The Sweetest Dream

by Doris Lessing Little Dorrit

  ' Okay,’ said Mr Phiri. He was eating with the nervous haste of one who uses food as a pacifier. He pulled the bread to him and cut a great slab: no sadza, but enough bread would do almost as well.

  Rebecca suddenly chimed in: 'Perhaps the Comrade Inspector wants to come down and see how our people like what the doctor is doing, how she is helping us?'

  Father McGuire managed to control severe irritation. ‘Yes, yes, ' he said. ‘Yes, yes, yes. But on a hot day like this I am sure Mr Phiri would prefer to stay here with us in the cool and have a nice good strong cup of tea. Rebecca, please make the Inspector some tea.' Rebecca went out. Sylvia was about to tackle Mr Phiri about the missing exercise books and textbooks and the priest knew it, and he said, ' Sylvia, I am sure the Inspector would like to hear about the library you have made in the village?'

  ‘Yes,’ said Sylvia. ‘We have about a hundred books now. '

  ‘And who paid for them, may I ask?'

  ' The doctor has very kindly paid for them herself. '

  ' Indeed. And then I suppose we must be grateful to the doctor. ' He sighed, and said, ' Okay, ' and that was like a sigh.

  ' Sylvia, you haven't eaten anything. '

  'I think I'll just have a cup of tea.'

  In came Rebecca with the tea tray, set out the cups, the saucers, all very slow and deliberate, arranged the little net fly-shield with its beaded blue edge over the milk jug, and pushed the big teapot towards Sylvia. Normally, Rebecca poured the tea. She returned to the kitchen. The Inspector frowned after her, knowing there had been insolence, but he could not put his finger on it.

  Sylvia poured, never lifting her gaze from what her hands were doing. She put a cup near the Inspector, pushed the sugar bowl towards him, and sat making heaps of crumbs with her bread. A silence. Rebecca was humming out in the kitchen, one of the songs from the Liberation War, designed to annoy Mr Phiri, but he didn't seem to recognise it.

  And now, luckily, there was the sound of a car, and then it had stopped, sending showers of dust everywhere. Out stepped the mechanic in his smart blue overalls. Mr Phiri got up. 'I see that my car is here, ' he said vaguely, like someone who has lost something, but does not know what or where. He suspected that he had behaved in an improper manner, but surely not, when he had been in the right about everything.

  'I do so hope you will tell your father and your mother that we met, and that I pray for them.'

  'I will, when I do see them. They live out in the bush beyond the Pambili Growth Point. They are old now. '

  He went out to the verandah. There were butterflies all over the hibiscus bushes. A lourie was making itself heard, half a mile away. He walked to his car, got in at the back, and the car drove off in rivers of dust.

  Rebecca came in, and unusually for her, sat at the table with them. Sylvia poured her some tea. No one spoke for a while. Then, Sylvia said, ‘I could hear that idiot shouting from the hospital. If I ever saw a candidate for a stroke, it is the Comrade Inspector.'

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the priest.

  ' That was disgraceful,’ said Sylvia. ' Those children, they have been dreaming of the Inspector for weeks. The Inspector will do this, he will do that, he will get us the books. '

  Father McGuire said, ' Sylvia, nothing has happened. '

  ‘What? How can you say...’

  Rebecca said, ' Shame. It is a shame. '

  ‘How can you be so reasonable about it, Kevin?' Sylvia did not often called the priest by his Christian name. ' It's a crime. That man is a criminal. '

  'Yes, yes, yes,' said the priest. A pretty long silence. Then, 'Have you not ever thought that that is the story of our history? The powerful take the bread out of the mouths of the povos -the povos just get along somehow. '

  ‘And the poor are always with us?’ said Sylvia, sarcastic.

  ‘Have you ever observed anything different?'

  ‘And there is nothing to be done and it will all go on?'

  ' Probably,’ said Father McGuire. ‘What interests me is how you see it. You are always surprised when there is injustice. But that is how things always are. '

  ‘But they were promised so much. At Liberation they were promised – well, everything. '

  ' So politicians make promises and break them. '

  'I believed it all,' said Rebecca. 'I was a real fool, shouting and cheering at Liberation. I thought they meant it. '

  ‘Of course they meant it,’ said the priest.

