My garage is in a terrible state. It is full of empty cardbox boxes, old newspapers, magazines, books, a couple of photo albums, sporting equipment (!), stuff that won’t fit into the cupboards upstairs, and various other odds and ends that I should be throwing away. About 7 months ago I moved it all to one half of the garage and swept the other half with a broom. It has never been swept since I moved in. The corners were still full of the builders’ cement dust. Of all human activities, nothing puts my back out like sweeping with a broom.  So, the project is waiting for my courage to return and for a convenient space of about a week when I won’t need my back. My car is sleeping outside.

The other night (Tuesday I think) there was a knock at the door. It was a beautiful young, white boy. He couldn’t have been younger than 16 or older than 22. He said his name was Ricardo, and he told a sad story: his mother was having financial difficulties and he is selling black garbage bags to try to help out. He looked very desperate. The bags were expensive — R50 — but I would have tried to haggle a bit but still have paid that price. However, I quickly realized that I had no cash. His desperation was terrible. He tried to persuade me to go to an ATM machine, but I refused, and he moved on to my neighbours.

I feel slightly guilty about not helping him: it could not have been pleasant to beg a stranger for help. On the other hand, it was probably a sensible decision on my part: he could have been scoping out houses to burgle, or perhaps he wanted the money for drugs. Although I do believe his story; it seems too much trouble to tell a story like that just to get drug money, or to find an empty house. In retrospect, I should have offered him money to come back and help me with my garage. An honest chore, and a chance to earn more money than he could have earned with his bags. But I only thought of that long after he had gone.

This morning I woke up at nine to find that the power was off. I guess I could have tackled the garage myself, but instead I started a book that has been lying on the pile by my bed for months. “Alan’s War” by Emmanuel Guibert. It’s a graphic novel published at the end of 2008. It is beautiful and also very sad. It is the story of a young guy who is drafted to fight in WWII, his experiences during the war, and his life afterwards. As I say, it is beautiful. I cried. Partly because I’m a soft target when it comes to nostalgia. It is based on a real man, an American who lived in France and who told his life story to the author. It is sad, partly because, to me at least, his life seems somewhat wasted. His adventures in the war are exciting, but it is only so much later that he “becomes” himself.

Have I “become” myself? Am I who I want to be, or think I should be? Will someone be able to draw/write even a short novel about my life? Should I change? There is something to be said for living life “right” and, at every stage, making what seems like the good and right choice. But from time to time it is necessary to take a step back, to try to reassemble the smaller pieces and to check that they form a larger picture. I believe. Perhaps such a moment is coming for me. Soon. I have had the courage to make a change in the past; I hope I have again.

I cannot pretend that this one book will change my life, but I hope that it will contribute. I’m still an innocent, in the sense that I believe that every life should be able to be changed by one book.

So, who has the power in this scenario? Alan? His story is inspirational in many ways. He did have the courage to change his own life, and he made brave changes. Ultimately, his life seems empty to me, and yet it has touched mine. Or perhaps the author? If he hadn’t written this novel, Alan’s life would be a secret. In a very real way the power of the book is his power. It is he who manipulates the reader. It is his story and much as it is Alan’s.

I’m sorry about Ricardo. Perhaps I had the power to change his life. A little. Perhaps he had the power to give me some small piece of it, some insight. (“Every man I meet is my superior in some way, and in that, I learn of him.” RWE) We all have our secret lives. I hope I have the power to change my life.