O, Africa!

by Andrew Lewis Conn

  “I’ve met some big shots in my day,” Micah says, “but never a king.”

  “Oh, King Mishi is a man of wisdom!” Mtabi says with delight. As they walk, the guide explains the layout of the place, how prior to meeting the king visitors must first make their way through the living quarters of his wives, this being a way the king advertises his potency (the beauty of one’s wives, more than physical strength or wealth, being the true measure and advertisement of one’s powers and purchase on the world). It is notably cooler and darker here, and the company begin to get the impression that they are traveling underground. There are curtained hallways and tangy curls of incense, turrets for interior running water and dried flower petals arranged on the floor in decorative patterns. The walls look slick, viscid with humidity, like bars of chocolate left too long in the heat.

  Then the wives! They come upon three of them sitting in a large room, with the youngest, perhaps sixteen, first to greet them. The child bride’s arms are as slender as tapered candles, and the inventory of her youthful beauty includes a cinched waist, a ballerina’s neck, and miniature-chandelier breasts. Her face is edible, succulent, cheeks bursting like ripe fruit, dark eyes like plums, small nose some rare undiscovered berry. Barring a dozen or more tightly looped earrings fringing her ears, silver bangles adorning her ankles and wrists, beaded necklaces and belly chains, and hands elaborately dyed with henna, she is standing before the men entirely unclothed. There is nothing brazen about her nakedness, and when the men enter the room, the buttery bride does nothing to cover up. Also sitting in the chamber are two older-looking women, perhaps in their late twenties or thirty, who do not meet the strangers’ stares. Across their abdomens are streaked chalky white markings, which Mtabi explains indicates that they are menstruating, during which time they are considered unclean and may not be touched or even looked upon.

  The queens have lives that are free of duties, the guide continues, apart from caring for the children and performing a few chores like fetching water, the splendor of their languor a testament to the king’s prowess and the surety of his rule. The youngest and prettiest of the wives welcomes the guests. In blessing she places a cool, dry hand atop each wanderer’s head, spending the longest time considering Early, the foreigner who most closely resembles her in age and color. She gets very close to the young man, placing both her hands on his shoulders, gently squeezing them, then laying her flat palms on his chest.

  “Boss,” says Early, covering with a satchel his phenomenal physical reaction, “I need to take a hall pass.”

  “Stay put, kid.”

  A gong sounds outside the courtyard, and Talli rises. Following the emissary down a long, dark corridor, slats of light breaking through at evenly paced intervals, the crew feel like the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion out of the pages of L. Frank Baum, prowling the halls of Emerald City. At the end of this passageway, a heavy wooden door is reached, unbolted, and pushed aside.

  It is dim inside the chamber, and at first they cannot discern him, sitting at the far end of the room on a simple wooden throne. Then, akin to images cloudily resolving out of chemical pools in darkroom trays, the outline of royal lineaments begins to sharpen into focus. Light glows on King Mishi’s forehead and face, illumination passing through bands like phases of the moon. His head is spherical and free of bump or blemish—a specimen that would cause a phrenologist little trouble—and adorned with tight peppercorn-style hair. The lips are thick and sensuous, like a pair of sausage links on a breakfast plate, but the nostrils are delicately tapered, the eyes long-lashed and near to womanly.

  On first inspection the Malwiki sovereign appears sleepy and disinterested in the visitors, but this only in the way of a lion digesting an antelope. Thickly muscled across the shoulders and back, King Mishi shifts while seated on strong legs and small buttocks, his bare feet like the roots of a great tree trunk. He wears a splendid dashiki of purple and gold, royal garments that articulate each current of movement from the torso down to the legs. He acknowledges the visitors slowly, expending no more effort than absolutely necessary, but it is clear that, even sitting and at rest, he is in possession of a kind of physical genius, a man on close speaking terms with grace, expert at enacting drama out of somnolence, silence, and stillness.

