And what of natural phenomena, could we do without them?
After lunch, which was most ample and amicable, once again bringing much-needed sustenance to certain hungry ones, we returned to the hall, united in beaming fondness for each other, and I noted: dawn dews bringing the refreshing life of Islam to the empty sands of irreligious impiety. Flowers of Our Master's Thought. (Whose Master? I forget.) Tsunamis of ignorant obscurantism. Sandbanks of obstinate misinterpretation. Tainted winds from poisoned minds. Stagnant pools of dogma. (Again, I forget which pools. Marxist? Islamic? Christian? And who cares? They certainly did not!) Waterspouts of confusion. Depleted reservoirs of bankrupt theory. Badlands where nothing grows but the parched thistles of dying creeds. Deserts of internecine strife. Clouds of superficial brotherhood. King Canutes trying to hold back the ever-springing seaswells of marxist inspiration. Clay feet. Dusty but unbowed heads. Eroded brain cells. Quicksands of... overflowing rivers of... mildewed boughs of...
And thus we arrived at our evening meal, and it could be observed that some of us were putting back everything we could, our first square meal ever from the look of some of us. And then, the dance! There we all were, male and female, a perfect flowerbed of colourful uniforms, and some girls with a tentative blossom or two in their hair, and even one or two in proper dresses! These had suitors around them in what a disapproving maiden called "a sexual assault," but it was only one carping voice in a perfect feast of love and harmony. Making my usual enquiries, performing my usual one-man survey, I discovered that for many of these poor deprived souls, this was their first "real" festival, meaning the first time they had encountered others than their own kind, having never met any but socialist revisers, Islamic New Thoughtists, or whatever. These were particularly having the time of their lives, absolutely stunned by the richness of thought possible in this teeming world, "oh brave new world that has such people in it!" and had to be protected from their inexperience by certain watchful souls, myself among them (deputed to this end by George), for while there was nothing against people waking up in beds they had chosen, we were trying to prevent sad awakenings in the dawn in the arms of perfect strangers. And so to bed. (Alone.) But George was up talking away all night as usual.
Next day a feeling of urgency was making itself felt, for the real meat of the agenda had still to be set before us, but no, the preliminaries were not yet over.
A military mode prevailed. Target identification obscured by empty rhetoric... automated invective... calibrated marksmanship on the sociological front... keeping enemy positions in the sights of social revolutionary acumen... target identification obscured by faulty weapons of analysis... vigilance on the ever-shifting frontiers of social change... booby traps in the social sector... invincible battalions of dialectic... depth-bombing of our intellectual bastions... fatally low-altitude penetration of theoretical bases... pointless camouflage of an already collapsed ideological position... demolition of... destruction of... spin-off from... checksights... height-finding... range-finding...
You think that this must be the end? Well, nearly, we had reached the mid-morning break, with only the rest of the day left for our real purposes.
But there were still a few mutterings from the dying storm... bourgeois communists... bourgeois socialists... bourgeois democrats... bourgeois technocrats... bourgeois pseudophilosophs... bourgeois pessimists... bourgeois opto-polymaths... bourgeois bureaucrats... and bourgeois racists and bourgeois sexists.
With an hour left to lunch and the hounds of time snapping at our ever-moving heels, we got down to it, and since by then we were all cemented into one soul, we passed without debate resolutions about unity, brotherhood, co-operation and so on. These being the principles which we all serve. And it was after lunch easily and quickly agreed that it was urgently necessary to establish subsidiary armies and camps and organisations for the innumerable young children without homes and parents everywhere. A subcommittee was elected to deal with this, on which I was abashed to find myself, since I had no such expectation. I know that George put Ali up to it, but I have no proof and I don't mind, at least it is useful. In fact urgently necessary.
A lot of subcommittees were set up in not very much more time than it is taking me to write this, on a large variety of on the whole useful tasks, such as crash courses into real national and regional differences (note that the tetchy obligations of the hostile rhetoricians were bypassed neatly in this one nonabrasive word - understood with small pleased smiles by everyone present) and on survival, and on the exchanging of sample groups from country to country. And so on.
