Foe (9 page)

'But
Friday's gaze remained vacant, and I began to grow disheartened. Who,
after all, was to say he did not lose his tongue at the age when
boy-children among the Jews are cut; and, if so, how could he
remember the loss? Who was to say there do not exist entire tribes in
Africa among whom the men are mute and speech is reserved to women?
Why should it not be so? The world is more various than we ever give
it credit for -that is one of the lessons I was taught by Bahia. Why
should such tribes not exist, and procreate, and flourish, and be
content?

'Or
if there was indeed a slave-trader, a Moorish slave-trader with a
hooked knife, was my picture of him at all like the Moor Friday
remembered? Are Moors all tall and clad in white burnouses? Perhaps
the Moor gave orders to a trusty slave to cut out the tongues of the
captives, a wizened black slave in a loin-cloth. "Is this a
faithful representation of the man who cut out your tongue?"-was
that what Friday, in his way, understood me to be asking? If so, what
answer could he give but No? And even if it was a Moor who cut out
his tongue, his Moor was likely an inch taller than mine, or an inch
shorter; wore black or blue, not white; was bearded, not dean-shaven;
had a straight knife, not a curved one; and so forth.

'So,
standing before Friday, I slowly tore up my pictures. A long silence
fell. For the 6rst time I noted how long Friday's 6ngers were, folded
on the shaft of the spade. "Ah, Friday!" I said. "Shipwreck
is a great leveller, and so is destitution, but we_ are not. level
enough yet." And then, though no reply came nor ever would, I
went on, giving voice to all that lay in my heart. "I am wasting
my life on you, Friday, on you and your foolish story. I mean no
hurt, but it is true. When I am an old woman I will look back on this
as a great waste of time, a time of being wasted by time. What are we
doing here, you and I, among the sober burgesses of Newington,
waiting for a man who will never come back?"

'If
Friday had been anyone else, I would have wished him to take me in
his arms and comfort me, for seldom had I felt so miserable. But
Friday stood like a statue. I have no doubt that amongst Africans the
human sympathies move as readily as amongst us. But the unnatural
years Friday had spent with Cruso had deadened his bean, making him
cold, incurious, like an animal wrapt entirely in itself. •

'June 1st

'During
the reign of the bailiffs, as you will understand, the neighbours
shunned your house. But today a gentleman who introduced himself as
Mr Summers called. I thought it prudent to tell him I was the new
housekeeper and Friday the gardener. I was plausible enough, I
believe, to convince him we are not gipsies who have chanced on an
empty house and settled in. The house itself is clean and neat, even
the library, and Friday was at work in the garden, so the lie did not
seem too great.

'I
wonder sometimes whether you do not wait impatiently in your quarter
of London for tidings that the castaways are at last flitten and you
are free to come home. Do you have spies who peer in at the windows
to see whether we are still in occupation? Do you pass by the house
yourself daily in thick disguise? Is the truth that your hiding-place
is not in the back alleys of Shoreditch or Whitechapel, as we all
surmise, but in this sunny village itself? Is Mr Summers of your
party? Have you taken up residence in his attic, where you pass the
time perusing through a spyglass the life we lead? If so, you will
believe me when I say the life we lead grows less and less distinct
from the life we led on Cruso's island. Sometimes I wake up not
knowing where I am. The world is full of islands, said Cruso once.
His words ring truer every day.

'I
write my letters, I seal them, I drop them in the box. One day when
we are departed you will tip them out and glance through them.
"Better had there been only Cruso and Friday," you will
murmur to yourself: "Better without the woman." Yet where
would you be without the woman? Would Cruso have come to you of his
own accord? Could you have made up Cruso and Friday and the island
with its fleas and apes and lizards? I think not. Many strengths you
have, but invention is not one of them.'

* *

'A
stranger has been watching the house, a girl. She stands across the
street for hours on end, making no effort to conceal herself.
Passers-by stop and talk to her, but she ignores them. I ask: Is she
another, of the bailiffs' spies, or is she sent by you to observe us?
She wears a grey cloak and cape, despite the summer's heat, and
carries a basket.

'I
went out to her today, the fourth day of her vigil. "Here is a
letter for your masters," I said, without preamble, and dropped
a letter in her basket. She stared in surprise. Later I found the
letter pushed back under the door unopened. I had addressed it to
Wilkes the bailiff. If the girl were in the bailiffs' service, I
reasoned, she could not refuse to take a letter to them. So I tied in
a packet all the letters I had written you and went out a second
time.

'It
was late in the afternoon. She stood before me stiff as a statue,
wrapped in her cloak. "When you see Mr Foe, give him these,"
I said, and presented the letters. She shook her head. "Will you
not see Mr Foe then?" I asked. Again she shook her head. "Who
are you? Why do you watch Mr Foe's house?" I pursued,
wondering whether I had to do with another mute.

'She
raised her head. "Do you not know who I am?" she said. Her
voice was low, her lip trembled.

'"I
have never set eyes on you in my life," said I.

'All
the colour drained from her face. "That is not true," she
whispered; and let fall the hood of her cape and shook free her hair,
which was hazel-brown.

"'Tell
me your name and I will know better," said I.

'"My
name is Susan Banon," she whispered; by which I knew I was
conversing with a madwoman.

'"And
why do you watch my house all day, Susan Banon?" I asked,
holding my voice level.

'"To
speak with you," she replied.

'"And
what is my name?"

'"Your
name is Susan Banon too."

'"And
who sends you to watch my house? Is it Mr Foe? Does Mr Foe wish us to
be gone?"

'"I
know no Mr Foe," said she. "I come only to see you."

