Abebe frowns, does not buy a word. He sees where the conversation is going and shuts Benchere down. “What you make is not truth either, Bencheer,” he says. “What you make means nothing.” To Abebe, art is a luxury, the sort of pretty tapestry purchased for the home when someone has a few extra pennies, and no more representative of the real world than a candy dish or graffiti painted on a rock. “All this is easy for you,” he tells Benchere. “Here you come for a visit. You join causes like a man putting on a pair of socks. You will go home all safe and pleased with yourself and where will we go, Bencheer?” Of the idea to create a sculpture in Kadugli, he says, “How can you make anything true when five minutes ago you didn’t even know if soldiers were near?”
“Bah,” Benchere folds his large arms across his middle and stares back at Abebe. He thinks about his answer, about his decision to leave Abyei and move closer to the fight. He attempts to rationalize it all in terms of Deyna and Marti as the fire crackles with the addition of new sticks.
Harper is still standing with the other men. Benchere talks about Kiir and Kadugli, about using his sculpture to steer the spirit away from unseemly disputes and back to the soul, when Abebe interrupts. His eyes are large with a yellow-white shade hosting the lens. His intelligence is forceful, is ancient, like knowledge before it’s distilled for mass consumption. He says of Benchere’s reference to Ani Risha and Kiir and al-Bashir, “That’s not why you’re here.”
The sun has set behind the hills, leaves the camp in shadows. Abebe shifts his rifle strap across his chest, can see the tension in Benchere’s face, the gravity as Benchere puffs his cheeks and tries to explain again why he’s come to South Sudan. The difficulty and desperation in Benchere’s attempt causes Abebe to look at him differently and with sympathy for the first time. He doesn’t know the details, has no idea about Marti or Deyna or any of the rest, but he has lived his life in Abyei, has seen enough of the look, has witnessed it each time a neighbor is forced to wrestle against his own unspeakable form of loss; how each would rush with eyes wide and wet into battle, his cry wretched, a sound the heart registered before anything else.
Abebe sees the same in Benchere, takes a step closer, gets him to go quiet as he asks, “Why are you really here, Bencheer? Why is it? What has brought you here now?”
18.
STERN COMES FROM HIS CHAIR AND STANDS ATOP THE hill. “Well now,” he says.
ONCE THE LIMOUSINE is gone, Deyna along with the BAA students and several of the others from the main camp go and confront the Munds. Dancy stands again at the head of the table, answers questions, says in reference to the six people who’ve just left, “They were here to help formalize our plan.”
What plan? The others say, There is no plan.
“Of course there is, dears,” Gabriella stands beside her husband. She is wearing a blue and green print sundress, high heels and pearls. Her hair is re-dyed, the orange faded twice now in the sun, the color a yellowish ginger. All the tents in Mund’s group are set on deeded plots. The size of each plot varies depending on what the occupant can afford. The larger plots are toward the rear, their view of the desert unencumbered. A numbering system provides an address. A chart is posted with corresponding names, debts and duties owed to the camp. Mund brokers the deals. The money goes toward bettering the group, Dancy says, though he takes his own cut off the top and does not explain what exactly these promised services include.
The water Mund sips is warm and slightly clouded by the iodine crystals. He speaks about developing the area while the others hoot and shout him down. Not going to happen, they say.
“Of course it is,” Mund appeals to their liberal bent, says of the Africana and what impressed the six officials before, “You need to consider all the jobs we can generate by building a resort.”
What jobs? The others aren’t fooled. You mean for the Africans? But they have their store now. They’re independent entrepreneurs. You want to get rid of that and have them come work for you as what? Cheap labor? Bellhops and maids at your hotel?
“Yes, that. Exactly,” both Munds say. “There’s nothing wrong with being part of the labor force. America was founded on the value of organized work.”
And here you want slaves.
“Hardly. Salaries and benefits and places to live. You progressives,” Dancy says. “You spout your rhetoric, and yet at the first opportunity you look down your nose at maids and bellhops and deny these people any fair chance for steady, risk-free employment.”
