“It was pretty tame.”
After they closed the lid of the casket and the last mourner had left, my mother went silent, looking shrunken and depleted. Rose sat next to her and bent to whisper something, but this seemed to provoke tears and Mother’s clotted voice saying, “I don’t know if I can handle this.”
I went over to them. I said, “I just remembered Eddie’s other story. He found another woman online who said she was single and looking for a date. They texted back and forth, sent pictures, and made a plan to go out to dinner.”
“Eddie’s a game guy,” Rose said. “You could take some tips from him, Jay. What’s his thing?”
“Maybe he’s lonely,” I said.
Mother said in a clear voice, “Did it work out?”
“He washed and waxed his car to make a good impression,” I said. “Then he drove to her house. But as he entered her driveway a man jumped out of the bushes, yelling at him — a little guy, going ape.”
“Who was he?” Mother asked.
“Ex-husband. He’d been stalking her. The woman came to the door and screamed at her ex. He threw his shoe at her. Eddie said to her, ‘Hey, I didn’t sign up for this. Call him off.’ The guy rushed at him. Eddie told me, ‘I punted him into the next yard and drove off.’”
Mother was smiling. She said, “Good for him,” as Rose took her by the hand and led her away.
When I returned to the hospice the next morning Murray Cutler looked weaker, vaguer, but hearing me speak he became attentive, as though the sound of my voice woke a memory in him. If he did not remember me, at least he remembered my stories.
“Earthquake,” he said. He raised a skinny finger and poked it at me. “False alarm.”
In English class, if any of us pointed at him, or pointed at anything, he said, “Be careful. There’s a nail on the end of that thing. That’s not ambiguous — what is it?” And he’d answer, “That’s transpicuous.”
But I was also thinking, Wonderful, he remembers what I told him.
“Story,” he said, slurring the word.
“Okay. I was in Africa, in a place so remote I could only get there by small plane in the wet season. I ran a clinic. This was in western Uganda, near the Congo border, the Ituri Forest. We were so far in the bush and so neglected that we had to be self-sufficient. The people grew cassava and maize. I ate the local food, ugali and beans, and occasionally we killed a chicken. No one thought of leaving. Apart from the clinic there was nothing, not even a school, and no church. The nearest mission was at Bundibugyo — and most people regarded that as the end of the earth. It was not a happy village, but it was settled and resigned to its solitude. We never got visitors. My contract at the clinic was for two years, but I agreed to another two. I liked being in the middle of nowhere, a clearing in the bush. When you don’t think about leaving, a place seems bigger.”
Murray Cutler shifted his hands, clasping them, looking satisfied, perhaps imagining the desolation of this African village.
“Over the patter of rain on my tin roof — a sound I loved so much for its mournful tap-tap that it sometimes put me to sleep — over that peaceful repetition, I heard a plane circling the grass landing strip. Usually a plane brought mail and medicine, but today it brought a big smiling man named Charlie Saurin. This was a surprise. His first words were ‘Jambo, bwana — habari gani?’ He seemed to want to make a point, speaking Swahili to me. Swahili was the lingua franca in this nowhere place. I said I was fine, but that I wasn’t expecting him. ‘I was sent from Kampala. Mr. Bgoya’s orders. I’m here to help.’
“Bgoya was a government minister. What to do with Charlie Saurin? He was older than me, about forty-five, but with a full head of prematurely gray hair, combed back and upswept in a way that made him seem conceited. I’m wary of men who are vain about their hair. They behave as though they’re wearing a special hat. To keep him away from my bungalow and the clinic I gave him the small house the pilot used when heavy rain kept him from taking off. That pilot, Bevan, once told me, ‘You don’t really know anyone until you’ve seen him drunk.’”
I repeated this to Murray Cutler to see whether he’d been listening. He nodded and smiled, but this approval in such a sick man seemed like self-mockery.
“I invited Charlie Saurin to my bungalow for drinks — locally brewed beer served from a plastic basin. ‘Nakupenda pombe,’ he said, ‘I like beer,’ sipping it from the tin dipper, and though he lapsed into Swahili from time to time — he was conceited about his fluency, too — he became gentler, more polite, more solicitous, speaking to me slowly and deferentially. ‘Are you sure there isn’t some way I can pay for this?’ But he didn’t repeat that in Swahili.”
Becoming restless and impatient again, Murray Cutler shifted in his bed. He sighed and said, “And the point is?”
“Whenever he spoke from the heart he said it in Swahili. Just before he staggered home, he paused and hung on the doorknob and laughed, saying, ‘The history of mankind in four words: Mimi nyama, wewe kisu.’”
“Whaaa?” Murray Cutler said, throwing his head back.
“He started to teach classes, using his house as the school — there had never been a school in the village. You’d think this was a good thing, but it disrupted the rhythm of the village. The children weren’t available to hoe the gardens or bring water from the stream. But the children didn’t mind — being in school freed them from the hard labor and menial chores.
“The parents began complaining about this to me. One of the aggrieved men brought his son, Junius. Junius said, ‘The bwana Mr. Charlie is taking me to America.’ Junius’s father said it was a tatizo kubwa—a big problem, and that Charlie Saurin’s being there was a shauri—an issue.
“So I invited him over to my bungalow again, but this time we didn’t drink. I told him I had run out of pombe. We ate chicken and roasted cassava and a stew of greens. And I saw how he ate, English style, a fork in his left hand, a knife in his right, two deft hands at work, spearing the meat and cutting a small piece, then slicing a bit of cassava and adding that to the fork, and lastly plastering some limp greens to it and lifting the whole business to his mouth. He worked his implements with affected skill, raising his elbows, making a whole operation of it, squinting at the fork of food before he made it a mouthful, and then champing on it. That told me more than his drunkenness had, and I remembered what he’d said.”
“What did he say?” Murray Cutler murmured, raising his head.
“I’m the meat, you’re the knife.”
His head fell back on the pillow, and he worked his lips as though tasting what I’d just told him.
“The boy Junius told the other children that he was going to America. I heard them repeating it at the clinic. I was too busy to pay much attention to the school — and Charlie Saurin had only been there a month. I sometimes saw him walking with the children past the gardens to the edge of the bush, sometimes singly, sometimes in groups.”
I fixed my eye on Murray Cutler.
“I knew he was trifling with the students, either with promises or actual deeds. I was strict with them. I never mentioned the world beyond our clearing. But he apparently talked about it all the time, America especially, and by doing so he made himself bigger than me. There was nothing I could do. The students felt familiar toward him, they hung around his house, and they were so convinced of his affection for them that they began to take liberties with his house, his food, some of his possessions. It was the casual, entitled way of rural Africa — after all, he had a great deal, and they had nothing. And there were his rash promises.”