The Sweetest Dream

by Doris Lessing Little Dorrit

  ' These South African spies?'

  ‘Yes, spies. That is the right word. They are everywhere. It is they who are responsible for the lies. Our Security people have proof. It is their aim to destabilise Zimlia so that South Africa may take over our country and add it to their evil empire. Did you know how they are attacking Mozambique? Now they are spreading everywhere. ' He peered at her to see what effect he was having. ‘And so you will write some articles for us, in the English newspapers, explaining the truth?'

  He began struggling out of his chair, panting a little. ‘My wife tells me that I should go on a diet, but it is hard when you are seated in front of a good meal – and unfortunately we Ministers have to attend so many functions...’

  The moment of parting. Rose was hesitating. A flush of reminiscent warmth for the boy Franklin, for whom she had after all stolen clothes – no, more, taught him how to steal for himself -insisted she should put her arms around him. And ifhe did embrace her that would count for a lot. But he held out his hand and she took it. ‘No, that's not the way, Rose. You must use our African handclasp, like this, like this...’ and indeed it was inspiring, the handshake that said it was hard to let go of a good friend. ' And

  I am waiting to hear good news from you. You will send me copies of your articles. I am waiting for them.’And he went off to the door of the Lounge where a couple of bulky men were waiting for him – his bodyguards.

  She had told Frank Diddy that she achieved an interview with the Minister Franklin, had seen that he was impressed. Now she described the interview as if it had been an achievement and, more, one up on him, but all he said was, 'Join the club. Perhaps you'd like to try your hand at one of our little editorials?'

  She decided she did not want to write about the drought, anyone could do that. She needed something ... in The Post which she was reading with professional contempt at the breakfast table she saw: ' Police report the theft of equipment from the new hospital in Kwadere. Thousands of dollars' worth has disappeared. It is suspected that local people are the thieves.'

  Rose's pulses definitely quickened. She showed the item to Frank Diddy, but he shrugged and said, 'That sort of thing goes on all the time. '

  'Where could I find out?'

  ' Don't bother, it's not worth it. '

  Kwadere. Barry had said Sylvia was there. Yes, there was something else. When Andrew came to London this was often announced in the papers: Andrew was News, or at least Global Money was. Last time, months ago, she had rung him, ' Hi, Andrew, this is Rose Trimble. '

  ' Hi, Rose. '

  'I am working on World Scandals these days.'

  'I don't think my doings would interest World Scandals'

  But there had been a previous time, some years ago, when he had agreed to meet her for a cup of coffee. Why had he? Her first thought was, guilt, that was it! While she had forgotten she had ever said he had made her pregnant – liars having bad memories -she did know that he owed her. And that meeting reminded her she had once found him so attractive she had not been able to let him go. He was still attractive: that casual elegance, that charm.

  She told herself it had broken her heart. She had been ready to elevate Andrew into the position of 'The man I loved best in my life', but slowly realised that he was warning her. All this smiling waffle was meant to tell her that she must lay off the Lennoxes. Who did he think he was! As a journalist it was her job to tell the truth! Just like that upper-class arrogance! He was trying to subvert the freedom of the Press! The cup of coffee lasted for quite a time, while he ponced about hinting this and that, but she had got out of him news of the family, for one that Sylvia was in Kwadere, she was a doctor. Yes, that was what had been at the back of her mind. Now she had the fact that Sylvia, whom she still hated, was a doctor in Kwadere, where hospital equipment was being stolen. She had found her subject.

  Some days after Sylvia and Rebecca had arranged the new books along the walls in Sylvia's rooms, a group ofvillagers stood waiting as she emerged to go down to the hospital. A youth came forward, smiling. ' Doctor Sylvia, please give me a book. Rebecca has told us you have brought us books. '

  ‘I have to go to the hospital now. Come back this evening. '

  How reluctantly they went off, with glances back at Father McGuire's house, where the new books were calling to them.