That’s not what we’re doing and you know it, the others shout back. Deyna stands with Zooie and Daimon. Mindy accuses Mund of using the Africans as pawns to leverage their support. “It’s exploitation,” she says. “First you want to co-opt Benchere’s sculpture, and now you want to create a feudal labor force and take the African’s store from them.”
“Now that’s a bit harsh don’t you think, dear?” Gabriella scolds.
The skin at the end of Dancy’s nose has dried and peeled. The heat of the desert has had its effect, the weeks of enduring the climate without the most basic of amenities has compromised his temperament, make it more difficult for him to maintain any semblance of cheer. His features are stern and pinched now as he says, “We’re being generous, whether you see it that way or not. We’re offering opportunity against this little business hutch you’ve built. How much money do you think your store will generate long term?”
Plenty.
“And who is going to manage the merchandise if not us?”
Kayla Doure can manage quite well on her own.
Deyna warns Mund against making deals with the people from the limo. “You have no authority.”
“I have all the authority I need.” Dancy wobbles on his bad leg as he says, “If the powers in Botswana want to develop the area, you won’t be able to stop them.”
But they can’t develop here, the others in unison remind Mund that Benchere already has a signed agreement with the regional government, that he has leased the land and owns the rights to his sculpture.
“Please,” Mund finds the comment of little consequence. “This is Africa,” he says. “Even assuming what you say matters, and it doesn’t, how far do you think Benchere’s agreement extends? How far from where we are now do you think the sculpture can be seen? Do you really think if we don’t put a hotel up here someone else won’t a half mile away?”
Heidi in full fury shouts, “That’s crap. If Benchere was here …”
“But he’s not, dear,” Gabriella notes.
“Until he is,” Deyna announces a moratorium on any further conversation.
“What’s that?” Dancy scowls in Deyna’s direction.
“There’s no point in discussing anything further.”
“Is that so?”
“It is so,” Mindy says in support of Deyna.
At this everyone begins to roar. Several men from Mund’s group stand inside the fence listening. The dirt in the compound is a silver sandy tan. Mund tosses his head back and snaps at Deyna. “Has it occurred to you,” he says, “that what I’m being is polite and you are actually little more than a nuisance?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Deyna says.
“Am I? Ridiculous?” Dancy fumes, “Here I’m presenting you with a great opportunity and you treat me as if I just shot your dog.” He moves away from the table, takes to standing on one of the crates, on one leg, like some deformed stork or mad conductor, his arms waving, his face agitated as he points back toward the Africana and says of their store, “It’s ok for you to merchandize the area, but not me, is that it?” He lifts his bad leg, lets his voice slip over completely to contempt and barks, “What is it with you people? I’ve proposed something that is surefire and fair to all and a testament to the free market system, and you tell me that I’m exploitive and to go away. What hypocrisy. How is your treatment of me any different from the fascists you claim to denounce? From Mugabe or al-Bashir or any of the rest? You are depriving me of access to the market on
what grounds?”
Deyna doesn’t answer. Instead she starts walking toward the fence. Everyone else follows. Dancy is still shouting, even louder here. He looks toward the men from his group, gives the others fair warning, insists his plan will move forward regardless and that, “I don’t have to ask you for anything. You can’t stop the natural progression of things. You can’t impose your will when you have no will to impose. Your position of power no longer exists. You can’t block our advance when you have no means to enforce your threat. If you push us, we’ll take what we have to. Are you listening? Do you get it?”
Dancy hops about on the crate, announces firmly his own authority, resorts to the standard instrument for seizing control. The method is timeless as Dancy’s men produce from beneath their shirts that which was removed from the storage shed last night.
IN THE MORNING Benchere and Harper drive with Abebe toward Kadugli. All three sit in the front of the truck. Bako and Jelani have taken the jeep and headed back to Abyei, unable to go further safely. Soldiers appear on patrol and at checkpoints. Twice the truck is stopped. Ani Risha has provided Benchere with forged papers meant to work in Abyei. He is now a contractor for the North’s CBO sent to inspect the area’s needs. Al-Bashir’s signature appears at the bottom of the page. The soldiers turn the paper over and back, can read only so much. Dag brothers, Abebe says as he offers them a cigarette. Ma’a as-salaama, once the soldiers wave them on.
