A House Like a Lotus

by Madeleine L'engle

  I took the master key and made up the beds in three more rooms. Even though I opened the windows, I was still streaming with sweat, so I went back to my room and sat at the desk to record meeting Virginia Bowen Porcher in my journal for Miss Zeloski.

  For Miss Zeloski? Max. Even though Max would never read it, the journal was also for Max.

  Because of Max’s insight into someone she’d never even met, I was able to see Miss Zeloski as someone who hadn’t had many breaks in life, someone who’d wanted a family, and children, and instead lived alone. Or, as I found out when Max prodded me, not alone but with an elderly father she supported and cared for. She was intelligent, and she’d probably have been a good college English teacher, but here she was, stuck in Cowpertown because of her father, teaching a lot of kids who weren’t particularly interested in all she had to give. I hadn’t been, until Max opened my eyes. I’d been as bad as the rest.

  Here, in Osia Theola, I was on my own, making up my own mind about the people I was meeting, and learning that making up my own mind, just me, Polly, wasn’t even possible. As I tried to describe Virginia Porcher to Miss Zeloski, I was seeing not only through my own eyes but through Max’s, and through Miss Zeloski’s. And that was all right, too, because it gave an added dimension to what I was writing.

  Left completely to myself, how much would I have noticed beyond the fact that Virginia Porcher had red hair? Would I have seen the kindness with which she drew me out of the nightmare?

  But I didn’t write about the nightmare, the Laughing Christ falling, falling.

  I described the papers on Virginia Porcher’s bed, and the small typewriter on the desk, with a pile of manuscripts beside it. I wished I’d dared ask her if she was working on a new novel.

  I told Miss Zeloski she probably was, and that what struck me most was how natural she was, not a bit a prima donna, but as simple as her own work. As deceptively simple?

  Norine Fong Mar called for me a little before five, as promised. “Okeydokey, time to go.” She wore, now, a long yellow cotton print dress with a Chinese collar, the skirt slit, with braid at the sides, and looked far more exotic than when I had first met her.

  The meeting was in the golden stone building by the monastery gates. We gathered in a sizable room on the second floor, where Krhis was already sitting by a table, with Virginia Porcher next to him. She smiled at me and patted the chair by hers.

  “Vee tells me the two of you had a good talk,” Krhis said.

  “Yes. She showed me the schedule and helped fill me in.” She had done far more than that, but I was embarrassed to say, “She was wonderful.” Could I let her be wonderful, and human, too?

  “Good.” On the table by him was a pile of blue folders, and Norine handed me one.

  “Here you are. One of our delegates is already here, Omio Heno from Baki. There are only two days a week when he can fly out, so he will be with us this weekend.”

  “I’m not sure where Baki is,” I said.

  Krhis answered, “It’s one of those numerous islands north of Australia. It used to belong to Australia, and there are still many Britishers there in supervisory positions. Omio is in his mid-twenties, and very talented.”

  Norine added, “His English is considerably better than that of many of the delegates, and he devours books as we send them to him. He works in adult education, not an easy job, as the level of literacy is still very low on Baki.”

  Virginia Porcher suggested, “Perhaps the Australians wanted to keep it low. Educate them, and they’ll cause trouble?”

  Krhis smiled, shaking his head. “That’s too facile. However, Omio got into considerable difficulty all round when he insisted that the native women be allowed to learn to read and write. He ran into walls of prejudice, but he finally got his coeducational classes. When Omio sees something as right, he won’t stop till he gets it. He’s quite a lad.” He paused as we heard heavy footsteps, and a large, dark-skinned woman came in. Krhis and Norine rose to greet her, and she kissed them both, then came to shake hands with Virginia Porcher and me.

  Krhis introduced us. “Milcah Adah Xenda is our storytelling expert. Millie, Vee is our writing-workshop leader.”

  The large woman—wide, rather than tall—smiled. “Yes, I know Mrs. Porcher’s work.” She spoke with an accent which was partly guttural, partly French. I couldn’t place it. “We’re lucky to have you.”

