“You’re wrong. Experience teaches us everything. The study of history allows us to predict what is going to happen now. For example,” she says, “to understand your project we need to wait and see how people react. But by looking at history we can begin to predict beforehand.” Deyna puts this out there for Benchere to process. She doesn’t challenge his view of art, or dismiss his intent to build a self-contained sculpture in the Kalahari, is convinced just the same that something is going to happen because of his work. “Nothing occurs in a vacuum,” Deyna says. “The moment you place something in the world, there is consequence.”
“There is always consequence,” Benchere remains defensive, is wary of those who offer comments about his project. “The tendency is to think of consequence as an if-then dynamic when in reality it’s constant. Doing nothing causes consequence, too.”
“But you’re not doing nothing,” Deyna insists Benchere focus on that. “If you didn’t build your sculpture here, things would happen in the desert regardless, that’s true. But you are building here, and so what happens is the consequence you caused and that should interest you.”
Benchere strikes the metal, says as always, “I’m only interested in making my sculpture. What comes of it comes of it.”
“That’s an avoidance. You need to take responsibility for your work,” Deyna surprises him. She uses the thumb of her glove to wipe sand from her forehead. “Bringing your art to Africa creates a consequence that will eventually find its meaning. That’s what interests me.”
Benchere has stopped hammering. He listens as Deyna tells him about a dig she joined last year in Central Africa, Cameroon and Chad. “The World Bank sponsored an underground petroleum pipeline, but as they started digging they began to uncover all these amazing archeological finds. Eventually, more than 470 sites were unearthed. To date the artifacts uncovered prove this part of Africa was settled over 3,000 years ago, much earlier than we first thought, with people living in sophisticated communities. We found tools and art and ways to store food. Near Chad there were burial grounds and signs of ceremonies performed.”
Deyna says, “This is what you have to understand. Coming to Africa you can’t just rootle around and build things wherever you want and ignore where you are. Africa doesn’t need your sculpture,” she says. “You chose the desert. You’re a guest. Africa’s beautiful without you. Right here is our matriarchal soil where Man’s civil and social natures evolved. The connection between present and past is everywhere. Everything is here, all parts of then and now.”
She surprises Benchere again and says, “It’s like art,” and compares his sculpting to an anthropological exploration. “You’re searching as you create, never completely sure what you’re going to find and yet knowing, if all goes well, you’ll discover something amazing in your work.”
Hunched over the metal sheet, Benchere takes in the sum of what Deyna is saying, squints into the glare of the sun as reflected off the copper. In contrast to the Munds, whose self-serving blather turns Benchere choleric, Deyna’s chatter leaves him thinking of ways to reply. He wants to talk of Marti again, to say to Deyna that maybe she’s right and the significance of history is how it impacts the living, what came before and where this leaves him now. He thinks to discuss Africa and Tiverton, consequence and connections, beauty and need, but he decides against, prefers to let things sort themselves out on their own.
Deyna has the sun behind her. Benchere settles back on his heels, his knees in the dirt. The color of the desert passes from brown to gold, with darker veins in the sand laid out below. The sun holds white, the sky a pale shade of blue. Benchere returns his attention to the metal. Warming the surface, he slaps at the copper with the ball peen. A moment later Deyna does the same, lifts a chipping hammer and taps the sheet. The pounding from their hammers echoes into the desert, creates a rhythm. Benchere feels the tempo in his hands, sets his strokes inside of Deyna’s. He thinks again about what she said, thinks until he can’t anymore. Resting his hammer, he places his hand flat on the copper and tests the surface for heat.
THAT EVENING, A man from Bangalore and two women from Quebec reach camp by way of a rented van that departs shortly after. The total number of people in camp is now approaching thirty. New articles appear in the papers and online, offer another round of speculation regarding Benchere’s project. They describe what is transpiring in the desert as at once mythological, political, egocentric, artistic, invasive and inventive. Blog posts issue commentary and invite new debate.
Benchere pays no attention.
