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By Root 831 0

food provided and with their enemies if not out of sight then at least cages away, they spend their days dozing in the shade, sometimes whisking away a fly or two that they imagine should be hovering somewhere about them, happy to ignore the children when they command them to come out of their huts to perform. Sometimes, it is possible to wander our zoo and barely see a single animal, and believe the zoo to be entirely deserted, but they are still there, the pot-bellied inhabitants are merely sleeping again, out of sight, dreaming perhaps of distant lands. So, to keep up the numbers of visitors, the zookeepers—every hour or so—encourage the beasts out of their stupor by lobbing food over the bars, or by putting children on top of Mongolian wild asses or Arabian dromedaries, or by bathing the elephants with brooms and hoses while the public look on in amazement at those great animals sitting on their huge backsides, resembling vast, naked old men with nose defects. It was here that Alva came and, walking from cage to cage, longed to break the locks, to set the animals free and to follow them all the way to their distant homes.

IRVA, SO GRANDFATHER and Mother had decided, was not quite ready for work, she should be left a while longer to recover, but I was given a post office uniform, and I wore it proudly. And this metamorphosis in blue fitted me like a perfectly tailored membrane, a second skin, as intricately mine as my own fingerprints. It was to be not only my profession but my personality. The post office uniform was a thing stronger than me, and it made me stronger, because the post office uniform was a thing of great certainty, it represented conviction and confidence. And as I wore it about the city, I became a part of the city. I was no longer timid as I went about my business, which was also—the wonderful truth of it—the city’s business, now I was always at full Alva height. I was growing and blossoming. I was happy.

Two weeks before September broke I was already dressed everyday in my post office uniform, proud of it, delighted by it, frequently seeking its reflection, terrified of dirtying it. Grandfather came to visit me, to inspect me, which was only right since I was part of his proud army now. But he did not come only to inspect me but also to bring me something. This object, my unceasing joy at it, had the insignia of the post horn thrice displayed upon it, and also upon its body were the words HI SPEED and PRO-FRAME. A bicycle!

‘Let’s see you on it,’ said Grandfather, ‘let’s see you up and down Veber Street, let’s see if you’re really post office material.’ The horror of it. The ignominy. The truth: I could not ride a bike. We are not born with the skill of bike-riding, none of us are, even those of us who will one day grow up to win that race of masochists, the Tour de France. Learning to ride a bike, once you have changed out of your post office uniform into something less sacred and once the saddle and the handle bars of the bicycle have been raised to their highest setting, contains the following ingredients: uncertainty, fear, perseverance, trust (in the teacher), betrayal (when the teacher first lets go of the bicycle), belief in the possibility of it, an intuitive understanding of the laws of gravity, desperation, exhilaration and plasters. Of course Grandfather knew I could not ride a bike. He had come to teach me. ‘And don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘I come calling on every one of my employees, don’t suppose I taught all my workers how to ride. You are a very privileged young lady.’ Indeed I was, I did not forget it. And I am very grateful to my grandfather for all the many things he taught me. But, to start with, I begged him, nearly tearful, not to let go of the bike as he trotted alongside me. Never to let go. And then he did. And after the third or fourth attempt, I understood that Grandfather was entirely right, it was all about letting go, letting go of fears and prejudices and shyness and allowing yourself the simple pleasure of breaking free, the joy of speed, the delight as the buildings lined