Rose wipes the sweat from his head with the underside of his forearm, looks at Stern and nods, “It is hot.”
“How hot it’s become today.”
LINDA IS WITH Harper on the west side of camp, clearing the jeep’s grill of loose straw and grass which gathers beneath when driving. If not removed, the grass will clog the engine, collect in the undercarriage, smolder and burn. Harper takes the spark plug out, runs a hose into the open cylinder. Linda sits in the driver’s seat, hits the accelerator in order to push the clog free. A flock of yellow hornbills circles and lands in the ziziphus trees. Two bolder birds settle atop the jeep. Linda looks up and sees the planes.
Heidi is talking with Mindy over by the supply shed. Julie and Cherry are checking the meat left to soak overnight in a salt and vinegar bath. Mund is sending messages on his SL8 Rock Xtreme laptop. Harper closes the hood of the jeep, identifies the planes as Cessna 206s, with Continental IO-520 engines and trigears not well suited for the bush. Underpowered but serviceable, each plane can carry six passengers, though two of the three planes arrive with just the pilot on board.
Benchere walks with Zooie to where the planes have landed some 100 yards south of his sculpture. A woman in a green dress and flat leather sandals climbs out of the first plane. Long limbed she unfolds through the door, lowers herself the rest of the way with a short leap. Her movements are refined. The green of her dress is dark. A red and orange shoulder sash is set at an angle across her chest, matching the head scarf she wears.
She is followed from the plane by two men in black slacks, white shirts and suit jackets without ties. Each plane has The Republic of South Sudan painted along its side in a red Andalus font. The pilots cut their engines, climb down and place wooden blocks in front of the wheels. The emptiness of the final two planes is a puzzle. Even after the pilots close the doors, everyone gathered still expects passengers to come from inside.
The woman’s skin is a Babylon-oil dark, smooth with one slight scar just above her right eyebrow. She introduces herself, her voice mannered with the accent of that region. One of the guards carries a package wrapped in tan paper. Inside is a very large jalabiya. Ani Risha takes the package and presents it to Benchere.
“Well now,” Benchere holds the garment up. “This is quite the thing.” He slips the jalabiya over his shoulders. The shirt unfurls to just above his ankles. The white material set against his deep tan creates an immediate impression. Benchere turns and lets everyone get a good look at him. The Africana in the distance remain gathered on either side of their new store. Dancy Mund works his way through the crowd, attempts to interpose himself into the greeting, extends his hand and makes his own introduction, inquires as to the purpose of Ani Risha’s visit.
A quick study, Ani Risha ignores Dancy, turns back to Benchere and asks if there is a place they might talk.
They walk across the field, away from the planes and toward the sculpture. Jazz follows. The soles of Ani Rishi’s shoes are rubber based and slightly ridged. She has a way of moving over the sands which does not disrupt the ground. Benchere’s gait is more of a stomp and grind, his boots leaving their mark as he tests the limits of his stride inside his jalabiya. As they head off, Ani Risha talks about the desert, tells Benchere about the current conditions in South Sudan, how more than 90 percent of the country relies on firewood and charcoal for fuel, that too many trees are being cut down, the Nubian Desert now without a single oasis, deforestation increasing the risk of turning even more land into desert and yet, “The wars have made it hard for us to develop reliable electricity.”
The current conflict with the North, Ani Risha explains, has continued through the South’s cessation. “In the Sudan, the North still tries to control what is no longer theirs.” She describes 2,000 Northern soldiers entering Abyei and Kadugli along the border where they’ve slaughtered thousands of Southern loyalists. United Nations workers have abandoned the region, leaving the general population to flee into the Nuba Mountains. Resistance against the North and al-Bashir is cobbled together by teachers and farmers, shop clerks and laborers exposed to, but otherwise untrained in, the methods of war. “Here we have finally negotiated our independence,” Ani Risha says, “and we are still fighting as we’ve done for the last 70 years.”
