The Sweetest Dream

by Doris Lessing

  She was trying to get an interview with Franklin, not daunted, though she intended to ask him something like, They are saying you own four hotels, five farms, and a forest of hardwoods, which you are illegally cutting down. Is this true? She felt the worm of truth must come wriggling out of the knotholes of concealment. She was equal to him. He was a friend, wasn’t he?

  Though she always boasted of this friendship, in fact she had not seen him for some years. In the matey days of early Liberation she had arrived in Zimlia, telephoned and was invited to meet him, though never alone, because he was with friends, colleagues, secretaries, and on one occasion his wife, a shy woman who merely smiled and never once opened her mouth. Franklin introduced Rose as ‘My best friend when I was in London’. Then, telephoning him from London, or on arrival in Senga, she heard that he was in a meeting. That she, Rose, could be fobbed off with this kind of lie was an insult. And who the hell did he think he was? He should be grateful to the Lennoxes, they had been so good to him. We had been so good to him.

  This time when she telephoned Comrade Minister Franklin’s office, she was amazed to hear him come on the line at once, and a hearty, ‘So, Rose Trimble, long time no see, you are just the person I want to talk to.’

  And so she and Franklin sat together again, this time in a corner of the new Butler’s Hotel lounge, a fancy place designed so that visiting dignitaries should not make unfavourable comparisons between this capital city and any other. Franklin was enormous now, he filled his armchair, and his big face overflowed in chins and shiny black cheeks. His eyes were small, though she remembered them as large, winsome and appealing.

  ‘Now, Rose, we need your help. Only yesterday our Comrade President was saying that we need your help.’

  Professional nous told Rose that this last was like her own ‘Comrade Franklin is a good friend’. Everyone spoke of Comrade Matthew in every other sentence, to invoke or curse him. The words Comrade Matthew must be tinkling and purring through the ether like the signature tune of a popular radio programme.

  ‘Yes, Rose, it is a good thing you are here,’ he said smiling and shooting at her quick suspicious looks.

  They are all paranoid, she had heard from Barry, from Frank, from Bill and from the guests who flowed in and out of the Senga houses in easy colonial–whoa there!–post-colonial manner.

  ‘So, Franklin, you are having problems, I hear?’

  ‘Problems! Our dollar fell again this week. It is a thirtieth of what it was at Liberation. And do you know who is responsible?’ He leaned forward, shaking his plump finger at her. ‘It is the International Community.’

  She had expected to hear, South African agents. ‘But the country is doing so well. I read it only today in The Post.’

  He actually sat energetically up in his chair, to confront her better, supporting his big body on his elbows. ‘Yes, we are a success story. But that is not what our enemies are saying. And that is where you come in.’

  ‘It was only three months ago that I wrote a piece about the Leader.’

  ‘And a fine piece it was, a fine piece.’ He had not read it, she could see. ‘But there are articles appearing that damage the good name of this country and accuse our Comrade President of many things.’

  ‘Franklin, they are saying that you are all very rich, buying up farms, you all own farms and hotels–everything.’

  ‘And who says that? It is a lie.’ He waved his hand about, dispelling the lies, and fell back again. She did not say anything. He peeped at her, raising his head to do it, let it fall back. ‘I’m a poor man,’ he whined. ‘A very poor man. And I have many children. And all my relatives . . . you do understand, I know you do, that in our culture if a man does well then all his relations come and we must keep them and educate all the children.’

  ‘And a very fine culture it is,’ said Rose, who in fact did find this concept heartwarming. Just look at herself! When she had found herself helpless all those years ago, where had her family been? And then the rich son of an exploiting capitalist family had taken advantage of her . . .

  ‘Yes, we are proud of it. Our old people do not die alone in cold nursing homes, and we have no orphans.’

  This Rose knew was not the truth. She had been hearing of the results of AIDS–orphans left destitute, ancient grandmothers bringing up children without parents.

