FOUR
MARCUS’S CHILDHOOD AND HIS happiness elapsed at the same time. The day came when men were no longer moved by his performances. The women stopped crying. No one clapped. The audience were no longer watching a boy interpret Shakespeare. Marcus was now seventeen or eighteen years old. He had no idea how quickly his world was breaking apart.
Profits decreased. Arguments increased. Martha got sick. The fever prevented them from moving the wagon. When she coughed she left black and red sputum on her handkerchiefs.
Marcus was a witness to his father’s flight. One night he was sleeping beneath the wagon, with Pepe as a mattress, when he was awoken by a noise. It was Mirno. He had a bag on his back and he was running. He fled like a thief that had just looted a house. Father and son have never seen each other since.
However, this isn’t the place to judge Mirno Sevic. The fact is that Marcus was left alone. Not even six days separated Mirno’s flight and Martha’s death. Marcus’s entire world collapsed in less than a week. The authorities in the nearby town took care of Martha’s body, which they buried, and Pepe the bear was put down. Marcus related this succession of catastrophes to me without any emotion.
Everything indicated that the local authorities had been reasonably humane with the unknown orphan boy. Martha had a poor but dignified funeral. Marcus was accommodated in the parish and employed in the mines. He didn’t last long. That claustrophobic underground world didn’t agree with his outdoor spirit. Two months after Martha’s burial he opted for adventure. The town was filled with young men with silicosis in their lungs; wire thin, hollow cheeks and huge purple bags under their eyes. All in all, that brief period seems to have left more of a mark on my notes than on Marcus’s memory. By the time they asked him to register in the town hall, he did so as Marcus Garvey instead of Marcus Sevic.
He followed an erratic route, from west to east, with London as a vague idea of a final destination. On the way he worked as a labourer on several different farms, never staying more than two or three weeks. And that was how Marcus Garvey ended up at the Duke of Craver’s mansion.
He was offered a decent salary, a bed, a roof over his head and board. But Marcus had London in his sights. One more step and he would be in the largest metropolis on planet Earth. He was young, the perfect time to open himself to the world. Why did he stay with the Cravers? He said it was to make his fortune. I think that there were other factors.
There, life was the exact opposite of his nomadic past. At the Cravers’ mansion existence was perfectly regulated and compartmentalised. The masters were the masters and the servants were the servants. And, yet, Marcus discovered that he could find pleasure in human inequality, at least when it was accepted by both sides.
There was something else that justified Marcus’s love for the Cravers’ house, an attraction of which he was probably not fully conscious. I would surmise that Marcus stayed there because of the oak tree, that grand oak that rose between William’s summerhouse and Richard’s log cabin.
As a child I had always been drawn to the parable of the prodigal son. I admired the father’s saintly attitude, his joy at the return of a son who had squandered half of his fortune. But I remember often thinking: what if instead of one prodigal son there had been two? Would he have received them with such joy?
Marcus’s work was divided between the stables and the kitchen. But anytime he got the chance, he clambered up the oak tree. He was happy up there, halfway between the sky and the land.
Marcus knew the house’s coachmen very well. They were honourable men, like all of the servants. But that day in late October, when they brought William Craver home, they had smugglers’ faces. The car passed below the oak. William raised his cold pale eyes and saw Marcus up there, stretched out on a thick branch. Their eyes met. There are things that can be pretty and at the same time scary, like the mineral coldness of those light eyes. Marcus felt like a squirrel under the gaze of a poacher.
In the days that followed, contact between Marcus and William was minimal. William left his room rarely, and when he did, he treated the servants like ghosts. He looked at them as if they were transparent or as if they were furniture, and that was probably for the best: his other gaze was the one Marcus had encountered in the oak tree.
The servants spoke of William’s past in hushed tones. He had devoted himself to some highly questionable financial enterprises. Someone without William’s influence, someone without the Craver name behind him, someone like Marcus, for example, would have spent twenty years in prison. (It’s also true that someone like Marcus Garvey would never have had access to a bank’s board of directors.) The scandal hadn’t yet cooled down and while William hid himself in voluntary ostracism, his father’s contacts tried to fix everything.
Light shines differently if seen from above or below. The same thing happens with physical force. The force that moves some beings comes from up high, and the force that moves others, from below. Two bodies can have exactly the same amount of energy but they’ll move differently depending on where that force comes from. It wasn’t hard at all to guess where the forces that propelled William Craver came from.
One day Marcus and William met up at the summerhouse. Marcus was passing by and hadn’t realised that William was inside, having a look around.
‘You! Come here!’ William shouted.
Marcus had once heard it said that only one out of one hundred thousand humans has grey pupils. Now he had one of them in front of him, almost close enough to touch, and it was as if he was looking at a crocodile: impossible to know what it was thinking, but knowing it couldn’t be good.
‘You’re new?’ said William.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s the only explanation. No one’s yet told you that you have to take off your hat when speaking with a Craver?’
Marcus removed his hat.
‘Are you the gardener?’ asked William.
‘No, sir. I work in the kitchen and in the stables.’