She pauses, gives Benchere a chance to review the information presented. As they pass under the southernmost arm of the sculpture, the wind chimes ring out. Benchere assumes Ani Risha will tell him now the reason for her visit, is surprised when she asks instead, “Have you heard of the Hoodia plant, Mr. Benchere?”
“The Hoodia? No.”
“For hundreds of years the Hoodia has been used by the San Bushman as an appetite suppressant. During nomadic treks, the need to eat is inhibited by ingesting the leaves of the plant. The active ingredient in the Hoodia is glycoside which, in 2005, was patented by the South African Council for Scientific and Industrial Research.”
“A patent on a plant?”
“On glycoside, yes. It was the San’s usage however, which led the CSIR to first investigate the Hoodia. Because of this,” Ani explains, “a representative filed a claim on behalf of the Sans asserting that the CSIR was making money off something the Sans had taught them. The Sans now receive a royalty check from Phyto Pharmaceuticals, which markets a diet drug using glycoside.”
“You don’t say.” Benchere has not heard this story before. He asks how this sort of windfall is distributed and who actually sees the proceeds.
“There is a trust,” Ani Risha continues. “The money is monitored and claims are systematically processed.”
“Well now,” Benchere is impressed. “Give South Africa credit. And this sort of fair play is something South Sudan is looking to emulate in its new government?”
For the first time Ani Risha smiles. She has an intelligent if not entirely warm face, her seriousness settled into her features like a steely carved impression. Her tone is officious, not unfriendly though clearly set to task. She walks toward the center beam, examines the details on the surface of the metal. In his jalabiya, Benchere is still waiting to hear why Ani Risha has flown out to see him when she asks, “Are you familiar with Salva Kiir?”
“He’s your president.”
“He is the president of the RSS.”
“Is that who you work for?”
“I work for the Republic.”
“And Kiir is president of your Republic.”
“That’s correct.” Ani Risha folds her hands together, talks for a time about the Comprehensive Peace Agreement and Kiir’s involvement negotiating South Sudan’s independence. The latest attack by the North has Kiir more determined to effect peace and democratize the region. “Of course,” Ani Risha says, “he has his detractors.”
“Don’t we all?”
“He’s an honest man.”
“Even worse.”
She allows herself a second smile. They walk from beneath the sculpture, out to where the whole of Benchere’s work comes into view. Jazz runs ahead. Rose and Stern stare down from the hill. The group of Africana remains near their storefront and the baobab trees. Benchere has his sunglasses on. He extends his arms to the sides and the cut of his jalabiya opens up like a kite. Having been patient, he goes ahead and asks now, “So what’s the upshot here, Ani?”
Ani Risha’s eyes are russet-brown, both firm and kind, not impervious but something almost generous. She looks at Benchere, unfolds her hands and replies by saying, “Your sculpture is beautiful.”
“Asante.”
“You should be pleased.”
“I am pleased.”
“And these other works then,” she refers to the seven additional pieces.
Benchere tugs at the front of his jalabiya, insists as always, “That has nothing to do with me.”
“You’re being modest,” Ani Risha stops and presumes to scold Benchere with a shake of her finger.
“Modesty has nothing to do with it,” Benchere begins to sense himself being set up an
d feels the need for retreat. All these surprises of late. He stands with his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his jalabiya and asks as directly as he can without causing insult, “What is this then? What do you want from me?”
Ani Risha gives the question its due, folds her fingers now in front of her and suggests they consider the possibilities.
BY DINNER, ANI Risha has taken one of the three planes and left with her guards for South Sudan. The other two planes and the pilots remain. Everyone now knows the reason for the visit. They gather at the evening fire and continue their debate. All the BAA students argue in favor of building a sculpture in Abyei, regard the plan as representing perfectly the sine qua non of Benchere’s project. Others disagree. They describe what they know of Abyei and the Nuba Mountains, the villages near the border shelled and torched, Nubans, Catholics and Dinkas slaughtered. And we’re to do what now?
The puppet maker and biochemist, engineer and horticulturist oppose the idea. We’ve done what we’re supposed to here.
“Have we?” Mindy believes, “We’re members of the movement and need to be involved.”
