The Poisonwood Bible
Page 167
I can’t help thinking so myself. Where would he be now, if not for me? Dancing with disaster all the same, surely; he was a revolutionary before I met him. But maybe not caught. He wouldn’t have left the country twice, listening to my pleas of an aging mother and fantasies of beefsteak. Wouldn’t even have a passport, most likely. And that’s how they got him.
But then, where would his children be? This is what we mothers always come back to. How could he regret the marriage that brought Pascal, Patrice, and Martin-Lothaire onto the face of Africa? Our union has been difficult for both of us in the long run, but what union isn’t? Marriage is one long fit of compromise, deep and wide. There is always one agenda swallowing another, a squeaky wheel crying out. But hasn’t our life together meant more to the world than either of us could have meant alone?
These are the kinds of questions I use to drive myself to distraction, when the boys are out and I’m crazed with loneliness. I try to fill up the space with memories, try to recall his face when he first held Pascal. Remember making love in a thousand different darknesses, under a hundred different mosquito nets, remember his teeth on the flesh of my shoulder, gently, and his hand on my lips to quiet me when one of the boys was sleeping lightly next to us. I recall the muscles of his thighs and the scent of his hair. Eventually I haw to go outside and stare at my plump, checkered hens in the yard, trying to decide which one to kill for supper. In the end I can never take any of them, on account of the companionship I would lose.
One way of surviving heartache is to stay busy. Making something right in at least one tiny corner of the vast house of wrongs— I learned this from Anatole, or maybe from myself, the odd combination of my two parents. But now I’m afraid of running out of possibilities, with so many years left to go. I’ve already contacted all the people he advised me to find, to warn them, or for help. The backward address turned out after several mistakes to be the undersecretary to Etienne Tshisekedi, the one government minister who might help us, though his own position with Mobutu is now on the outs. And of course I’ve written to Mother’s friends. (At the “Damnistry International,” as Rachel probably still calls it.) I begged them to send telegrams on Anatole’s behalf, and they will, by the bushel. If Mobutu is capable of embarrassment at all, there’s a chance his sentence could be reduced from life to five years, or less. Meanwhile, Mother is raising money for a bribe that will get him some food, so five years and “life” won’t be the same sentence. I’ve gone down to the government offices to find out where the bribe should go when we have it ready. I’ve nagged about visitation and mail until they all know my face and don’t want to see it. I’ve done what I can, it seems, and now I have to do what I can’t. Wait.
By lamplight when the boys are asleep I write short letters to Anatole, reporting briefly on the boys and our health, and long letters to Adah about how I’m really faring. Neither of them will ever see my letters, probably, but it’s the writing I need, the pouring out. I tell Adah my sorrows. I get dramatic. It’s probably best that these words will end up suffocating in a pile, undelivered.
I might be envious of Adah now, with no attachments to tear her heart out. She doesn’t need children climbing up her legs or a husband kissing her forehead. Without all that, she’s safe. And Rachel, with the emotional complexities of a salt shaker. Now there’s a life. Sometimes I remember our hope chests and want to laugh, for how prophetic they were. Rachel fiercely putting in overtime, foreshadowing a marital track record distinguished for quantity if not quality. Ruth May exempt for all time. My own tablecloth, undertaken reluctantly but in the long run drawing out my most dedicated efforts. And Adah, crocheting black borders on napkins and tossing them to the wind.
But we’ve all ended up giving up body and soul to Africa, one way or another. Even Adah, who’s becoming an expert in tropical epidemiology and strange new viruses. Each of us got our heart buried in six feet of African dirt; we are all co-conspirators here. I mean, all of us, not just my family. So what do you do now? You get to find your own way to dig out a heart and shake it off and hold it up to the light again.
“Be kind to yourself,” he says softly in my ear, and I ask him, How is that possible? I rock back and forth on my chair like a baby, craving so many impossible things: justice, forgiveness, redemption. I crave to stop bearing all the wounds of this place on my own narrow body. But I also want to be a person who stays, who goes on feeling anguish where anguish is due. I want to belong somewhere, damn it. To scrub the hundred years’ war off this white skin till there’s nothing left and I can walk out among my neighbors wearing raw sinew and bone, like they do.