  “Thanks, I’m lucky to be here. And I’m Vee, please.”

  “At home in Cameroon, in the college where I teach, I’m called M.A.,” Milcah Adah Xenda said. “Krhis calls me Millie, and I like that.”

  “Millie, then,” Virginia Porcher said.

  M.A. How ironic. I was glad we were going to call her Millie. I did not need to be reminded of Minerva Allaire.

  Milcah Adah’s handclasp was firm and dry, despite the heat. When she sat down, the chair creaked under her, but she exuded calm and comfort. She wore a loose cotton shift, and space shoes.

  “Polly is going to help Vee in her workshop,” Krhis said, “be with Norine in the office, and do all kinds of odd jobs. If you need special errands run, that’s one of the things Polly is here for.”

  “I’m not much for running myself.” Millie bathed me with her smile, which was not a quick flash but a slow spreading of appreciation.

  I decided that I’d be happy to run anywhere for Milcah Adah Xenda, and that I would like to be young enough to climb in her lap. The fact that she came from Cameroon explained her accent; Cameroon used to be French. I liked her voice, which had a deep quality to it, like the night sky at home at Benne Seed when it is warm and the stars are blurred.

  We heard more feet on the stairs, and two people came into the room. One was a woman, black, though a darker, more purply black than Millie, and tall, much taller than I am. She wore a loose robe of brown with a pattern in rust and black, and a turban, which made her seem even taller than she was, and she looked formidable.

  Behind her came a man who surprised me simply because he looked so ordinary, like my father, or my uncles, or anybody I might meet at home. He had brownish hair with a touch of mahogany, not red, just warm, and nice eyes; they reminded me of Sandy’s.

  Krhis made the introductions. The immensely tall woman was Bashemath Odega and she came from Kenya. It was easy to think of Milcah Adah as Millie; but I couldn’t conceive of giving Bashemath any kind of nickname.

  Millie said, glancing at her folder, “You’re the expert in childhood education?”

  “That sounds very impressive,” Bashemath said. “It’s what I teach, and what I care about.”

  “And this is Frank Rowan,” Krhis continued. “He’s the publisher of a small educational press in Istanbul, and he will give the delegates hints on starting their own presses—difficult, but not impossible.”

  Bashemath Odega and Frank Rowan evidently knew each other, because Bashemath said, “We’re running a small independent press, thanks to Frank. We’re constantly on the edge of bankruptcy, but that’s not Frank’s fault.” Her voice was deep, more guttural than Millie’s.

  Krhis introduced me as a colleague, not just a kid who’d been given a chance to be a gofer. Everybody was on a first-name basis, as Virginia Porcher had said, and I understood I’d have to get over my hesitancy. Would I ever feel really comfortable calling Virginia Porcher Vee? But already I felt so close to her that Mrs. or Madame Porcher sounded not only formal but unfriendly.

  Krhis called the meeting to order. I liked him. I trusted him, though I tried to remind myself that trusting people is dangerous. I watched him, with his coffee-colored skin and dark, grieving eyes, but no self-pity in the lines that moved downward, and I knew that Max loved him, and that he loved Max, and that there was a lot about human relations I didn’t understand, and that maybe I was going to have to move through a lot of time before I was going to be able to understand.

  Millie kept wiping her face with a large handkerchief. Bashemath fanned herself regally, with an odd-looking fan
of ivory and feathers. Frank Rowan kept pushing his spectacles back up his nose, a gesture which reminded me of nearsighted Renny. If it had not been for the sea breeze coming in the arched windows, the heat would have been unbearable. The walls of the room were the same sun-soaked stone that was found almost everywhere in the old part of the monastery grounds.

  Krhis discussed the schedule and explained that he would like us all to be at all the workshops, to encourage and support the delegates. “Your presence is important to the morale of the group.” Then he smiled and told us that it was nearly time for supper, and that there would be fresh lemonade in the cloister while we waited for the meal.

  Norine whispered to me, “Wait just a minute, Polly. I’d like to take you down to the office and show you how to use the mimeo machine. Vee and Bashemath both have some things they’d like you to run off.”

