In turn, Zooie confides. The cram jam of memory runs from then until now. She talks of events large and small, experiments constructive and otherwise. She tells stories about Rayne, about Kyle and Benchere, confides as to the not-quite-faded lettering scratched into her wrist.
Daimon holds her. Stretched out together they sleep. Their nearness feels natural in a way neither has quite experienced before. When they wake there’s a second when separating is hard. Daimon opens the netting, pulls on his shorts and pushes his head outside the tent to inspect the day. Across the grounds, near the field where the sculpture is being assembled, Benchere stands with Deyna and Harper and five new people who weren’t there the night before.
TODAY BENCHERE PLANS to weld the south armature to the far post and center spine. Half the people in camp have come to watch. Benchere passes through them, takes in the progress of his sculpture. He thinks of Marti, thinks of the work at hand, thinks of what he would be doing if he hadn’t come to the desert; how the familiar made manifest what was no longer there.
He quickens his pace, embraces the benefit of losing himself in the moment. Each day reporters come and go. New articles present Benchere in ways that make him a popular target destination. They quote his mantra on creating art for art’s sake and influencing each individual individually. Others write of Benchere’s days as an activist running with Brian Haw, Jody Williams and Chokwe Lumumba. His history attracts debate, causes folks to wonder what he is really doing in Africa.
In South Sudan, Salva Kiir and Riek Machar attempt to keep their new country united as al-Bashir sends more soldiers and air attacks across Abyei and the Nuba Mountains. In South Africa, Libya and the Congo, Zimbabwe, Mozambique and Zaire, Angola and Chad, all the sands of the desert sweep across the same planes, while in his tent late at night Benchere sits and listens closely for the lion’s roar. He closes his eyes and remembers what Marti said about the root of all things and the reason we’re here. Desert winds create their own chaos, send Benchere forward and back, forward and back.
HARPER MANS THE crane, has mastered the levers. He lifts the armature overhead while Benchere walks to the south end of the field, fixes the safety belt to his waist and climbs the scaffolding built around the beam. A pulley system is used to deliver the clamps and welding equipment. The armature itself is huge, measuring more than 100 feet from point to point. Covered with the detailed sheets, the arm is curved in the middle and angled at 30 degrees.
As Benchere welds, Deyna and Zooie work with Naveed and Julie, the BAA students, Linda and the Iowa three to prepare the center beam for where the arm will attach. Scaffolding is built here, too. Pulleys are used for raising the joist clamps. The clamps are painted orange for no particular reason, each large enough to secure the armature firmly to the center post. Once the clamps are lifted, Deyna ties off the rope, mounts the scaffold with Naveed and sets the lock in place. Zooie comes up the opposite side to help. Warm winds circle through the angles and curves of the beam as Daimon stands below and films.
Around noon Benchere finishes the south side, moves to the center beam and climbs up. Welding the armature to the spine requires an extra length of hose running from the oxygen and acetylene tanks. A series of intertwining ropes are employed as a safety harness to support Benchere while he works. The sun has started its slow shift west as Benchere tends the weld. Deyna and Zooie wait at the base of the beam, make sure the oxygen tank and other equipment are operating smoothly.
Halfway through the wind picks up and tangles the hose. The armature turns inside the clamp, causing it to slip away from the center. Benchere curses, attempts to pull the arm closer but the lock is angled underneath and at a position he can’t get to without dropping the rod. Deyna notices and re-climbs the scaffolding. More fluid in her ascent than Benchere, she is able to move along the wooden planks with an agility bordering on grace. One rung down, she untangles the hose, brings a rope through the pulley, shifts the armature back as it needs to be inside the clamp and resets the lock.
Benchere leans in and applies the rod. His mask fogs from the heat. Zooie uses a second pulley to send a face shield up to Deyna who covers her head as Benchere starts to weld. Jazz lays in the shade beside the sculpture, has learned to reserve his energy until evening. Benchere works the seam, seals the metals as a shower of sparks washes over Deyna beneath.