‘Well, when you see the gardener tell him to fix all that.’ With a vigorous finger William pointed at the summerhouse and its surroundings. ‘It’s filled with weeds. Tell him to fumigate them.’
‘Yes, sir.’
William searched through the inside of his white jacket for his tobacco. He asked, distractedly, ‘So, you are a stableboy?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you also work in the kitchen?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Lately I’ve begun to understand labourers. I mean your economic position, at the base of the pyramid. Believe me, there’s a good side to everything. It’s very calming not to have anything, because that way you have nothing to lose.’
‘That is true, sir.’
William pulled a silver cigarette case out of a pocket.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, placing a cigarette in his mouth.
‘Garvey, sir. Marcus Garvey.’
William tried to light a match. As he struck it, it fell from his hands. William opened his eyes. He opened them wider, and wider, and wider, and he said with the cigarette still between his lips, ‘Would you mind telling me what exactly you are waiting for, Marcus?’
Marcus bent down and handed him the match.
* * *
Richard Craver arrived at the house after his brother had been there, bored, for over a month, his angular face the colour of a peach, and with those enormous hands. Marcus was a witness to Richard’s first act at the mansion. That large, robust body went into the Duke of Craver’s office. He went in determined, but it was the decisiveness of someone facing the gallows with dignity. The doors closed behind him. Marcus, who coincidentally was below the window, was able to hear fragments of the conversation. And particularly the Duke’s screaming and Richard’s weeping. Marcus remembered it very well, because it was hard for him to imagine such a big bulky man crying. And what sobs!
Just like William, at first Richard had a reclusive period, as if he was embarra
ssed to expose himself to the world. The servants only saw him at mealtimes. When he looked, he was distrustful. When he wasn’t looking, he was disdainful. Serious contradictions fought within him. Those who spoke to him were never sure if they were dealing with a buffalo or a batrachian. He spent whole weeks overcome by aboulia. Then all of a sudden he’d come out of that lethargy with virulent attacks against everyone and no one.
Richard Craver had been kicked out of the army. The only elements of the crime were Richard Craver himself, an empty stable and a six-year-old girl. Marcus couldn’t comprehend how they had been able to accuse him of any crime. He talked about it with some of the other servants.
‘If the stable was empty, how could he have stolen any horses? And if the girl was only six years old, what judge would admit her testimony against an officer of the military?’
Marcus didn’t understand why all the servants shrank from the topic. And he soon stopped talking about it. What was discussed was the man’s slovenliness and lack of willpower. Removed from military life, his body quickly grew fatter. He puffed up a bit more each day, and this change did not escape William’s sarcasm.
‘Soon they’ll have to butter the doorways so you can get through,’ he said.
Richard submitted, never challenging William’s dominant role in their alliance. And yet, the interactions between the brothers weren’t limited to a single pattern. There wasn’t a vertical hierarchy between them in the strict sense. Richard was too brutal to allow that. When William crossed the line, Richard rebelled like an irate bull.
‘If only your pockets were as big as your mouth!’ Richard let loose, fed up with his insults.
But the same slight always repeated itself. Richard’s subordination was not so much due to an inferiority complex as to an extraordinary lack of instinct. According to Richard: in case of danger, move quickly and don’t think. According to William: in case of danger, don’t move and think. Richard was incapable of coming up with any idea or initiative. His brother’s might be absurd or crazy, but at least he had them. And one of Richard’s few merits was being able to recognise his limitations, and so he enlisted under any flag that William was able to wave. That is a universal law: the clueless obey the insane.
William and Richard faced their ostracism with very different attitudes. Richard was a runaway train. William was a fox that hides, waiting for the dogs to get tired of looking for him. But neither one intended to stay there. They were just waiting for the occasion and the means to return to the world. For Marcus, that was incomprehensible: if someone could live in a mansion worthy of a king, why on earth would they want to leave?
One day Marcus heard the tail end of a conversation between the two brothers. Everything pointed towards it being the most vicious conversation that two brothers could have.
‘From illness?’ said Richard. ‘You should know him better. That man only has attacks of good health.’
Marcus didn’t hear anything more. But from that day on it was clear to him that the two brothers weren’t chatting, they were conspiring. They started to show changes. Richard slimmed down. He did exercises and lifted weights like a strongman in the circus. William seemed more optimistic and incredibly friendly. Now his voice tickled you when he spoke. And when he smiled, all his teeth showed. Of course they were white.
I should also mention a simple but crucial anecdote, from around that same time. Marcus couldn’t have known that it would change his life forever.
William received a French friend who had come to visit him. They strolled through the expansive grounds and, when they were in front of the large oak, William had trouble translating a word. Marcus was very close by and he said, spontaneously, in French, ‘L’arbre.’
‘Well!’ William was surprised. ‘Do you really know French, Marcus?’
‘A bit, Mr Craver.’
‘And why is that?’
‘My mother taught me.’
William gave him a probing look.
‘From now on call me William, Marcus. William.’ And he went off with his guest.