The conference ended in a rush with the bands playing very fast, because we had run overtime, a vast number of national anthems, organisational songs, and martial music of every kind, type and style, but thank heavens, the delegates were already streaming out to catch their coaches, many in floods of tears at interrupted friendships and loves, making improbable plans to meet again, kissing, hugging, waving. Never has there been such a scene of - surely? - treason, for these enemies were entwined together like barley-sugar sticks on a rainy day, and they could hardly be dragged apart.
And so ended the Conference.
George was pleased. He was in very good spirits on the drive back, singing and playing games. The life and soul of the party one could say, and I do. I suppose he is not so bad, my sainted brother. But what was he doing there at all?
RACHEL SHERBAN'S JOURNAL
It is a long time since I wrote down anything. Eighteen months to be exact. We are in Tunis now. A modern block. Unfortunately. I say unfortunately. I felt perfectly at home in that mud rabbit warren. I loved living there. Benjamin was relieved to get out of it. As soon as he walked into this boring flat he was at home. You can see him positively expanding in every breath. Smiling and relieved. I have not heard from Shireen and Naseem. Fatima married Yusuf just after I left. They are in a room next to Shireen's and Naseem's rooms. Soon I suppose Fatima will have five children. Who will help Shireen with her babies then? I would help if I were there. I felt they were my family just as much as this family is. I love them. Here today and gone tomorrow. In this block of flats no sleeping on the roof. That was the best thing I ever knew.
Well, at least here we aren't called eccentric.
The reason I am making myself write this is that I don't know what to think about anything. Particularly about George. I hate all this youth movement thing. I think it is childish. I simply can't see how any of them takes it seriously. It is obvious to the meanest intelligence why the kids join it. It is because they wouldn't have any privileges otherwise. I think that is despicable. And George is in it up to his ears. Of course a lot of them have to join something. It is the law.
The last time I wrote things down I understood what was going on. So I am trying again.
It was Hasan who said I should last time.
Where is Hasan? He has completely vanished from our lives. And George left Morocco apparently without a pang. Apparently, but who knows what he feels? I don't think he has seen Hasan though and he saw him every day in Marrakesh. I asked if he missed Hasan, and he looked bothered, and then he sighed. Because of me, of course. I asked him again and he said, Rachel, you are making things much harder than they need be.
Since we have been here, George has made another visit to India. He has not talked about it. Olga and Simon haven't asked. So I didn't. Benjamin did. But in a sarcastic sort of way. When he is like that George doesn't answer. Anyway he was invited to go and he wouldn't. But George is spending time with Benjamin. Often in the evenings they go to cafes. I hardly ever go. I am working for my exams. I am taking geopolitics, geoeconomics, and geohistory.
I have seen something. I work for exams. Benjamin works for exams. George doesn't work for exams. What he does is this. Wherever we go he attends college or university or something. Or tutors come. Or he goes off on trips with Father and Mother to places, though hardly ever now, that was when he was younger. Now it is trips with someone like Ha
san. But he doesn't take exams. He knows as much as we do, though. More, by far. What happens is, he is with a class or a tutor for a month or something like that, and then he knows that subject. Mother and father have never made him sit for exams. Yet we always have to. But they take a lot of trouble to make sure he learns all kinds of things. Mother is off in the South at the epidemic, so I shall ask Father.
I did. Obviously he had been expecting this question. What he said was, It was felt that George would not need exams. It was felt. I did not notice at once that he had said that. Then I said, Felt by whom? I was being cross and a bit sarcastic. (The way Benjamin is.) Father was quite patient, affectionate but definitely on his guard. Not cagey, though.
He said, You must have understood the situation, Rachel.
That checked me. Because of course I believe I do.
