My Amputations (Fiction collective ;) (24 page)

And so it went. Despite a weird dream about the kids he reached the next day without a bad head. Heading for Legon, Makola wanted to give the American a glimpse of Independence Square and the Arab market but Mason saw them through haze. Clusters of sidewalk vendors were everywhere. Their leather crafts, dresses, jewelry, masks, were spread out on sheltered tables along the main streets where the traffic was hectic, stalled, and where dust clouds lifted to the bat-filled grand old trees also lining the roads. Every street corner was a small community focus of solemn women and men and children who waited to sell their wares and produce: plantains and shrunken fruit and palm oil. Dogs lean and hungry wandered restlessly in the dust in and out of side-streets. Neighborhood women set up blocks to force drivers to pay to pass along their pitted, rock-laden dirt roads. . . . Part of the presentation was a flop because nobody'd heard of the Afro-American writers he referred to: Wideman, Shange, Reed, Charles Wright, not even Zora Neal Hurston. Cultural gap? Distance. It left him gloomy. Catching, huh, Makola was apologetic, reassuring. Then Mason read from his infamous work-in-progress:

“ . . . he touched Florence's shoulder. ‘We have to go.’ She was ready. ‘You're on.’ As they travelled they talked the past. ‘Everybody in New York was serious in the sixties. The terror was not yours alone, then. The lost witch in the craft was rediscovered: politics, war, disillusionment were never the solutions. You could establish a forced logical connection between any two completely unrelated things: make a collage or cubist plot of yourself, your life.’ Unable to find a suitable used struggle-buggy at Don's Easy-Terms Used Car Lot, they were on a Trailways. He spoke thickly, quickly. ‘I tried that, too. Edith Levine lived with me then. . . . ’ Flo cut: ‘Nobody cares about your
dead past. Especially if you're not making the forced connections pretty and powerful. Listen, I knew an Indian girl who tried to resolve what she saw as a dilemma: by making a connection between herself and political ideas, specific ones—I forget which—.’ Mason scowled. Flo: ‘She stood, pink as puppy mouths, on a corner handing out leaflets for a cause she didn't herself fully understand; meant well as she stood on centuries of rage and corruption. Disillusioned, she went to work as a fast-food waitress at Quick Snack. She had the biggest, sweetest smile, back there behind the counter, with all those coffee cups, plastic plates, stainless steel knives, forks, spoons, sundae bowls, salt and pepper shakers, all, repeated dizzingly in the mirrors that surrounded her in her baby-green, snot-yellow uniform with its starched dainty collar decorated with tiny embossed elephants smacking on giant burgers. . . . ’ Mason: ‘Making forced connections in 1966 I first went to New York: felt intense among rug dye factories. You could be against racism without being against sexism and vice versa. Radical lesbians attempted to impregnate themselves with chemicals from their own bodies. There's no metaphor. Morality and moral fiction were in suspended animation. (Art hasn't saved anybody: appletrees, appletrees. Which appletrees?) Anyone could be shot or made. But you were there: you know—.’ His memory was a thin layer of Matisse-green juxtaposed with a self-consciously brushed-in pink. But he could not now yank himself out of the climb: ‘Look at me: I lost my
name
in that fucking place! My father was already dead and the iron years were behind me—those years: I punched a clock and welded metal together in a steel circus. . . . Before Attica—after the city of dirty el trains and Richard Wright's crash at Roosevelt Road when Cross got his chance to switch identities. I smoked cigarettes—a tough guy—and tried to look like Jack Johnson, act like Jack London, strike with the certainty of Jack da Ripper. Back then, Celt was with me often and guided me through the early stages—my apprenticeship. She hovered above me, bright as a Veronese Venus, editing, shaking her finger in my face when I lost intense concentration on the charged image, the driven
word. Now, who knows where Celt might be: a halo over my enemy's head? I went on, Florence, raving about, say, the immortal leadership spirit of the underground railway, in poems, stories; in pictures—framing my chaos: brown men with glittering ornaments wearing gold and flat plates in their lower lips hundreds of years before slavery. On the Qt., I had a mission. I was going to
be
a writer: hadn't learned that illustration wasn't painting. You get it. Too much glutted-Glackens, not enough Pollack-pull or de Kooning-cool; too much . . . I had something to
say
before I knew I had something to
make