Once the welding is complete, Benchere shuts off the rod. He relaxes his shoulders, lifts his shield and inspects his handiwork. The sun sits behind Deyna as she removes her mask. Benchere looks her way but can’t quite see through the glare of the sun. Back when he first left L/L, Benchere had Marti to help with the welds. Together they wore masks while setting the bronze, brass and copper tubes of Want, Spread, Heart. For a second now he’s confused. He stares down until slowly he realizes. Clumsy, he nearly burns his leg on the heated rod. He leaves the equipment, pulls off his gloves, makes his way down the scaffold in silence. Finding Jazz, he walks from the far side of the field back toward his tent.
HARPER COMES FROM his tent the next morning and walks toward his Maule. Those in camp are used to his flying off. Rather than head north toward Maun however, he goes south, past Tshane and closer to Pomfret. With him are goods he’s managed not to surrender: two crates of Captain Crunch, half a dozen packages of dried fruits, six boxes of cigarettes, assorted chips and nuts. He lands 100 yards outside of Cheo, a village dot on the map with a single store, a few dozen hutches and one dirt path for a road. The ground is a sun-baked hard dry sand, grass tufts, some thorn scrub and hutches.
People stop what they’re doing. Children hurry toward the plane while mothers call out with caution. The store is no more than a wood shed, the shelves a series of planks set out on crates, lined with trinkets and random staples, bins of grain and seed. The village itself appears to exist for no clear reason. Harper suspects there must have been water nearby once, in some ravine or tributary. The only water now sits in a single trough shaded by a canopy. The color of the water is grey-green. Insects buzz just above the surface.
Harper goes into the shop and speaks with the owner. The cost of fuel for his flight makes turning a profit off his limited supplies unlikely, but Harper is stubborn and insists he can still earn a dollar. When he comes out of the shop the sunlight blinds him briefly. He puts his glasses back on, returns to the plane where several of the older boys are waiting to help unload the crates. Sand and dust swirls. The smaller children are coated in it. Without knowing what’s in the boxes, the boys race toward the store. The owner is a heavyset woman in a sleeveless orange cotton dress. She has not come with the others into the field, but stands in the doorway by her shop, imperial in her posture.
The boys deliver the crates of cereal, chips and cigarettes and dry fruits to the hut. Two of the smaller children hold on to the side of Harper’s shorts as he walks. He notices their bare feet, the cracks in their skin, and thinks of the bet he made with Benchere. Easy money, Harper swears again he’s only here to make a profit, is no soft touch and has nothing but pecuniary interests in mind. He shakes hands with the owner of the store, tucks his cash away, waves over his shoulder before flying off.
Halfway to camp he adjusts his navigation, curses differently then groans, gives himself the sort of yeah yeah he has coming. He veers east, goes to Pomfret where he purchases as many gallons of water as his Maule will carry. This time when he lands in the field outside the village everyone hurries toward the plane. Harper says Hallo and has them unload the water. He leaves as soon as they are done, heads north again. His wallet is empty from the purchase. He will not tell Benchere.
11.
ROSE SITS, BINOCULARS IN HAND, WATCHING BELOW. Stern is behind, doing deep knee bends and a few pushups to get the blood flowing. He says as he finishes a set, “Damn hot.”
“It’s the climate.”
“Comes with the territory.”
“Pre-conditioned.”
“Longitudinally speaking.” Stern stops and looks down the hil
l, says to Rose in relation to the heat, “A crowd like that creates friction.”
“Can’t help.”
“All pressed in.”
“Shoulder to shoulder.”
“It seems the seams are near to busting.”
“One might say.”
“I just did.”
“The way it goes.”
“It does go.”
Rose holds the binoculars steady, stares directly into camp and croons, “Every picture tells a story.”
“Don’t it?”