The Munds approach all the new arrivals, introduce themselves, discuss Benchere’s project in terms of their idea for developing the grounds. Benchere dismisses the noise, refuses to worry about the Munds, has his own concerns and sets his mind to more immediate tasks.
IN HER TENT that night, Deyna writes in her journal. She has rinsed her body in the makeshift shower she and Naveed have jerry-rigged with water reused through a filtered drum. Naked beneath the blanket she has wrapped over her shoulders, she can make out shadows on the outside of her tent, her lantern illuminating the handful of people still moving about. She thinks of the conversation she had with Benchere earlier, thinks of the designs he showed her how to make on the copper skin that will be affixed to his sculpture, smiles at the image of him there on his knees, in the sand, bent over so intently, like a child.
KYLE WAITS A week then hits the banks with blueprints in tow. He shows the letter Benchere has provided as proof of his involvement with the Broad Street houses. Well now, yes, this is a different colored horse, the loan officers tell him. Institutions once hesitant to provide capital are suddenly eager to revisit applications. Word spreads. Soon a list of potential purchasers starts to form. Reporters call and want to talk with Kyle. He sorts through the messages, returns calls to those who have treated Benchere favorably in the past, leaves the others to write what they will without any quotes or accuracy to their story.
AN OLD CHEVY Bel Aire pulls up with several more people inside. Suitcases and backpacks are unloaded. In jeeps and trucks the process repeats itself over the next two days. The articles in the papers and online continue to generate interest, draw people from San Cristobal and Texas, from Madrid and Frankfurt and the Ukraine. Among those now in camp is a biochemist, three artists, two business owners, a dentist and engineer, a physical therapist, horticulturist, horse trainer, puppet maker and a political activist from Denmark recently released from prison in Peru. Benchere treats the influx as a flattering sort of mystery. He shakes his head, speaks with Harper and Deyna about how to keep everyone fed and sheltered without letting them distract him from his work.
Linda Darling proves a pleasant surprise. Resourceful and engaged, she asks for assignments, rolls up her sleeves and dives into each task. Spirited, she jokes with the others, starts a friendship with Harper, follows Benchere’s instructions as she would a director on set. A marked improvement from her first night, when she disappeared after dinner, reemerging stoned. Benchere took her aside then and said, “Listen, Darling, this is not celebrity rehab. You want to get fried, have at it. But if your being here fucks with my work, we’ll put you on the next truck back to Maun.”
Linda smokes now, whatever cigarettes are on hand, puffs with a fury, fitfully, has taken most of her pills and tossed them in the straddle trench. With Benchere she jokes, likes to needle, shows her thanks by telling him of her zolpidem, her Lunesta and zaleplon, “I pissed them away for good.”
ONCE THE FOUNDATION beams are ready to be raised and placed into their holes, Harper mans the crane. Benchere moves to the first hole as Harper activates the chain and brings the post forward. Massive, once the beam is near enough, Benchere wraps his arms around the middle and muscles it into position. The chain is then lowered and the beam bolted down. The rest of the cement is poured into the hole and topped off with dirt and sand.
It takes a full day to get all four corner beams set and the cement added. A fifth hole dug in
the center of the field is deeper, the spine heavier and taller than the other beams; cast with crooks and curves as part of Benchere’s design. The middle post forces Harper to be careful when lifting. Adjusting the crane puts the joist at risk of swaying as Harper shifts the levers and draws the slack out of the chain.
Once the crane is close enough, Benchere begins to bully the beam into position above the hole. The post is too heavy however and won’t be budged. Benchere grunts and tries again, first pushing from the front then pulling from behind. Both efforts fail. The hole is less than two feet away. Harper hollers from the cab of the crane for Benchere to stand back. “I can put her in myself.” He raises the chain and the beam begins to move erratically, side to side across the hole like a giant pendulum. Harper shifts the arm and moves the beam too far left. He decides to start again, drives the crane a few inches forward, attempts to lower the chain but instead hits the lever which raises the arm and sends the beam skyward.