Benchere’s right arm hangs out the window. A few hours ago, inside one of the remaining huts, he sat against the far wall, removed his boots but not his socks. Starlight entered through the slats of the roof, created charcoal shades. The air was an odd scent, a mix of decaying root and smoky sulfur. Abebe, Bako and Jelani settled into a rotation of dozing and guarding the grounds. A breeze blew across the near valley, moved the thatch and passed between the openings in the walls of the hut. Benchere put his nose to the air like a dog to the wind and thought of his earlier conversation with Abebe.
Why are you really here, Bencheer?
Harper was stretched out on the opposite side of the hut, trying to sleep. Leaves and straw were used as a semi-cushion against the dirt floor. Benchere was restive, told Harper what else Abebe said. A man comes to the Sudan for only two reasons. A man comes to the desert because he has lost something. Or a man comes to get lost. Sometimes it is both.
“Can you believe?” Benchere shifted his weight in the dark, supported the small of his back with a handful of straw. Harper listened to the rustle. Occasional gunfire could be heard in the distance. Benchere lit a match, dangerous inside the dry hut. He held it high just the same, could see Harper spread out.
The match burned down to Benchere’s fingers and he dropped it. The sound of his own breathing annoyed him. Harper pictured one of those old Disney cartoons where a mad bull snorted steam through its nose. Benchere held his breath for 30 seconds before he quit and lay down on the straw. He closed his eyes, thought of Deyna on the first day they met, how he had gone to set the stakes for his sculpture and she had asked him, Do you know what you’re doing? There in a nutshell, the universal question. What don’t I? Benchere thought, and then again.
Laid out on his back, he extended his left arm to the side. His fingers searched the empty space as he used to when in bed after Marti died. Maneuvering across the vacant mattress his loss was clear, yet inside the hut everything felt different. The absence and emptiness were open-ended, spoke to him of voids created and voids to fill.
He stretched further, straightened his arm until his hand hit the wall. The contact with something solid got Benchere’s attention. He tested the barrier by pushing back. Everything, Benchere believed, was composed of either resistance or advance. I won’t. I want. I will. Each was connected to one or the other. He considered this, thought of Deyna again, weighed his options, and reaching with his hand rolled tightly, he confronted the firmness of the wall, pushed until the first of the sticks began to bend and slowly gave way.
INSIDE KADUGLI, WITH the fighting moved inland from the border, almost all traffic flows out of the city in search of safer grounds. Abebe drives the truck against the tide, past the shells of remaining buildings and the recent rubble not yet removed from the streets. The roads are also shelled, the souqs burned down, the soldiers ordered by al-Bashir to cut off utilities and supplies. At the soccer stadium soldiers interrogate anyone suspected of supporting the South, the rebels or SPLA – the Sudan People’s Liberation Army. The methodology employed by the soldiers produces tortured screams which the government attempts to drown away by piping Wagner’s Die Walkure through stereo speakers hung in front.
Those who’ve not fled remain in makeshift camps in the center of town. People scavenging approach the truck. They look in back, search for food, find only sheets of metal as the canned goods and rifle are hidden beneath. Disappointed, they step away as Abebe drives off.
After a few more miles Benchere has Abebe stop the truck near a roofless brown building which may or may not have once been a school. An explosion has sent bricks and stone and other materials into the street. Benchere climbs out and begins pulling metals from the back of the truck. The plan is to create a fully realized sculpture in under twelve hours. Whether or not the soldiers will allow Benchere to continue is a separate concern. Arriving now, fresh from his night in the hut, he is excited by the prospect of making art.
He sorts through the metals, checks the propane torch and additional tools. People come and watch Benchere work, unsure at first what he’s doing. Soldiers in the area inspect the scene, report their findings and then move off. Benchere lays out a flat sheet of tin which he hammers then folds and welds to an elongated piece of piping. “What we need,” he says, and asks Harper to find a large cement block from one of the collapsed walls, which will serve as the sculpture’s foundation.