ZOOIE FINDS DEYNA out beneath the southern beam of the sculpture. She is sitting in the shade, reading The Essential Ellen Willis and drinking filtered water from a tin cup. Zooie has her guitar. Deyna faces the hills, her back against the beam. A hundred yards in front of where Zooie sits is a small patch of acacia. The music Zooie plays is faint at first, a gentle picking that moves inside the breeze. Deyna almost doesn’t notice, so perfectly is the music knitted to the other desert sounds, but then Zooie’s playing takes over, becomes more assertive. All other sounds slide into the background, provide a supportive refrain while Zooie’s playing rises above the desert and carries the moment. Deyna smiles and goes on with her reading.
THERE ARE NOW 108 people in camp. Tents and shelters for the main group extend 200 yards back. Additional trenches have been dug, a second area cleared for cooking and washing. Given the size of the group, keeping everyone satisfied is its own chore. Those who fail to exhibit specific skills for working on the sculpture are left to perform mundane tasks: taking care of the trash and food, washing clothes and cleaning tools, policing the general area.
Throughout the day, people assemble idly and discuss the weather, politics and sports. Books are shared, ideas and meditations. Theories are invented as to why Benchere is here. They talk of Marti’s trips to Africa, gossip about Benchere’s days demonstrating on behalf of Oliver Tambo, Pieter Wilem Botha, George Bizos and the Groote Schuur Minute. Bored, they stare at the sculpture, squabble and raise complaints, want to know, When is something going to happen?
Supplies are brought in now by both plane and truck; bags of wheat and oats, canned beans, fruits and water. The trash is burned or buried to reduce the risk of attracting desert beasts. Papers and bloggers post new stories suggesting Benchere is building a permanent settlement in the Kalahari; a collaborative colony to further commemorate his sculpture. Benchere denies the claim, accuses Mund of planting misinformation.
Dancy wears crisply pleated Bermuda shorts, deep blue, with a paisley shirt and open-toed sandals. He comes again to Benchere’s tent, stands off his shoulder, too short to hover, cramping the space just the same. For ten days now he’s pitched his plan to commercialize the area. His appeal includes power points, promises and projections. Benchere rejects all. Tonight Mund tries a different strategy, attempts to gain support by advocating the needs of the group.
“The way I see things, Mike, people are restless because they feel undervalued. No effort’s been made to address internal concerns. A group this size needs to operate by consensus. Permanent or not, size matters.” Mund laughs at this, comes close to giving Benchere an elbow then thinks better, leans to his right and asserts, “Your committee worked well when we were small, but the responsibilities are too important now to appoint positions ad hoc. What we need is a general election with committee spots decided by a majority vote.”
Benchere moves to the basin outside his tent where he washes his face. He uses a brown towel turned stiff by the sun to dry off. Mund’s appeal for leverage camouflaged as a grassroots movement rankles. The idea to wrestle control of the project by disguising the coup as a call for democracy causes Benchere to tell Mund, “Be careful what you wish for, Dan. A vote could send you packing.”
A group gathers near the tent, lined up like a supporting chorus. They listen to the conversation, echo Mund’s sentiment and argue for representation. “Now that there are so many of us we should have a say.”
Benchere scoffs, “A say in what?”
“A say in how we get on.”
“How do you get on?” Benchere can’t quite believe. “Your food and protection’s provided, your supplies flown in.”
“All of which we pay for.”
“Sure you do. Why shouldn’t you? I’m not your dad.”
Here again the others insist, “We should have a voice in how our money’s spent and the way we’re governed.”
“What govern?” Benchere finds the whole suggestion absurd. “We’re building a sculpture not forming a state. I’ve agreed to feed you while you’re here. If you’re unhappy let me know and I’ll return your cash and you can take off.”
Mund’s features are porcelain, his eyebrows sharp lines groomed so that when he creases his forehead and replies his brow appears as two deep slits. “Now Mike,” he says and lifts his shoulders, tries to calm the tide, attempts to answer for the others. “We appreciate what you’ve done. Truly we do. You’ve handled everything like a prince. All we’re asking for is more input into how our money’s allocated.”
“It’s allocated to keep you from starving.”
“But it’s unfair treating everyone the same,” the group is determined to press the point. “Your way is collectivism. It’s communism. We pay in and the committee controls all disbursement.”