  Krhis and Millie went out together, followed by Virginia Porcher. Bashemath turned to Frank and I heard her mutter in a dark whisper, “If Krhis throws one of his ecumenical religious services, he can count me out. I’m here for early-childhood education. Period.”

  I couldn’t hear Frank’s murmured response because Norine was buzzing, “Fresh lemonade is even more of a treat here than wine. It’s not the lemons—there are plenty of those—but the bottled water which is an expensive luxury.” Then she called to Frank and Bashemath, “Be careful of the steps, okeydokey? They’ve been worn down through the centuries, and they’re slanting and slippery.”

  “Right-o,” Frank called back, and I noticed that he was limping.

  I followed Norine down the steps and into the office, which was a small room on the first floor.

  “Do you know how to type?” she asked.

  “I’m slow, but I can do it if I take enough time.”

  “Have you ever typed a stencil?” She handed me a sheet of purply, carbon-like paper.

  “No. We have a photocopy machine at school.”

  “You Americans take for granted a lot of luxuries the rest of the world can’t even contemplate. When you type a stencil you have to be careful, because you can’t correct mistakes. Here’s some stuff Vee would like to hand around to the delegates. You don’t have to run it off now. There isn’t time before dinner. Tomorrow morning, okeydokey?”

  “Sure.” Then I asked, “Why does Frank limp?”

  “He lost a leg a few years ago. He and his wife were taking their children to the United States so they could go to high school there, and as they were driving to New York to fly back to Turkey, they were in a terrible automobile accident, and his wife was killed, and Frank lost a leg.”

  “How awful.”

  “Funny games fate plays,” Norine said. “Frank’s spent most of his life in the tinderbox of the Middle East, but tragedy hits him when it’s least expected, in the safe United States. His children are in college now. The eldest graduates next year.”

  So Frank was probably a little older than my parents —but I’m not good about chronology.

  Norine showed me how to work the mimeo machine, once I’d done the stencil. “How are you coming on the beds?” she asked me.

  “I’ve done quite a few.”

  “The staff members have already done theirs, of course. You can tell the staff rooms because the names are on the doors.” She pulled a tissue from a box on her desk and wiped her forehead. “Lemonade?”

  “I’m ready,” I said. I was parched. I followed her out of the hotbox of the office. Across the compound a breeze was blowing from the sea.

  In the cloister a table was covered with a blue-and-white cloth. It was on the Mediterranean side of the long walkway, where open arches gave onto vistas of the village and the sea. A young man stood by a small table on which there was a large pitcher and a tray of glasses.

  “I bear refreshment for your thirst on this island, which is welcoming us as warmly as my island of Baki. I am Omio Heno.” His voice was warm and rhythmic, his speech slightly overprecise. He poured me some lemonade.

  Omio turned to me. “Krhis wrote me you would be here, all the way from the United States, and so young.”

  Don’t rub it in, I thought. I took the glass he handed me. “I’m nearly seventeen.” He looked very young himself. Mid-twenties, Krhis had said. Like Renny.

  He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. His skin was so dark that it was a surprise when light brought out copper glints. His palms were pale pink, and so were the soles of his feet, showing a rim of pink between foot and sandal. His hair was fine and black, curling softly. He moved like a dancer, and Norine (who was to become my great source of information) told me later that one of the special pleasures I had to look forward to was Omio performing some of the traditional Bakian dances.

  “And blue eyes so beautiful,” he said, “like the first blue of sky after sunrise on a fine day.”

  I could feel the telltale blush. I had been given more cause to blush since I flew to Athens than in all the time on Benne Seed Island and at Cowpertown High. “Thank you.” And then, “How long did it take you to get here?”

  His smile widened into even more brightness. It was the kind of smile some people might have used to show off, but with Omio it seemed pure, spontaneous delight. Now he burst into a laugh and pointed at his wristwatch. “Time got changed on me so many times, lo back, lo forth, I don’t know how long it has taken. A jeep, a bus, a train, four planes, two buses, and here I am.”

