Hoping to make the best, Benchere dove with Marti between the waves. As she scooted below the surface, Benchere rose and fell, attempted on his own to have a look around, but the waters were disorienting and moved him off his mark. Each time he came up he found that he had drifted further and further from Marti and the boat.
The old captain sat on deck, watching his passengers with no particular interest. The waves grew higher and moved Benchere backward like a bloated piece of fruit. In no time he was some 40 yards away from the others. He tried to swim, but no matter how hard he pulled and kicked the waves were unremitting and prevented him from closing the gap.
As Benchere struggled, he yanked off his mask and tossed it. The water sprayed into his mouth and choked him. Exhausted, he began to panic, realized he could actually drown and neither the old man nor his daughter would save him. Marti started swimming toward him only Benchere yelled, “Stop. Go to the boat.”
“Roll on your back,” Marti shouted.
When Benchere tried this the waves took him for a fat piece of wood and continued moving him off. The others by then had returned to the boat. Marti attempted to get the old captain to help, yelled and signaled their distress, but the captain did nothing more than sit and watch.
There was Benchere then, laboring, kicking and flailing, screaming out for Marti to head to the ship, telling her that he loved her and Kyle, splashing and bobbing while his every effort to swim proved futile. Engulfed in the gulf, in wave after wave, he was sure at any minute he’d go under for good and be eaten by a shark.
The seriousness of the situation caused Marti to rethink her effort, and rather than continue her shout, she started to laugh.
What the …?
Immediately her amusement calmed him. “Come on, Shamu,” she said, and did he really want to be one of those silly Americans who wound up dying on vacation? If he was going to die he at least should have considered a jet ski or zip lining or parasailing accident. The sort of drowning he was doing, Marti said, was embarrassing and been done to death, she joked then laughed again.
By the time she reached Benchere, he was laughing as well, sputtering and spitting out water and saying damn it to hell and then he was swimming somehow, he didn’t know by what power but together they were moving through the water back toward the boat, up the chain ladder and onto the deck.
Sitting in his chair, inside his tent, Benchere recalls. He thinks of Deyna next, sees her as she was the afternoon he first carried supplies to the new group. The heft of the load had centered in Benchere’s arms and the low end of his spine. When the Munds and some of the others complained about his giving away the food, Deyna challenged their protest by accusing them of cupidity while asking, “What is it you’re afraid of exactly?”
What is it …?
The question resonated then and now. Benchere straightens and stands. His head presses against the roof. He bends again, goes and lies on his cot. “Enough,” he mutters.
“What?” asks Stern.
“You heard him,” says Rose.
Benchere takes a deep breath and then another, heaves his chest as if swimming still in deep waters and going under. He breathes harder and harder until his ribs begin to ache, and exhausted, he gives way and drifts off to sleep. Surrounded by the yellowed mesh netting, he dreams of Tiverton, is home, only instead of being alone the house is filled with dozens of people and the floors are covered with sand. Benchere looks for Marti but she’s not there. Deyna is in the den. When Benchere walks out to the garden Deyna is there as well. He stays in the dream, doesn’t wake when the zipper on his tent is tugged down and Jazz gets up to see who it is.
It takes a minute for the voice to reach him, the whispering of his name closer now until slowly he stirs, thinks one thing and then another against the almost familiar sound.
14.
KYLE WAKES FROM A DREAM AND REACHES FOR CLOIE. “Baby?” he says and rolls closer, does all he can to make sure she’s there.
DEYNA IS SLEEPING when Benchere wakes. He finds her curled against him, breathing gently, her cheek half on his chest, his right arm wrapped around and keeping her close on the cot. He gives himself a minute to take everything in, can feel the rise and fall of her, the heat off her skin. He considers what to do next, tells himself what happened last night was an ambush and hardly fair. Rather than wake her and send her off, he lies quietly for a minute more, takes in her scent, then slides away, gets up slowly and dresses.
