AFRICA
Jed Bierhaus |
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VISITING AFRICA WAS LIKE SEEING MYSELF FOR THE FIRST TIME.
I mean I'd looked in a mirror before to comb my hair or check my face for zits, but Africa was different. Parts of me that seemed out-of-place in North Carolina seemed perfectly at home in Africa. Like my earring and long hair. Other parts of me that fit North Carolina to a T didn't fit Africa at all. Like my attitude. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad the accident happened. I needed a reality check. And in the tall grasses of the Kalahari Plain, I got one. I had help. From dad. Moses. The Bensons. Charles Dickens. And a leopard.
Dad and I arrived at the Savuti game camp in south Botswana the day before my sixteenth birthday. The Bensons--father and daughter--arrived on my birthday itself. Benson père was old, thin and wispy, as though a Marabou Stork or Hooded Vulture could sweep down on the Land Rover and carry him off. Benson fille was young, thin and wispy, also easily carried off by stork or vulture. Later I would learn they were English, he seventy, she nineteen. They arrived as dad and I were about to leave for our afternoon game drive. We would meet at dinner. How was I to know that two such unlikely people would change my life forever?
When I said this to dad three days later as we flew to Chitabe, he shrugged and said, "Run with it."
"What kind of no-brainer is that?" I asked.
"American," he replied. "I don't speak French."
I guess I expected him to be as changed by what happened the day after my birthday as I was. He'd showed me a side of himself that I was proud of. Now he slipped back into the side that I wasn't. As I write this six months later, I can still taste the disappointment.
Am I making too much of this? Maybe. But reality checks keep you honest. Before Savuti, I wanted to know where I was because where I was was where dad didn't want me to be. I went to a public, not a private school. Hung out at the Y, not the Club. Played soccer, not football. And bought my jeans at Goodwill. I don't want this to sound complicated because it isn't. It's simple, as a matter of fact. My dad's an asshole. I guess most sons think this about their dads. In my case, it's true.
The safari was a bribe. At least, that's the way I looked at it. Dad said it was a chance for us to bond.
"It's a little late for that," I replied, back in January when we started planning the trip.
"Better late than never," he said.
That's the way he talks. In clichés. He's an ophthalmologist. Asheville's finest. Hot Shot Tessier. He loves to name things after himself. He bought a restaurant and named it Tessier's. The guys on my soccer team call me Chef.
"Deal with it," dad said.
Sure, Chad. No prob. That's his name, Chad. I'm Nicholas, named for my grandfather, mom's dad, who was killed in a Civil Rights' demonstration in the 60's. There are many reasons why dad's a stranger to granddad's world, but Number One is money. Dad's heart is wrapped in greenbacks. Not granddad's. His heart was a twenty-four karat valentine. St. Nick of the down-trodden. Poor as a church mouse. At least this is mom's take. Dad says that mom romanticizes her father. Whatever, dad showed me a side of himself in Savuti that I hadn't seen before. Maybe sons have to dis their dads before they can respect them. Or maybe they have to sort them out, keeping what they like, discarding what they don't. Or maybe they just have to have a son of their own before they can understand what a father has to deal with.
I've got two older sisters, Amanda and Caroline. Amanda has two kids. Caroline's a doctor. I'm fourteen years younger than Amanda, twelve than Caroline. The heir apparent. A chip off the old block. Even my sisters see me as little Chad. That's why this English father and daughter intrigued me. They accepted each other as other. How can you command respect if people see you as someone else?
My parents' friends think I'm clean-cut, like they think dad's a hot shot. Their children think I'm square. To be truthful, I'm both. I'm not into singing "kumbaya" around a campfire, but I want to be upfront in my dealings. I don't like pretense. I want the real thing. The problem is the real thing comes packaged in bullshit. It's manure that makes the roses grow.
If you want the real thing, you've got to go after it. This is not to say that you've got to be in someone's face. I'm just saying that if you want to help the downtrodden you'd better know how to deal with the folks who trod them down.
Which brings me back to dad and why I used to dis him. Reason #1: he cheats on mom. How do I know this? I saw him. Three years ago. He denies it, of course. Says that when I saw him and Hot Lips sitting alone in her car, his hand on her face, he was removing a piece of grit from her eye. "Spare me!" I said.
"Grow up!" he replied.
