The Sweetest Dream

by Doris Lessing Little Dorrit

  Not much of a thing, you' d think, this road, curving away into the bush, its grey shine dimmed where sand had blown over it, but along it, a host of the smartest cars in the country had sped not long ago to the Comrade Leader's wedding to his new wife the Mother of the Country having died. All the leaders of the

  world had been invited, comrades or not, and they had been conveyed on this bush road or by helicopter to a Growth Point not far from the birthplace of the Comrade Leader. Near it, among trees, two great marquees had been erected. Inside one trestle tables offered buns and Fanta to the local citizens, while the other had a feast laid out on white cloths, for the elite. But the church service where the marriage was being solemnized went on too long. The povos, or plebs, having consumed their buns, surged into the tent for their betters, and consumed all the food, while waiters futilely protested. Then they vanished back into the bush to their homes. More food had to be flown by helicopter from Senga. This event, so aptly illustrating... but one that is so like a fairy tale does not have to be annotated.

  Along this road, in not much more than ten years, the bully-boys and thugs of the Leader's Party would run with machetes and knives and clubs to beat up farm workers who wanted to vote for the Leader's opponents. Among them were the young men – former young men – to whom Father McGuire had given medicine in the war. Part of this army had turned off from this road on to the minor road to the Pynes' farm, which they did not appear to know had already been forcibly acquired by Mr Phiri, though the Pynes had not yet left. About two hundred drunks arrived on the lawn in front of the house and demanded that Cedric Pyne should kill a beast for them. He killed a fat ox – the drought having relaxed its grip – and on the front lawn a great fire was built and the ox was roasted. The Pynes were dragged down from the verandah and told to chant slogans praising the Leader. Edna refused. 'I'm damned if I'm going to tell lies just to please you,’ she said, and so they hit her until she repeated after them, ' Viva Comrade Matthew. ‘When Mr Phiri arrived to take possession of the two farms, the garden of the house was black and fouled and the house well was full of rubbish.

  Along this road eight years ago Sylvia had been driven, dazed and dazzled by the strangeness of the bush, the alien magnificence, listening to Sister Molly warn her against the intransigence of the male world: 'That Kevin now, he hasn't caught on that the world has changed around him.'

  By this road, not far from here, in a hilly area full of caves and rocky clefts and baobabs, is a place where the Comrade Leader was summoned at intervals by spirit healers (n'gangas, witchdoctors, shamans) to night sessions where men (and a woman or two), who may be working in a kitchen or a factory, painted, wearing animal skins and monkey hair, danced themselves into a trance and informed him that he must kill or throw out the whites or he will displease the ancestors. He grovelled, wept, promised to do better – then was driven back to town to take up his residence again in his fortress house, to plan for his next trip to meet the world's leaders, or a conference with the World Bank.

  The bus came. It was old, and it rattled and shook and emitted clouds of black greasy smoke that trailed for miles behind it, marking the road. It was full, yet a space appeared and admitted Sylvia and her two – what were they, servants? – but the people on the bus, prepared to be critical of this white woman travelling with them – she was the only white among them – saw her put her arms around the lads, who pressed up close to her, like children. They were doleful, trying not to cry, afraid of what they were facing. As for Sylvia, she was in a panic. What was she doing? What else could she have done? Under the rattling of the bus she asked them, low, ‘What would you have done if I hadn't come back?’And Clever said, ‘I don't know. We have nowhere to go. ' Zebedee said, ' Thank you for coming to fetch us. We were too-too afraid you wouldn't come for us. '

  From the bus station they walked to the old hotel that had been so thoroughly diminished by Butler's, and she took a room for the three of them, expecting comments, but there were none: in the hotels of Zimlia a room may have half a dozen beds in it to accommodate a whole family.

  She went with them to the lift, knowing that they had never seen one, nor, probably, heard of them, explained how they worked, walked along a corridor where a dusty sun was laying patterns, and in the room showed them the bathroom, the lavatory: how to turn taps and cistern handles, open and shut windows. Then she took them to the restaurant and ordered sadza for them, saying they must not use their fingers to eat it, and then a pudding, and with the aid of a kindly waiter, they managed that too.