Sitting again in his chair, he faces the cot. The scene reminds him of days toward the end with Marti, how he used to sit by her bed and wait for her to stir. He looks at Deyna, recognizes the distinction, remembers something he read once, how all that is ends and all that ends begins again. The statement is the universe in summary. Even you can’t break the cycle, Michael.
“Bullshit,” Benchere whispers, and “Bullshit,” again.
MINDY TURNS ON her computer and reads about the demonstration in Kampala, Uganda, where 6,000 people marched in protest against President Yoweri Museveni. At one point, a sculpture similar to the piece in Mutare appeared in front of the Ugandan capital building. As the demonstrators ran from the soldiers sent in to disperse the crowd, thousands of voices shouted the name of opposition leader Kizza Besigye and the American Michael Benchere.
In Somalia’s Kismayu National Park, wood from tables and chairs was collected and cast together with wires and bits of ribbons, creating yet another totemic sculpture. The work was assembled to protest the removal of Prime Minister Mohamed Abdullahi Mohamed whose populist appeal unnerved the ruling elite. Here, too, the streets filled with the chanting of Amandla! Awethu! and Bencheer, Bencheer, Bencheer!
A jubilant Mindy shuts down the computer, hurries off to tell the others.
THAT AFTERNOON BENCHERE finishes welding the second quarter moon to the top of the sculpture. In the distance those from the new group gather to watch. Their fascination with the sculpture has taken on a spiritual significance, their interest in Benchere amplified ever since he carried the first crate of fruits and bread across the desert.
The Munds’ interest in the Africans remains something less than reverential. Their concern now is whether these new developments, including what’s happened in Mutare, Somalia and Uganda, will affect their plan to develop the area. Benchere declares there is no plan, but Dancy persists, gives fair warning, “We’re in this for the long haul, Michael.”
The BAA students want nothing to do with the Munds, and yet, following the events in Mutare, in Kismayu National Park and Kampala, they also wish to remain in the desert once Benchere’s sculpture is complete. “We have some thoughts,” they say, different from the Munds, they want to establish a permanent community. “An intentional cooperative, like Morningstar and Wheeler’s Ranch,” Mindy explains.
“A communion.”
“Transcendental.”
“A sister campus for the BAA.”
Heidi describes, “Something mesmeric.”
“If art is supposed to drive the movement,” Mindy adds, “we need a Mecca.”
“Do we?” Benchere is not persuaded. “What Mecca? What movement?” He refuses to consider, tells his students and the Munds the same. “Everyone leaves as soon as we are through.”
At 300 feet, Benchere balances inside his basket. Below him, Zooie and Deyna, Julie and Naveed and the Iowa three work to keep the welding hose untangled and the ropes to the basket secure. Benchere concentrates on the task at hand. He does not think about Mutare, does not want to think about Uganda or Somalia, about Marti or Deyna, about the Munds or his students, the new group, or those in the main camp now squabbling like children. Atop his sculpture, he wants to think only about his art.
He sets his hands firm around the torch, focuses on sealing the weld beneath the moon. Deyna checks the tension in the ropes. Despite all efforts otherwise, Benchere feels the tug. Through sparks, behind his shield, he is tempted twice to stop and call down, Hey Deyna! and demand she apologize for las
t night. He wants to believe her coming to his tent did not really happen, though her scent is still on his skin, the sense of her proximity too specific to be imagined. The details of her touch, her sounds and movements are part of him now, as indelible as history; it makes no difference if he doesn’t want her there.
DAIMON COMES TO Benchere’s tent after dinner. He wears his driest t-shirt and nearly clean brown shorts. The film he’s been hired to produce has some two hundred hours of footage already recorded. With much work left to edit the pieces into one coherent film, Daimon would still like to add shots of Benchere alone; an interview or dialogue where Benchere has a chance to speak into the camera. Tonight however, Daimon hasn’t brought his camera, has come to talk of something else.
