The Nature of Blood

by Caryl Phillips

  I lie on my cot, but, as hard as I concentrate, I can hear no noise. This is the first night that I have heard neither shouting nor distant laughter. And it is a dark night. I lie suspended without sound, without sight, without distraction. Focusing on myself and my fears. Worried about everything. Simply everything. The tinned meat. A layer of lard on top, the meat underneath. Should I eat it? Can I eat it? And does the weight of the dead add itself to the earth? And if so, will the earth stop moving? Will it? Mama. Papa. There is not even a place where I might wear an uneven circle into the matted grass around your graves. And still I try to master these new gestures of life. How to use a toothbrush. How to fold toilet paper. How to say hello and goodbye. How to eat slowly. How to express joy. The rediscovery of smell. The smell of a tree. The smell of damp. The smell of rain. I worry about smell. A flower's perfume would knock me over. I worry about everything. The visit to the cinema has not managed to wash the anxieties from my mind. When I arrived back this evening, I looked for Gerry. I wanted to tell him that I did what he hoped I might do. I did not want to say, 'Thank you.' I just wanted to be able to let him know that I had done what he hoped I might do. But there was no sign of Gerry.

  I look out of the window. The morning is overcast. The relative bleakness of the day causes my anxieties to resurface. I worry that there may be some return to the situation that existed before these men arrived. Camp life. The scream that deafens with its terror, the terror of deafening silence. The rigidity of motion, heavy stones weighing on everybody's hearts. Travelling daily beyond the frontiers of life with an obscene selfishness as one's sole companion. Forever hungry, no longer amazed at how quickly the body deteriorates, intrigued by the temporary peace with the skeletal, the unbearable pain of hunger, promising the shrinking body warm food, all night thinking of food. Killing only the lice, but not the eggs. Being bitten behind the ears and between the legs, in moist areas, little blood bumps that burst if you scratch. And always the violence of memory. Camp life. A return to the loneliness of this situation? There is no companionship in despair. But we are liberated and I choose to remain alone. (I want Margot. I want dear Bella.) I glance around at the empty cots, and I realize that I have created a prison. I have locked myself in this hut among the ghosts of strangers. Am I an offering? What is happening to me that I prefer to be in this hut? The humid atmosphere is foul, for the air has been trapped in this building for many days and many nights. But there are people who will talk to me. There are people who would be happy to talk to me.

  I run to another of the men. He is climbing up and into the back of a truck, the engine of which is already running.

  'Please. Where is Gerry?'

  The man flicks his cigarette butt to the ground, and then continues to chew on his gum.

  'Gone, love. Don't ask me where. Most of us are going.'

  'Will you be back?'

  By now, the engine is roaring and I can tell by the changing notes that the truck will soon pull away. I shout again, this time louder.

  'Will you be back?'

  'Dunno, love. But you'll be all right. You've made it.'

  And then, almost as an afterthought, as the truck begins to pull away, he calls to me.

  'If I see him, I'll tell him that you were asking after him.'

  He waves, the canvas frame flapping around him, and then the truck begins to pick up speed. Behind me, the soldiers are trying to organize us into groups for processing. Everybody is on the move. Them. Us. People are leaving. And now I understand. Gerry gave me the money as a leaving gift. That was it. He wanted to give me a leaving present. I see a woman whom I remember from the long journey here. She looks at me, her dark eyes momentarily narrowed. I say nothing. I simply turn and walk in the opposite direction, back towards my hut.

  I sit on my timber and angle my head towards the sun. My friend, the sun, has once more returned. And then I see them, in the distance. I rub the back of my hands into my eyes. A man with a camera. And other people, including a young woman. She is not much older than me. They are filming. She is fat. They are moving purposefully, like a slow train, towards me. I assume that they will want to know what life was like before the English soldiers arrived. I begin to undress slowly. We were happy. Every day was spring.