. My forced connections hadn't registered. I cried out about poverty and death in Liberia. Imagine that! Felt my own face: it was a billboard facing a Liberian market place; beggars whimpering; hombres prowling; boney children crouched in damaged doorways and shitting in the sand by the death-river; everybody hungry, crazy; miserable. This, while tourists snapped pictures of them. I was pissed, Miss. I knew then I'd never known real poverty nor seen it. I was not Gauguin on a white horse under a red tree. . . . ’ Florence gazed beyond the window. She coughed. Kissed his cheek. There was challenge in her voice: ‘Perhaps it's better to be quiet: as on a Sunday morning, quiet as it can be in a glass telephone-booth on a Sunday morning; quiet and unclear or clearly unfocused like an old senile woman I saw once searching the coin-return-slot in a telephone-booth; dressed in 1923-laced-up boots. I claim that view for all time. But you can share it with me, Key of C. She went into the booth almost too quickly: as though she was about something urgent; pretended to search for a
thing
in her purse and pockets. Her identity? Through her action she was creating it! It was winter: but the booth was a closure as “hot” as Henri's Red Studio—
as
familiar. And she was cool in a heavy black coat with her tiny pink face at its top above a big button. The phone to her ear, pretending to talk, then, on the sly, with the index finger of the free hand she searched, with real thrust, the coin-return-slot. I tell you, I was a witness to her draped-disappointment—and her warped dignity. But
silence
was her forte. I felt sorry. . . . ’”

Kalmoni lived in a house that was about two steps above a hut. That was all right. But he had electricity and gas. About half the guests who'd attended the dinner party at Robert Astor's were here. The most striking difference between this home and the Astor's was the degree of light. Kalmoni's dwellings were almost totally in shadows with dim pockets of either candle or soft lamp light with only two or three electric currents juiced. Everybody was more relaxed. Amos Achimota held forth from the rattan couch. He said, with British accent uppermost, “I apologize for not attending your lecture today, but my health . . . you know. I've heard, however, that it was not well received. I've also heard that the reason it was not had to do with your subject matter. . . . ” Mason closed his eyes and faked falling asleep. The room was so dark nobody saw the gesture. Janet laughed and said, “Mister Achimota, with all due respects, Sir, I wish to interrupt: Our visiting writer is a
guest
in our country. Do you mind if we shift the mood of our little party and try to make him feel at home? After all, you know, he is—” five or six other voices rushed in, cutting off in mid-word: Nsawam felt Black people could be honest among themselves—Mason was not to be spared. Aburi said, “We're here to enjoy . . . ” Kalmoni spoke: “Whatever you have to say, say it quickly: time is short. Remember the Revolution!” Now they laughed at themselves. And this was the moment that was needed. The mood of the party shifted and Mason became their friend. He may have survived The Middle Passage and returned whole but he was not so affected as to be without a sense of humor. And he could take
it
. Achimota was somber throughout the rest of the gathering. Near seven-thirty he said to Mason, “When you get back to America, I hope you'll keep in mind the seriousness of our plight. Langston Hughes knew. Richard Wright knew. Our African writers know. You must know. I'm happy to have met you. . . . ” Also near the end of the party Danquah and Aburi and Kaneshire were locking horns in a raging argument over whether or not tribalism was valid in the face of a Marxist alternative for themselves as a struggling people. Aburi damned the notion of the Chieftain
tradition (“No man should have to carry another man!” he said with exquisite theatrical poise). Janet described her work in the interior as “political”—she was teaching Ghanaian children to respect their own myths and ceremonies, their cultures and traditions, and, yes, their religions. The conversation left Mason crowded with misty secrets of his own unfinished transfiguration. These matters—their plight—were not his raw October. He shivered as Makola drove him back. His self-interest for the first time made snow fall in the ditch of his brain. He wanted to take somebody's hand but there was nobody. How could he come out of his fever and share his sickness? That search for The Impostor now lost had turned inward where the helpless wings of death beat in his night: making every effort, desire, mere specks in an endless constellation. For a moment he almost turned to Makola. But words were only dice in the shaking hand!