But then, where would his children be? This is what we mothers always come back to. How could he regret the marriage that brought Pascal, Patrice, and Martin-Lothaire onto the face of Africa? Our union has been difficult for both of us in the long run, but what union isn’t? Marriage is one long fit of compromise, deep and wide. There is always one agenda swallowing another, a squeaky wheel crying out. But hasn’t our life together meant more to the world than either of us could have meant alone?
These are the kinds of questions I use to drive myself to distraction, when the boys are out and I’m crazed with loneliness. I try to fill up the space with memories, try to recall his face when he first held Pascal. Remember making love in a thousand different darknesses, under a hundred different mosquito nets, remember his teeth on the flesh of my shoulder, gently, and his hand on my lips to quiet me when one of the boys was sleeping lightly next to us. I recall the muscles of his thighs and the scent of his hair. Eventually I haw to go outside and stare at my plump, checkered hens in the yard, trying to decide which one to kill for supper. In the end I can never take any of them, on account of the companionship I would lose.
One way of surviving heartache is to stay busy. Making something right in at least one tiny corner of the vast house of wrongs— I learned this from Anatole, or maybe from myself, the odd combination of my two parents. But now I’m afraid of running out of possibilities, with so many years left to go. I’ve already contacted all the people he advised me to find, to warn them, or for help. The backward address turned out after several mistakes to be the undersecretary to Etienne Tshisekedi, the one government minister who might help us, though his own position with Mobutu is now on the outs. And of course I’ve written to Mother’s friends. (At the “Damnistry International,” as Rachel probably still calls it.) I begged them to send telegrams on Anatole’s behalf, and they will, by the bushel. If Mobutu is capable of embarrassment at all, there’s a chance his sentence could be reduced from life to five years, or less. Meanwhile, Mother is raising money for a bribe that will get him some food, so five years and “life” won’t be the same sentence. I’ve gone down to the government offices to find out where the bribe should go when we have it ready. I’ve nagged about visitation and mail until they all know my face and don’t want to see it. I’ve done what I can, it seems, and now I have to do what I can’t. Wait.
By lamplight when the boys are asleep I write short letters to Anatole, reporting briefly on the boys and our health, and long letters to Adah about how I’m really faring. Neither of them will ever see my letters, probably, but it’s the writing I need, the pouring out. I tell Adah my sorrows. I get dramatic. It’s probably best that these words will end up suffocating in a pile, undelivered.
I might be envious of Adah now, with no attachments to tear her heart out. She doesn’t need children climbing up her legs or a husband kissing her forehead. Without all that, she’s safe. And Rachel, with the emotional complexities of a salt shaker. Now there’s a life. Sometimes I remember our hope chests and want to laugh, for how prophetic they were. Rachel fiercely putting in overtime, foreshadowing a marital track record distinguished for quantity if not quality. Ruth May exempt for all time. My own tablecloth, undertaken reluctantly but in the long run drawing out my most dedicated efforts. And Adah, crocheting black borders on napkins and tossing them to the wind.
But we’ve all ended up giving up body and soul to Africa, one way or another. Even Adah, who’s becoming an expert in tropical epidemiology and strange new viruses. Each of us got our heart buried in six feet of African dirt; we are all co-conspirators here. I mean, all of us, not just my family. So what do you do now? You get to find your own way to dig out a heart and shake it off and hold it up to the light again.
“Be kind to yourself,” he says softly in my ear, and I ask him, How is that possible? I rock back and forth on my chair like a baby, craving so many impossible things: justice, forgiveness, redemption. I crave to stop bearing all the wounds of this place on my own narrow body. But I also want to be a person who stays, who goes on feeling anguish where anguish is due. I want to belong somewhere, damn it. To scrub the hundred years’ war off this white skin till there’s nothing left and I can walk out among my neighbors wearing raw sinew and bone, like they do.