  Then it was two o'clock and she took them back upstairs, and telephoned the airport, booking seats for the following evening. She said she was going to get them passports, explained passports, and said they could sleep if they wanted. But they were too excited, and were bouncing on the beds when she left, letting out cries that could have been joy, or a lament.

  She walked to the government offices and as she stood on the steps wondering what next, Franklin stepped out of his Mercedes. She grabbed his arm and said, 'I'm coming in with you and don't you dare say you have a meeting.' He tried to shake her off, and was about to shout for help when he saw it was Sylvia. He was so astonished he stood still, not resisting, so she let him go. When he had seen her weeks ago she had been an imposter who called herselfSylvia, but here was what he remembered, a slight creature, whose whiteness seemed to gleam, with soft golden hair and enormous blue eyes. She was wearing a white blouse, not that horrible white madam's green suit. She seemed positively transparent, like a spirit, or a gold-haired Madonna from his long-ago schooldays.

  Disarmed and helpless, he said, ' Come in. ‘And up they went along the corridors of power, up stairs, and into his office where he sat, sighing, but smiling, and waved her to a chair.

  ‘What is it you want?'

  ‘I have with me two boys from Kwadere. They are eleven and thirteen. They have no family. Everyone has died of AIDS. I am taking them back to London and I want you to arrange passports for them. '

  He laughed. ‘But I am the wrong Minister. It is not my department.'

  'Please arrange it. You can.'

  'And why should you steal away our children?'

  'Steal! They have no family. They have no future. They learned nothing in your so-called school where there aren't any books. I've been teaching them. They are very bright children. With me they'll be educated. And they want to be doctors.'

  ‘And why should you do this?'

  'I promised their father. He is dying of AIDS. I think he must be dead by now. I promised I would educate his sons. '

  ' It is ridiculous. It is out of the question. In our culture someone will look after them. '

  ‘You never go out of Senga, so you don't know how things are. The village is dying. There are more people up in the cemetery than in the village now. '

  ‘And is it my fault their father has AIDS? And is this terrible thing our fault?'

  ‘Well, it's not ours, as you keep saying. And I think you should know that in the country districts people are saying that AIDS is the fault of the government because you've turned out to be such a bunch of crooks. '

  His eyes wandered. He took a gulp of water. He wiped his face. ‘I’m surprised you listen to such gossip. They are rumours spread by South African agents. '

  ' This is wasting time. Franklin, I've booked seats for tomorrow night's flight to London.' She pushed across a piece of paper with the boys' names on it, their father's name, their birthplace. ' Here you are. All I need is a document to get them out of the country. And I'll arrange for them to have British passports when we get to London. '

  He sat looking at the paper. Then he cautiously lifted his eyes and they were full of tears. ' Sylvia, you said a very terrible thing.'

  ‘You ought to know what the people are saying. '

  ' To say such a thing, to an old friend. '

  'Yesterday I was listening to... the old man cursed me, to make me take his sons to London. He cursed me ... I a
m so full of curses that they must be spilling out of me.'

  And now he was really uneasy. ' Sylvia, what are you saying? Are you cursing me too?'

  ‘Did I say that?’But between her eyes was the deep tension furrow that made her look like a little witch. ' Franklin, have you ever sat beside an old man dying of AIDS while he curses you up hill and down dale? – it was so terrible his sons won't tell me what he was saying. ' She held out her wrist, that had around it a black bruise, like a bracelet.

  ‘What's that?'

  She leaned across the desk and gripped his wrist, in as tight a hold as she had felt yesterday. She held it, while he tried to shake her away, then released it.

  He sat, head bowed, from time to time giving her panicky glances.

  ' If your son wanted to go tomorrow night to London and needed a passport, don't tell me you couldn't fix it.'

  ' Okay, ' he said at last.

  ‘I shall wait for the boys' documents at the Selous Hotel. '

  ‘Have you been ill?'

  'Yes. Malaria. Not AIDS.'

  ‘Is that meant to be a joke?'