Everyone hollers as Harper shouts, “Shit,” and reaches to disengage the lever. As a reflex Benchere leaps and tries to tug the center post down. A foolish choice. He catches the beam with his arms and legs, clings as the crane continues to rise. By the time Harper finds a neutral gear, sets the lock and cuts the engine, Benchere is thirty feet overhead.
Hell, Benchere scrambles onto the base posts at the bottom of the beam, stands and assesses the situation. Flummoxed, Harper holds his hands away from the levers, tries to decide what will happen if the engine is restarted. Will the arm and chain let go and send Benchere crashing to the ground? The wind picks up suddenly, gives the chain additional sway. Zooie yells. Benchere sets his feet, finds balance, stares down.
The four posts set earlier appear like petrified trees sticking out of the sand. Naveed runs back to camp for a long piece of rope Deyna wants to toss up to Benchere. The idea is to have Benchere tie the rope around the base plates and dangle low enough to jump. Daimon suggests creating a sand dune beneath to soften Benchere’s leap either way. Ridiculous, Benchere finds his circumstance, can’t help but let out a loud “Haah.” High art, he thinks. Lofty ambitions. What now? Who knows? Jazz runs in circles and barks.
Benchere changes his view, stares across the desert. The vegetation in the savannah is a series of yellow-brown stalks that shift with the breeze. The beam turns on the chain, swings in half circles, sends Benchere east where an old school bus can be seen approaching from the distance. The bus is yellow with black lettering and patches of brown rust. A sand cloud rises up from beneath the carriage, creates a tail of gold and white which fans out as the bus comes nearer, parks a few feet from where the others are standing. Benchere watches as fourteen new people climb out of the bus. The driver is a short Motswana in a white t-shirt and brown leather sandals. He appears after the others get out, stretches his back, points up at Benchere and asks Deyna, “Why he do that?”
Harper remains inside the crane. The driver walks over, reaches in, starts the engine, disengages the lock and slowly lowers the chain. “That’s all,” he taps Harper on the shoulder, watches Benchere settle his feet on the sand. For his troubles the driver receives an orange which he takes with him back on the bus.
ROSE OBSERVES THE action below, has the binoculars trained. He calls Benchere’s ride on the center post, “A circus act.”
“It’s elevating.”
“Uplifting for sure.” When the bus reaches camp Rose shifts his view. “How many now?”
“Let’s see,” Stern finds the clipboard and flips through the pages, checks their list. “Added to the others, almost forty.”
“That’s quite the gathering.”
“Nearly an army.”
“Or a platoon.”
“At least.”
Rose says, “Whatever it is, I don’t think they’re tourists.”
“Could be anything.”
“With all these folks.”
“All of them finding their way.”
“Here they are.”
“Here, yes.”
“Welcome to Wonderland,” Stern says.
10.
ON WEDNESDAY TWELVE MORE PEOPLE ARRIVE IN THE desert. Included in the newest group is a genealogist, a professor of semantics, two pipefitters from Jersey, a financial advisor, an ex-ballplayer, ex-senator and ex-minister from the Church of the Holy Wreath. Five are women and seven are men. They come by way of hired drivers and guides, with nylon sleeping bags, some with tents and others without. Seekers and wanderers, secularists and spiritualists, curious and eager, they arrive early and late, ask to be allowed to stay, acclimate themselves as quickly as possible to the rhythms of the camp.
More tents are pitched, the grounds expanding west and south. Adjustments are made. Everyone is active, eager to speak with Benchere, to work as assigned and learn more about the project. The extra supplies Harper brought and planned to sell in village shops are needed now in camp, kept onsite to feed the overrun. Once a week Harper flies to Maun and picks up more staples. The trips are expensive, the need for revenue to replenish stock officially an issue. “You see how it is, Mike?” Dancy Mund comes to Benchere’s tent and insists on discussing the situation.