I said, Yes, I think I do. But what I want to know is, who said to you and Mother in the first place that George should be educated like this?
He said, The first time it was suggested, was in New York.
Miriam?
He said, Yes, that's it. And then there were the others.
I suddenly knew exactly how it was. It had been exactly like those moments when Hasan talked and I suddenly understood something, though apparently nothing very much had been said. I saw that it had been the same with Father and Mother. Obviously Miriam and then afterwards one of the tutors or someone had said quite casual simple things that rang in their minds, and then slowly they understood.
Writing that down has made me feel I have to know more about Simon and Olga. How is it they are like this? Why did they understand so easily? Or perhaps it wasn't easily. But they did understand. I don't know any other parents, of my friends, I mean, who would understand. Now I am looking back on our education, all of it, all the odd things, the tutors and the special courses and being with Olga and Simon in all kinds of peculiar and sometimes dangerous places, and how they have allowed George to be taught in that way, and I see how different they are. For one thing, and before anything else, they take so much trouble with us. Most parents aren't bothered.
I have just been to ask Father. He is working with his papers on the desk in the bedroom. I knocked and went in and he said, Wait a minute Rachel. He finished doing some calculations. Then he said, What is it?
I sat on the bed where I could see his face with the light on it. I felt quite fierce, but I didn't know what to ask.
He pushed his chair right round and faced me. Father is getting old now. His hair is grey and he is always too thin. He is very tired at the moment. I could see that he wished I had not come in just then. The light from the window was on his glasses and I wanted to see his eyes. As I thought that, he took off his glasses. I thought that this was just like him. I suddenly felt very affectionate and I blundered straight in. I said, I want to ask something difficult. Ask away, then. I want to know how it is that you and Mother are the sort of parents you are. Why?
He did not seem surprised. He saw at once. But he was thinking about what to say. He sat with his legs stretched out, almost to the bed where I was sitting. He swung his glasses back and forth. This always drives Mother wild. It is hard to get glasses at all, let alone repaired.
He said, Strange as it may seem - This is how he begins saying things he finds difficult. Humorous. Strange as it may seem, this thought is not a new one to either your mother or myself.
Strange as it may seem, I am not surprised to hear it. I suppose as usual you have been waiting for this moment of truth and you have your words ready.
Something like that, he said, swinging his glasses.
Mother will kill you if you break those glasses.
Sorry. And he put them down. Look, Rachel, I think you understand all this just as well as we do.
Oh no, I said to him, really furious. I thought he was going to slide out of it. I mean, I said to him, It is impossible. Listen! There you are, you and Mother and three children, Mum and Dad and three dear little kiddies, in New York, and you of course all set to do the very best for them. And then along comes a perfectly ordinary woman called Miriam Rabkin and buys ice cream for all the kiddies and says, Oh no, don't bother to send George to an ordinary school, just let him pick things up as he can, that is by far the best way, and meanwhile I'll just trot him off to the Museum of Modern Man. And you said, But of course, Mrs. Rabkin, what a good idea, we'll do just that.
Silence. There we sat. He was smiling and friendly. I was smiling and desperate. I am feeling quite desperate these days. That is the truth.
Something like that, he said.
Very well then. In Marrakesh George spent exactly half a term in Mahmoud Banaki's class. When he came out he was fully versed in the Histories of the Religions of the Middle East, back to Adam at least if not further. Right?
Right.
But who told you to send George to that class at that time?
Hasan.
You mean he breezed in one afternoon and said Mr. Sherban! Mrs. Sherban! I am Hasan and I am interested in George, a very promising lad you have got there, and I want you to see that etc. etc. And you said, But of course! And it was done.
He was being definitely on the defensive but patient.
You forget Rachel, that Hasan came along after quite a lot of people of that kind.
Saying of that kind, in that way meant I had to accept those words and all the thoughts I had had on that subject.
All right, I said.
He was sitting there, rocking about on the back legs of his chair, looking at me. And I was looking at him.