Benchere has retreated from the common area, is staying clear of Deyna and the others this evening. His absence is noted. Daimon sits on the edge of Benchere’s footlocker. Jazz comes over and receives a rub of his side. Being in close proximity all these many weeks, as these sort of projects create their own intimacy, Benchere has gotten to know Daimon better, has conceded a certain liking, finds him relentless and fully professional, a good egg as Marti would say, and especially kind to Zooie. Daimon, in turn, has watched Benchere at work and with the others, has witnessed his reaction to the Africans, to the Munds, to the growing numbers in camp, and the new sculptures appearing in different countries. Rather than mention any of this, Daimon talks with Benchere about things more personal, discusses here his earlier travels.
“When I was working on my film of Gao Zhisheng,” Daimon says, “I went to China, and after several weeks’ delay, I was finally able to see him in Shaya Prison. The prison is located in the Aksu region of Xinjiang Uygur, a very remote area, and getting there I had to drive on narrow roads through the mountains, where one false turn would have dropped my jeep a hundred feet or more. The room in which I was able to meet with Gao Zhisheng was grey and cold, the two chairs we were allowed to sit on made of blackened metal. A soldier was present the entire time. I was not allowed to record our visit.
“I came with a long list of questions, was eager to assist in presenting whatever statement Gao Zhisheng wanted to make to the world. Instead, the whole time I was there, the entire time, Gao Zhisheng wanted to talk only about his wife. He told me stories, asked questions of his own. He described their apartment, recalled details regarding the texture of his wife’s hair, the movement of her head when she laughed, the way her eyes smiled and the sound of her voice which he said he heard in his prison cell like private choral music. As he spoke, I noticed the bleakness of Gao Zhisheng’s constitution lifted and I came away from Shaya with a completely different sense of the man than anticipated. Where I arrived expecting to feel outrage and pity and alarm for his condition, while these concerns still existed, I also left feeling tranquil and almost envious.”
Daimon gives Benchere a moment to let the story sink in, says after a minute, “Does that make sense?” and hoping it does, he talks then of Deyna and Zooie.
BENCHERE STAYS INSIDE his tent for much of the evening. Late that night, Heidi rushes in and finds him pacing awkwardly about. Bent at the hips, he turns every three strides, his back rolled and hands fisted. The side of Heidi’s face is dotted with gold and brown grains of sand as she tripped while running from the sculpture. She sticks her head inside the flap, calls for Benchere to “Come out, please, now!”
A crowd has gathered in the area just west of the sculpture. Benchere pulls on his boots and hurries with Heidi across the grounds. Four men from Mund’s patrol are holding a teenage boy from the new group. The boy is wearing a dusty grey t-shirt and shorts cut from trousers. The men have pistols tucked in their waistbands. The guns are a surprise. Other than Harper’s rifle, all weapons are barred from camp. A scratch runs from the side of the boy’s neck down to his left shoulder. He has given up squirming. His eyes are nervously wide and confused.
Dancy stands to the right. He has on a pair of black boots laced high, beige pleated slacks and a blue sweater. Excited, he points as Benchere gets close. “You see? We caught him here, in the middle of the night, and with a knife.”
Benchere moves toward Dancy, who is clasping an old hunting blade still in its sheath. He takes the knife from Mund and slips it, sheath and all, inside his back pocket. The boy recognizes Benchere, shows a brief flash of relief before Dancy cuts between them and repeats what he said a moment ago. “We caught him armed and breaking into camp.”
“Was he now?” Benchere’s tone is vexed, his tolerance spent. Not three days ago, after he delivered a new crate of supplies, the Africana left a freshly killed antelope outside Benchere’s tent just before dawn. Mund’s patrol failed to intercept the conveyance, did not spot the Africans as they came and went, causing Dancy to yip, “Our security has been breached. This is unacceptable. You see how it is with these gate crushers?”
Benchere turns now from Mund and asks one of the men holding the boy, “What happened?”
“He was running.”
“Where?”
“Over there,” the man uses his elbow to point toward the sculpture.