  ‘We want you to write about us. Tell the truth about us. I am asking you to describe what you see here in Zimlia, so that these lies do not spread any further.’ He looked around the elegant hotel lounge, at the smiling waiters in their liveries. ‘You can see for yourself, Rose. Look around you.’

  ‘I saw a list in one of our newspapers. A list of the Ministers and the top civil servants and what you all own. Some own as many as twelve farms.’

  ‘And why should we not own a farm? Am I to be barred from owning land because I am a Minister? And when I retire how shall I live? I must tell you, I would much rather be a simple farmer, living with my family on my own land.’ He frowned. ‘And now there is this drought. Down in the Buvu Valley all my animals have died. The farm is dust. My new borehole dried up.’ Tears ran down his cheeks. ‘It is a terrible thing to see your mombies die. The white farmers are not suffering, they all have dams and boreholes.’

  It was occurring to Rose that here might be a subject. She could write about the drought, which it seemed was afflicting everyone, rain shadows or not, and that meant she would not have to take sides. She didn’t know anything about droughts, but she could always get Frank and Bill to fill her in, and she could cook up something that would not offend the rulers of Zimlia: she did not want to end this profitable connection. No, she could become an ecological warrior . . . these thoughts wandered through her mind as Franklin made a speech about Zimlia’s stand in the forefront of progress and socialist accomplishment, ending with the South African agents and the need for vigilance.

  ‘These South African spies?’

  ‘Yes, spies. That is the right word. They are everywhere. It is they who are responsible for the lies. Our Security people have proof. It is their aim to destabilise Zimlia so that South Africa may take over our country and add it to their evil empire. Did you know how they are attacking Mozambique? Now they are spreading everywhere.’ He peered at her to see what effect he was having. ‘And so you will write some articles for us, in the English newspapers, explaining the truth?’

  He began struggling out of his chair, panting a little. ‘My wife tells me that I should go on a diet, but it is hard when you are seated in front of a good meal–and unfortunately we Ministers have to attend so many functions . . .’

  The moment of parting. Rose was hesitating. A flush of reminiscent warmth for the boy Franklin, for whom she had after all stolen clothes–no, more, taught him how to steal for himself–insisted she should put her arms around him. And if he did embrace her that would count for a lot. But he held out his hand and she took it. ‘No, that’s not the way, Rose. You must use our African handclasp, like this, like this . . .’ and indeed it was inspiring, the handshake that said it was hard to let go of a good friend. ‘And I am waiting to hear good news from you. You will send me copies of your articles. I am waiting for them.’ And he went off to the door of the Lounge where a couple of bulky men were waiting for him–his bodyguards.

  She had told Frank Diddy that she achieved an interview with the Minister Franklin, had seen that he was impressed. Now she described the interview as if it had been an achievement and, more, one up on him, but all he said was, ‘Join the club. Perhaps you’d like to try your hand at one of our little editorials?’

  She decided she did not want to write about the drought, anyone could do that. She needed something . . . in The Post which she was reading with professional contempt at the breakfast table she saw: ‘Police report the theft of equipment from the new hospital in Kwadere. Thousands of dollars’ worth has disappeared. It is suspected that local people are the thieves.’

  Rose’s pulses definitel
y quickened. She showed the item to Frank Diddy, but he shrugged and said, ‘That sort of thing goes on all the time.’

  ‘Where could I find out?’

  ‘Don’t bother, it’s not worth it.’

  Kwadere. Barry had said Sylvia was there. Yes, there was something else. When Andrew came to London this was often announced in the papers: Andrew was News, or at least Global Money was. Last time, months ago, she had rung him, ‘Hi, Andrew, this is Rose Trimble.’

  ‘Hi, Rose.’

  ‘I am working on World Scandals these days.’

  ‘I don’t think my doings would interest World Scandals.’