  His is a great physical presence, or muntu, as Mtabi had earlier explained the word. The size of humanity in oneself, the measure of vitality and fullness of soul, the place one occupies at the table of earthly radiance, muntu was the Malwiki’s most important concept. Everything possessed a degree of it, even things inanimate—a dress or a piece of pottery could be described using its terms—and if one’s life could be thought of as an unfolding story, that narrative found its meaning in the enlargement of muntu. Conversely, one’s muntu could be depleted through acts of smallness, fear, and cowardice, or through the accumulated burden of living with diminished possibilities. But that kind of squandering is hardly in evidence here. Waves palpate across the distance between host and guests. The walls vibrate like a just-whacked tuning fork. The room buzzes.

  “Today I feel good as ripe shit!” pronounces the king in a voice that is all bass, the woodwinds section of the orchestra, a voice with forests and echoes in it. “Is that you, Mtabi? My eyes have not rested on your forehead in many harvests.”

  “Yes, King,” Mtabi says, stepping forward with evident pride. “I am most happy to see you.”

  “Then why not leave behind your Western clothes before taking an audience with your king!”

  “I beg pardon.” Mtabi trembles. “These are work clothes.”

  “And is there not work to be done here, among your own people?”

  “I do beg forgiveness, Your Highness.”

  “You should know your king better,” Mishi says, a man enjoying his own joke. “Do you not remember my gibes and gambols from when you were a boy? Has the weight of years pulled down the corners of our mouths so? You are welcome among the Malwiki in any garment you choose. Now, let the warrior who has defeated Yani present himself.”

  The assistant cameraman takes a step forward. “Oscar Dimitrios Spiro, at your service.”

  “Ah!” the king responds, delighted by the midget. “Proof of an interesting proposition. Trust not the container but the thing contained. The same basket that holds grain to feed the village might also keep a poisonous snake. Your muntu is very great, very strong.”

  “Thanks, King.”

  “I am sorry to have missed your victory. Wives, many wives …”

  “Thanks, again, Your Grace,” Spiro says, “and I’d be happy to defend the belt for your pleasure anytime you like.”

  “Indeed!”

  “King,” Mtabi ventures, “please allow me to introduce the other members of my contingent.”

  “Micah Grand, American moviemaker.” Leaping forward, a pony racing out of the gate. “And this is my brother and ace cameraman, Izzy, and international comic star Henry Till, and Benny Castor, our crackerjack production manager from London, and the delinquent here is Early Letty, descendant of one of your very own African tribes, must be, who resides in the great city of Harlem, New York.”

  King Mishi frowns. “Most turbulent muntu, the speechmaker.”

  “That’s what I was hoping to talk with you about.”

  “Will the brother please step forward.”

  “Greetings, Your Highness,” says Izzy, Leica wagging around his neck.

  The king makes an examination of the siblings. “One egg,” he asks, sounding like a greasy-spoon waitress taking a breakfast order, “or two?”

  “My brother and I are twins,” says Micah, “if I follow your meaning.”

  “Solomon’s baby, two halves of the same loaf,” the king pronounces in a verdict that leaves the brothers looking at each other with fresh eyes. “Each muntu takes its spirit from an animal in nature. Mtabi is a giraffe, gentle yet strong, with eyes forever on the horizon. You”—pointing at Spiro—“are a great and poisonous snake.
You”—addressing Till—“appear to be a gentle jackrabbit in the fields. You”—turning to Castor—“are a loyal and watchful turtle. You”—now Early—“a crab washed upon the shore, approaching all things slantwise.”

  “And my brother and me, Your Excellency?” asks Micah, as desperate for news as Moses waiting on Mount Sinai.

  The pull of an idea tugs at the end of King Mishi’s line; cautiously, he hauls it in. “You are a bird who displays all his feathers on the outside,” he says to Micah, “and you are a bird who hides his feathers on the inside,” he says to Izzy. “Both capable of taking wing, only in different ways.”

  “Huh,” both brothers say in unison.