Reason #2: his endless expectations. When will he learn that the expectations I listen to are the ones I have for myself? His don't mean diddly. Still, he cherishes them. Shares them with me again and again. Thinks they'll make a man out of me like they made a man out of him. Listen. He went to Christ School, a boarding school near Asheville, played football. Big jock. Preppy tie. Gold buttons with school crest on his Brooks blazer. Big Man on Campus. Then he tooted off to Duke. Played football. Tie, ditto. Gold buttons, ditto. Blazer, ditto. BMOC, ditto. Like father, like son, right? That's the drill. Ditto city. A photocopy. Think Xerox. I mean aren't sons supposed to imitate their fathers?
Not this one.
So I go to Asheville High and play soccer. Our big game was coming up, and our senior midfielder was sick. My day in the sun. Mom said she'd be there. Dad said he'd be there. Caroline drove home from Duke. We lost, but I played okay. Dad wasn't there.
"I had an emergency," he explained.
"Like what?" I said.
"Like a cataract operation," he said.
"I thought operations happened in the morning," I said.
Dad looked at me over the drink he was pouring. "Emergencies," he said evenly, "happen without warning."
Before I can say, "Give me a break!" a funny thing happened. One of his golf buddies in the practice stopped by to collect a bet. This guy bet dad that he could shoot the ninth hole under par. Dad bet he that couldn't. The guy did. Dad gave him a drink and told him he'd pay him tomorrow.
"Wait a minute!" I said to this doctor buddy. "When did this bet take place?"
"This afternoon," he said.
"During my soccer game?" I asked dad.
When dad didn't say anything, I flipped him the bird and walked out of the room.
At dinner, he played it cool, like nothing had happened. Mom acted a little nervous, though. Like maybe she heard. I thought she was in the kitchen, but she could have been in the dining room. Caroline was on the phone with Tim. She could care less what planet she's on as long as Tim's on it with her. When mom asked if the two of them were planning something she should know about, the spotlight switched off dad and onto Caroline.
A couple of months later at the annual Office Christmas Party, I slammed dad again for his wandering eye. Maybe I thought I was sticking up for mom, or maybe I thought I was declaring independence. Or maybe I was just looking for an excuse to get mad, and Hot Lips--the eye nurse--gave me one.
Anyway, there she was. She was invited, of course. All staff were. Even the janitorial crew. Dad owns the practice and sees himself as good King Wenceslaus dispensing goodies to the faithful. About an hour into the party, Hot Lips waltzes up to me on the arm of a doctor and says, "Hi."
"Hi," I say back to her.
"Remember me?" she says. "Hot Lips." She winks as if to say that she knows that I know and isn't it fun to be in the loop? Dad's doctor friend stands next to her holding his drink, giddy from her perfume.
"I said that in junior high," I say. "I'm in high school now. Let's try something different."
"Like what?" she wants to know.
I shrug. "Slut works."
The next thing I know doc has hurried the lady away, and his son is telling me about the lacrosse team at Princeton. They do this. They do that. It's a blast. Yada. Yada.
When Amanda had her second baby in June, a girl she named Emily after mom, mom flew to Seattle to help, a plan they made in December. In January, dad said to me, "While your mother's in Seattle, let's you and me take a trip. Where do you want to go?" He thought I'd say the beach. It was snowing. The perfect time to think sun, sand, and salt water. But I said Africa.
Dad looked at mom.
"Touché," she said.
Dad shrugged.
I have to hand it to him, we planned the trip together. Never once did he say I don't want to go there. I don't want to do that. This is too expensive. Not enough time. You choose, he said. And I did. The only thing that pissed me off was that he brought along his black bag. Said he was told in med school never to leave home without it. Mr. Hot Shot. BMOC at fifty-six.
We flew to Cape Town and spent a couple of days poking around the Cape before heading to Jo-burg to catch a flight for Livingston. I wanted to see Victoria Falls and Mugabe was making life difficult in Zimbabwe, so we stayed in Zambia at the River Club, a great camp on the Zambezi River. After a couple of days, we crossed into Botswana at Kasane where we boarded a light aircraft for Savuti. The plane flew low enough for us to see herds of elephants plodding through the veldt. The sky, bleached white by the hot sun, made Asheville seem as remote as yesterday's breakfast. We reached Savuti in time for tea before the afternoon game ride. I skipped tea for a shower, as there wouldn't be time before dinner.
Like I said, I've got shoulder length hair, which was still wet when I reached the Land Rover. Late. Dad is always on time. His devotion to punctuality is legendary. I hopped into the Land Rover next to Moses, our driver/guide, and shook his hand, ignoring Dr. Hissy in the back seat. "You're late," dad said.
