The Nature of Blood (20 page)

And so you shadow her every move, attend to her every whim, like the black
Uncle Tom that you are. Fighting the white man's war for him/Wide-receiver
in the Venetian army/The republic's grinning Satchmo hoisting his sword like
a trumpet/You tuck your black skin away beneath their epauletted uniform,
appropriate their words
(Rude am I in speech),
their manners, worry
your nappy woollen head with anxiety about learning their ways, yet you conveniently
forget your own family, and thrust your wife and son to the back of your noble
mind. O strong man, O strong arm, O valiant soldier, O weak man. You are lost,
a sad black man, first in a long line of so-called achievers who are too weak
to yoke their past with their present; too naive to insist on both; too foolish
to realize that to supplant one with the other can only lead to catastrophe.
Go ahead, peer on her alabaster skin. Go ahead, revel in the delights of her
wanton bed, but to whom will you turn when she, too, is lost and a real storm
breaks about your handkerchiefed head? My friend, the Yoruba have a saying:
the river that does not know its own source will dry up. You will do well
to remember this.

We rise with the sun. I turn from Giacobbe to Moses, then back to Giacobbe.
My brothers, do not let them see you weeping like this. Today, we must leave
this cell and begin our final journey, but let us do so with dignity. There
will be no tears and no pleading. We will maintain our fast and continue to
refuse to drink water. We are going home. I look again at my companions, but
they continue to weep copiously. I redouble my efforts. The journey to the
north by water, and then back here to St Mark's on foot, is designed to humiliate
us. But they are not our masters. We must obey only God. Let them take away
our sons and baptize them. Let them pour scorn on our women. If we have done
right by God, they will capture only the outside of our people, but not their
souls. Do not weep. Please, do not weep.
(In Portobuffole, I was respected.
My family never cheated anybody. We lived modestly and we celebrated our holidays
in peace. We respected your traditions, we made charitable contributions towards
your institutions. Yet now you people pluck my beard, you stone my children,
you defraud me, you mock my clothes and my religion. I tell you, I have never
heard of this boy, Sebastian New. I have never seen such a boy. I know not
what you are talking about. My wife is suffering, my family is drowning in
tears. Why? Who is this Sebastian New? What are you talking about?)
My
brothers, let them burn our bodies. If this gives them pleasure, then let
them burn us. But our souls do not belong to them. Have you lost faith?
(To
whom will Sara and my children turn? You have destroyed our small community.)
Do not search for God in this moment of grief. You will move too quickly to
find his true depth. Trust him. Today, as we leave this cell and feel the
ground beneath our unsteady feet, we must walk with confidence towards our
fate. These Venetians may be uncoupling us from this life on earth, but we
are journeying towards a greater place.
(Who is this Sebastian New?)
To these men's ears, my words are stale. Giacobbe and Moses continue to weep.
The sunlight begins to pour into our cell, the light raking down the wall,
then pooling on the stone floor. I am thirsty, but I will not drink water.
We must refuse to drink water.

My friend, an African river bears no resemblance to a Venetian canal. Only the strongest spirit can hold both together. Only the most powerful heart can endure the pulse of two such disparate life-forces. After a protracted struggle, most men will eventually relinquish one in favour of the other. But you run like Jim Crow and leap into their creamy arms. Did you truly ever think of your wife's soft kiss? Or your son's eyes? Brother, you are weak A figment of a Venetian imagination. While you still have time, jump from her bed and fly away home. Peel your rusty body from hers and go home. No good can come from your foreign adventure. A wooden ladle lightly dipped will soon scoop you up and dump you down and into the gutter. Brother, jump from her bed and fly away home.

Eva slipped and fell into the snow. She scrambled quickly to her feet, but could feel the warm trickle of Hood where her left leg had hit against something hard –
probably a rock. She knew that later it would hurt, but later did not matter. She ran on. Behind her, the soldiers' voices grew louder and more animated, but it was the barking of the dogs that frightened her, for she felt sure that at any moment they would be allowed off the leash. It was foolish of her to imagine that in her condition she might outrun grown, healthy men. Dogs would find her easy sport. If only she might be scooped up by some large celestial hand and gently deposited across water and into some other world. The soldiers would gather in a breathless huddle and call off the search. They would knock their tightly packed cigarettes out of their boxes, light up and agree that she was more trouble than she was worth. That she would not last the night. That the wolves would get her. But Eva ran on, furiously weaving her way through the trees, diving beneath branches and stumbling over exposed roots, until she saw the small house in the clearing.