  “Talli informs me of your plans to introduce modern mechanisms to the village,” King Mishi says, switching subject and tone. “The Malwiki are unfamiliar with many Western advances, and I fear these will only sow confusion. Mtabi, what is the whites’ true purpose here in Malwiki? Answer your king!”

  “King Mishi,” Mtabi answers, “these are serious men who have come from far, very far, to make moving pictures of the Malwiki.”

  “Movies?” A single eyebrow lifts on the king’s forehead. Talli leans close and cups a hand to the ruler’s ear, a confidence that is swatted away like a fly. “I have seen the flickers during my travels and studies at university.”

  “Then you’re on board with the program?” Micah asks.

  “A senseless parade of images, sound and fury, bursting through the fort of one’s imagination, crowding out contemplation. The very opposite of well-considered rule.”

  “That’s a good point, King,” Micah says. “But we’re no quick-change act, believe me. When we take a picture, we think about what it means.”

  “It’s true, sir,” Izzy interjects in spite of himself. “I know that things change when you photograph something, that you have a responsibility to it.”

  The opposing eyebrow rises on the king’s forehead, forming a steeple. “I would like to talk with Hiding Feather more about this theory later.”

  Micah barrels ahead. “I’m uncertain about the pictures you saw during your travels, but our project isn’t some run-of-the-mill studio job or adventure serial, I can assure you. We’ve come to tell the story of Africa, of your people, from slave times to the Civil War right down to present-day generations in America.”

  “Ah, Lincoln,” says the king, “the ancient.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Micah repeats, proud that the name of the sixteenth president is familiar on the far side of the earth.

  “The first Great War, your nation’s Civil War, waged for future generations,” the king says, pointing at Early, who shrivels under the regnant forefinger. “But back to your motion pictures. My fear is that once created, such representations cannot be erased.”

  The king then describes how Malwiki culture forbids the making of graven images. And it was true, the only pictorial representations they’d seen since their arrival were the ritual scarrings that were considered outward expressions of gratitude. The king also explains, however, that he is obligated to honor the wish of the new wrestling champion, who promptly asks that the crew be granted six weeks’ time to film with the full cooperation of the court.

  “As you wish, Mr. Spiro,” says the king. “Before you are dismissed, however, Outward Feather, have you read the poet Yeats? You do not strike me as one slouching towards Bethlehem to be born, rather galloping full tilt. Who is to say you will not trample the Malwiki en route?”

  “Well, you have my word, Your Highness,” answers Micah. “And the seriousness of my intent. That’s all I can offer, really. Listen, Mtabi’s informed us that the tribe is in the middle of a drought. How about this? After we decamp, we’ll arrange to have provisions sent your way. Whatever you need: food, water, supplies, the works.”

  “One should not make promises that one is not prepared to keep.”

  “This one I’ll keep. Meanwhile, we’re on a pretty tight production schedule, and Henry here is needed back in Los Angeles in a few weeks’ time, so we really appreciate your okay on getting things moving.”

  “Are you at all Bible-read?”

  “A little.”

  “In the New Testament, there is a betrayer figure with raven hair, is there not?”

  “Yes, there is,” Micah says, running fingers through his wavy red mane. “But we’re Jews—our God’s older.”

  “Ah, Hebrews. Great people of the Book. These, however,” King Mishi says, pointing at Izzy’s camera, “are not books. I have seen in nickel theaters bandits shot by gunfire only to be resurrected in the next showing. I have seen men and women kiss with lips large as oases. I have seen Africa portrayed by a painted backdrop, a soldier with a rifle, and a camel on loan from the zoo. I have seen the man in the moon assaulted in the eye by a ship sent to the stars. These images have lodged in my mind’s eye like stickiest sap. I cannot rid myself of them.”

  “You sound like a real fan.”

  “Your cine-film machines capture events as they unfold, then rearrange these pellets of space and time at whim, is that correct?”

  “Yes, King,” says Izzy, “it’s called editing.”

  “What are your thoughts, then, Hiding Feather, on the relationship between cinematographic pictures and deep time?”