  I smiled back. “You speak very good English.”

  “I spent a year in London working with Krhis. I was given a scholarship and lo, I learned more than in the rest of my life, though we have many English-speaking people on Baki, more, almost, than Bakians. I learned also in London that I do not like English weather and that Baki is my home, and although we Bakians are thought of as primitive, we also have old wisdom. I work hard to teach people to read, to write, and most importantly to think, so that we will know how to hold on to the old wisdom, and not let it degenerate into superstition. I am writing down the stories of my people, how the world began and is held up on the spout of a great whale.”

  “I’d love to see what you’ve written.”

  His smile shone again. “One day, then, I will show you.” (When we know each other a little better, I thought the ‘one day’ meant.)

  Krhis called us to the table and we stood around it holding hands the way we do at home. Holding hands around the table is the best way to keep the little kids quiet, but there’s more to it than that, and I liked holding Virginia Porcher’s hand on my right, Omio’s on my left.

  Krhis suggested, “Saranam?”

  I did not know what he meant, and evidently neither did Virginia Porcher, but the others lifted up their voices to sing in beautiful harmony.

  Receive our thanks for night and day,

  For food and shelter, rest and play,

  Be here our guest, and with us stay,

  Saranam, saranam, saranam.

  It was beautiful. Two Cypriote women standing in the background beamed and nodded appreciation.

  We pulled out our chairs and sat down. There was a big pitcher of water on the table, and another of red wine. Krhis poured some of the wine into his glass, then filled it with water. “I’m afraid the wine is rather rough, and the water is salty. Mixed together, they are quite potable.” He took out a large white handkerchief and patted his brow, although he did not look hot. “This is an unusual heat wave. And I have become acclimated to England.”

  Omio smiled at him. “In England I froze, lo, into the very marrow. This is like home.”

  Norine passed around a basket of bread. “You may find this a little sour, but it is baked fresh every day and is very good. They do not serve butter except at breakfast, okeydokey?” She indicated two small dishes. “This spread is made from olives, and this from cucumber. Very good on the bread.” She nodded at me, and I helped myself and passed the dishes to Virginia Porcher. Vee. I would have to start thinking of her as Vee.

  A platter of what loo
ked like onion rings was passed around. “It is octopus,” Norine explained. “It is a little rubbery, but quite tasty.”

  One of the Cypriote women passed the platter to Virginia—Vee—who helped herself. “Epharisto, Tullia.”

  Fortunately I’d eaten octopus before, though not at home. I watched Millie take a tentative taste and try not to make a grimace. Frank Rowan, living in Istanbul, was obviously used to it, and helped himself lavishly.

  Bashemath took a middle-sized helping and looked gravely at me. Why should eating octopus be worse than eating shrimp or any other kind of fish? As I ate mine, I thought of Ursula and Daddy and Dennys, and their mutual interest in the octopus because of its nervous system.

  The sour bread was good, and so was the bowl of salad Tullia brought us. I drank half a glass of mixed wine and water. For dessert we had fruit.

  “This is simple, typical Cypriote fare,” Krhis said, “but to me it is enjoyable.”

  After Tullia and her younger helper (“Her name is Sophonisba,” Virginia Porcher whispered to me) had cleared the table, refusing to let us help, Krhis suggested that we stay out in the cloister to catch the breezes. “And we should teach Vee and Polly some of our songs. We will do a lot of singing together, and many of the delegates will look to you to help them with songs they are not familiar with.”

  “Saranam,” Omio said, and turned his smile on me. “It is an Indian song Krhis brought to us, but we have made many of our own verses.”

  “Sing a verse through for us,” Krhis suggested.

  With no self-consciousness Omio lifted up his voice.

  For this small earth of sea and land,

  For this small space on which we stand,

  For those we touch with heart and hand,

  Saranam, saranam, saranam.

  He sang it until we all had memorized the words and the melody, and then dropped his voice to a rich bass accompaniment. Millie lifted hers in a descant. It was piercingly, painfully beautiful.