  I stand by my window. I stare out at the world, then I turn and look around my empty hut. I rehearse in my mind the steps that have led me to this place. My empty hut. Then I disengage my mind from such disquieting thoughts and try to concentrate on the day at hand. But today there is nothing on which to concentrate. The film people are still here. I can see them through the window, wandering about in their sluggish manner. They did not film me. Cowards. I can see three soldiers (two men and a woman) who sit behind a clumsy wooden table. A single line of us queues in front of each of them. They are continuing to process us for D.P. camps. Slowly, they are emptying this camp. Gerry has already gone. I will stay in my hut today. I do not wish to be a part of their world.

  I dreamt that nobody believed me. That I was in America and I was telling some people my story, the despondent words falling awkwardly from my mouth. Just my story. (. . . dazed children wandering the streets, searching for their parents . . .) They looked at me, their faces marked with respect, and they nodded with cultivated fascination. Nobody wished to offend me. And then a man looked at his watch. In America.

  I like the way birds fly. At first you see the effort, how they flap their wings frantically as they build up speed and direction. And then they stop and glide confidently. And then comes my favourite part, when they suddenly start to flap their wings again and build up speed. That's what I do these days. I just sit here on my timber and watch the birds beyond the fence. I watch their communal flight. Every day, they beat a thin black ribbon across the sky. There are too many to give them names, or to get to know them personally. I just sit here on my timber and watch them. Every day. My name is Eva Stern. I am twenty-one years old. Just when I think I am going to fall, I flap my wings.

  Again I had the same dream. (. . . dragging her child behind her like a secret crime . . . ) This time I knew one of the people looking at me. Gerry. He was in America with all the other faces. This time they were trying hard not to laugh, for they wanted to hear more of my story. (. . . the other woman was holding a tiny baby that was wrinkled like a foot . . .)

  Today, Mama arrived back in the camp. At first I was angry, for I thought the person lying in the cot next to me must have broken in during the night in order to steal something. And this being the case, why lie down next to me? Why not go to one of the other cots? Before I could say anything, the woman turned her face towards me and I saw it was Mama. I wasn't frightened. I was expecting her to return, for I never truly believed that she had gone. And now she is back. I hold her hard and encourage her to tell her story once more. Of how they took her from this hut and left her for dead. Of how she took shelter in another hut, among people who spoke a language that she simply could not understand. But they fed her, and looked after her, and then they forsook her, for they were part of the group that, upon the arrival of the English soldiers, immediately fled. Mama tells me about how she struggled to look after herself on the far side of the camp. She touches my face as though still unable to believe her luck.

  'But Mama,' I ask, 'why did you not come and look for me?'

  Mama looks sad now.

  'They told me that you were dead, and I believed them.'

  'Dead?'

  'Yes. They told me you were dead.'

  I touch my Mama's face, her lips, her eyes, her nose. I stroke her wisps of hair. Mama is back with me. I can now begin to plan a future for both of us.

  It is night. Neither Mama nor I have ventured out of this hut today. We are both hungry and thirsty, but we have spent the day together, talking. Mama is sure that Margot is fine and in America. Margot will not have stayed behind. We laugh at the idea of Margot in the movies. Dear Margot in Hollywood. Papa is dead. Mama and I know this. There is little further to
say about this. We agree that we need not concern ourselves with how he might fit into our future plans. He simply does not. Outside, I imagine the night air is still heavy with the heat of the day. I tell Mama about my birds. I tell her about where I sit and watch them. I promise her that I will take her there. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after. At present, I am concerned only with Mama and her words. She smiles at me and I know she understands.

  The woman seems to be losing patience with me. I can tell by the way she looks down at the paper and taps her pencil against the desk. She is quite pretty, with short dark hair and hazel eyes. Even the drab, lifeless colour of her uniform cannot entirely detract from her glamour.

  'Are you waiting for anybody from home?'

  Stupid woman. Waiting where? Who knows where I am. I am not sure myself. I refuse to speak.

  'Do you intend to go home?'