  All day she worked with Clever and Zebedee, who had been holding the fort while she was in London. They were so quick, so nimble, and they made her heart ache, because of their potential and what was likely to happen to them. She was thinking – had to think – where in London, no, where in England, or in Europe, are children as hungry for knowledge as these? They had taught themselves to read English off the print on food packets. Both, when they finished work with her, sat at home reading, by candlelight, progressively more difficult books.

  Their father still sat all day drowsing under this tree, one big skeleton hand drooping over a raised knee, which was a bony lump between two lanky bones covered with dry greyish skin. He had had pneumonia several times. He was dying of AIDS.

  At sundown there was a crowd of a hundred waiting outside Father McGuire's house. He was standing there as she came up from the hospital. 'And now, my child, it is time, you must do something.'

  She turned to the crowd and said she was going to disappoint them tonight, but she would arrange for the books to be stationed in the village.

  A voice asked: ‘And who will keep them safe for you? They will be stolen. '

  ‘No, no one will steal them. Tomorrow I'll do it all. '

  She and the priest watched as the again disappointed people wandered off into the darkening bush, through boulders, through grasses, along ways not visible to them, and he said, ‘I sometimes think they see with their feet. And now you will come inside and you will sit down and you will eat and then share your evening with me, and we will listen to the radio. We have the new batteries you brought us. '

  Rebecca was not there in the evenings. She prepared some sort of meal, and left it on plates in the refrigerator, and was in her own home by two in the afternoon. But today she came in while they were eating and said, ‘I have come because I must tell you.'

  ' Sit down,’ said the priest.

  There was a protocol, apparently never formally agreed to, that Rebecca would not sit at the table with them when she was in her capacity as a servant, and suggestions from Father McGuire that she should had been vetoed, by her: It would not be right. But when she was paying a visit, as now, she sat, and when invited took a biscuit from a plate and laid it down before her: they knew she would take it to her children. Sylvia pushed the plate towards her and Rebecca counted five more biscuits. At their enquiring looks – she had three surviving children – she said she was feeding Zebedee and Clever.

  'We must arrange for the books. I have been talking about it with everyone. There is an empty hut – Daniel's, you know who he was.'

  ‘We buried him last Sunday,’ said the priest.

  ' Okay. And his children died too before. But no one wants to take that hut now. They say it is unlucky'-she was using their word.

  'Daniel died of AIDS, and not because of any nonsense about bad muti.' Using her word for the n'ganga's potions.

  Rebecca and the priest had had in their long association many bouts of argument, which he had to win because he was the priest and she was a Christian, but now she smiled, and said ' Okay' .

  ‘You mean, it isn't unlucky for books?'

  ‘No, Sylvia, that is true, it is okay for books. And so we will take the shelves and bricks from your room and we will make the shelves in Daniel's hut, and my Tenderai will look after them.'

  This youth was very sick, with probably only a few months to live: everyone knew he had had a curse put on him.

  Rebecca read in their faces, and said quietly, ' He is well enough to guard the books. And he can enjoy the books and so he will not be so unhappy. '

  ' There are not enough books for everyone. '

&
nbsp; ‘Yes, there are enough. Tenderai will make them take a book out for one week, and bring it back. He will cover the books in newspaper. He will make everyone pay...’And, as Sylvia was about to protest, ' no, just a little bit, perhaps ten cents. Yes, it is nothing, but it is enough to tell everyone the books are expensive and we must all look after them. '

  She got up. She did not look well. Sylvia scolded her that she worked too hard, with her sick children who woke her at night, and she said again now, ' Rebecca, you work too hard. '

  ‘I am strong, I am like you, Sylvia. I can work well because I am not fat. A fat dog lies in the sun with the flies crawling over it and sleeps but a thin dog is awake and snaps at the flies.'