  But there had been a previous time, some years ago, when he had agreed to meet her for a cup of coffee. Why had he? Her first thought was, guilt, that was it! While she had forgotten she had ever said he had made her pregnant–liars having bad memories–she did know that he owed her. And that meeting reminded her she had once found him so attractive she had not been able to let him go. He was still attractive: that casual elegance, that charm. She told herself it had broken her heart. She had been ready to elevate Andrew into the position of ‘The man I loved best in my life’, but slowly realised that he was warning her. All this smiling waffle was meant to tell her that she must lay off the Lennoxes. Who did he think he was! As a journalist it was her job to tell the truth! Just like that upper-class arrogance! He was trying to subvert the freedom of the Press! The cup of coffee lasted for quite a time, while he ponced about hinting this and that, but she had got out of him news of the family, for one that Sylvia was in Kwadere, she was a doctor. Yes, that was what had been at the back of her mind. Now she had the fact that Sylvia, whom she still hated, was a doctor in Kwadere, where hospital equipment was being stolen. She had found her subject.

  • • •

  Some days after Sylvia and Rebecca had arranged the new books along the walls in Sylvia’s rooms, a group of villagers stood waiting as she emerged to go down to the hospital. A youth came forward, smiling. ‘Doctor Sylvia, please give me a book. Rebecca has told us you have brought us books.’

  ‘I have to go to the hospital now. Come back this evening.’

  How reluctantly they went off, with glances back at Father McGuire’s house, where the new books were calling to them.

  All day she worked with Clever and Zebedee, who had been holding the fort while she was in London. They were so quick, so nimble, and they made her heart ache, because of their potential and what was likely to happen to them. She was thinking–had to think–where in London, no, where in England, or in Europe, are children as hungry for knowledge as these? They had taught themselves to read English off the print on food packets. Both, when they finished work with her, sat at home reading, by candlelight, progressively more difficult books.

  Their father still sat all day drowsing under this tree, one big skeleton hand drooping over a raised knee, which was a bony lump between two lanky bones covered with dry greyish skin. He had had pneumonia several times. He was dying of AIDS.

  At sundown there was a crowd of a hundred waiting outside Father McGuire’s house. He was standing there as she came up from the hospital. ‘And now, my child, it is time, you must do something.’

  She turned to the crowd and said she was going to disappoint them tonight, but she would arrange for the books to be stationed in the village.

  A voice asked: ‘And who will keep them safe for you? They will be stolen.’

  ‘No, no one will steal them. Tomorrow I’ll do it all.’

  She and the priest watched as the again disappointed people wandered off into the darkening bush, through boulders, through grasses, along ways not visible to them, and he said, ‘I sometimes think they see with their feet. And now you will come inside and you will sit down and you will eat and then share your evening with me, and we will listen to the radio. We have the new batteries you brought us.’

  Rebecca was not there in the evenings. She prepared some sort of meal, and left it on plates in the refrigerator, and was in her own home by two in the afternoon. But today she came in while they were eating and said, ‘I have come because I must tell you.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said the priest.

  There was a protocol, apparently never formally agreed to, that Rebecca would not sit at the table with them when she was in her capacity as a servant, and suggestions from Father McGuire that she should had been vetoed, by her: It would not be right. But when she was paying a visit, as now, she sat, and when invited took a biscuit from a plate and laid it down before her: they knew she would take it to her children. Sylvia pushed the plate towards her and Rebecca counted five more biscuits. At their enquiring looks–she had three surviving children–she said she was feeding Zebedee and Clever.

  ‘We must arrange for the books. I have been talking about it with everyone. There is an empty hut–Daniel’s, you know who he was.’

  ‘We buried him last Sunday,’ said the priest.

  ‘Okay. And his children died too before. But no one wants to take that hut now. They say it is unlucky’–she was using their word.

  ‘Daniel died of AIDS, and not because of any nonsense about bad muti.’ Using her word for the n’ganga’s potions.

  Rebecca and the priest had had in their long association many bouts of argument, which he had to win because he was the priest and she was a Christian, but now she smiled, and said ‘Okay’.