  How can she use the word 'home'? It is cruel to do so in such circumstances. I cannot call that place 'home'. 'Home' is a place where one feels a welcome. For a moment, her eyes meet mine, but now she drops them again, and once more she resumes her tapping.

  'I'll put you down for a D.P. camp. You can decide later what you want to do or where you want to go.'

  She prepares to write, then she pauses. She looks up at me. When her teeth show they glisten beneath a thin coating of saliva.

  'I have your home town and your family details. Is there anything else that I should know?'

  I shake my head. I will not tell her about Mama. That is my business.

  'All right, you may go.'

  And now I understand that I am being dismissed and another person is to take my place. Fine. I understand the terms of this game. I am here, then I am gone. I matter only as long as I answer questions. I decide to stand my ground. She glances up at me, but this time with a puzzled look.

  'You may leave.'

  I will not torment her hazel eyes any further.

  It is early evening, but the sun has not yet descended beneath the horizon. I am in another line. I am waiting for a second bowl of soup. I know nobody will question me. They have learnt when to see me, and when not to see me. How to ignore me effectively. I am a strange one. I know this is what they think. She is a strange one. But I cannot stop them thinking whatever it is they need to think The man knows that this is my second bowl of soup, but these soldiers seem to take pleasure in our returning for more. He smiles and drops the spoon deeper into the pot. He makes sure that I get vegetables too. I smile back at him, then scurry off towards the hut with the bowl cupped between my hands. I do not look around to see if anybody is watching. My eyes are fixed firmly upon the ground in front of me. Mama is sitting on the edge of the cot. I hurry across and hand her the soup. She touches her daughter's hand as she takes it from me. Then she begins to drink the warm soup, and I edge back towards the door and lock it shut. Safe. Just mother and daughter. This is how I always want it to be.

  Again, I hear the knocking on the door, but I remain where I am. I will not open the door. For two days and two nights, I have lain on this cot without venturing outside. Mama is worried that they will think something is wrong if they do not see me, but I do not want to leave her. I cannot afford to lose Mama again. Despite her pleadings, I have stayed with her for two days and two nights. The knocking begins again, and this time swells into a pounding. The man's voice is ordering me to open up. He assures me that he means no harm. Mama looks at me. The expression on her face is clearly designed to urge me to do as the man wishes. So I walk to the door and open it. Before me stand two men in uniform: an older man who is clearly responsible for the knocking, and a younger man who stands nervously behind him. It is the older man who speaks.

  'Nobody means to intrude on your privacy, but we're worried. I'm a doctor.'

  I stare back at him, urging him to continue.

  'You have to understand that you must mix with people. You cannot allow yourself to just fade away. You've been through a lot.'

  I hold the door so that it is impossible for him to see inside the hut. I do not want him to see Mama.

  'I am fine.'

  I say this quickly, for I now want him to leave.

  'Are you ready to go to the D.P. camp? We need to evacuate this place. The air's not good, and it'll be better for you there.'

  'I'm ready to leave. Not today. But I will leave.'

  This seems to satisfy him. A smile creeps across his face. While I have the upper hand, I speak again.

  'I will come and meet people.'

  'Good. There are those of us who wish to help you.'

  I nod curtly, then close the door against this doctor and his silent friend. I turn to look at Mama, who lies fearfully on her cot. She cannot continue to live like this.

  I wait a few minutes before venturing out to get Mama another bowl of soup. Now I am back, but Mama will still not talk to me. I ask, 'Is it Margot?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, what is it?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, are you not well?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, have I done something to offend or upset you?' No answer. I ask, 'Mama, is it Papa?' She turns to me and puts down her bowl of soup. It is Papa.

  'Last night, Eva. I had a dream in which Papa told me that we were on our own now. Just you and me, my child.'

  'And Margot?'

  Mama begins to shake her head and sob.

  'Just you and me.'

  I hug Mama, but I am not sure if she is aware of me.