She threw her body against the wooden door, which immediately gave way under her timid weight. She pushed it shut behind her. Eva looked down at her leg and saw the blood. Only now did she feel the pain. It shook her so hard she whimpered. And then again she heard the dogs. For an instant, she had imagined that she might have thrown the soldiers off her trail, but now there was only one last hope. She hobbled across the dark deserted room, through another door, and into the storeroom at the back. Once there, she called to her Mama, who was too weak to answer with anything other than a whispered, 'Eva.' At least Mama was safe. Outside, Eva could hear the soldiers who seemed now to have surrounded the house. Why was she so stupid? Why lead them to this place? She could have kept running past the house, deeper into the forest, until the dogs caught her and tore her limb from limb. At least Mama might have survived. But this way? It was madness.

Eva began to climb up the narrow wooden ladder, pushing hard with her good right leg and dragging her lame one behind her. Dogs can smell blood. The storage platform, which would normally bear the weight of hay, was empty apart from the shivering bundle that was her Mama. Eva pushed herself off the top rung of the ladder and, using her elbows, she slithered across the floor and folded herself tightly around Mama, as though providing her with a protective blanket. She heard the outer door fly open with such gale-like force that Eva knew it must have been kicked clear of its moorings. Men and dogs roared furiously, and Mama trembled and muttered her one word, 'Eva.' Eva offered her Mama a thumb to suck on and waited, and wondered if, lying here in the vast expanse of this platform, the soldiers might mistake them for a mound of abandoned garbage. And then the inner door thundered from its hinges. And Eva heard the baying. (Of course, the dogs could not climb the ladder.) And then the creaking of the ladder as the soldiers mounted its rickety structure, and the triumphant shouting, and the laughter, and then she felt the warm thuds as the bullets found scraps of flesh in which to nest.

I have tried to stop dreaming, but it is difficult to control my mind. I sleep
as I walk. There is much to look at as we snake through the narrow lanes.
It is a new world. Trees and hedges, and small fields. The wind surges again
and the snow begins to flurry then swirl. Under the weight of snow, the trees
are beginning to stoop over like old men. I fall, then quickly clamber to
my feet. The wind tears the breath from my body. I want to live. The snow
that already lies on the road makes it difficult to walk. I walk as though
each step will be my last. Eva. I remind myself. My name is Eva. I am twenty-one
years old. I have shrunk into womanhood. Mama walks beside me. We are people
without expression, our backs bent, our heads low, a weary caravan of misery.
They are taking us to another place. Goodbye, camp. To another place. Camp,
I will never see you again. Another place. Camp, I will always see you. After
two years, another place, but we know not where. I look at Mama and ask for
forgiveness. Her eyes dim, and she looks at me and says, 'But you have done
nothing for which you need to be forgiven.' I brush snow from her lips. Death
on this road is a different affair. Lips turn blue, then the heart stops.
Life is abruptly terminated. A snow-frosted mound. I cannot find Mama. I have
spilt this life, but I will be more careful if you give me another one.
I
came naked from my mother, and naked will I be taken back. The Lord has given,
the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
I sleep as I
walk. Each step is torture. My wet feet, my wooden shoes, my blisters popping
like tiny balloons. I eat the snow from the shoulders of the person ahead
of me. I have no body. It is my soul that is now being punished. The sky,
the horizon, the fields are all garbed in white. My companions tumble into
the ditch. We pass people who refuse to see us. Is this a dream? I find it
difficult to control my mind. How will they cleanse the earth after this?

SUICIDE:
An act of voluntary and intentional self-destruction.
St Thomas Aquinas (1225-74) claimed that suicide was a mortal sin because
it usurped God's power over human life and death. However, neither the Old
nor the New Testament directly forbids suicide.

In this new place, there is no work. We seldom see guards. There are no roll-calls, nothing but typhus and death. (When we move we flutter like helpless, jittery chickens.) With no routine, it is easy to give up and die. So easy. Four months now and no work. It is spring, but winter remains tethered to us, reluctant to leave. We simply sit in the barracks and wait. Death waits with us, visible, staring us in the face. We simply wait. The toothy grin of death. Again, I have lost Mama. Somewhere on the road. I thought of lying down and giving up, but I willed a way to continue. During the day, I go outside and sit with my back up against a wall. I have discovered a place where I can find what little sun there is. Winter sun. I sit where I can see most of the camp. Men and women lining up to taste a thin trickle of water from a pierced pipe. Troops of cattle. To their side, sick animals lying in pools of their own filth. Glazed eyes. A crazy bowel, perpetually active, shouting its protest. Life leaving without a real struggle, collapsing and tumbling in upon itself. No killing. No last words. No cruelty. Just death. Compared with the last place, there is little noise. I do, however, notice the birds. I envy them, for they can fly wherever they wish. But they keep their distance.