  “Movies and time?” Izzy repeats, his interrogator’s eyes consuming the entire prospect of him. “Motion pictures occur in time, they’re a medium of time, it’s true.”

  “And what is time?”

  “I don’t think I can answer that.”

  “You sculpt without insight into your material,” the king says, near to sensuous in his calm. “With your cine-film machines, you propose to make a new reality, to pull stitches from the very weave of time. You propose the creation of new frameworks that will instantly supplant all others, the promotion of an undifferentiated continuous present.”

  “I think we’re talking about the same thing,” Izzy speaks up, “but coming at it differently.”

  “Continue.”

  “Well, where we’re from, things are moving very fast. Faster every day. It’s getting more and more difficult for a man to stop and hear himself think.”

  Izzy’s mind flashes forward to the return to his dark apartment. There would be back issues of the New Yorker and Vanity Fair to read and stacks of newspapers gathering outside in the hall like crumpled leaves. There’d be the latest phonograph records to catch up on and sheet music to peruse. There would likely be a string of invitations from Howard to this latest show and that private screening. There’d be the arrival of the new season’s suits at Brooks Brothers to browse through and another meeting of the cinematographers’ union at which to discuss DuArt’s latest tricolor-film processes. And if those and countless other invitations, items of interest, and other distractions didn’t occupy his time, just pull the blinds and there would always be the twinkling, insomniac city begging for attention. All the things! The things! The terribly interesting things!

  “Yes, I am familiar with some of the Western manias of which you speak.”

  “And I think it’s only natural to want to try to arrest things as they are.” Izzy struggles, his voice faltering even as his thoughts clarify. “And there are only a few things that can achieve that kind of stillness. Art is one of them.”

  The king considers Izzy very carefully, in such a way that the cameraman thinks all his organs might burst.

  “You’ll have to forgive my kid brother, King,” Micah interjects, breaking the spell. “Sometimes he talks when he should listen. While we’re Socratizing it, though, mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “As you wish.”

  “What do you make of America?”

  “Land of becoming, not being.”

  “C’I ask another?”

  “Very well.”

  “How do you please so many wives?”

  “Certain questions,” King Mishi says, curling his fingers toward himself to admire his manicur
e, “answer themselves by being asked. Next.”

  “So in theory I’ve come all this way to relieve a debt, but I don’t think that’s really why I’m here. I suppose what I mean to ask is whether it’s possible for a man to know himself? His own intentions? In his own time?”

  “This depends on the clarity of his muntu.”

  “Okay, then, so how does one go about cleaning it up?”

  “This is not something one charges straight into, like a ram against a fort.”

  “But how can a person square the deal with himself? With others?”

  “Yes,” Izzy asks, “how does a person become himself? The thing he’s meant to be?”

  “Perhaps it is the investigation of these questions that has brought you to the Malwiki.” King Mishi smiles, looking from one brother to the other like a lighthouse guiding two ships into harbor.

  THREE

  They had assembled back in the brothers’ hut after their audience with the king, as depleted from the philosophical working-over as from their travels and time-zone derailment. The company had transformed the space, the largest and most expansive of the guests’ accommodations, into a makeshift production office. Script pages were tacked to posts; shot lists, sketches, and storyboards lined the inside like wallpaper; tin film cans were stacked in corners like dirty plates; and a bruised pair of trunks provided countertop space for an Underwood typewriter, coffee cups, flasks, ashtrays, opened packages of saltines, and cans of Italian sardines and American tuna fish.

  Candles are lit. Food is passed. A bottle of Pepto-Bismol is passed around. Micah, his head in mosquito netting turbaned like that of an Arabian sheik or a high priest, lands on another slave story—his favorite Jewish holiday from childhood. Signs and wonders. The full glass of wine placed at the center of the table. The front door left open for Elijah, slipping unseen through the neighborhood. In this religious frame of mind, Micah locates in one of the trunks a talisman, carefully wrapping Mr. Waldo’s small green Christmas light in a handkerchief and placing it on the cool, dry earth.