Two days later William and Richard called him into one of the house’s large rooms. Marcus came in with his hat in his hands. William was playing the piano. Richard was playing billiards. They laughed when they saw him. They were in a good mood, and at the same time that laughter was setting the stage for a strange complicity.
‘Hello, Marcus,’ said William, still playing the piano. ‘Do you like piano music? And billiards?’
‘I don’t want to take part in any crime,’ was Marcus’s terse response.
Marcus hadn’t been able to sleep all night. Since he had heard that strange conversation between the two brothers he had become convinced that they were planning parricide. And that they wanted his help.
William stopped playing the piano. Richard put off the next cannon. They looked at him.
‘Crime? What crime?’ said William. ‘What are you talking about?’
And the two brothers laughed. William got up from the piano bench and approached Marcus. He walked him around the room with a kindly hand on his back.
‘Come, Marcus, come look at this,’ he ordered, pointing to the piano. ‘Have you ever stopped to think what piano keys are made of? Or billiard balls?’
‘Well, no,’ admitted Marcus.
‘Ivory,’ said William. ‘Ivory is elephant tusk, and elephants are in Africa.’
Richard tried to do a cannon. He failed. He took a slug of brandy. ‘You’re right. I had never stopped to think about it, but the world is full of pianos and billiard balls,’ he observed, resting the cue on the ground like a spear with a contemplative air. ‘How many billiard balls must there be in the world? And piano keys? I’m sure if we lined them up they could reach the moon.’
‘Would you like to come with us to the Congo, Marcus?’ asked William. ‘You know how to cook and you speak French. And we need an assistant.’
The Duke of Craver couldn’t oppose his sons’ trip, or he didn’t know how to. The most pathetic thing of all was that that trip to their deaths wasn’t a preconceived venture. The idea of Africa was shaped as the tour de force between the two brothers and their father progressed.
Sick of living at the Craver mansion, William and Richard asked him for a loan. That way they could start a new life, they assured him. The Duke refused. They had ruined their careers and they still had the cheek to ask him for a small fortune! A new life? The Duke knew full well that for his sons ‘life’ and ‘vice’ were synonyms.
The two brothers changed their tactics. The new argument was that they wanted to run a business together. But the reply was once again no, a curt no. William insisted. He explained to his father that they were thinking of going to Africa, specifically to the Congo. They thought that it would be the last place where they could still make some easy money, either in ivory, rubber or diamonds. ‘Shut up, you lunatic,’ was the reply. ‘What do you know about Africa?’ The Congo was the only place where there were still virgin territories, right in the middle of the African continent, replied William, and where there were no men there would be a lot of opportunities for the first ones that arrived. ‘It’s not even a British colony,’ roared the Duke. ‘Even better,’ pronounced William, ‘we aren’t on the best terms with the English legal system.’
When they all sat down at the table, William and Richard talked about the Congo as if they were already there, ignoring their father. It was the familiar childish strategy of children who shout: ‘You don’t want to buy us some gloves? Well then, we’ll freeze our fingers off!’ They were going to go there, with his help or without it. What could the Duke of Craver do? When he understood that their decision was firm, he relented. As their father, and in order to guarantee his sons’ safety in such an exotic land, he could only do one thing: pay for them to travel in the best possible conditions.
Looking at it with some perspective, everything about it makes one think that, actually, neither William nor Richard really intended to go to Africa
. At least at first, the idea of the trip was just a charade to squeeze their father’s wallet and get away from the family mansion. But at some point, inside William Craver’s head, the farce must have become a real possibility. Swindlers and card players have a lot in common. William’s bank scams prove it. His instinct led him to bet it all on one card. And that African expedition had all the makings of a huge gamble. The Congo was an open door for the bold. Why couldn’t they find a gold mine, or a herd of ten million elephants, or appropriate a forest of rubber larger than Essex? What did they have to lose? William Craver had worked so hard to convince his father that in the end he had convinced himself that it was worth a shot going there.
Their luggage comprised over one hundred trunks. William remained faithful to his monotone wardrobe: several trunks contained dozens of shirts, made of cotton, wool, linen and silk, all of them white. This purely anecdotal fact upset Marcus Garvey slightly. All his belongings fitted into one small bag, and the Craver brothers needed more than a hundred trunks. But there was something good about the situation, too. Marcus felt like he was part of a great endeavour. At one level, of course: William and Richard travelled to the Congo in first-class berths on the steamship; Marcus, in third.
The only novelty of the passage was the entrance into the port of Leopoldville. For days Marcus had been impatient to disembark and he would spend hours at the prow, as if he were waiting in a box seat for a première to start.
And one evening, finally, the African coast appeared. At first Marcus thought that he was experiencing a mirage at sea. In the light of dusk the port of Leopoldville looked like an anthill. Hundreds of black figures moved rapidly in rows through the wharfs, carrying white loads on top of their heads like little ants transporting breadcrumbs. As they approached the port, Marcus could see that they were indeed men. Black men. And the white bundles that they carried on their heads, ivory tusks, which disappeared into the holds of the anchored ships.
Pandora in the Congo Page 6