At first I had no idea where she found the knife, but it seemed to me that
it could not have been too difficult for her to obtain one. After all, we
didn't consider her a suicide risk. But then, when I thought about it, I realized
that Marjorie, the nurse, had probably sent the knife to her room with Mr
Alston. Eva was supposed to use it to cut the cake that her friend, Mr Gerald
Alston, had brought for her.
(No. I'm telling you, doctor, I saw it with
my own eyes. To start with, they were dying at the rate of a couple of hundred
a day. We had to get bulldozers in to move them. They were just too far gone
to be brought back to life, just crawling out into the sunlight to die. Feeble
it was. Bloody feeble. I saw a woman choke to death on a spoonful of water.
I saw it with my own eyes. I can't ever forget that, ever. It'll be with me
till the day I die, it will.)
There was no reason to think that she would
do something irrational. I know now that they suffer feelings such as imagining
that they should have died with their families. But back then, I hadn't done
any research. Quite simply, I didn't know the danger. She didn't talk much.
In fact, I don't think she said anything to anybody. Including myself. But
there would have been time for all of that. She wasn't considered to be a
serious problem. There were no seizures or fits. But, sadly, we were wrong.
There was a problem. There was also a lot of blood. She cut the right artery,
as though she knew what she was doing. A lot of blood.

It is night. I prefer it when it's quieter. I have endured the day. I did not talk. I have seen the doctor. I have a private room. I have seen Gerry. There is something about this hospital that reminds me of the barracks at the end. (During the day, I go outside and sit with my back up against a wall. I have discovered a place where I can find what little sun there is. Winter sun. I sit where I can see most of the camp.) Since Gerry's sudden departure, I have stayed in bed. Propped up on my new pillow. I keep thinking that something is about to happen. But nothing has happened. Nothing is going to happen. And so life goes on. And so hope is finally extinguished. (Men and women lining up to taste a thin trickle of water from a pierced pipe.) This is the first time that I have ever been in a hospital. It makes me think about Papa. I can see the silhouettes of trees outside the window. English trees. Gerry's trees. Gerry brought me a chocolate cake. A peculiar gift. But there is nobody with whom to share it. Neither Margot, nor Bella. Only the girl who followed me across the water. I hear the murmur of voices in the corridor, and then I notice a crack of light beneath the door. There is a wide-hipped gully in this mattress. I am slightly uncomfortable. I am also unhappy. Now the light in the corridor is turned off. Objects are muddled in the dark. But I can still see her. The girl who followed me across the water. Perhaps she wants the cake. Gerry's chocolate cake. It is night. I hear the sound of coughing from another room. The other girl, with the swathe of red around her mouth. She is still here. Waiting.

I sit on the train and stare out of the window. Light rain carried on sea air.
We are leaving the coast. In the distance, white wisps of smoke rise from
chimneys. I try to avoid those who stare at me, for their eyes pollute my
confidence. There are two others in this compartment: a man who is preoccupied
with his newspaper, and a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, who, when
I first sat down, seemed keen to talk to me. She appears, however, to have
now decided that it is best to say nothing. I am pleased. My foreign voice
will only jump out and assault her. Somewhere lurking at home, by the fireplace,
I imagine there is a man who provides her with some reason to live. It is
raining heavily now. The drops smash against the window. I have a suitcase.
We pass through green fields divided into squares that resemble pocket handkerchiefs.
Tidy. Everywhere fenced off from everywhere else. Cows have rushed to shelter
in one small corner. And then I see an untended graveyard. Weeds grow wildly.
So this is England. And then, some time later, the train pulls into a station.
A huge black cavern, full of smoke. And people. The man folds his newspaper
neatly and stands. He opens the door and passes out into the corridor without
so much as a word to either of us. The woman also stands and reaches up to
retrieve her suitcase from the rack above her head. She speaks in a cathedral
whisper. 'This is London.' One of her teeth is marked with lipstick. I, too,
have a small suitcase. I stand and smile at the woman, desperate that she
should say nothing further to me. I reach for my suitcase and avoid eye contact.
But once more she speaks. 'Goodbye now.' I have no choice but to look at the
woman. Her smile is the smile of a woman who has been sorely disappointed
by a lack of conversation.