Now an air traveller from Accra to Monrovia must get there the best damned way he can—no,
no!
Start again. Sincerely: the plane must stop in Abidjan. Mason was mobbed by cab drivers and shoe shine boys at the airport. Serious-eyed skinny boys carrying boxes and rags clung to his legs. He could barely walk to the currency counter as he pushed his luggage cart. Ethiopian Airways flight number-what-ever had just landed and the whole place was buzzing with the itch for francs. While standing at the exchange window he shook a boy off his shoe. He was sweating so he thought he had malaria. Mosquitoes surely would win their war with chloroquine. His contained-mood was one of humiliation and rage: a freemason was not a victory but a question. . . . Ivory Coast was a shock: as he was driven into the city Mason felt as though he was in some modern European metropolis: massive traffic jams, skyscrapers, the whole bit. But he'd known . . . but, b-but why were the
French-speaking African countries so much “better off” than those ex-English and ex-Dutch and ex-German colonies? . . . The contrast to Accra was sharp: no need to put out the hearth fire before dusk here . . . Grande Hotel on rue De Gaulle faced the river, the bridge, on the big highways . . . Settled, Mason went down to the bar to doctor—no, to perform surgery—on a scotch on the rocks. He got it okay despite accent. Then he held forth in great gloom. . . . Night life in Abidjan? A vague sense of urgency—remember?—drove Mason out into darkness toward mudfrog-cream, magic solutions, questions, linear answers; and he stumbled, first, into a bar where the scotch was really weird—tasted like celt-weed. A guru came over from shadows and sat next to him. “You have eye trouble. I suggest you try seven grams of curikon, a pinch of girongrie and ten grams of estravec.” Mason said his vision was all right. The shady guru laughed derisively. Another figure, an obvious companion of the guru, came forward and perched himself on the stool next to Mason. “You want to add paprogue, too. Mix well. Then sit the whole
thing
outside on the terrace. In the morning stir in valainades—only an ounce. After an hour add two pounds of aromanout and six leaves of epicaselles. Let the whole mix sit in a cool place for six days then eat it at midi. You may feel it's a killer but it'll give you a kick—open your sense of reality, clear the—” . . . Mason was so shaken by the pregnancy of the moment he fled: dashed into the lighted-night: only to encounter people in the street responding to some sort of madness—crazed by music and the spirit of festival: was it disco or boogie woogie or, humph, polka! Certainly
not
African traditional drum rhythm! The city market area was lighted and busy. He found his way among unknown streets, unresponding people. In a night club he saw a black girl do a strip-tease. The show was billed as a See-Kript Act. Her stage name was Colt “Forty-five” Coo-Wow! At the end of her strip she shot two pistols into the audience. (Normally, a couple of dudes dropped.)

He was in the redhandedness of impeccable sleep when the pounding came at the hotel door. He struggled up, thinking he was in Attica and a prison break was in progress. About to piss on himself, he opened the door. Glare of light rubber-stamped his face. “You're under arrest,” the officer said in French. The other two black policemen stepped forward and grabbed him: one by each arm. In his pajamas, they took him down in the tiny elevator, out through the bright lobby. The marble floor was cold. Only after he was in the hearse-like vehicle did Mason remember that he was in Abidjan. At headquarters tough black men in uniforms were speaking thick French and it was like listening to a record on the wrong speed. What'd they want with him? What'd he done? Suddenly he pissed in his pajama pants as they led him into a tiny room with a bright light suspended from the ceiling. Three big men in suits stood before him. “Remove your clothes,” one of them said. Mason took off his pajamas. “Go down on ze floor.” “Your rights they are not your rights. As a member of the PLA, enemy to Ivory Coast we hold you. You confess? You stranger. This is bad enough. In Ivory Coast this is impossible.” No survival manual could save him now. He hadn't prepared well for the trip. Hadn't told anybody where he was going? He was alone? When moving into the wilderness one should take along more than a passionate search for self. Mason didn't even pack a compass. He had no map. Headgear? Never heard of it! Flares? Dehydrated food? Screwdriver? Except now he wouldn't have to wait for hypothermia or a loose rock to slide from beneath his foot. All the romance of Africa suddenly slipped away. Two of them took him down a steep, narrow, winding staircase. It was cold and dark at the bottom. A large key turned, in metal. Hinges squeaked like rats. He was roughly kicked and pushed into a cell. One of them spoke to the other in guttural French. The response was equally throaty. Mason'd fallen to the dirt floor. It was wet. He shivered. His masoned wall of faith? He was up against it now. The door slammed. His body-warmth lifted up out of his flesh like smoke from a smothered fire. His mouth was full of sawdust. Long