  Neither Mama nor I have slept. We have stayed awake all night planning. And now, as the sun pours through the window, I watch as an exhausted Mama collapses into sleep. Tonight, she will leave. For the big city by the river. We will meet in the market square in two days' time. There is bound to be a market square. On this, we both agree. Mama will go first and hitch a ride with a military vehicle. English, American, it does not matter. I will follow. If we travel together, we will only attract attention. And then we will go on together to America. Despite Mama's dream, we both know that Margot is alive and living in America. (Dear Margot in Hollywood.) And it is to Margot and America that we will flee.

  We see the young soldier by the gate. We crouch behind the small wall and wait until he turns and marches off to resume his patrolling of the perimeter. There are a few stars in the sky, but the night is uncommonly dark. Perfect for Mama to leave. The soldier passes from view, and Mama and I begin to half-walk, half-dash towards the gate. I ask myself, why this furtive-ness if we are free? About one hundred yards down the road, Mama and I stop under an oak tree. This is as far as I will come, and Mama knows and understands this. I take her hand and squeeze. She looks beautiful under the night sky. Mama even manages a smile. I hand the small bundle to her, with its piece of bread and other meagre provisions. And then we embrace.

  'Two days,' I say. 'I will see you in two days.'

  I watch as Mama begins her adventure. And when I can no longer see her, I turn. I begin to wander back in the direction of the camp. But the young soldier has followed us. He steps from the gloom and presents himself. He says nothing, and simply looks at me. Then he takes a step forward and touches my left breast. He cups it, as though feeling its weight. And then he applies pressure. I hope that Mama does not find a reason to turn back and find me in this predicament.

  I sit on my timber. Gerry stands over me. He looks older, as though he has passed through some terrible crisis. He tells me that there was another place to 'liberate'. He says the word slowly, carefully weighing it in his mouth as though distrustful of it. Whatever they have done or seen at this other place, it has marked them all. They seem somehow shabbier. But then it occurs to me that perhaps these are exactly the same men, but now seen through the lens of my own improved condition. Gerry tells me that I was the first person he came to look for. He was worried that I might have left. I think to myself, why should he worry? I tell him that I am going to find my sister, although I still don't know where she is. I tell him nothing about Mama. Gerry seems hurt that I am suggesting a course of action which excludes him.

>   'But I can help you find your sister. I'll be going back to England in the next few days, and I told you I can contact all the groups. People know about things like that over there. It's chaos here.'

  I look at him. He's not a bad man.

  'Thank you, Gerry.'

  He seems relieved. But he does not move. He continues to stand over me.

  It is evening. I am supposed to be packing a suitcase for a journey in the morning. But this is not my suitcase. To whom does this suitcase belong? It does not matter, for I have nothing to put in the suitcase. I will be holding my few possessions, much like Mama. A suitcase suggests a life. It seems appropriate that I should emerge into the world clutching a bundle. I kick the suitcase. I am not bitter. I just do not want to pretend. Not now. Not ever. Mama will be expecting me in the big city by the river. In the market square. But she will have to see me without a suitcase.

  Gerry stands at the door to the hut. Behind him I can see people climbing aboard trucks. Engines are roaring and orders are being shouted. It seems that today is the day they have chosen finally to clear the whole camp. This morning marks the beginning of the end.

  'I've brought you some food for the journey.'

  Gerry hands me a paper bag which I take. I do not open it. I want to indicate to Gerry that I trust him.

  'Thank you.'

  'I have the address of your D.P. And here, this is for you.'

  He holds out a piece of paper that is folded over twice, as though containing a secret.

  'My address in London,' he says. He appears to be beaming with pride. 'You must write to me if you need anything. Otherwise I'll write to you.'

  He pauses and looks around himself.

  'You should come to London. I think you'd like it.'

  I smile, and wonder just what it is that Gerry imagines makes this London so special.

  'Here, take it.'

  He thrusts the piece of paper towards me.

  'Thank you, Gerry.'

  'Don't thank me,' he says. 'Not till you've made use of it.'