He pursed his lips in surprise and curiosity, then gave me a lecherous grin. “Aha! An American movie! You know my taste in movies?”
“This is a Liberian movie, Mister President,” I said. “Let’s watch it together, you and I.” I looked around the room for the television set and VCR that I knew would be close at hand, for, indeed, I did know of his taste in movies. His addiction to pornography was a nationwide joke. In the corner was a cart with a TV and VCR ready to go. I walked over and snapped them on and inserted the cassette, then came and stood next to the president.
Together, in silence, we watched the film. A ghastly study of pain and cruelty, it ran for about fifteen minutes. Neither of us spoke for the entire time. Yes, it was only a video of some apes in their cages, dead and dying of hunger and thirst and neglect, but flattened out on the screen like that in unedited documentary mode with no soundtrack, it was as shocking and indicting as footage of the hold of a slave ship.
The film ended, and I rewound and retrieved it. The president said, “These them chimps from out at the old American blood-testing place?”
“Yes.”
“Why you showin’ them to me?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “I was expectin’ some other kind of movie,” he said. “You know the kind.”
“I have a proposal to make to you, Mister President,” I said. I began to lay out my plan in very simple, straightforward language. I told him that, with his help and protection, I would establish a permanent sanctuary for the chimpanzees someplace not far from Monrovia. I would need a building and a secure open space for them and enough funding to care for and feed them and to pay a small staff. I would need money to purchase, whenever possible, chimps that were being sold illegally for pets. I explained that I intended to develop a national program designed to protect this internationally protected species. It would provide him and his administration with good public relations worldwide, especially among the Americans, and people would come from all over the world to visit the sanctuary. The Americans would make films of the project to show on American television, and Liberia would finally become known as something other than a place to register foreign oil tankers.
He lighted a cigarette and waved me to the chair nearest his own. “Sit down. Would you like a drink with me? Not too early, is it?”
“That depends on your answer to my proposal.”
“My answer.” He smiled and smacked his lips with his red tongue. “I like them chimps, y’ know.”
“Yes, I know.”
He laughed. “I mean not just for eatin’. I like ’em. I t’ink this a very good idea. Good for the chimps, an’ good for me. Good for Liberia. So I’m gonna say yes to your proposal, to this sanctuary idea.”
“Then it’s not too early for me to drink with you, Mister President.”
He laughed again and pulled a bottle of Johnny Walker and two glasses from the drawer at his knee and set them before us on the desk and poured three fingers of scotch in each. Raising his glass, he said, “To the chimps, then.”
“To the chimps,” I said and did the same.
Before I left the room, Samuel Doe by phone had ordered his chief of staff to turn over an old, unused military prison located in Toby, five miles east of Monrovia. He knew the place well, he said, because he had once been stationed there. It had twenty cells and an exercise yard surrounded by a high electrified fence. It was in decent repair and could be modified for the chimps easily and cheaply. From the desk drawer where his whiskey had been stashed, he pulled handfuls of American currency, hundred-dollar bills, and counted out one hundred of them, ten thousand dollars, as if counting out playing cards. He wrapped the bills with an elastic band, handed the wad to me, and said, “You on the unofficial presidential payroll now. An’ when you need some more money for your sanctuary, come straight to me. Don’ go no place else. An’ when the place ready and open for business, we’ll make us a big ceremony out there at Toby. Lots of press people. Television. All the foreign ambassadors. ’Specially the Africans! I want them peoples to see what us Liberians doin’ here for the poor endangered species of Africa!”
“Thank you, Mister President,” I said.
He refilled our glasses and raised his again. “To the chimps!” he said and drained it.
“Yes. To the chimps.”