  The priest laughed. ‘I shall use that for my sermon on Sunday. '

  'You're welcome, Father.' She made her curtsy to him as taught her at school, due to anyone older. She pressed her thin hands together and smiled at him. Then to Sylvia she said, 'I'll get some boys to come and carry your books down to the hut, and the planks and bricks. Put your books on your bed, so they don't take them too. '

  She went out.

  'What a pity Rebecca couldn't run this poor country instead of the incompetents we' re saddled with. '

  ‘Do we really have to believe that a country gets the government it deserves? I don't think these poor people deserve their government.'

  Father McGuire nodded, then spoke. ‘Have you thought that perhaps the reason these gross clowns have not had their throats cut is because the povos would like to be in their place, and know they would do the same if they had the chance?'

  Sylvia said, ‘Is that really what you believe?'

  ' It is not for nothing that we have the prayer, ' ' Lead us not into temptation' ' . And there is the other, its companion, ' ' Thank you, Lord, for delivering me from evil' ' . '

  ‘Are you really saying that virtue is merely a question of not being tempted?'

  'Ah, virtue, now there's a word I find it hard to use.'

  Sylvia, it was clear, was not far off tears, and the priest saw it. He went to a cupboard, returned with two glasses and a bottle of good whisky – she brought it back with her. He poured generously for himself and for her, nodded at her and drank his down.

  Sylvia looked at the golden liquid making patterns in the lamplight, a rich oily swirl that settled into a pond of amber. She took a sip. ‘I have often thought I could become an alcoholic. '

  ‘No, Sylvia, you could not. '

  ‘I understand why in the old days they had sundowners. '

  ‘Why the old days? The Pynes have their sundowners on the dot.'

  'When the sun goes down I often think I'd give anything to drink a bottle empty. It's so sad, when the sun sets.'

  'It is the colour in the sky, reminding us of the splendours of the Lord that we are exiled from. ' She was surprised: he did not usually go in for this kind of thing. ‘I have many times wished myself away from Africa but I have only to see the sun go down over those hills and I’d not leave for anything in the world. '

  ' Another day gone and nothing achieved,’ said Sylvia. ‘Nothing changed. '

  ‘Ah, so you' re a world-changer, after all. '

  This struck into a sensitive area. She thought: Perhaps Johnny's nonsense got into me and spoiled me. ‘How could one not want to change it?'

  ‘How could one not want it changed? But wanting to change it oneself – no, there's the devil in that.'

  ‘And who could disagree, after what we have learned?'

  ‘And if you have learned that, then you have done better than most. But it is too potent a dream to let its victims go. '

  ' Father, when you were a young man, are you telling me that you never had a fit of shouting in the streets and throwing stones at the Brits?'

  ‘You forget, I was a poor boy. I was as poor as some of those people down there in the village. There was only one way out for me. I only ever had one road. I didn't have a choice. '

  ‘Yes, I cannot see you as anything other than a priest, by nature. '

  ' It is true – no choice, but the only one for me. '

  ‘But when I hear Sister Molly go on and on, if she didn't have a cross on her chest, you' d never know she was a nun. '

  ‘Have you ever thought that for poor girls anywhere in Europe there was only one choice? They became nuns to spare their families the cost of feeding them. And so the convents have been stuffed with young women who ' d have been better off raising families or – or any kind of work in the world. Sister Molly fifty years ago would be going mad in a convent, because she should never have been in it. But now – did you know? – she said to her Superiors, I am leaving this convent and I shall be a nun in the world. And one day I expect that she will say to herself, I'm not a nun. I never was a nun. And she will simply leave her Order, just like that. She was a poor girl and she took the way out. That is all. Yes, and I know what you are thinking – it will not be so easy for those poor black sisters up the hill to leave as it is for Sister Molly. '

