2006 - What is the What (6 page)

—They don’t. Not always, Moses says quietly, still deeply immersed in the task of forming his cow’s horns, long and twisting.—I’ve had these for months. He nods his head to a small group of clay cattle a few feet away, standing crookedly in the dirt.

—But they can break, William K says.

—Not really, Moses says.

—Sure they can. Watch.

And with that, William K steps on one of the cows, crushing it into dust.

—See?

The word is barely out of his mouth when Moses is upon him, punching William K’s head, flailing at him with his thick arms. William K at first is giggling, but his mirth disappears when Moses lands a mighty punch to William K’s eye. William K squeals with pain and frustration, and immediately the tone and tenor of his wrestling changes. In a flurry he is atop Moses and lands three quick blows to Moses’s arms—crossed in front of his face—before I pull him off.

In my dream day our scuffle is interrupted by the sight of a something so bright we all have to squint to see it. We rise slowly from the dirt and walk toward the market. Light shoots from the trunk of a tree in the market, near Bok’s restaurant, and we sleepwalk toward it, our mouths agape. Only as we are upon the source of light we can see that it’s not some second sun but is actually a bicycle, absolutely new, polished to a gleam, magnificent.

Where did it come from? Who owns it? It is easily the most spectacular object in all of Marial Bai. Its pedals are the silver of the stars, its handlebars exquisitely shaped. The color of the frame is different from any color previously seen in town, a mixture of blue and green and white, swirled together as in the deepest part of a river.

Jok notices us admiring the bicycle and comes to bask in the glow.

—Nice bike, right? he says.

Jok Nyibek Arou, the owner of the town’s tailor shop, has just purchased the bicycle from an Arab trader from over the river, in a truck full of very new and impressive objects, most of them mechanically complex—clocks, bed frames made of steel, a teapot with a top that springs open, on its own, when the water is boiling.

—Cost me quite a bit of money, boys. We don’t doubt him for a moment.

—Would you like to see me ride it? he asks.

We nod gravely.

Then Jok gets on the bike, as gingerly as if he were mounting a mule made of glass, and begins to push the pedals with such care that he barely keeps himself vertical. The other men of the market, happy for Jok and jealous of him and also wanting a joke or two at his expense, greet his very slow rides with a string of insults and rhetorical questions. Jok answers each very calmly.

—That as fast as you’re going to go, Jok?

—The bike is new, Joseph. I’m being careful.

—You may break it, Jok. It’s fragile!

—I am getting used to it, Gorial.

Gorial, who does not work, drinks most days and borrows money he cannot repay. No one likes him much, but this day, he makes a point of showing Jok how slow he is going on the color-swirled bicycle. As Jok rides by, Gorial walks the path next to him, indicating that he can easily stroll faster than Jok is riding.

—My two legs are faster than that whole beautiful bicycle, Jok.

—I don’t care. Someday I might ride it faster. Not yet, though.

—I think you’re getting the tires dirty, Jok. Careful!

Jok smiles at Gorial, smiles placidly at all of his spectators, because he has the most beautiful object in Marial Bai and they do not.

When Jok has again parked the bike against the tree, and is admiring it with me and Moses and William K, the talk turns serious. There is debate about the plastic. The bicycle has been delivered covered in plastic, plastic that like a series of transparent socks covers all of the bicycle’s metal tubing. Jok examines the bike, his arms crossed before him.

—It’s a shame that they don’t tell you whether the covering is necessary, he says.

We are afraid to say anything about the plastic, for fear that Jok will send us away.

Jok’s brother, John, the tallest man in Marial Bai, angular and with close-set eyes, approaches.—Of course you take off the plastic, Jok. You take the plastic off of anything. It’s just for the shipping. Let me help you…

—No!

Jok physically restrains his brother.—Just give me a moment to think about this. At this point, Kenyang Luol, younger brother of the chief, is standing with us. He strokes his chin and finally offers his opinion.

—Remove the plastic, and the thing rusts the first time it gets wet. The paint will begin to rub off and eventually will fade in the sun.