Harper uncovers a usable slab, fastens a rope and gets Abebe to drag it over with the truck. Benchere sits atop the slab, his legs out in front as he uses a hammer and chisel to create a hole in the center of the cement. Once the hole is deep enough he gets Harper and Abebe to help him lift the piping and place it inside. The rod is heavy and awkward to hoist. Two men from the crowd step forward and lend a hand.
Benchere works for several hours. The crowd grows and more people volunteer to help. A woman on a tin drum beats out an accompanying rhythm, while a few of the braver children make a game of dancing close to Benchere then dashing back. Benchere laughs. Harper pretends to give chase. Even Abebe is caught up in the scene. Food appears from somewhere as the sculpture acquires shape. Everyone marvels at Benchere’s skill. He tells the crowd his name, says, “I am Michael Benchere.”
The others repeat as if in song. Benchere. Benchere. Benchere.
Soldiers continue to monitor the crowd throughout the day. The conflict as it stands between North and South, between Dinka and Nubans and the Muslim-dominated Northern soldiers, between tribes and sub-tribes and so on and so on renders the dangers in the city feral. And still more people come out.
Benchere makes use of each piece of metal from the truck. His sculpture evolves in layers, as a maze of angled sheets and strips welded like stalks sprung from a single spore. People bring additional materials and lay them nearby, present them as intimate offerings. Benchere incorporates each of everything he receives.
By dusk more than two hundred people have arrived and occupy the area. A source of light is provided from a neighboring rooftop; how exactly Benchere isn’t sure. He finishes his work just before 10 pm. Exhausted, his sculpture is beautiful. As he steps back people hand him water, bread and slices of dried meat. The woman playing the tin drum has been joined by other musicians and singers. One man strums a homemade guitar. Everyone is festive. The creation of the sculpture is wildly applauded, produces a clear sense of achievement, possibility and promise.
Benchere is pleased, too, feels in the moment relief. Here then, he thinks. The advent of his handiwork has altered his perspective, allows
him to appreciate the intimacy gained from a specific sort of audience. All of his earlier distancing falls away, replaced by the compliment of having so many people gathered in a way that is unlike the crowds at galleries and museums and one-man exhibits where his work has been viewed before.
Harper stands to the side of the sculpture, a blue paper hat someone has given him propped on the back of his head. Abebe is dancing near the tin drum. Benchere, too, in the spirit sways and sings with those in the crowd. All is harmony. Everyone is fearless. Benchere celebrates, is excited to tell Deyna, to tell his students and Zooie.
The sound from the music and dancing is such that everyone is focused on the immediacy of their celebration and no one notices the soldiers at first. Only as the soldiers get out of their jeeps and push through the crowd does the music stop. The crowd scatters while the light from the roof is extinguished and the street goes dark. The soldiers wear green uniforms made of cheap Egyptian cotton. Their helmets are ancient, their faces cold as they rush forward. The crowd flees. Startled, Benchere and Harper remain.
Three of the soldiers move directly to the sculpture and set themselves to work, while the remaining four secure the area. They aim their rifles as Benchere calls out, “Hey now.” When he moves too close one of the guards uses the butt of his rifle to strike him hard on the hip, knocking him down.
Fallen, Benchere anticipates a second blow. Instead, after a minute all the soldiers run back to their jeeps and drive off. Benchere scrambles to his knees, looks toward his sculpture and thinks, Ahh hell. As quickly as he can, he climbs to his feet and rushes for cover. There is in the moment nothing else to do. Watching him from across the street, three of the children who were dancing just moments ago stare at Benchere from behind a half wall, eye him expectantly.
Benchere spots the children and returns their stare. Shit now. Here is the thing about innocence, it knows everything and nothing. Here is the thing. Benchere sighs, Fuck. What a perfect challenge to his new mindfulness. Here he is, after last night, his hand against the wall of the hut, and through then, finally so, a resolution he did not know was coming and is at last prepared for and now what? So much for what Harper said before, that coming to the Sudan was easier than staying in the desert. What would he say to that now?
Benchere in Wonderland Page 19
