Benchere in Wonderland

by Gillis, Steven;

  “Always that.” Stern takes the binoculars from Rose who moves to the computer in order to search for incoming news. The two new sculptures built in Uganda and Somalia have put Stern and Rose on notice. Rose grumbles as Stern reminds him to “Pay up.”

  “Who knew?”

  “Apparently me.”

  Rose reaches into the pocket of his shorts and hands Stern a sweat-damp twenty, suggests another wager. “Double or nothing.”

  “I don’t want to take your money.” Stern tucks the twenty away.

  Rose insists, says in reference to Benchere and the sculptures he’s inspired, “Let’s bet on whether or not he knew.”

  “Our man?”

  “What do you say?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so, or you don’t think so?”

  “I don’t think he had a clue.”

  Rose disagrees, says, “I’ll take that bet.”

  Stern stares down the hill, looks at the latest development as supporters of Mund gather loose bits of wood. “More folly,” Stern says.

  Rose agrees. “Who builds a fence in the desert?”

  “There isn’t enough wood from here to Kalkfontein to finish the job.”

  “Not enough from here to Ghanzi.”

  Those aligned with Mund’s reaction to the Africana, who favor separatism, colonialism, capitalism and imperialism, use sticks and baobab branches to create a visible barricade between themselves and the Africans. “So much trouble and for what?”

  Stern says about the fence, “Who do they expect to keep out?”

  “Sidewinders.”

  “Not even.”

  “They could run the fence a mile in either direction and still the function would fail.”

  “Everything here is uncontainable,” Stern stares through the glasses.

  “It goes on and on.”

  “Like a wild idea.”

  “Like this,” Rose takes the tip of his boot and flicks it through the sand.

  KYLE AND CLOIE inspect the progress of the 16 row houses on Broad Street. Demand for the units has exploded ever since Benchere’s name was publically connected to the project. Kyle dictates the terms of each sale, markets the units as part of a cooperative. He discusses Benchere and the 108 strangers in Africa creating an inter-reliant collective, tells everyone Broad Street is modeled after Benchere’s vision and how South Providence can operate the same.

  On tv and radio, in newspapers and blogs, Kyle talks of a community within the community, advocates the power of mutual sustainability, the idea to create even more cooperatives in the area, to establish social and fiscal unity, transforming the south side into a progressive interdependent troupe. He preaches the gospel of shared obligation, service and deed, of regenerating the economy by localizing the market, buying and selling produce and goods made in-state. “If a cooperative can work in the Kalahari where resources are limited and the consequence of failure more extreme,” Kyle says, “then certainly the same success can be had here.”

  He does not mention Benchere’s troubles with the Munds or his intent to leave the Kalahari shortly, concentrates instead on what has been achieved. Each Broad Street buyer is asked to commit their unit to the whole, is made excited by the prospect. “Think about it,” Cloie paints a picture while Kyle drafts the contract and gets everyone to sign.

  BENCHERE WAKES TO the sound of men assembling the wood fence. The racket is hard to identify at first. He decides not to look, assumes the worst, then curses and dresses and goes outside, walks toward the fence with Jazz. A flock of weaver birds swarm and he looks up. The blue of the sky seems to extend forever. He thinks of Marti, remembers the summer Kyle turned eight and developed a fascination for kites, how he would go to the park with Marti each evening where they would fly their latest box or dragon. The largest kite they built together was a Rokkako; over five feet tall and six feet across, shaped like a stingray, with Tasmanian oak wooden dowels, handcrafted spars and an orange plastic sail.

  For a surprise, late that summer, Marti spent three nights folding multi-colored sheets of crepe paper origami style into hundreds of small butterflies. She then stitched a light cloth pocket to the underside of the Rokkaku and filled it with the foldouts. A thin second string was attached to the top of the pocket and held camouflaged against the main line as Kyle and Marti launched the kite skyward the next night. Benchere and Zooie watched from the side while the kite soared. At its peak, Marti reached above Kyle’s hand and lifted the thin string from the main cord, told Kyle to give it a tug.