  ' Sorry. Thank you, Franklin. '

  ' Okay, ' he said.

  When Sylvia rang home from the airport before boarding she said she was arriving tomorrow morning with two boys, yes black ones, and she had promised to educate them, they were very clever – one was called Clever, she hoped it wasn't going to be too cold because of course the boys wouldn't be used to that, and she went on until Frances said that the call must be costing a fortune and Sylvia said, 'Yes, sorry, oh, I'm so sorry,' and at last rang off saying she would tell them everything tomorrow.

  Colin heard this news and said that evidently Sylvia intended the boys to live here. ' Don't be silly, how can they? Besides, she is going to Somalia, she said. '

  ‘Well, there you are. '

  Rupert after some thought, as was his way, remarked that he hoped William would not be upset. Which meant that he too thought the boys would be left with them.

  Neither Frances nor Rupert could be there to welcome Sylvia, they would be at work, but Frances suggested a family supper. This family conference was handicapped by lack of information. ' She sounded demented,’ said Frances.

  It was Colin who opened the door to Sylvia and the boys. In his arms was his daughter and Sophie's, Celia, an enchanting infant, with black curls, black flirty eyes, dimples, all set off by a little red dress. She took one look at the black faces, and howled.

  'Nonsense,' said her father, and firmly shook the boys' hands, which he noted were cold and trembling. It was a bitter November day. ' She's never seen black faces so close, ' explained Sylvia to them. ' Don't mind her. '

  They were in the kitchen, then at the faithful table. The boys were evidently in a state of shock, or something like it. If black faces can be pale, then theirs were. They had a greyish look, and they were shivering, though each had a new thick jersey. They felt themselves to be in the wrong place, Sylvia knew, because she did: too fast a transition from the grass huts, the drifts of dust, the new graves, at the Mission.

  A pretty young woman in jeans and a jolly striped T-shirt came in and said, ' Hi, I'm Marusha, ' and stood by the kettle while it boiled. The au pair. Soon big mugs of tea stood before Sylvia and the boys, and Marusha set biscuits on a plate which she pushed toward them, smiling politely. She was a Pole, and absorbed in mind and imagination in the disintegration of the Soviet Union, which was in energetic process. Having gathered Celia on to her hip, she said, 'I want to see the News on the telly,' and went up the stairs singing. The boys watched Sylvia putting biscuits on to her plate, and how she added milk to her tea, and then sugar. They copied her exactly, their eyes on her face, her movements, just as they had watched her for the years at the hospital.

  ' Clever and Zebedee,’ said Sylvia. ' They have been helping me at the hospital. I shall get them into school the moment I can. They are going to be doctors. They are sad because their father has just died. They have no family left. '

  ‘Ah,’ said Colin, and nodded welcome to the boys, whose sad scared grins seemed permanently fixed. 'I'm sorry. I do see that all this must be terribly difficult for you. You'll get used to it. '

  ‘Is Sophie at the theatre? '

  'Sophie is intermittently with Roland – no, she hasn't actually left me. I would say she is living with both of us.'

  ‘I see. '

  ‘Yes, that's how things are. '

  ' Poor Colin. '

  ' He sends her four dozen red roses at the slightest excuse or meaningful messages of pansies or forget-me-nots. I never think of things like that. It serves me right.'

  ‘Oh, poor Colin. '

  ‘And from the look of you, poor Sylvia. '

  ' She is sick. Sylvia is very sick, ' the boys came in. Last night on the plane they had been frightened, not only of the unfamiliar plane, but Sylvia kept vomiting, going off to sleep, and coming awake with a cry and tears. As for them, she had shown them how the toilets worked, and they thought they had understood, but Clever had pushed what must have been the wrong button, because next time he made his way there the door had Out of Order on it. They both felt the stewardesses were looking at them critically, and that if they did something stupid the plane might crash because of them.

  Now, when Sylvia put her arms around them, as she sat between them, they could feel that she was cold, through her clothes, and was shivering. They were not surprised. The view out of the window coming from the airport, all oozing grey skies and endless buildings and so many people bundled up like parcels made them both want to put their heads under a blanket.