AND SO BEGAN my life as keeper of the chimps, as their rescuer and champion of their cause in Liberia. All right, as their surrogate mother. My human children seemed to require little of me. Perhaps because they were boys and because of my inescapable peculiarities—I don’t want to say my neuroses or personal deformities—but from the beginning, my sons were more Woodrow’s than mine, more African than American, more black than white. I looked after them, of course, made sure they were properly fed and clothed and bathed, drove them to school and picked them up, oversaw their education and social lives in town, but did it in a general, distant way, and left the details to others. Left them to Woodrow, mainly, who guided their religious training, encouraged them to become sportsmen, and, increasingly, took them to visit their grandparents and the rest of the Sundiata clan in Fuama, where they were being prepared for initiation into the Poro society, which, of course, would distance them even farther from me. They were good boys, well behaved, obedient, smart, and only occasionally mischievous or troublesome, and it was not difficult for us, despite our daily proximity, to grow distant from one another. They seemed to welcome and utilize that distance as much as I. Certainly neither they nor I complained of it.
Was I altogether without a maternal instinct? Let’s say I was ignorant of it, that in me it was deflected early on. It was an instinct not so much repressed as stunted, bent, deformed, so that I could not engage and express it in the normal way. In my twenties, in Weatherman, I so severely attacked what we think of as natural instincts, so pruned and cropped them, cutting them back to their roots and in a few cases pulling up the roots as well, that in my thirties and forties I was nearly incapable of cultivating them. My youthful radicalism of necessity masculinized me. To feel regret for having thwarted so many of my so-called natural instincts I would have had to feel regret for my youthful radicalism and the idealism that drove it, and I could not do that. I still can’t.
I was a bad mother, yes, but not a neglectful one. And I was an inattentive, detached wife, but not a cruel or malicious one. And though I was a solitary, self-absorbed woman, I was nonetheless socially compliant and friendly to all, just as I am today with Anthea and the girls who work at my farm and with my neighbors here in the valley. I was as devoted then, and am still today, to certain abstract values like justice and equality as I was in my early years, and if the price I paid in my early years for that devotion was anger and violence against those who were unjust and oppressive, then in my later years the price was cool detachment from those who loved me and whom I claimed to love. Over the years, as I grew older, the dark shadow I cast slowly paled and turned white.
AN ADULT MALE CHIMP can weigh over two hundred fifty pounds and is strong enough to overturn a car or hurl an adult male human across a large room. Adult female chimps are considerably smaller and more pliant, although they can be and often are fiercely protective of their young. Both male and female adolescents are like human adolescents—awash with hormones, amorous, quarrelsome, competitive, energetically testing themselves against one another and adult authority, and capable of fond attachments that seem nearly homoerotic. It’s the babies and youngsters, of course, that we know from circuses and kiddie shows on television. It’s the babies that get captured and sold as pets, after their mothers and other protective adults have been gunned down and sold for food or consumed by the killers on the spot.
All species are in danger of being killed by humans, even the human species, but only a few are as endangered as the one that most resembles us. Like us, they have no tails; like us, they have fingernails and toenails and not claws. They have elbows and knees. They have necks thick and thin, and soft, round bellies when they grow
old. They have reproductive systems and endocrine systems and interior organs—heart, liver, kidneys, lungs, and intestines—that are located and shaped like ours. Though they cannot speak, they communicate with one another and with other species with subtlety and ease and efficiency. They have eyes located at the front of their head and open ears attached to the sides of the skull, and they vary in the same degree as humans in complexion and pigmentation and hair color and facial features from one to the other. Because of the extra Y chromosome carried by the males and the number of specific genes attached to it, a male chimpanzee is genetically closer to a male human than to a female chimpanzee, and a female human is closer to a female chimpanzee than to a male human. They are not our distant ancestors; they are our close cousins.
If humans, like the rest of the animals, could not speak, we would all live together in peace, devouring one another solely out of necessity and instinct, our positions in the food chain nicely balanced by need and numbers. If we were as speechless as my collies on the farm or the hens and sheep and the geese, if we barked or baa’d or clucked or if like the chimps we could only hoot and holler and otherwise had to depend on body language, we would not kill one another or any other animal solely for the pleasure of it. The power of speech is the speech of power. Vows of silence are pledges to peaceableness. Silence is indeed golden, and a golden age would be silent.