Members of what movement? The others say, We didn’t come here to get killed. We’re not rebels. We’re not soldiers.
“Sure we are,” Heidi shouts back.
The horse trainer and physical therapist are convinced South Sudan should build its own sculpture. It does no good if we interfere.
“But they invited us. There’s no interference.”
There’s an implied imperialism in pushing our way into other people’s affairs.
“Who’s pushing?” Sam and Cherry chime in now. “They’ve asked for our help. Where’s the imperialism if they want us to come?”
The others roll their eyes, are not comforted by Ani Risha’s promise to provide materials and armed protection in Abyei. They accuse the South Sudanese of taking advantage of Benchere’s good nature, of wanting a Benchere sculpture to use as bait, knowing the destruction of such by al-Bashir will be more newsworthy than having one of their own anonymous works blown up. What better way to gain support for their cause than to dangle Benchere into the conflict?
Benchere sits with his right side to the fire, his drink on his knee. He says nothing, lets the others have at it. His jalabiya has been removed and he’s wearing his old green sweater and safari slacks. Twice now, while everyone argues, Benchere glances at Deyna, who sits with her arms folded. Benchere doesn’t speak with her, rubs at his chin, shifts his boots on the sand and waits for the fire to burn down.
Mindy presses for answers. Benchere promises a decision on Abyei by morning. “Tomorrow,” he says, though he has already made up his mind. When everyone continues to ask, he gets up from the fire and walks back to his tent.
THE GROUND TARP in Benchere’s tent has three small tears unmended. Night crawlers, scorpions and desert snakes, puff adders and black mambas, each drawn to camp, look for access, settle inside sleeping bags, in piles of clothes and sacks of wheat. Everyone’s warned to check before slipping on a boot or sliding under sheets, but after ten weeks the routine is not applied vigilantly and close calls are common.
Benchere has his lantern turned low. Harper arrives a half hour later, his green knapsack slung over his left shoulder. He is carrying two glasses with shots of scotch. “Nightcap,” he calls through the zippered flap, clicks the glasses together and says, “One for the road.”
Benchere ignores the comment, calls back, “I’m sleeping.”
“No you’re not. I can see the light.”
“Well praise Jesus.”
“Ha. If I unzip the flap right now I’m going to find you in your chair.” Harper waits then says, “I’m coming in.”
He steps through the opening and hands Benchere his glass. Jazz gets up to greet Harper as he sits on the tarp. “Let’s give it another hour,” Harper says, his legs bent and arms behind him, his knapsack sliding from his shoulder. “Everyone should be asleep by then.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Benchere drinks the shot, puts the glass beside his chair.
Harper raises his glass though doesn’t drink. He estimates the distance to Abyei, the flight route as charted, how far his Maule can go on a single tank and their need to stop and refuel outside Katanga. “Flying at night won’t be a problem,” he says.
“Not for you because you’re not going,” Benchere checks his watch, calculates for himself how long he should wait, then goes to the front of his tent and looks outside. The grounds have quieted. Those once at the fire have left. There’s a small glow from behind Mund’s fence but no sign of the patrol. The pilots sleep near their planes. Benchere returns to his chair, rubs at his chin, realizes he should have anticipated Harper putting two and six together and demanding to come along. He considers wrestling him down, hogtying him somehow, making a mad dash to the planes and waking the pilots.
Harper says, “It’s good no one else suspects. Last thing we need is a dozen recruits to watch out for. Better to leave them behind.” He advocates sending the two pilots home on their own.
Benchere leans over and reties the laces of his boots. His face is red and there’s a pounding in his ears as he cracks, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure. I’m thick as oatmeal.” Harper takes his drink and pours it into one of the nearby slits in the tarp. “Clear head,” he explains. “I can drink when we get back.” He places his palms flat on the ground, talks about the guards waiting for them in Abyei and predicts, “They’ll be a couple of kids with fifty-year-old rifles.”
“It doesn’t matter. I won’t need them.”
