Nieuwenhuizen said it was maturing. Mr Malgas spent all his spare time practising to see the new house, racking his brains to recall Nieuwenhuizen’s guidelines and finding them all reduced to the unhelpful ambiguity of dreams. One night, after Nieuwenhuizen had sent him home and retired, Mr Malgas had such a powerful need to pursue his observations that he took a torch and crept back onto the plot in his gown and slippers. Shielding the beam with a cupped palm, he examined the clearing in the ashes, and there he thought he saw the head of the secret nail glimmering. In the presence of this mystery, the key to the new house and its creator – he could reach out and touch it if he chose – his courage failed him and he almost fled. Steady, Malgas. He wiped the beam of the torch slowly across the plan, and here and there, here and there the nails glinted, as if the land had been sown with petty cash. He became bolder. He drew the beam from nail to nail, emulating Nieuwenhuizen’s self-assured gestures, hoping to trace the outlines of just one room, a passage way, an alcove that would presage a dwelling.