FOR A FEW YEARS, then, and for the first time in my life, I not only had a cause, but was able to pursue it with measurable success. There were few to witness my success, few who mattered to me. My father was dead; my mother was thousands of miles away and wouldn’t get it anyhow; and everyone from the Movement from the top to the bottom was scattered and lost to me, many of them gone over to the other side. Those who remained on the Left, from what I gleaned from occasional newspaper and magazine accounts, were more interested in designing holistic lifestyles than in working for radical social and political change. The very idea of revolution, which in the late sixties and early seventies had seemed ready for immanence, had been turned into a comic metaphor for self-indulgent self-delusion. Not for me, however. Not in those later years in Liberia, where, while I awaited the return of Charles Taylor at the head of a rebel army, imagining him as a latter-day African Fidel Castro, I busied myself with saving a little troop of chimpanzees in a renovated prison a few miles east of Monrovia, tirelessly working to keep them from being exploited or killed, as if they were my disadvantaged neighbors and I, by accident of birth, had the power and privilege and the right to do so.
People called me “Monkey Lady,” and sometimes “Madame Sundiata of the Chimps,” and several times I heard myself referred to as “Queen of the Apes,” like a female Tarzan. The first time I heard that one it came from Sam Clement, not long after I finished the renovation of the prison and had completed transferring the dreamers from the Quonset hut, a job that required considerable help from a crew of four strong men, a flatbed truck, and a four-foot-by-four-foot, specially constructed cage on wheels that we used for transporting the adults and larger adolescents. The cage had a sliding door that we opened and placed next to the door of the old Quonset hut cage. We slid both doors open, and one by one, sometimes with the younger chimps two by two, they entered the larger, wheeled cage; then we slid the doors closed, locked and wheeled the cage to the truck and loaded it and drove it out to Toby, where we repeated the operation, releasing the chimps into the cells that in the Tolbert years had been built to hold humans, but which were five or six times larger than the Quonset hut cages. The chimps entered their vast, new space, where I had placed fresh water and food to welcome them and had suspended tires from ropes and built racks of iron pipe for climbing and swinging and cocoa-leaf mats for sleeping nests, and made themselves at home. It wasn’t exactly a minimum-security prison, but it was an enormous improvement over their previous conditions of confinement.
The last to be transferred to his new prison cell—I can’t call it his home—was Doc, who must have felt, as he saw his troop diminished one by one, that we were executing them one by one, for as each left the Quonset hut, he grew sadder and more downcast, until at the end, when we came for him, he lay curled in a corner of his cage, a huge, dark hill of depression, as if prepared for burial. But at Toby, as soon as we removed the wheeled cage from the truck and pushed it up to the open door of the cell that was to be his, which was located at the command center of the block and from which all the other cells were visible, he stood and looked out at his troop—his subordinate males and his female consorts and his children and their playmates and companions—and grasping the bars of the cell, he shook them with spectacular delight and display, as if he himself had arranged all this and it had gone precisely according to plan.
I was feeding the dreamers, passing large chunks of watermelon through the bars, when I heard a voice behind me. “So you’re the Queen of the Apes now. And this is your palace.” I turned. It was Sam Clement. Our American friend. It wasn’t the first time since my return that I’d seen him; he had been at our doorstep to greet me on my first arrival and had visited the house for dinner once since. But it was the first time that we’d been alone with no other humans present.
Sam smiled and stood next to me and for a moment studied Doc, who studied him back. “That’s a big fella,” he drawled. “What’s his name? I expect you’ve given them names.”
“Doc. Yes, they have names. Though I don’t know what they call one another. Kind of an interesting question, don’t you think? Whether animals have names for one another.”
He laughed. “I suppose they grunt, ‘Hey, you,’ with various inflections and tones and get answered, ‘You talkin’ to me?’ Hey, show me around, will you?”