This helps Jok decide not to do anything. He decides that he will need more opinions before doing anything. Over the course of the day, William and Moses and I canvass the men in the market, and find that after dozens of consultations, the debate is perfectly split: half insist that the plastic is for shipping only and needs to be removed, while the others assert that the plastic remain on the bicycle, to protect it from all sorts of potential damage.

We report the results of our survey to Jok as he continues to stare down at the bike.

—So why remove it at all? Jok muses aloud.

It seems the most cautious route to take, and Jok is nothing if not a man of caution and deliberation; that is, after all, how he came to be in a financial position to buy the bicycle in the first place.

In the late afternoon, William K and Moses and I lobby for and are granted the right to guard the bicycle from all those who would steal, damage, touch, or even look too long upon it. Jok does not actually ask us to guard it, but when we offer to sit by it and keep it from harm or undue scrutiny, he agrees.

—I can’t pay you boys for this, he admits.—I can just as easily bring it inside, where it would be very safe.

We don’t care about payment. We simply want to sit and stare at the thing, outside Jok’s hut, as the sun sets. And so we sit beside the bike, with the sun to our backs, to better see the bike as it stands on its kickstand next to Jok’s house. We guard the bicycle for the majority of the afternoon, and though Jok and his wife are inside, we barely move from our spot. Initially, we take turns on patrol, circling the compound, holding a stick on one shoulder to imply some kind of weapon, but finally we decide that it is just as well that we all sit under the bike and stare at it.

So we do this, examining every aspect of the machine. It’s far more complex than the other bicycles in the village; it seems to have far more gears, more wires and levers. We debate whether its extravagance will help it go faster, or the weight of it all would slow it down.

TV Boy, you are no doubt thinking that we’re absurdly primitive people, that a village that doesn’t know whether or not to remove the plastic from a bicycle—that such a place would of course be vulnerable to attack, to famine and any other calamity. And there is some truth to this. In some cases we have been slow to adapt. And yes, the world we lived in was an isolated one. There were no TVs there, I should say to you, and I imagine it would not be difficult for you to imagine what this would do to your own brain, needing as it does steady stimulation.

As my dream-day passes into the afternoon, I lean on my sister Amel as she grinds grain. I did this often, because the leaning and its expected result gave me great joy. As she squats I lean against her, my spine to hers.—I can’t work this way, little monkey, she says.

—I can’t get up, I say.—I’m asleep.

She smelled so good. You might not know what it’s like to have a sweet-smelling sister, but it is sublime. So I am lying against her, pretending to sleep, snoring even, when she thrusts herself backward and I’m sent flying.

—Go see Amath, why don’t you? she growls.

Such a good idea! I have certain feelings for Amath. Amath is my sister’s age, far too old for me, but visiting her seems a very good suggestion to me, and in a few minutes, in her family’s compound, I find her. She is sitting alone, winnowing sorghum. She looks exhausted, not only from the work but from having to do it by herself.

When I see her, I cease to breathe properly. The other girls my sister’s age don’t care what I say or what I do. To them I am a boy, an infant, a squirrel. But Amath is different. She listens to me as if I am a man of consequence, as if my words might be important. And she is an uncommonly beautiful girl, with a high forehead and small glittering eyes. When she smiles, she does not show her teeth; she is the only girl I know who smiles this way—and her walk! She walks with a strange bounce, resting longer on the balls of her feet than most, resulting in a happy kind of gait, one I have on occasion tried myself. When I imitate her I feel merrier, too, though it makes my calves sore. On most days, Amath wears a brilliant red dress, with a picture of a milk-white bird upon it, English letters splayed around it like flowers thrown into a river. I know that we can never be married, Amath and I, for with her many desirable features, she will be spoken for by the time I am ready. She is almost of age already and will likely be married within the year. But until then she can be mine. Though I have always been too timid to say much to her, there was one day, in a state of heightened courage or carelessness, I simply walked up to her, and so this becomes part of my best day.

—Achak! How are you, young man? she says, brightening. She often called me young man and when she did I immediately knew what it was, in every way, to be a man. I was very sure I knew.

