Red Jacket (9 page)

“You told no one about this?”

“How could I? I was terrified of what they would do if they found I could dream a person to death.”

“And there have been other times?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“I don't know, Father.”

“Call me John, or J.J., if you prefer.”

“I don't know, J.J.”

“So, what happened just now?”

“I was following up on your reflection, thinking of how Africa had been the birthplace of man, how the first heart transplant happened here, how Palestine, Jesus's homeland, is next door. I saw God's finger outstretched to touch the continent the way it stretches out to Adam in the Sistine Chapel. And then … Oh, Jesus!”

“We needn't talk about it now. Perhaps in the morning.”

“But what must I do? Twice I've foreseen frightful things happening to a single person, a person I loved deeply and wished no harm, and they've come true. This was hundreds of people — a desert people, children, the elderly — driven from their homes, terrorized, murdered. And the seizure never came.”

“Some form of illness may yet come, especially if it was as bad as you say. But let's leave it till tomorrow, Jimmy. Sufficient unto the day.”

“But the fit, it's like a warranty. I knew Mapome would die. I was sure the other time too, without a doubt.”

“Your wife?”

Jimmy nods. J.J. pats his knee, as one would calm a child, and then they sit quietly together as night sucks in the day's leftover smells: jollof rice and fried chicken, reminders of supper next door, rotten-sweet mangoes on the ground, billy goats in heat, ripening animal excrement.

“We used the desert fathers'
Lectio Divina
in this retreat, Jimmy, their way of employing the scriptures to talk to God. Maybe we should be more modern.”

“More modern how?”

“Maybe the mystics can help us discern the uses of this gift of yours.”

“Gift?”

“Would you rather it were a curse?”

Father John Goes for a Walk

Father John opines that the Old Testament is full of prescience, and the gospels too. There are many instances of Jesus's knowing beforehand, up to and including his warning that one of his friends is going to betray him. So why assume that intuitions, visions, and premonitions must be from Satan? The director promises that he and Father Erasmus will discuss Jimmy's visions and decide how to proceed. Meantime, he should make his own inquiries of the Deity, who, having bestowed the talent, can be asked what should be done with it.

Jimmy spends the next day in bed with chills and a fever so high he is delirious. Simeon searches him out after he misses Mass, breakfast, and his morning consultation with Father John. After that, the novice master comes to see him, and later Simeon again, with a broth that the cooks promise will make him “new as a just-born babe.” J.J. comes twice as well, but Jimmy is dead to the world both times, for, because of the broth, or his illness, or both, he sleeps all day and far into the next night.

As Father Erasmus tells it afterwards, late in the evening he reminds Father John that they are to meet with the vicar general at seven-thirty the next morning. Though the Very Reverend Nat Nkosi is only making a quick stop en route to Bamako, he'll not be pleased to see the retreat director looking like a Peace Corps volunteer.

“I'll wear my coffle if you wear yours,” Erasmus says he quipped to John, at which they clinked their beer mugs, emptied them, and shambled off to bed.

Next morning Jimmy gets up feeling better and anxious to see J.J., in part to reassure himself that their late-night conversation actually took place. By the time he reaches the refectory, the priest has left on his early morning walk to look for “birdies.” There is a book about Mabuli birds in the library that he's spent a few minutes thumbing through every evening. On the day when they broke silence, he'd favoured the novices with reports of his finds, proud of the coucals, thrushes, fire finches, and kingfishers he'd sighted. He'd startled Jimmy with a superior imitation of the laughing-doves' soft chuckle.

“Me mum again,” he smiled, a little sad. “She could imitate bird and beast.”

Father John sets off for his stroll just after daybreak, clad in his black suit. For a long time afterwards Jimmy blames the vicar general, sure that if J.J. looked more Peace Corps and less priest, things would have gone differently.

The staff find him just off a path in the forest, beheaded and eviscerated.

Three days later the vicar general returns to celebrate a Mass of Thanksgiving for the life of Father John Kelly, S.J., with clergy from the nearest parishes and the Jesuit Superior who comes from Benke. All twelve novices take part in the ceremony. It falls to Jimmy to do the first reading from Revelations.

“And I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and first earth were passed away.” Simeon takes over when Jimmy can't go on. He cries quietly as his friend finishes the passage. His tears pool in his scars, and then overflow the tiny reservoirs. They send the American priest home the day after that. With his family's approval, the seminarians drape his coffin with his kiloli.

The horror isn't that the murdered man is white or a foreigner. It is that he is a guest and a priest, two conditions that tradition says are violated only at great peril. A guest is welcomed and offered hospitality in Mabuli, while a priest is accorded the esteem proper to one who mediates between the divine and human beings. So it is hard to believe that a Mabulian did it. John Kelly's murder seems ordained to make trouble, attract worldwide attention. It is Africa according to foreign TV.