“Right. And your buddy Ani Risha doesn’t want al-Bashir to know you’re there,” Harper taps the side of his head. “How else will your visit be newsworthy if there isn’t a little drama? At least with me around you’ll know someone has your back while you work.” He waits a second then says, “Not that building a sculpture is why you’re taking off.”
“Don’t go there,” Benchere warns Harper.
“I could say the same,” Harper jokes. “I guess you should be grateful to Ani Risha for giving you this opportunity. All your troubles here, I mean, who wouldn’t see flying to South Sudan as an easy out? Better than staying in the Kalahari. Better than getting things resolved. Anywhere but here, right?”
Benchere stands, finds his pack and begins stuffing clean clothes inside. Harper stands as well, says about Marti, not cruelly but with purpose, “You’re not cheating on her. You don’t have to go.”
“Goddamn it, Harp,” only the aches in Benchere’s body keep him from leaping up and tackling Harper. His head hits against the top of the tent as he rises, and cursing, he bends down again, growls against the inner lining of his chest. “What I’m doing,” he snaps then stops, the argument not there. He offers up the only thing he can. “I’ve had enough.”
“Enough is it?”
“That’s right.”
“Enough what?”
“To last.”
“But what does that even mean?”
“It means just that.”
“Alright.” Harper presses, “And this is what you’re going to tell Deyna?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Benchere strains not to howl. “We’re adults. She understands. It’s circumstance is all. Living on top of one another for weeks, working and eating together, things get exaggerated.”
“You’re full of shit.” Harper takes a step closer and asks, “Then you don’t?”
“What?”
“Love her?”
“Do I …? Christ,” Benchere in full confession yells, “I won’t!”
“Ha,” Harper claps in the shadows of the dim lantern light. “Well now, there you go. That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”
Benchere grabs his pack. Jazz is up and ready to leave the tent. Outside, the wind is still, the night clear. Benchere thinks of how best to reply, but can come up with nothing. He pushes his head through the flap in the t
ent, checks on the others. The air has cooled. He breathes deeply, exhales slowly. “All of this,” he says as if in answer to another question, and coming back inside to face Harper, he grunts, “Hell.”
Five minutes later they’ve awakened the pilots and the three planes take off.
17.
ROSE FOLLOWS THE LIGHT FROM THE PLANES AS THEY disappear overhead. He fishes out his money clip, hands Stern another twenty. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
“Not to worry,” Stern tucks the bill in his pocket.
Rose sends a message stateside.
“This should be interesting,” Stern says.
“I bet.”
“Do you?”
“Quit that.”
Stern laughs and says to Rose, “Come on now, who knows what’s going to happen?”
KYLE ATTEMPTS TO Skype with Benchere. He has read the stories coming out of Egypt, Chad, Namibia and Yemen, has his own stories to tell from South Providence and Broad Street. In gauging the seven-hour time difference, he hopes to catch Benchere soon. With each attempt however, he gets nothing. He tries twice more then leaves a message, goes back to watching the news.
THE SOUND OF the planes brings everyone from their tents. They stumble together in the dark, follow whatever light is shined. Jazz barks from where Benchere has left him. Zooie hears and calls out. The group of Africana wake and watch as well. Deyna walks to where the planes were before, while Mund’s group hurries to see what has happened.
Daimon films the scene. Deyna surveys the area. Word of Benchere being gone passes quickly. Deyna answers questions, says “Yes,” she is surprised, and “No,” he didn’t tell her. “Yes,” they have enough supplies in camp, and “No,” she doesn’t expect Benchere to be gone long. As for why he left without them, everyone agrees they were foolish not to expect this before. What were we thinking? They turn to Deyna and shake their heads.
Mund circles the group, wearing Briarshun pants and a green windbreaker. He carries a Fenix E21 flashlight, his Doc Marten’s tied tightly. Once the situation is evaluated, he hurries back in the direction of the main camp, passes along the footpath through the common area to Benchere’s tent and then the supply shed, where he uses the key Benchere left for Naveed to undo the lock.
Benchere in Wonderland Page 17