And then he said what I had all this time been waiting for him to say.
You must see, Rachel, that being George's parents meant we had to see things differently.
Yes.
We have been taught to see things differently. Do you see?
Yes.
At the beginning, when it started, often enough your mother and I thought we were mad. Or something like that.
Yes.
But we went along with it. We did go along with it. And it worked.
Yes, I said.
Then he said, Rachel, you must run along, I've got to finish this, I have to, do you want any help with your homework? If so, I can after supper.
No, I said, I can manage.
I have seen something. During the term when George was doing the History of the Religions of the Middle East at the Madrasa, he also took classes from a Christian and from a Jew. In other words, while he was learning the curriculum, he was simultaneously learning the partisan points of view that wouldn't be in the curriculum. Not to mention God knows what from Hasan. That means he couldn't take exams, because what he had learned would never be contained in the exam questions. Though of course he could narrow everything down, after all Benjamin and I have to do that all the time. But that isn't the point. He is being educated for something different.
By whom?
What for?
Meanwhile he is a star figure in the local youth movements. And it makes me sick. Benjamin says George needs to show off. Well, that is of course what I cannot help thinking. But in my experience what Benjamin thinks is nearly always wrong. It comes out of his being jealous. Like me. At least I know that I am jealous and Benjamin doesn't seem to. Anyway I come more and more to the conclusion that what I think isn't worth anything. I seem to myself more and more a sort of sack full of emotions. Swilling around. I am angry. I don't know what about. I am so angry I could die. Sometimes I watch these emotions go surging past. Hi there anger! Hi there jealousy! Hi everyone! This is Rachel saying hello!
I have to put down what I feel about Suzannah. I think Suzannah is awful. Mother is very patient when Suzannah comes, and Father is extremely humorous. She is a loud, vulgar, stupid, flashy girl. She is crazy about George. Well girls crazy about George are like the sands of the seashore. So why Suzannah?
I asked Mother. (She is back from the epidemic. But she is leaving for the famine next week.) She said: Georg
e is seventeen and a half. She said that George was seventeen at least ten times in half an hour. That was about all she could say about it. Meanwhile I could see she was wishing I would stop yapping at her. Yap yap yap, like a little dog. I could see myself. I asked Father. He said, Suzannah is extremely physically attractive. I can't bear this. Furthermore I don't believe George sleeps with Suzannah. I said to Benjamin who was making a lot of coarse remarks, George certainly does not sleep with Suzannah. He said, Darling little sister, what do you think they do during these starlit nights? I said he was stupid and didn't understand George.
I said to George, Do you sleep with Suzannah, and he said Yes.
When he said that what I felt was that he had hit me. So I cried a lot. If George could sleep with Suzannah, then nothing mattered. How can he? It is an insult. I mean, to girls who are serious. I just feel that everything is spoiled. And Benjamin is quite right I am afraid. He says George is a power-lover and he is. So that's that.
I wrote that last bit several weeks ago. It has been a very bad epoch in my life. Benjamin suddenly started being very nice to me and I and Benjamin went out a lot. Several times, quite by chance - though I know our parents don't believe this, Benjamin and I were in cafes where George was with Suzannah. When George is with Suzannah, so it would seem, he is quite different from what he is at home with us. He is very funny. He laughs a lot. Not a care in the world. Showing off. I just wanted to be sick. But then Benjamin started to show off too, and more than once called across to George and Suzannah with all sorts of Jokes. I wanted to die. So then I said I wouldn't go out with Benjamin. I stayed at home. I did badly with my school work. And then Mother talked to me. She was disappointed in me. I know she and Father had talked. I'm not stupid. She came into my bedroom one night. I was crying. I said to her at once, All right, you and Father think I am jealous of George. She said to me, That's not the point at all. I said to her, All right then, what? - for already I could see a new perspective. She said to me, George isn't a saint, he isn't some sort of a paragon. But the point is, he is not yet eighteen years old.
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