J.J. was a wise, funny priest. Jimmy mourns his death, but he grieves more over what he knows will follow, for there is something else he senses. It shakes him, body, mind, and spirit: he sees the hand of death that took John seizing all of Africa, then reaching across oceans, tearing apart the world.

The Oti convene at an ancient amphitheatre near Kenbara shortly after John Kelly's murder. Of many stone circles in Mabuli, the Kenbara Stone Circle is the most famous, its stelae taller than the tallest man, its keystone “crying” sporadically, its tale one of three great legends in the sung history of the Mabuli Chronicles. Soon after the attack on Elise and Lili's father, it is rumoured that stones in the circle near their village start to walk. The walking is reputed to spread to other stone circles, and finally to Kenbara, but there is no real evidence until November when an article appears in an issue of the
Mabuli Messenger.
It is a feature about the Oti convention.

Mabuli Messenger (English Edition)

November 5, 1976

Kenbara Keystone Cries as the Oti Consider State of the Nation

By Ahmad Kahl

This morning the Oti, Mabuli's priestly federation, and the tribal chiefs from the four major ethnic groups will convene at 10:00 a.m. for a “State of the Nation” meeting, the first in living memory. The meeting takes place at the open amphitheatre near Kenbara, site of the largest of the Mabuli stone circles and the only one traditionally regarded as having chameleon or colour-changing stones.

At sunset last night the newsroom of the
Mabuli Messenger
was inundated with calls and visits from numerous persons reporting that the keystone of the Kenbara Stone Circle had commenced weeping. More startling, several insisted the stones had begun to change colour. The intermittent weeping of the keystone, though unexplained, is widely documented and has for many years been the subject of study by local, African, and foreign anthropologists, geologists, hydrologists, and other scientists. The changing of colour in the keystone as well as other stones is recounted in the Mabuli Chronicles and in many songs and recitations, but there is no written record of such an event.

This reporter visited the site and noted a puddle of water about an inch deep in the concave depression atop the keystone, the receptacle for supplicatory and sacrificial offerings. The keystone also seemed to have a bluish cast to its normally slate-gray hue. However, it would be an exaggeration to say that the keystone had changed colour since it is possible that the unusual presence of water or uncharacteristic optical effects may have produced a persuasive
trompe l'oeil.

Indisputably, between this reporter's first visit at sunset, and the second, early this morning, the entire circle had moved, approximately eight inches, in a clockwise direction, as these before and after photographs show.

Although the organizers have given no official reason for this meeting of the Oti, there have in recent months been unconfirmed reports that imams, diviners, dervishes, marabouts, contemplatives, and priests attached to animist, Sufi, Muslim, Christian, and other communities were urging chiefs and elders to come together for a colloquium, indicating that they themselves planned to meet. Increasing violence, including the recent gruesome murder of visiting priest Father John Jeremiah Kelly, SJ, is no doubt part of their motivation.

It would be surprising therefore if the breakdown of law and order were not high on the meeting's agenda. In the circumstances, the behaviour of the chameleon stone and the ambling of the Kenbara Circle will also very likely receive attention.

A subsequent issue reports that the Kenbara Keystone, having wept to overflowing despite the dryness of the time, turns a deep blue on the morning of the meeting, and cries all through the conference, ceasing only when the Oti depart.

There is a resolution at the end of the meeting, expressed in the form of an old chant, also published in a final report in the
Messenger
. Jimmy frames both articles with a picture of Simeon, J.J., and himself. The collage goes everywhere with him after that.

Discerning of the Oti

The shed blood of a kinsman defiles the clan.

The shed blood of a guest defiles the nation.

If the lion eats his paw, he lames himself.

The lamed lion cannot hunt.

The lamed lion cannot fight.

The lioness is set upon.

The cubs are devoured.

Let the ones with eyes see.

Let the ones with ears hear.

Let the hard-hearted understand.

Jimmy will forever remember every minute of this time. The trinity of deaths — Mapome, Nila, and J.J. — paste the line of his life together so that it becomes like the never-ending surface of a Moebius strip. Thereafter, events meet, join, and let go of each other like waves of the ocean, separate, all of a piece.

Femina Ludens or The Chancellor's Wife

“Mona?”

“Who else it could be, my dear? Nobody else call at eleven-thirty at night.”

“Well, maybe some fellow who discover that the sexiest woman in Washington is alone, so he climb up to her window with hope in both hands …”

“Mark, I've heard a willy called many things, but never hope.”

“A willy? Who said anything about a willy? I said, hope in his hands. It's a metaphor. If he try climbing up to your window with his willy in his hands, he would drop and break his neck!”

“Oh! A metaphor. Well, my husband, it have not a soul here, real or imaginary, with either hope or their willy in their hands. ”

“Don't dismiss hope. You know how many men walking round with only hope in their pants?” Chuckles, listens in vain for Mona's answering laugh.

“I not even bothering with the fact that you say I sound like a fellow! I see you must have slept, since you firing on all cylinders.”