Benchere glances. “Coming or going?” he asks.
“What’s that?”
“Did you catch him running to or from the sculpture?”
“He was running from.”
“So when you found him he was what?”
“Standing there.”
“By the sculpture?”
“That’s right.”
“And you chased him and he ran?”
“Something like that.”
Benchere looks at Zooie who is there with Daimon. Deyna is standing beside Naveed, near Julie and Mindy and the other students. Benchere turns to Mund again and says, “So let me get this straight. You chased this boy who was doing nothing but looking at the sculpture. You didn’t catch him in camp, you didn’t find him stealing or breaking into anything.”
“He was here,” Mund says. “With a knife.”
“It’s the Kalahari. Everyone in the desert has a knife.”
“But he was here.”
“He lives here!” Benchere is no longer restrained.
Mund in turn shows his own exasperation. “We caught him outside of where he belongs. He can’t be coming into our camp. He has no right to be here. There are boundaries. Legal zones that need to be enforced.”
Zooie groans. Mindy, too, fills the darkness of the desert with her sound. She has on a blue spaghetti-strapped tank top that falls only to her midriff and covers just the center portion of her The Liver Is the Cock’s Comb tattoo. Others have heard the commotion, wake and come outside. One of the Iowa three has brought a lantern. Harper carries the rifle. Linda is somehow now wearing Harper’s boots. Additional supporters of Mund appear as well.
Mindy goes up to the boy and says, “Hallo.”
Dancy warns Mindy to stand back. “No fraternizing.”
“Christ,” Benchere pushes past Mund, goes and asks the boy, “What were you doing here?”
“I came to look.” He says, “Sorry sir, but I wanted to be closer.”
“To the sculpture?”
“Yes sir.”
“Why at night?” Mund does not believe.
“Why at night?” Benchere poses the question in a different voice, gives the boy a chance to explain.
The men tighten their grip on the boy as he tries to raise his arms. Instead of pointing then, he lifts his chin, tips his head far back and gazes skyward. “The stars, sir,” he says. “I see them glowing above what you made. I wanted to come closer and see her differently than in the day.” He looks at Benchere, does not look at Mund.
Daimon films everything. Benchere stares up now as well, looks back at the boy again. The innocence of the boy’s claim moves him. He directs the men to “Let him go.”
“Hold on,” Dancy arches his shoulders in an attempt to appear more official. “You can’t just release him,” he squeals, “We caught him here in our camp.”
“Christ,” Benchere has no further patience. All this nonsense, he thinks. Every day. First one thing and then another. Is this honestly what comes from gathering together? He recalls something Kyle mentioned the last time they Skyped, a quote from Rousseau’s Social Contract. In an early section subtitled Of Primitive Societies, Rousseau wrote: “Shared liberty is a consequence of man’s nature. Its first law is that of self-preservation … As soon as man attains the age of reason he becomes his own master, because he alone can judge of what will best assure his continued existence.”
Benchere considers this in terms of the boy and Mund. He thinks about self-preservation and shared liberty and what it means to each. That every man wants to survive is a given, but the phrase best assure his continued existence has an ominous undertone when applied to Mund. All societies are made up of people in endless conflict over purpose and preservation. Here the boy has come to stare at the sculpture, and here Mund wants to run him off.
Benchere recalls what the boy told him. The stars, sir. I see them glowing above what you made. If nothing else is ever said about his sculpture, Benchere thinks, this is good enough. He heaves his chest and takes a quick step away from Mund, toward the four men, where he sets his boots firm in the sand and gets them to “Let go.” Immediately the boy dashes from those gathered and heads off into the night.
15.
ROSE AND STERN HAVE WATCHED THE INCIDENT FROM the hill. “A predicament,” Stern calls it the next morning.
Rose describes the squabble as “Internal strife.”
“Border skirmishes.”
“Growing pains.”
“Colonial adjustments.”
Rose knows, “It is what it is.”
Benchere in Wonderland Page 15