streaks of pain like rubber tubing set afire shot through his body as he raised himself to his knees. He had to crap. No need to hold back. After a few agonizing motions, he was in a squatting position. It started slowly. Then burst out. The smell was a familiar vapor, not the least bit offensive. When he finished he crawled to a corner and curled up with his spine against the angle. Now what? Well, he could keep busy. Remember Satchel Page. Don't look back, something might be gaining on you. Keep rowing. Row row your boat gently. He slept for . . . who knows how long. When he woke his night-vision was better. A dim light beyond the cell? A large oblong object right here in the middle. He crawled over to it. Walking on his knees he felt its surface. No doubt about it: a coffin. He reached inside and slid his palm along the floor. Dry. He felt dizzy, terrified, hungry. Don't give in. Keep on keeping on. You survived the mirror. The prison. Being a clown. You name it. You'll get through this too. He climbed into the warmer space of the coffin and curled up again. He woke to the sound of hammering. Somebody was nailing a lid on? Losing control, Mason bellowed like a bull at the moment of castration. He beat at the lid with feet and fists. The holders of hammers responded to his outrage with laughter as they drove the final two nails in. Mason cried in long ropey sobs. As the men outside jabbered away in crude French, he whimpered and sniffed and ate his own snot. He farted and belched and continued to cry. . . . Some time later they went away. Then much later—days? weeks?—he heard the rusty door open again. Another presence came in. Weak and half out of his mind, he waited for a voice, a word, the sound of breathing. “When you're ready to tell us about the activities of the People's Liberation Army you'll be a free man. Do you
hear
me in there?” A new one! The cow jumped over the moon. High high the moon. Rise Sally rise. Mason didn't respond and before long the speaker of English went away. Another long stretch of time. Then two more of them came. He felt them lift up the coffin. He was being carried along the corridor, up the narrow staircase. Now they rested him on a flat surface. He heard and felt the hammers pulling the nails
from the wood. The squeaking was like mice at play. When the lid was off he felt grimy hands lift him into blinding daylight. No moon, no sun: but a furnace of red light. Something like a grandfather clock was ticking. He smelled the old boots of a grave digger. They stood him up and he fell. Their harsh French couldn't touch the high spirit of guttbucket. He was sick of it. Their sneers too! He knew they were tying him to a tree but he didn't know he was in a courtyard of steaming tropical plants till time and a wind song helped him open his eyes. Silence and the sand of thick hands again greeted him. View: yellow teeth between grinning lips. Perhaps he was hallucinating but wasn't one of them standing there with a dead
antelope
around his neck? Blood dripping to the gravel! Mason had forgotten about his nakedness till one of the French-speaking Africans poked at his penis. It sent a sharp pain through his groin. The other one held up a huge Russian pistol. Mason's slit-view didn't cause panic. What the hell. You took the best so why not . . . He heard the distant sounds of celebration, gaiety, a banquet. Somebody was sipping excellent wine from a gold and crystal goblet. The sleep of pigeons hummed in his ears. Death? He thought he'd be objective about it. Why not. As the pistol carrier pressed the barrel against Mason's temple he whispered in Mason's ear, “Hello. Goodbye. How are you. Bang bang!” Then he pulled the trigger: it triggered the reshaping of Mason's inner wilderness: trees fell, Uncle Remus turned white, seas ran dry. Wouldn't you know it? No bullets in the gun. And these two clowns were laughing so hard their balls shrank up into their groins. . . . Well, so much for one day. They fed him and escorted him back to the cell. He heard them bring the coffin in later and place it exactly where it'd been. . . . It was perhaps a day or two later when the one who spoke good English came into the cell. He said, “You're the wrong man. An attendant will bring you clothes. Today you will be set free. However, if you find out anything about the PLA be sure to let us know immediately.”