  ‘I think all our leaders went bad because we were cursed. '

  ‘Oh, may the Lord save us,’ said the priest, snapping at last. ‘I will not sit to listen to such nonsense. ‘But he did not get up from the table.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rebecca. ' It was the war. It is because we did not bury the dead of the war. Did you know there are skeletons over there in the caves on the hills? Did you know that? Aaron told me. And you know that if we do not bury our dead according to our customs then they will come back and curse us. '

  ' Rebecca, you are one of the most intelligent women I know and...’

  ‘And now there is AIDS. And that is a curse on us. What else can it be?'

  Sylvia said, ' It's a virus, Rebecca, not a curse. '

  ‘I had six children and now I have three and soon there will be two. And every day there is a new grave in the cemetery. '

  ‘Did you ever hear of the Black Death?'

  ‘How should I hear? I did not get beyond Standard One. '

  This meant, that she had heard, knew more than she would let on, and wanted them to tell her.

  'There was an epidemic, in Asia and in Europe and in North Africa. A third of the people died,' said Sylvia.

  'Rats and fleas,' said the priest. 'They brought the disease.'

  ‘And who told the rats where to go?'

  ' Rebecca, it was an epidemic. Like AIDS. Like Slim. '

  ' God is angry with us,’ said Rebecca.

  ' May the Lord save us all,’ said the priest. ‘I’m getting too old, I'm going back to Ireland. I am going home. '

  He was querulous, like an old man, in fact. And he did not look well either – in his case, at least, it could not be AIDS. He had had malaria again recently. He was tired out.

  Sylvia began to cry.

  ‘I’m going to get my head down for a few minutes,’ said Father McGuire. ‘And I know it is no use telling you to do the same.'

  Rebecca went to Sylvia, lifted her, and the two went together to Sylvia's room. Rebecca let Sylvia slide down on her bed where she lay with a hand over her eyes. Rebecca knelt by the bed and slid her arm under Sylvia's head.

  ' Poor Sylvia,’ said Rebecca, and crooned a child's song, a lullaby. The sleeve of Rebecca's tunic was loose. Just in front of her eyes, through her fingers, Sylvia could see the thin black arm, and on the arm a sore, of the kind she knew only too well. She had been dressing them on a woman down in the hospital that morning. The weeping child that Sylvia had been until that moment departed: the doctor returned. Rebecca had AIDS. Now that Sylvia knew, it was obvious, and she had known, without admitting it, for a long time now. Rebecca had AIDS and there was nothing that Sylvia could do about it. She shut her eyes, pretended to slide into sleep. She felt Rebecca gently withdraw herself and go out of the room.

  Sylvia lay flat, listening to the iron roof crack in the heat. She looked at the crucifix, where the Redeemer hung. She looked at various Virgins in their blue robes. She took a glass rosary off its hook by her bed, and let it rest in her fingers: the glass of the beads was warm, like flesh. She hung it back.

  Opposite her the Leonardo women filled half a wall. Fish moth had attacked the beautiful faces, the edges of the poster were lace, the children's chubby limbs were blotched.

  Sylvia got herself out of that bed and went down to the village, where a great many disappointed people would be waiting for her.

  Granddaughter of a notorious Nazi, daughter of a career communist, Sylvia Lennox has found a rural hideyhole in Zimlia, where she owns a private hospi
tal, supplied by equipment stolen from the local government hospital.

  The problem was, this ignorant country had not yet caught up with the fact that communism was politically incorrect, and then, the word Nazi did not get the reactions it did in London. A lot of people here liked the Nazis. There were only two epithets that could be guaranteed to get a reaction. One was 'racist', the other 'South African agent'.

