate.
We hurry to the
car and head
for home, with
Curtis proudly
pointing out the
Autobahn sights
along the way—
no baboons or
ostriches, but lots
o f w e l l -
maintained cars
driving way too fast, indifferent sheep,
grazing cows, and the occasional castle
looming on a distant hill.
***
Chris goes to school every day with Curtis
and works on his German. His first language
is Afrikaans, but most of his education has
been in English. He also speaks a little Zulu,
which doesn’t get him very far in Germany.
The boys travel to Berlin and stay in a youth
hostel. I take them to Paris for a long
weekend. They also accompany John to
concerts and rehearsals.
Chris likes to hang out in a corner of our living
room. He piles his books and laptop on an
old end table, and sometimes his saxophone
ends up there, too. He likes to play my piano,
and he often practices while I’m cooking.
Without being asked, Chris takes out the
garbage, rakes the leaves, and sets the
table while telling stories about his country.
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