  'I take it none of you slept a wink on the plane?' asked Colin.

  'Not much,' said Sylvia. 'And the boys were too overcome with everything. They are from a village, you see. All this is new to them. '

  ‘I understand,’ said Colin, and did, as far as anyone can who has not seen for himself.

  ‘Is there anyone in Andrew's old room?'

  ‘I work in it. '

  ‘And in your old room, '

  ‘William is in it. '

  'And in the little room on that floor? We can get two beds in there. '

  ' Bit crammed, surely, with two beds?'

  Zebedee said, 'There were five people living in our hut until my sister died. '

  ' She wasn't really our sister,’ said Clever. ' She was our cousin, if you reckon by your ideas. We have a different kinship system. ' He added, ' She died. She got very sick and died. '

  ‘I know they are not the same. I look forward to your explaining it to me. ' Colin was just beginning to distinguish the boys from each other. Clever was the thin, eager one with enormous appealing eyes; Zebedee was bulkier, with big shoulders and a smile that reminded him of Franklin's.

  ' Can we look at that fridge? We have never seen a fridge as big as that before. '

  Colin showed them the fridge, with its many shelves, its interior lighting, its freezing compartments. They exclaimed, and admired and shook their heads, and then stood yawning.

  ' Come on,’ said Colin, and he went up the stairs, with his arms on their shoulders, Sylvia behind them. Stairs, stairs – the boys had not seen stairs until the Selous Hotel. Up they went, past the living-room floor, past Frances's and Rupert's, and the little room where once Sylvia had had her being, to the floor that had housed Colin's and Andrew's growing up. In the little room was already a big bed, and just as Colin was saying, 'We'll fix you up with something better,' the two flung themselves down on it and were asleep, just like that.

  ' Poor kids,’ said Colin.

  ‘When they wake they'll be in a panic. '

  ‘I’ll tell Marusha to keep her eyes open... and where are you sleeping, have you thought of that?'

  ‘I can doss down in the sitting-room until...’

  ' Sylvia, you aren't thinking of dumping the boys on us and taking off to – where did you say?'

  'Somalia.'

  Sylvia had not been thinking. She had been
carried along on a tide of accomplishment since her promise to Joshua, and had not allowed herself to think, or to fit together the two facts, that she was responsible for the boys, and that she had promised to be in Somalia in three weeks' time.

  They went back down the stairs, sat at the table and smiled at each other.

  ' Sylvia, you had remembered that Frances is getting on a bit, she is past seventy? We gave her a big party. Not that she looks it or acts it. '

  ‘And she has Margaret and William already. '

  ' Only William. ‘And now, at his leisure – they had all the time in the world – he told her the story. Margaret had decided, without discussing it with them, that she would live with her mother. She had not asked her either, but had turned up at Phyl-lida's and said to Meriel, ‘I’m coming to live with you. '

  ' There's no room,’ said Meriel promptly. ‘Not until I get a place.'

  ' Then you must get a place, ' ordered her daughter. ‘We've got enough money, haven't we?'

  The trouble was this: Meriel had decided to go to university and take a degree in psychology. Frances was furious: she had expected Meriel to start earning some money, but Rupert was unsurprised. 'I always said she had no intention of ever earning a living for herself, didn'tI?' 'Yes, you did.' 'No one would believe it, looking at her, but she's a very dependent woman.' ‘Are we going to have to keep her in perpetuity?' 'I wouldn'tbe surprised.'

  This was why Meriel did not really want to leave Phyllida: she did not want to be by herself. Phyllida meanwhile wanted Meriel to go. There had been some dark satisfaction, never really analysed, in having Rupert's former wife, here, with her, like an extension of the Lennox household, but enough was enough. She did not actively dislike Meriel, but her sharp cutting ways could depress. When Margaret moved in, Phyllida felt she was reliving an old nightmare, seeing herself in Meriel, with the girl, mother and daughter, snapping and snarling and kissing and making up and noisy, so noisy, tears and rows and shouts and the long silences of reconciliation.