  Rose knew Sylvia was not a racist, but, since she was white, most blacks would be ready to say she was. But it needed only one letter in the Post from a black saying Sylvia was a friend of the blacks – no, but how about spy? That was tricky too. In that time just before apartheid collapsed, the spy fever in South Africa's neighbours was boiling over. Anyone who had been born in South Africa, or had lived there; who had gone there for a holiday recently; who had relations there; anyone criticising Zimlia for anything, or who suggested things might be better done; people who 'sabotaged' an enterprise or a business by losing or damaging equipment, such as a box of envelopes, or half a dozen screws -anyone at all who had become the focus of even mild disapproval, could be, and usually was, described as the agent of South Africa – which of course was doing everything it could to destabilise its neighbours. So, in such an atmosphere, it was easy for Rose to believe that Sylvia was a South African spy, but when so many were, it was not enough.

  Then Rose had a stroke of luck. A telephone call from Franklin's office invited her to a reception for the Chinese Ambassador, where the Leader would be present. At Butler's Hotel. At the best. Rose put on a dress and took herselfthere early. Already, after only a few weeks, if she was at a party for what she described to herself as the 'alternative crowd', she knew them all, at least to greet. Journalists, editors, the writers, the university people, the ex-pats, the NGOs – a mixed crowd, and a clever one, a quality she distrusted, since she always imagined people laughing at her – and it was still more white than black. They were informal, irreverent, hardworking, and most of them still full of faith in the future of Zimlia, though some were bitter and had lost faith. The other crowd, the one she would be with this evening, was where she felt at home – rulers and bosses, leaders and ministers, the ones with power, and more black than white.

  Rose stood in a corner of the great room whose general style and elegance soothed her, telling her she was in the right place, and waited for Franklin to come in. She was being careful not to drink too much – yet. She would get drunk later. The room was filling, then it was full, and still no Franklin. She was standing next to a man whose face she knew from The Post. She was not going to say she was a London journalist, a breed so hated by this government, but said, ' Comrade Minister, it is an honour to be in your wonderful country. I am visiting here. '

  ' Okay,’ said he, pleased, but certainly not ready to spend time on this unattractive white woman who was probably somebody's wife.

  ' Am I right in thinking of you as the Minister for Education?’ said Rose, knowing he was not, and he replied, amiable but indifferent, ‘No, as it happens the Under Minister for Health. Yes, I have the honour to be that. '

  He was craning his head over and around the heads in front of him; he wanted to catch the eye of the Leader when he came in, who, while he was renowned throughout the world as a man of the people, gave his Ministers little chance to see him. At the rare cabinet meetings he appeared, made his views known and departed: not a comradely man, the Comrade Leader. The Under Minister had been for some time wanting an opportunity to discuss certain things with the Boss, hoped for even a few words tonight. Besides, he was secretly in love with the fascinating Gloria. Who was not? This big exuberant irrepressible sexy woman with her face like an invitation... where was she? Where were they, the Comrade President and the Mother of the Nation?

  'I wonder if you know anything about a hospital in Kwadere?' Rose was saying – was repeating, for he had not heard her the first time. Now this was a solecism indeed. In the first place, at his level he could not be expected to know about individual hospitals, and then this was an official reception, it was not the place or the time. But as it happened he did know about Kwadere. The files had been on his desk that day, three hospitals, begun but not finished, because the funds had been – not to mince words – stolen. (No one could regret more than he did that these things happened, but then, one had to expect mistakes.) For two of the hospitals, angry and by now cynical donors had put forward a plan that if they, the original benefactors, raised half the necessary sums, then the government would have to match them. Otherwise, too bad, no go, goodbye hospitals. In Kwadere the original donor had sent a delegation out to the derelict hospital and then said, no, they did not propose to fund it. The trouble was, that hospital was badly needed. The government simply did not have the money. There was a sort of hospital, at St Luke's Mission, with a doctor, but a report had not been encouraging. The fact was it was embarrassing, that hospital, so poor and so backward: Zimlia expected better. And then there had been a report from the Security Services, saying the doctor's name was on a list of possible South African agents. Her father was a well-known communist, hand in glove with the Russians. Zimlia did not like the Russians, who had cold-shouldered Comrade Matthew when he was fighting – or rather, his troops were – in the bush. It was the Chinese that had supported Comrade Matthew. And here was the Chinese Ambassador now, with his wife, a tiny slice of a woman, both smiling away and shaking hands. He must move forward fast now, because where the Chinese Ambassador was, then that is where the Leader would be.