  In a cluster first, and then in separate groupings, each of the paper butterflies floated free and filled the sky in a magnificently colored swarm. Kyle cried out, ran back and forth with the kite in tow, following first this group and then another. Zooie, too, dashed across the park, over the grass and between the trees as all the butterflies in painted streams began to fall.

  Benchere remembers this, the swarm and Marti standing in the center of the park, beneath a shower of color, watching her children gather in all that came their way.

  GABRIELLA IS OUTSIDE her tent, unfolding her chair to face away from the morning sun. Her hat is a Kangol Dapper straw cloche, her shorts beige Emilio Pucci, her top a green Fendi. Her book for the morning is Fanny by Erica Jong. She has a plastic decanter filled with tea. Her chair includes a yellow cloth awning that extends from the back out over her seat providing shade.

  Benchere approaches the fence a few feet from where the men are working. Gabriella watches as Benchere sets his hands atop a section of the wood and tests the sturdiness of the construct. A bit of shaking causes the top piece to give way and a portion of the fence collapses. Benchere lets go of the wood and passes through the opening.

  Gabriella turns and sits in her chair, adjusts her hat and the awning overhead, opens her book and sips her tea. When Benchere arrives, she says without looking up, “Was that necessary?”

  “I thought the fence could use a gate.”

  “You misunderstand,” Gabriella replies. “A gate was never intended.”

  The sand around the Mund’s tent has been raked smooth. Dancy appears from inside. He has on yellow shorts and a pale blue polo shirt, Ralph Lauren, with the collar raised. He, too, is in a disapproving mood, recovering still from last night. After the boy ran off, Benchere had taken Dancy aside. Firmly and with no room for debate, he addressed the issue of the guns. “Get rid of them,” Benchere said. “You know the rules.”

  Mund objected, insisted this was Africa and that the group needed protection. Benchere grew more peeved, told Mund it was only by luck one of his men didn’t shoot the boy. “You want to hunt lions, go on a safari,” he said. “You want protection, let me know when you spot trouble. Otherwise I want all the guns locked in storage.” He turned away, refused to say more, had had enough, only Dancy was stubborn as always and continued to argue about the Africans. Insisting things were unstable and that the guns offered security, he said, “Every man has a right to protect himself. We didn’t shoot the boy, but imagine if the situation required.”

  “Say what?”

  “Worst case,” Mund conceded. “But what if it wasn’t just the boy? What if it was the entire group? What if they get hungry? Or cold? Or just plain want something? How are we to keep them from taking whatever they want if you disarm us?”

  Benchere went, “Bah.” In no mood for this, he instructed Mund to “Tell your posse the kitchen’s closed until they turn in their hardware.”

  “But you can’t,” Mund hopped off his bad leg, rocked to the right, angled for a better position and said, “What about this.” He offered a compromise, said, “Come on, Mike. Everything’s a negotiation,” and presented again the idea to construct a hotel. “You help me and I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll take care of the guns, you work with me to commercialize the grounds.”

  Benchere didn’t bite. “Get rid of the guns or I’ll throw you out of camp.”

  Dancy tries again t
his morning. Unlike Gabriella, he manages to treat each new encounter as an opportunity and says, “Hey Mike. I thought I heard you. Listen, about yesterday.”

  Gabriella glares. No subtle gamecock, she refuses to let Dancy start with apology. More blunt than coy, she criticizes Benchere’s handling of the incident and tells him, “You do know letting the boy go only means he’ll be back?”

  “I would hope so, Gabby.”

  “Ahh, dear,” her laugh is disarming, contains decibel jabs, accusing and condemning, mocking and condoling, all rolled together and launched from her chair.

  Dancy intervenes, does not want to get off on the wrong foot again, and resetting the exchange, he calls last night a mix-up. “It’s our fault,” he says. “We’re responsible for the area. We’ve done what you asked with the guns. You can check if you want. It’s all good, Mike. But we need boundaries. In order for people to know where they can and can’t go, we need to make the borders clear.”

  These Munds. Benchere ignores their comments and concentrates on the reason he’s stopped by. “No fence,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  “No fence.”