  When Sylvia walked down to the village after lunch every day she found that outside every hut, or under the trees, or on logs or on stools, the people were reading, or, with an exercise book propped in front of them or on their knees, they laboured to learn to write. She had told them she would come from one to half past two and supervise classes. She would have said from twelve, but she knew Father McGuire would not let her skip lunch. But she did not need to sleep, after all. Within a couple of weeks something like sixty books were transforming the village in the bush where children went to school but did not get an education, and where most adults might have done four or five years at school. Sylvia had driven herself to the Pynes who were going into Senga, had gone with them, and bought a quantity ofexercise books, biros, pencils, an atlas, a little globe, and some textbooks on how to teach. After all, she had no idea how a professional would go about it, and the teachers in the school on the rise where the dust these days was lying in heaps or blowing about in clouds had had no training in how to teach either. She had also gone to the depot to find her sewing machines, but they had not been heard of.

  She sat outside Rebecca's hut, where a tall tree threw deep shade in the middle of the day, and taught up to sixty people, as well as she could, hearing them read, setting writing models, and propped the atlas on a shelf on a tree trunk to illustrate geography lessons. Among her pupils might be the teachers from the school who helped her, but were learning as they did.

  The doves cooed in the trees. It was the sleepy time of the day for all of them, and Sylvia's need for sleep dragged down her lids, but she would not sleep, she would not. Rebecca handed around water in stainless steel and aluminium basins stolen from the abandoned hospital. Not much water: the drought was biting, women were getting up at three and four in the morning to walk to a further river, the near one having run low and foetid, carrying jugs and cans on their heads. Not much washing was going on: clothes were certainly not being washed. It was as much as the women could do, to keep enough water for drinking and cooking. The smell from the crowd was strong. Sylvia now associated that smell with patience, with long-suffering, and with contained anger. When she took a sip from Rebecca's stolen basins she felt as she should do, but did not, when she drank the blood of Christ at Communion. The faces of the crowd, of all ages from children to old men and women, were rapt, hushed, attentive to every word. Education, this was education, for which most had hungered all their lives, and had expected to get when it had been promised by their government. At two thirty Sylvia called up from the crowd some boy or girl more advanced than the others, set them to read some paragraphs from Enid Blyton – a great favourite: from Tarzan – another; from the Jungle Book, which was more difficult, but liked: or from the prize of them all, Animal Farm which was their own story, as they said. Or the atlas was passed around at a page they had just done, to hammer in what they knew.

  She visited the village anyway, every morning after making sure her hospital was going well. S
he brought with her either Clever or Zebedee, for one of them had to be left in charge of the patients. She had patients in the huts, the ones with the slow lingering diseases, over whom she and the n'ganga would exchange looks that acknowledged what they were careful not to say. For if there was one thing this bush doctor understood as well and better than any ordinary doctor, it was the value of a cheerful mind; and it was evident that most of his muti, spells, and practices were elaborated for this one purpose: to keep going an optimistic immune system. But when she and this clever man exchanged a certain kind of look, then it meant that before long their patient would soon be up among the trees in the new graveyard, which was in fact the AIDS or Slim cemetery, and well away from the village. The graves were dug deep, because it was feared the evil that had killed these people could escape and attack others.

  Sylvia knew, because Clever had told her – Rebecca herself had not – that this sensible and practical woman, on whom both she and the priest relied, believed that her three children had died and a fourth was ill because her younger brother's wife, who had always hated her, had employed a stronger n'ganga than the local one to attack the children. She was barren, that was the trouble, and believed that Rebecca was responsible, having paid for charms and potions and spells to keep her childless.

  Some believed she was childless because in her hut were to be found more stolen things from the abandoned hospital than any other. The object known to be most dangerous among the stolen goods was the dentist's chair that had once been in the middle of the village, where children played over it, but it had been taken away and thrown into a gulley, to get rid of its malign influences. Vervet monkeys played over it, without harm, and once Sylvia had seen an old baboon sitting in it, a piece of grass between his lips, looking around him in a contemplative way, like a grandfather sitting out his days on a porch.