'"And
what may your business be with me?"

'"Do
you not know," said she, in a voice so low I could barely
hear - "Do you not know whose child I am?"

'"I
have never set eyes on you in my life,'' said I. "Whose child
are you?" To which she made no reply, but bowed her head and
began to weep, standing clumsily with her hands at her sides, her
basket at her feet.

'Thinking,
This is some poor lost child who does not know who she is, I put an
arm about her to comfort her. But as I touched her she of a sudden
dropped to her knees and embraced me, sobbing as if her heart would
break.

'"What
is it, child?" said I, trying to break her grip on me. "'You
do not know me, you do not know me!" she cried. ·

'"It
is true I do not know you, but I know your name, you told me, it is
Susan Barton, the same name as mine." 'At this she wept even
harder. "You have forgotten me!" she sobbed.

'"I
have not forgotten you, for I never knew you. But you must get up and
dry your tears."

'She
allowed me to raise her, and took my. handkerchief and dried her eyes
and blew her nose. I thought: What a great blubbering lump! "Now
you must tell me," said I: "How do you come to know my
name?" (For to Mr Summers I presented myself simply as the new
housekeeper; to no one in Newington have I given my name.)

'"I
have followed you everywhere," said the girl.

'"Everywhere?"
said I, smiling.

"'Everywhere,"
said she.

'"I
know of one place where you have not followed me," said I. "'I
have followed you everywhere,'' said she. '"Did you follow me
across the ocean?" said I. "'I know of the island,'' said
she. 'It was as if she had struck me in the face. "You know
nothing of the island,'' I retorted. '"I know of Bahia too. I
know you were scouring Bahia for me."

'By
these words she betrayed from whom she had her intelligence. Burning
with anger against her and against you, I turned on my heel and
slammed the door behind me. For an hour she waited at her post, then
toward evening departed.

'Who
is she and why do you send her to me? Is she sent as a sign you arc
alive? She is not my daughter. Do you think women drop children and
forget them as snakes lay eggs? Only a man could entertain such a
fancy. If you want me to quit the house, give the order and I will
obey. Why send a child in an old woman's clothes, a child with a
round face and a little O of a mouth and a story of a lost mother?
She is more your daughter than she ever was mine.'

* *

'A
brewer. She says that her father was a brewer. That she was born in
Deptford in May of 1702.. That I am her mother. We sit in your
drawing-room and I explain to her that I have never lived in Deptford
in my life, that I have never known a brewer, that I have a daughter,
it is true, but my daughter is lost, she is not that daughter.
Sweetly she shakes her head and begins a second time the story of the
brewer George Lewes my husband. "Then your name is Lewes, if
that is the name of your father," I interrupt. "It may be
my name in law but it is not my name in truth," says she. "If
we were to be speaking of names in truth," say I, "my name
would not be Barton." "That is not what I mean," says
she. "Then what do you mean?" say I. "I am speaking of
our true names, our veritable names," says she.

'She
returns to the story of the brewer. The brewer haunts gaming-houses
and loses his last penny. He borrows money and loses that too. To
escape his creditors he flees England and enlists as a grenadier in
the Low Countries, where he is later rumoured to perish. I am left
destitute with a daughter to care for. I have a maidservant named Amy
or Emmy. Amy or Emmy asks my daughter what life she means to follow
when she grows up (this is her earliest memory). She replies in her
childish way that she means to be a gentlewoman. Amy or Emmy laughs:
Mark my words, Amy says, the day will yet arrive when we three shall
be servants together. "I have never had a servant in my life,
whether named Amy or Emmy or anything else," I say. (Friday was
not my slave but Cruso's, and is a free man now. He cannot even be
said to be a servant, so idle is his life.) "You confuse me with
some other person."

'She
smiles again and shakes her head. "Behold the sign by which we
may know our true mother," she says, and leans forward and
places her hand beside mine. "See," she says, "we have
the same hand. The same hand and ~he same eyes."

'I
stare at the two hands -side by side. My hand is long, hers short.
Her fingers are the plump unformed fingers of a child. Her eyes are
grey, mine brown. What kind of being is she, so serenely blind to the
evidence of her senses?

'"Did
a man send you here?" I ask -"A gentleman of middle height,
with a mole on his chin, here?"

'"No,"
she says.

"'I
do not believe you," I say. "I believe you were sent here,
and now I am sending you away. I request you to go away and not to
trouble me again."

'She
shakes her head and grips the arm of her chair. The air of calm
vanishes. "I will not be sent away!" she says through
clenched teeth.

"'Very
well," say I, "if you wish to stay, stay." And I
withdraw, locking the door behind me and pocketing the key.

'In
the hallway I encounter Friday standing listlessly in a comer (he
stands always in corners, never in the open: he mistrusts space). "It
is nothing, Friday," I tell him. "It is only a poor mad
girl come to join us. In Mr Foe's house there are many mansions. We
are as yet only a castaway and a dumb slave and now a madwoman. There
is place yet for lepers and acrobats and pirates and whores to join
our menagerie. But pay no heed to me. Go back to bed and sleep."
And I brush past him.

'I
talk to Friday as old women talk to cats, out of loneliness, till at
last they are deemed to be witches, and shunned in the streets.

'Later
I return to the drawing-room. The girl is sitting in an armchair, her
basket at her feet, knitting. "You will harm your eyesight,
knitting in this light," I say. She lays down her knitting.
"There is one circumstance you misunderstand," I continue.
"The world is full of stories of mothers searching for sons and
daughters they gave away once, long ago. But there are no stories of
daughters searching for mothers.