  ‘You mean, it isn’t unlucky for books?’

  ‘No, Sylvia, that is true, it is okay for books. And so we will take the shelves and bricks from your room and we will make the shelves in Daniel’s hut, and my Tenderai will look after them.’

  This youth was very sick, with probably only a few months to live: everyone knew he had had a curse put on him.

  Rebecca read in their faces, and said quietly, ‘He is well enough to guard the books. And he can enjoy the books and so he will not be so unhappy.’

  ‘There are not enough books for everyone.’

  ‘Yes, there are enough. Tenderai will make them take a book out for one week, and bring it back. He will cover the books in newspaper. He will make everyone pay . . .’ And, as Sylvia was about to protest, ‘no, just a little bit, perhaps ten cents. Yes, it is nothing, but it is enough to tell everyone the books are expensive and we must all look after them.’

  She got up. She did not look well. Sylvia scolded her that she worked too hard, with her sick children who woke her at night, and she said again now, ‘Rebecca, you work too hard.’

  ‘I am strong, I am like you, Sylvia. I can work well because I am not fat. A fat dog lies in the sun with the flies crawling over it and sleeps but a thin dog is awake and snaps at the flies.’

  The priest laughed. ‘I shall use that for my sermon on Sunday.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Father.’ She made her curtsy to him as taught her at school, due to anyone older. She pressed her thin hands together and smiled at him. Then to Sylvia she said, ‘I’ll get some boys to come and carry your books down to the hut, and the planks and bricks. Put your books on your bed, so they don’t take them too.’

  She went out.

  ‘What a pity Rebecca couldn’t run this poor country instead of the incompetents we’re saddled with.’

  ‘Do we really have to believe that a country gets the government it deserves? I don’t think these poor people deserve their government.’

  Father McGuire nodded, then spoke. ‘Have you thought that perhaps the reason these gross clowns have not had their throats cut is because the povos would like to be in their place, and know they would do the same if they had the chance?’

  Sylvia said, ‘Is that really what you believe?’

  ‘It is not for nothing that we have the prayer, “Lead us not into temptation”. And there is the other, its companion, “Thank you, Lord, for delivering me from evil”.’

  ‘Are you really saying that virtue is merely a question of not being tempted?’

  ‘Ah, virtue, now there’s a word I find it hard
to use.’

  Sylvia, it was clear, was not far off tears, and the priest saw it. He went to a cupboard, returned with two glasses and a bottle of good whisky–she brought it back with her. He poured generously for himself and for her, nodded at her and drank his down.

  Sylvia looked at the golden liquid making patterns in the lamplight, a rich oily swirl that settled into a pond of amber. She took a sip. ‘I have often thought I could become an alcoholic.’

  ‘No, Sylvia, you could not.’

  ‘I understand why in the old days they had sundowners.’

  ‘Why the old days? The Pynes have their sundowners on the dot.’

  ‘When the sun goes down I often think I’d give anything to drink a bottle empty. It’s so sad, when the sun sets.’

  ‘It is the colour in the sky, reminding us of the splendours of the Lord that we are exiled from.’ She was surprised: he did not usually go in for this kind of thing. ‘I have many times wished myself away from Africa but I have only to see the sun go down over those hills and I’d not leave for anything in the world.’

  ‘Another day gone and nothing achieved,’ said Sylvia. ‘Nothing changed.’

  ‘Ah, so you’re a world-changer, after all.’

  This struck into a sensitive area. She thought: Perhaps Johnny’s nonsense got into me and spoiled me. ‘How could one not want to change it?’

  ‘How could one not want it changed? But wanting to change it oneself–no, there’s the devil in that.’

  ‘And who could disagree, after what we have learned?’

  ‘And if you have learned that, then you have done better than most. But it is too potent a dream to let its victims go.’

  ‘Father, when you were a young man, are you telling me that you never had a fit of shouting in the streets and throwing stones at the Brits?’