  “None taken, Mike. No offense. You did what you had to do. But now,” Mund starts in about the tradition of borders, how all states have a vested interest in securing their boundaries and establishing permanent property lines in order to avoid untoward encounters.

  Benchere leans down, puts his nose in front of Dancy’s and repeats, “No fence.”

  “Well, listen Mike.” Dancy takes a tougher stance, accuses Benchere of overstepping his authority, says, “Listen now. We did what you asked. We gave you the guns. Now you want our fence down too, and what are you going to give us in turn?”

  “I’m giving you the chance to stay here. If you don’t like it, leave.”

  “But we’re not going to leave, Mike. No one wants to go. What we want is to work with you and develop the area.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  Mund tries again. “You’re not thinking, Mike,” he says. “A hotel will make us real money. Money matters in the real world. If money doesn’t interest you then give it away. You can take every nickel you earn from here and give it to the Africans if you like. How perfect is that? You think these bushmen are going to care how you got the cash?”

  The argument is old fish. Benchere buys none of it. He imagines his sculpture in the center of some Las Vegas-style resort with swimming pools and blackjack tables, his work turned into a decorative lawn ornament. “If I wanted to develop the area in order to raise money,” he begins then stops, a new thought having occurred to him. Ha now! He paces off again, heads quickly back to his tent where the boy’s knife remains beneath his cot, then marches the rest of the way across the expanse to discuss his idea with the Africana.

  IT TAKES THREE days before the materials Benchere’s ordered to build the storefront for the Africans are delivered. During that time, four additional sculptures appear: one each in Namibia, Chad, Yemen and Egypt. The chant of Bencheer is recorded and played on the nightly news. Reporters treat the story as a spectacle, converge on the camp, attempt to conduct interviews and gather statements. Political analysts speculate as to the purpose and process and how much of everything Benchere has put in place. The price of Benchere’s earlier artwork soars. An endless stream of emails floods his inbox. Twice helicopters fly over with cameras and video lenses visible from below.

  Benchere continues to insist these seven sculptures are an anomaly. “I am not behind this,” he swears. When his students boast of the project’s success and how important it is for them to remain in the desert, he counters their enthusiasm with denial. “Staying is the worst thing you can do,” he says. “Whatever is going on, the sculpture doesn’t need our company.”

  The planks of wood for the storefront are carried from the truck over to the trees, near the Africana. Mund watches, incensed as he calls out, “You can’t seriously be going into business with these desert panyas?”

  Without tents, the Africana remain in the thicket of brush and small baobab trees. Several straw and cloth mats are spread out, a cooking area built around a pit. After returning the knife to the boy, Benchere spoke with Kayla Doure, the matriarch of the group. He was offered sorghum porridge and mopane worms already cooked and dried. He tried the worms, which he expected would please Kayla, told her then about his idea and the reason for his visit. An intelligent woman, Kayla understood at once the benefit of what Benchere was offering.

  Three men from the second group help Deyna and Daimon, Benchere and Zooie unload the wood. Deyna and Benchere are cordial with one another. They have spoken only casually since the night in Benchere’s tent. This sort of avoidance on Benchere’s part is disappointing. Deyna had hoped for more, is tempted to say, Really, Michael? but hesitates. She imagines how things might have gone had she not come to his tent. Eventually she’d return to Colorado where she and Benchere would exchange collegial emails, talk occasionally on the phone, risk certain confessions, agree to meet after enough months have passed. During one such visit they would stumble through a physical experience and resolve it in time as they are slow to do now.

  This or she’d leave and never hear from him again.

  Neither prospect is what she wants. At their age, it seems a waste to treat personal feelings like some grievous affliction. Was she wrong to do as she did? Were there other ways to make Benchere speak with her about his feelings? Should she have been more sensitive to his circumstance? But how much more sensitive could she be than offering to love him?