My anger lasted until the first elephant. Then the size of my world doubled. We saw elephants, lions, zebras, giraffes, hippos, hyenas, impalas, and beautiful birds--the Little Bee-Eater, the Lilac-Breasted Roller, and two kinds of doves: the Cape Turtle and the Red-Eyed. It was then that I discovered what I have since come to regard as a fundamental truth: the encounter we have with nature depends upon the quality we assign to its parts. The next day, I discovered this to be true of people as well, except the encounter we have with people depends on the motives we assign to their actions. If I hadn't made this discovery, I doubt I could believe that a son models himself after his father. Don't get me wrong. To model is not to imitate. The way I look at it, you model excellence; you imitate fashion.
It was at dinner our second night that we met the Bensons. Father Benson, a clergyman in round collar and black suit, sat next to his daughter, Rosemary. His face was narrow and clean-shaven with evenly distributed features. He, too, had long hair, only his was white and longer than mine. He reminded me of Little Nell's grandfather in The Old Curiosity Shop, a novel I had to read in freshmen English. It was kind of sappy, but I liked it. It was Father Benson's hands, however, that caught my attention. The fingers were long and delicate looking. At the accident, I saw him hold a ten pound spot as steady as a prayer book.
If Father Benson reminded me of Little Nell's grandfather, Rosemary reminded me of Little Nell herself. I realize that comparing people to characters is risky. People are works-in-progress, characters fully imagined. Still, if imagination dictates characters, logic dictates people. My teacher said that Dickens was sentimental. Heavy on melodrama, light on irony. Maybe so. But when a writer's vision hits home, as Little Nell's affection for her grandfather hit home to me, something beyond interpretation happens.
Rosemary Benson was pale and blonde with blue veins in her wrists and a temple that pulsed. Her face became luminous when she smiled, as though a switch flipped on in her skull. This luminosity exaggerated her paleness until she seemed almost ethereal. She was also diabetic. And losing her sight.
We were seven that night: the Bensons, ourselves, the Director of the camp, Paul, his wife, Fran, and Moses. We were finishing our soup when the conversation shifted to painted dogs.
"You're aware, aren't you," Paul said to us, "that the proper name for painted dogs is the African Wild Dog? They're ferocious hunters."
"I wish I were wild," Rosemary said. "I shouldn't want to be a crocodile or a hippo, but a wild dog would be lovely because they run in packs. I need company, I'm afraid. Do you need company, Nicholas?" she asked.
Her question caught me off-guard. Do I need company? I asked myself. "No," I said, surprised by my answer. "I need freedom."
"How old are you, Nicholas?" Father Benson asked.
"Sixteen," I said. "Today's my birthday."
During the congratulations that followed, I saw dad nod to Paul who in turn nodded to Moses. Moses got up from the table and returned carrying a bucket with a bottle of champagne. My father stood. "Please join me in a toast," he said. "I have the good fortune to be this young man's father." He raised his glass.
"Ah," I said, believing myself always one step ahead of my father. "Do you have the good fortune to be his model?"
"I try," he said. He raised his glass and drank.
When Paul asked after dinner how I'd like to celebrate my birthday, I replied that I'd like to take a night game drive.
Dad offered to go with me, but I could tell he was tired and said he didn't have to. The Bensons had already retired, so it was just Moses and me. Moses was short and quiet-spoken. His wide, deeply set eyes gave his face depth, his squat nose gave it balance. I don't know his age, but his hair was gray. It looked closely cropped, but he told me he was born this way. "Short hair is a Bushman characteristic," he said. "Like big butts."
I wish I could put into words how it felt to turn off the road and drive across the veldt, through tall grasses and over small mopane or butterfly trees, the moon full and smiling above us. I sat beside Moses, who had one hand on the wheel, the other holding aloft the ten pound spot to make animal eyes shine in the grass. I'd give anything to frame these feelings and hang them on a wall.
That night Moses and I saw genets, wildcats, impalas, hyenas, spring hares, zebras, a jackal and his mate, and, most spectacularly, a leopard pulling its kill onto a tree limb to keep it from the hyenas. We parked to watch.
"Why doesn't the leopard leave the carcass on the ground?" I asked.
"He'd have to guard it," Moses replied. "But he wants to hunt some more."
"How do you know?"
"My father told me."
I couldn't see Moses's face because he kept the spot on the leopard. "How did he know?" I asked.
"His father told him. We're Bushmen. We have to know these things."
His voice was quiet. Not loud like dad's so everyone could hear how smart he is. "Have you told your son this?" I asked.
"Yes. I have one son and four daughters. My father had four sons and one daughter."
"Does that mean something?"
"Everything means something." Moses turned to look at me, but kept the spot on the leopard.