“That’s right. The committee’s in charge of feeding you and buying supplies.” He’s had enough. His volume draws more people to the tent, including Harper and Linda and Deyna. The chorus continues to chirp about injustice while Benchere shouts over them, “You all pay the same and you all get the same. How is that unfair?”
“It’s unfair because we’re not all the same and we all don’t want the same.”
“Hell,” by this point Benchere has started to walk away. He heads in the direction of the common area for something to eat. Mund hurries after him as do the others. Jazz cuts through the crowd, while still more people follow. “Pooling funds to purchase supplies for mass distribution is socialism,” those in dissent have their lines rehearsed. References are made to the state of nature and state of man, social contracts, Rousseau and Locke, the Han Dynasty, the Ottoman State and the authoritarian transition. As for the camp itself, they say, “This is not how to run a free community.”
Benchere in full stride replies, “I’ll keep that in mind should I ever want to run one.”
Mund heaves himself forward, attempts to keep up, calls for Benchere to “Wait,” and begins discussing a plan for improved economic policy.
“Christ,” Benchere makes a quick motion with his hand. The sun is just over the top of the tents. Those assigned to prepare dinner have a fire going, are cooking potatoes, toast and rice and strips of dried beef. Everyone stops as Benchere does. Some in the rear collide with the person in front as Benchere turns and says, “The only economic policy at play here, Dan, is a pay-to-stay system. If you want to eat, you pay your share.”
“Of course. But what if we expand the concept a bit?” Mund goes, “What if we improve the way we do business?”
“We don’t do business, Dan.”
“Which is my point. What if we could buy and trade among ourselves?”
“Buy and trade what? Your dinners and shoelaces?”
“For starters.”
“Bah,” Benchere grabs up a piece of toast and bites through the crust, waves the uneaten half through the air. “You’re talking through your hat,” he breaks off a piece of toast and gives it to Jazz. “Everyone’s needs are taken care of.”
“But you’re forgetting the free market system,” Mund says.
“The free market has no application here,” Benchere eats the rest of the toast. “If you want freedom, go fend for yourself.”
“Now Mike,” Mund laughs, less comfortably this time. “You know that isn’t what we mean.”
“No? What do you mean, Dan? A minute ago you were angling to rally the vote. Now you want to replace democracy with capitalism.”
�
�Not replace, Mike,” Mund leans off his bad leg. “What I’m saying, what we’re saying is if you have capitalism you will have democracy. The market is the great equalizer. Allowing people to sell and trade their goods and services and the land they occupy in the secondary market will give everyone a sense of ownership and belonging.”
“Wait now.” Benchere makes Mund stop. “Did you say land?”
“Where the tents are. The plots we occupy.”
“But you don’t own the land there, Dan. I provide you with the space. You can’t sell what’s not yours.”
“Alright,” Mund rephrases his suggestion. “Let’s call it a transfer of the lease then. For profit.”
Benchere sends both his arms skyward, his exasperation on high alert. “What lease? You want to transfer property I never charged you a nickel for and get paid in turn? That’s a sweet deal.”
“Your placement of the tents is arbitrary,” Mund tries this. “You’ve handed out plots as people arrived. Trading our positions would allow us to feel we have a more vested interest in the community.”
“But we’re not a community, Dan,” Benchere refuses to consider, marches over to the beef. All this chatter, he gives a look at the others, reminds them, “You don’t have a vested interest. You’re transient. You’re barely guests. You can’t sell what I’ve let you borrow.”
Mund corrects again, “Not sell. Transfer.”
“For a fee,” Benchere looks at Harper, looks at Deyna and Zooie, looks at Daimon holding the camera and getting all of this down. At the core of what Mund is saying, Benchere knows, is a ploy to gain further cooperation from the group. Once achieved, Mund will attempt to put a quorum together, demand a vote and maximize his newfound majority to push through plans to develop the area. Benchere lays all this out, leaves everything exposed as he charges Mund with gamesmanship and maneuvering the group toward mutiny.
Benchere in Wonderland Page 11