  'You must excuse me,' he said to Rose.

  'Please may I come and see you – perhaps in your office?'

  ‘And what for, may I ask?'-said rudely enough.

  Rose improvised: ' The doctor at the Kwadere hospital is -well, she is a cousin of mine and I heard that...'

  ‘You heard right. Your cousin should be more careful with the company she keeps. I have it on reliable authority that she is working for – well, it doesn't matter who. '

  ‘And – please, wait a minute, what is this about her stealing equipment from...’

  He had heard nothing about this, and was annoyed with his advisers that he had not. The whole business was irritating, and he did not want to think about it. He had no idea how to solve the problem of the Kwadere hospital.

  ‘What is this?' he said, turning to speak as he edged away into the crowd. ' If this is true then she will be punished, I can assure you, and I am sorry to hear she is related to you. '

  And he went to where the lovely Gloria had appeared, in scarlet chiffon and a diamond necklace. Where was the Leader? But it appeared he was not coming, his wife was doing the honours.

  Rose quietly left and went to a cafe that was always full of gossip and news. There she reported on the formal reception, on the Leader's absence, on the Mother of the Nation's red chiffon and diamonds, and the Under Minister's remarks about the Kwadere hospital. There was a Nigerian official, a woman, in Senga for the conference on the Wealth of Nations. Told about the spy at Kwadere, this woman said she had heard nothing but spies, spies, since she had arrived in Zimlia, and speaking from her experience in her own country, spies and wars were useful when things weren't going well with an economy. This provoked animated discussion, and soon everyone in the cafe was involved. One man, a journalist, had been arrested as a spy, but let go. Others knew people who were suspected of being agents and... Rose realised that now they would talk about South African agents all evening, and she slipped out and went to a little restaurant around the corner. Two men who had followed her from the cafe, though she had not noticed them, asked if she minded sharing her table: the place was full. Rose was hungry, a bit tight, and she rather liked these two men whom she found impressive in a hard-to-define way. Probably anyone in Zimlia would have seen at a glance that they were secret police, but to use that so useful formula, it has been so long since Britain was invaded that its citizens have a certain innocence. Rose was actually thinking that she must be looking attractive tonight. In m
ost countries in the world, that is to say, those with an energetic secret service, it would have been instantly evident that with such men one should keep one's mouth shut. As for them, they wanted to find out about her; why had she left the cafe so precipitously when they started talking about spies?

  'I wonder if you know anything about the mission hospital at Kwadere?’ she chattered. 'I have a cousin working there, a doctor. I've just been speaking to the Under Minister for Health and he told me she is suspected of being a spy. '

  The two men exchanged looks. They knew about the doctor at Kwadere, because they had her name on their list. They had not taken it particularly seriously. For one thing, what harm could she possibly do, stuck out there in the sticks? But if the Under Minister himself...

  These two had not long been in the Service. They had got jobs because they were relatives of the Minister. They were not from pre-Liberation days. Most new States, even though enjoying a complete change of government, keep the Secret Service of the previous government, partly because they are impressed by the range and extent of the knowledge of these people who have so recently spied on them, and partly because a good few have secrets they do not want revealed. These men still had to make names for themselves, and needed to impress superiors.

  'Has Zimlia ever had to expel someone for being an agent?' enquired Rose.

  ‘Oh, yes, many times.'

  This was not true, but it made them feel important, belonging to such stern and efficient service.

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Rose excitedly, scenting a story.

  'One was called Matabele Smith. ' The other amended, ' Mata-bele Bosman Smith. '

  One evening, in the cafe Rose had just left, some journalists had joked about the spy rumours, and had invented a spy with a name that embodied as many unpleasant characteristics – to the present government's mind – as they could. (They had vetoed Whitesmith, on the analogy of Blacksmith.) This character was a South African frequently in Zimlia on business, and he had tried to blow up the coal mines at Hwange, Government House, the new sports stadium, and the airport. He had entertained the cafe for a few evenings, but they lost interest. Meanwhile he had reached the police files. In the cafe the name Matabele Bosman Smith became shorthand for the spy mania and the agents who frequented the place were hearing the name but could never actually find out more.