I walked him through the prison, and he admired, or pretended to admire, the way I’d recycled the cells and the exercise yard and had converted the old interrogation rooms into storage and had made what had once been a windowless room, probably used for torture or solitary confinement, into a nursery for the babies. As we walked we touched delicately on the subject of his role in facilitating my return to Liberia and the aid and comfort I was now receiving from President Doe.
“Sam, were you keeping track of me through Woodrow while I was in the States?” I asked him. “Or were there other, more official sources of information?”
“Oh, Woodrow kept me posted well enough. Our paths crossed at the embassy every now and then. Say, is it possible to get close and actually touch these beauties?” he asked and took a step towards the cell where Tina and her daughter Belle were happily sharing half a watermelon. From his cage Doc saw him and raised an ear-splitting protest, and Sam backed off. “Whoa! Steady there, big fella.”
“He sees you as competition,” I warned. “He thinks you want his wives.”
“They aren’t my type, believe me.”
“I haven’t really thanked you, Sam,” I said. “For speaking for me. With Doe, I mean. I assume it was you who brought him around.”
“Yes, sort of, but he didn’t need much convincing. The guy he’s pissed at, and damned afraid of, too, is Charles Taylor.”
“Oh,” I said and changed the subject. “Actually, if you want, you can play with the babies. In the nursery. I’ll bring them in for you. They’re still a little frail, but quite gentle and sweet.”
“No, thanks. Not for me. I’m a people person, if you know what I mean.”
We’d ended the tour at the front of the sanctuary, where I’d taken over the prison chief’s office. It was a large, bright, freshly whitewashed room furnished with a desk and filing cabinet, where I’d started combining as much of the data left over from the old lab with the data that I was now accumulating, birth, medical, and behavioral information, along with a rapidly swelling file of correspondence from primate sanctuaries in other countries, mostly African, but also a few located in the United States, in Ohio, Georgia, and South Carolina, and one in Canada. I was finding allies and teachers everywhere.
“Well, m’love
, I ought to be getting back to the office,” Sam said. Out the window I saw his Land Rover with the U.S. seal on the side. His driver was chatting with several of the men I had hired to help me move my dreamers to their new home. “You heard about Taylor, didn’t you?” Sam said.
“Heard about him? No. What?”
“He escaped from prison. In the States.”
“He was in prison?”
Sam smiled, that warm, Virginia, white man’s smile reserved especially for silly women. “Yes, Hannah. He was in prison. A federal prison in Massachusetts. Not too far from where you grew up, Hannah.”
“And he escaped?”
“It wasn’t but minimum security, so he didn’t need a hacksaw blade in a cake. I guess he just sort of walked off the place.”
“Where … where is he now?”
He opened the door and stepped into the glare of the yard. “Who knows?”
IN THOSE DAYS, rumors passed through Liberia like weather systems, one following hard upon the other. To me it seemed unlikely if not impossible, but Charles was supposed to have fled the United States for Mexico, not Libya. And from there to Cuba, where Fidel Castro was providing him with military training and sanctuary. Then we heard he was in jail in Ghana for plotting to overthrow the government of President Rawley. Or he’d recently been seen in Abidjan trying to raise money to finance an invasion of Liberia from Côte d’Ivoire. Or he was up in Freetown, in Sierra Leone, making arrangements to invade Liberia by sea. The next week he was in a training camp outside Tripoli, building an alliance between Samuel Doe’s old Americo enemies in exile, a cadre of ex–Black Panthers, and a battalion of young pan-African communist revolutionaries. It went on like that, month after month, year after year. He was said to have gotten married. He was getting divorced. He was said to have become a Baptist. For a month we heard he was in the pay of the CIA. A month later the CIA was trying to assassinate him. And so on, until the only way for me to process the rumors was to discount them altogether, to go about my daily rounds at home and at Toby, and wait.
The Darling Page 36