—I am good, Madam Amath, I say, speaking as formally as possible, which I know from experience will impress Amath.—Can I help you? I have time to help if you need it. If you need help from me in any way…

I know I’m rattling on but cannot help it. I stomp quickly with one foot, wanting to cut my tongue from my mouth. Now I have only to find a way to finish my thought and let it be.

—Can I be your helper in some way? I say.

—You’re such a gentleman, she says, treating me, as she always does, with the utmost seriousness.—You may help me indeed. Can you get me some water? I have to cook soon.

—I’ll get some from the river! I say, my feet already restless, ready to run.

Amath laughs while still concealing her teeth. Did I love her more than any other? Is it possible that I loved her more than anyone in my own family? Often I knew I would choose her over anyone else, even my mother. She confused me, TV Boy.

—No, no, she said.—That’s not necessary. Just…

But already I’m gone. I’m soaring. My grin grows as I run, as I imagine how excited she will be with my speed, the incredible speed with which I will carry out her request, and my grin fades only when I realize, halfway to the river, that I don’t have a container to hold the water.

I alter my course, turning into the marketplace, into the mass of traders and shoppers, weaving through a hundred people so fast they feel only my wind. I fly past the smaller shops, past the men drinking wine on the benches, past the old men playing dominoes, past the restaurants and the Arabs selling clothes and rugs and shoes, past the twins my age, Ahok and Awach Ugieth, two very kind and hard-working girls carrying bundles of kindling on their heads, Hello, Hello, we say, and finally I step into the darkness of my father’s store, completely out of breath.

—What’s the matter? he asks. He is wearing the sunglasses he wears every day, in daylight and most nights. He traded a small goat-calf for the glasses, and so treats them with as much care and reverence as he does his best cow.

—I need a cup, I manage, between gasps.—A big cup. My eyes scan the shop for the proper vessel. It is a large shop for the region, big enough to hold six or seven people, with two walls made of brick and a roof of corrugated steel. There are dozens of objects to choose from, and my eyes race around the shelves like a sparrow caught indoors. Finally I grab a measuring cup from behind the counter.

—At your speed that won’t help you, my father says, his eyes amused.—You’ll spill half of it before you get back to her. How did he know?

—You think I’m blind? my father says, and laughs. My father is known for his sense of humor, for finding a reason to smile during any minor calamity. And his laugh! A belly-laugh that rumbles and shakes his shoulders and stomach and brings tears to the corners of his eyes. Deng Arou can find humor in a flood, people say, and they mean this with great affection. His calm and balanced perspective is one of the reasons, people assume, he is so successful. Not for nothing is he the owner of five hundred head of cattle and three shops.

He reaches to his highest shelf and hands me a small plastic jerry can with a cap atop it.—That should hold everything you need, son. Amath will be very pleased, I bet. Now remember—

I hear nothing else. I am running again through the market, past the goats penned at the edge of the market road, past the old women and their chickens, and onward to the river. I fly by the boys playing soccer, past my Aunt Akol’s compound—I can’t even look her way to see if she is outside—and sprint down the deeply pitted path, the path of hard dirt walled in with the highest grasses.

I make it to the river quicker than I ever have before, and once on the low bluff, I leap past the boys fishing and the women doing their wash, and into the deep middle of the narrow stream.

The women and the boys all look at me like I’ve lost my mind. Have I? Soaked, I smile back at them and immerse my jerry can in the milky brown water. I fill the container, but am not satisfied with the amount of sediment inside. I have to filter it, but I need two containers for that task.

—Can I please borrow your bowl please? I ask one of the washing women. I am amazed at my own courage. I had never spoken to this woman before, who soon I recognize as the wife of the main teacher in the upper school, a man named Dut Majok I know only by reputation. I have heard the wife of Dut Majok was, like him, educated and very quick with her tongue; she could be cruel. She smiles at me, removes the shirts she is washing, and hands the bowl to me. She seems, more than anything else, curious to see what I—this tiny boy, far smaller than you, TV Boy—want with the bowl, my eyes desperate and my jerry can full of the brown river water.