I thought about this before responding. "Yeah, but we don't always know what it is."
"No. We don't. What has your father taught you?"
"Nothing." I watched the leopard.
"What have you asked him to teach you?"
"Not much. I don't like football."
"What do you like?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him studying me. I sat perfectly still, wanting to say something deeply felt, for I understood that I was the student, he the teacher, and the leopard the lesson. "Truth," I said finally, hoping this answer covered all bases.
Moses turned off the spot and looked at me. "English is not my native language," he said. "I taught myself to speak it, then to read it. When I speak English, I see truth differently."
I didn't answer right away. The shadows cast by the full moon were so black they seemed solid. When I did answer, all I could think to say was, "So?"
Moses smiled. "So truth has many faces." He switched the spot back on the leopard. "Look again," he said, "and tell me if my world differs from yours."
Was Moses telling me that all men learn from their fathers? That although cultures differ, human beings don't? Or was he saying that fang and claw governed the world, including his and mine?
Up at 5:30 the next morning. Breakfast at 6:00. Escorted to and from the dining room by a staff member with flashlight and rifle, the rule when it's dark. Morning drive at 6:30. I didn't know it when I climbed into the Land Rover to sit next to Moses, but I was about to take a giant step toward manhood. Behind me sat Rosemary and her father. And behind them sat dad on the third and highest tier, surrounded by camera equipment and his black bag, like the director of the world. I'm not a photographer so I don't have a camera. Take your own picture. Think 'King of the Mountain,' and click.
"Got everything?" Moses asked, turning to look behind him.
"Think so," dad said.
Paul and Fran were standing by the Land Rover to wave us off. "Wait a minute!" Fran cried. "I borrowed the first-aid kit last night for some iodine and forgot to return it." She left to fetch it while Moses got out ponchos in case we got cold.
Fran returned and handed the kit to Moses. She waved. Paul waved. And off we went.
First we drove to the tree where the leopard had hung his carcass. The carcass was there, but the leopard wasn't. As the Bensons and dad hadn't seen a leopard, we waited, hoping he'd return. After twenty minutes, Moses suggested we find him.
It was while we were driving through the veldt that the accident happened. I've explained that although the veldt has roads, Land Rovers are not restricted to them. When driving off-road, we ducked for branches, as it was impossible to pass a branch to the person behind you. Usually, the driver said, "Mind the branch!" as Moses said before he made a sharp left. I ducked. The limb of a Sickle Bush passed over my head, but not over Rosemary's. Whether she didn't hear Moses or was watching a hovering Marico Sunbird, I don't know. But a thorn from the bush sliced open her left eyelid. She screamed and fainted, a trickle of blood slipping down her pale cheek.
Before Moses could stop the Land Rover, dad had Rosemary in his arms. In a calm voice, he began giving orders. Father Benson was to hold the spot above Rosemary's lid so dad could see if the eyeball were cut. I was to open his black bag. Moses was to look in the first-aid kit for lidocaine. "Xylocaine is the brand I use," dad said, as he washed his hands with mineral water. He pulled down Rosemary's lid. Father Benson held the spot with one hand, his daughter's hand with the other. Moses found the lidocaine in the first-aid kit. I found a syringe, the needle and thread in dad's black bag.
"Stand by me," dad said.
I moved to the running board. I handed him the syringe. I threaded the needle. I watched him sew. I thought of Moses tracking leopards with his dad. I handed my dad scissors. Gauze for the patch. Antiseptic. Tape.
"She may have to adjust her insulin," dad said to Father Benson when he finished. "Shock increases adrenaline, and adrenaline antagonizes the effect of insulin. Something to keep in mind."
Father Benson nodded.
We returned to camp.
It's October now. I'm a junior. Advanced chemistry. Honors English. Student Council. Have I changed? Well, sure. When you're not mad all the time, the dots connect. I was an usher in Caroline's wedding. I've changed little Em's diapers. I'm thinking of college. Stanford, maybe. Or Berkeley. Some place where nobody knows me. Manhood, I've discovered, has many faces. Like truth. "Make a truth the whole truth and you've got a lie," Moses said . I don't want to make going West to escape dad the whole truth, but it's one of the faces. Is med school? I don't know. It's certainly something to think about. We read "A Good Man Is Hard to Find" the other day in Honors English. Mr. Anderson lectured on "moments of grace" in O'Connor's fiction.
"What's grace," someone asked.
Mr. Anderson hesitated before answering. "Grace is the ability to change," he said, "and the desire to want to."
I'm not there yet, but I'm running with it.
CC