Benchere stands in front of his tent, sweaty from the day’s work. Bare-chested, his belly still round, his tan line cut across his biceps and base of his neck, his skin covered with the sand and grime from the afternoon’s labor. Mund, in contrast, has done no work. He arrives in beige cotton slacks and a blue silk shirt, his skin and clothes crisp and clean. Benchere rubs at his underarms with his soiled shirt. The current size of the camp is a problem, he concedes. In response, he has formed a committee, has chosen Harper and Naveed, Deyna and Zooie to handle all related issues so he can concentrate on building his sculpture.
Those in camp agree to follow what the committee dictates as long as Benchere remains in charge. This is your project, they say. We have shown up solely because you are here. They are willing to accept what rules the committee imposes if Benchere acknowledges that governing the group is ultimately his responsibility. As a community, they say of Benchere’s rule, we are the beneficiaries of your authority. Your position creates an obligation toward those who rely on you. That Benchere never expected to take on this role or have so many people in camp is irrelevant. You are Benchere, the others remind him, as if somehow he might have forgotten.
To put them at ease Benchere agrees to remain in control. He talks with Kyle on Skype, draws from his expertise as a city planner. Mund envies those in authority, comes to Benchere with additional thoughts on what needs to be done. “A group this size can’t exist on your generosity. If supplies are bought and distributed then people must pay. No free lunch, Mike. Everyone needs to feed the system,” he says this again outside Benchere’s tent.
Despite a deep annoyance with Mund, the practicality of his claim is impossible to dismiss. Supplies are at a premium. Harper is doing endless runs. Those already in camp are expected now to contribute funds. When new people arrive they are issued a surcharge. Benchere explains the situation, lets those who have come unannounced know they are welcome to stay but can’t be fed and sheltered without buying in. Everyone understands and pays what is required. Those who can’t afford the costs to remain linger for a day or two and then disappear.
Mund dabs at his face with a silk cloth and says to Benchere, “I’ve been thinking more, Mike, about our situation. If we’re smart about this, there’s a profit to be made from managing a group this size.” Beyond the day-to-day, Mund proposes a plan where he is put in charge of collecting payments and expanding the organization of the group. “As someone with experience in these matters,” Mund says, “I know how to allocate revenue and distribute it back into the business.”
Benchere takes his soiled shirt and replaces it with a fresh one. Decisively, as is the only way to deal with Mund, he says, “There is no business, Dan. We’re just a bunch of folks making a sculpture.”
“Well I don’t know,” Mund thinks otherwise. “Most
communities have gotten their start on less than this.”
“But there is no start,” Benchere rubs at his hair with his fingertips, gives his scalp a vigorous massage. “And we’re not a community.”
“The others think.”
“It’s just a lazy use of the word,” these exchanges with Mund have a draining effect. Benchere has taken to narrowing the scope of his replies, issuing the same comments over and over in the hope of making them stick. He repeats now, “No community. As soon as we finish, everyone leaves.”
“Yes, well, about that,” Mund continues to have something else in mind, presents once more his proposal to develop the area. As the pitch is old, Benchere turns his back, enters his tent and zips the flap.
BY THE END of the week there are sixty-seven people in camp. Three days later there are seventy-two. Are eighty-five. Are ninety-four.
ZOOIE’S TENT IS set in front of Daimon’s. Daimon’s tent is next to Harper’s, two tents down from Benchere. All the other tents and huts and shelters in camp are arranged nearby. The immediacy creates a cluster. A fishbowl effect. Privacy is out of the question. Zooie and Daimon raise the flaps on their adjacent tents from the inside, remove the stakes and tie the ropes together. Two posts are added to make a navigable passageway between.
Harper kids Benchere about the arrangement. “Whatever happened to good old-fashioned sneaking around?”
Zooie leaves her guitar in its case when not playing, has an extra humidifier to deal with the dryness. The guitar is inside the tent now. Daimon undresses, crawls into their sleeping bags zipped together. Zooie rolls closer, embraced and embraces. Beneath the mosquito netting, beneath a moon outside that glows above the sand, they talk. Every story now is fair game. Daimon explains the scar on his chin, talks of history, of past affairs, of projects completed and others planned. He runs through childhood incidents and familial tales.
Benchere in Wonderland Page 10