“Did I wake you, Mona love? I'm sorry.”

“I never say that.”

So what's wrong? Ah well! Just press on. “I meant to call as I got in.”

“So you only now reach to the hotel, Mark. What time it is? Don't it's about half-past eleven?”

“Yes. According to my watch, anyway. I reached here at about six-thirty, to be greeted by a pile of papers for council tomorrow. Thought I'd start on them straight off — you know me — took a break and went downstairs to wet my whistle. I guess jet lag hit me when I got back. I lay down to take five and next thing I know, it's middle night.”

“Poor you,” her tone belies the comment.

“So how are things, Mona?”

“Things? Things are fine. Fine as usual.” She's provoking him again.

“You don't sound fine, my darling.”

“You never asked about me. You asked about things.”

He can't recall where he'd read it, some smart ass saying that since man was changing from
homo sapiens
to
homo ludens
, we'd all have to go back to school to learn to play games. All except Mona, that is. He tries to dredge up Mr. Singh's Latin class, recall the word for woman. Ah.
Femina. Femina ludens
.

It's easy to forgive her, though.

“Mark?”

“Sorry, love. Distracted. Thinking about you. Look, seriously, are you okay? You sound like you have flu.”

“Since you now get round to me, yes, Mark, I have a sniffle.”

“So you're in bed?”

“Nope. Lover-boy having gone, I'm disposing of the evidence.” Ah! She's making a little joke, at least. Since Adam's death, he works hard to make her laugh. She'd miscarried three times and when she finally had Adam, it was like Jesus came, except he died like Jesus, only sooner, at six months.

“Mona, you're aggravating, you know.”

“Me, Mark? Aggravating? But is you send the man in through the window!”

Ah! Good! Now she's taking him on. He has counted every jolly exchange between them since Adam's death, which devastated her — him too, but her worse. She had no job to distract her, nothing to occupy her in the days and weeks that followed.

He stops himself. Better pay attention to the conversation.

“What's the Washington weather like, my love?”

“Weather, Mark? You mean temperature and rain and so? It was below freezing this morning. Thirty maybe.”

“So cold? But is only the first week in November! And it wasn't anything near that when I left! No wonder you're sick. You know your mother says rapid changes of temperature cause flu.”

“I never say I have flu, Mark. I say a sniffle: headache, drippy nose, sore throat, general bad feeling. Your commonplace fall-and-winter ailment.”

Testy, like she's pretty much been since Adam's funeral. He'd sent her on a Caribbean cruise with her sister Nora in an attempt to cheer her up. Nora said she'd stared at the sea, cried, barely spoke, hardly ate.

“That don't sound commonplace to me. Anyway, cold or flu, just park yourself in bed.”

“Yes, boss. You know me. Your ‘patient mule.' ”

Who was that? Some poet-type? After the cruise, he'd come home each day to find her, not just in bits and pieces, more like puréed over some poetry book or other. So he'd again dipped into his pocket for a back-to-India trip. He'd been glad to see her trying on saris, jumping to raga as she packed.

“Don't come with your Trini picong. The first time I had a bite to eat in your house, your Ma spent hours telling me about your delicate constitution.”

“No way, Chancellor. My mother listened politely to you talking about yourself and your prospects, even though you were black and she hoped I'd wed a wealthy son of India. Plus, she laid on a lavish spread.”

“Whatever. Just don't take your health and taunt me.”

“Taunt you? Mark, how am I taunting you?”

“I worry when you not a hundred percent, Mona. You enjoy making me feel helpless and without recourse, not so?”

“Husband, whatever things you lack, recourse isn't one of them. But is like you forget I'm flying down day after tomorrow?”

“Sufficient unto the day, or in this case, the day after. Just promise me you will get some rest. And don't yank my chain because I'm too far away to do anything more than beg you to be sensible.”

“Yank your chain? Not me, though if I did, it wouldn't be amiss — a mistress, more like.” A chuckle he's not pleased to hear.

“Mona, I not making any fun with you.”

“By the by, have you met the lady of the moment yet?” The line prickles.

“You mean Dr. Carpenter? No.”

“She's there, though, isn't she?”

When she'd come back from India, she seemed like her old self, and things had gone well for a bit. Recently, though, they seemed rocky once more. In many ways, the instability had been there from the start. Perhaps it was a coolie thing and part of her attraction, as his brother had once suggested. Maybe that was true. Whether it was or not, she'd gone off completely after Adam's death. He'd been a perfect baby, happy, well behaved. Then one morning she had lifted his cold body from the crib.

“SIDS?” she'd raged. “Some cretin pick a word rhyming with kids for a disease that kill children?” She smashed every breakable thing, ripped up her clothes, howled like a lunatic. The hardest part was that he couldn't touch her. If he put out his hand, she flinched. If he tried to kiss her, she turned away. He wondered if she was trying to mash up the marriage as well.