  When the truck is empty, Dawid drives off. Benchere works with the Africans, Deyna and Zooie, Naveed and Daimon and the Iowa three to build the store. Together they nail the frame, put up the walls and roof. The sun is a coal-white ash cooked behind a gossamer cloud. In the foreground the sculpture rises. Deyna holds the sidewall steady as Benchere hammers. There is a rhythm to their work established during the making of the sculpture. Benchere notices, sees the way Deyna moves, her gloved hands sliding atop the surface of the wood as he rotates around, secures the wall against the frame. In tandem, their effort is silent. Zooie is on the opposite side of the structure with Daimon and Naveed, spots Benchere glancing at Deyna as she keeps her arms extended, gliding against Benchere’s bend and shift.

  Yesterday, before dinner, Zooie and Benchere went and sat in the shade of a single baobab tree. The tree was thick trunked, nearly leafless, with branches high up along the base and spreading out wide. Benchere had his back against the tree, his legs straight in front. Zooie sat beside him, stared out at the sculpture and its hooked metals rising. She elbowed Benchere softly and said just as Deyna, “Look what you’ve done.”

  “I’m glad you came,” Benchere let her know. “You’re good company. And a hell of a worker. Relentless is what you are. You have your mother’s stamina.”

  “It comes from dealing with you.”

  “Ha. Maybe so.” A red ant ran up Benchere’s arm to his wrist. He flicked the insect off. Zooie turned so she was facing Benchere in profile; her legs folded Indian-style with her knees angled out. Jazz moved to find his own spot of shade beneath the baobab, began digging at the sand with his front paws. Benchere checked to make sure he wasn’t chasing a scorpion, felt Zooie place her fingers on his arm. She mentioned the seven sculptures, the arrival of the second group, the BAA students and what trouble the Munds had caused. “It’s all good,” she said, and then she spoke of Daimon.

  If someone had asked her just a few weeks ago what she thought of the world, she said she would have answered in terms of Marti, would have told everyone that she found the universe perfectly horrible and mad. How she came to fall in love when she did, when everything else was still so ridiculously hard, she had no idea.

  She pointed once more toward Benchere’s sculpture and spoke this time of Deyna, described how everyone noticed the way Benchere was with her; attentive and comfortable, catching himself and retreating, coming forward and
backing off. It was impossible not to feel for his resistance. What she wanted was for him to understand, “It’s alright to miss mom. And it’s alright to be happy. I wouldn’t have told you before. I didn’t think so myself for a long time, but really, dad, things happen and it’s ok.”

  Benchere listened only because it was Zooie. When she finished he wiped his hands on his shorts and said, “I appreciate, but not everything that happens is ok.” The sand ants circled and Jazz gave chase. Benchere told Zooie then about the night Deyna came to his tent, spoke of how he lay in the dark, silent against the sound of his name being called. When Deyna joined him on the cot he remained quiet, hoping even though he knew.

  “What did you know, dad?”

  “I knew it wasn’t her.”

  On the roof of the storefront now, as Deyna is lighter and able to climb up through the beams, she moves above Benchere on the ladder as he huffs and hoists and slides the wooden sheets into place. Working in concert, Benchere feels the progression, yet tries to disregard as Deyna finishes. He helps her climb down, her legs slipping into the space between his arms and chest. “There then,” Benchere backs away, dusts off his shirt and rubs twice at his chin. For a moment he thinks to say more, only to leave things where they started, in the pit of his belly.

  Kayla is there, beside Zooie. Both watch Benchere before turning their heads as Jazz barks at the sound of something in the distance. Rose on the hillside shifts his binoculars while Jazz gives chase. What now? Benchere studies Jazz, looks up just as three small planes are crossing the horizon, passing over the hills and coming in to land.

  16.

  ROSE LEANS FROM HIS CHAIR AND HANDS STERN A PIECE of cheese. “Well now,” he says.

  “Look here.”

  “What do you suppose?”

  “If I had to guess.”

  “I’d say it’s not tourists.”

  “Or journalists.” Stern flicks sand from his Gouda. Rose has opened a file for each of the seven additional sculptures, charts the consequence in the pages of his report. Stern finishes his cheese, squints down the hill and the planes now landing. “It’s hot,” he says of the weather.