COMMUNE OF WOMEN

by SUZAN STILL

The owner has the good sense just to leave her alone and let her create. Betty can see him hovering back behind the counter but she ignores him. She’s going to get this thing over with and get out, ASAP.

  But as she works, a funny thing begins to happen. As she handles the flowers – the cool waxiness of the bulbs, the dry feathers of asparagus fern, the lush, satiny roses – it’s as if something is moving inside her like a tightly furled bud breaking open.

  At first, it’s painful and alarming. She has a fleeting thought that she might be having a stroke. But it gets easier and more fluid. It slides beneath her skin like a cool wave, lifting and plumping as it comes. She wants to be afraid, but it’s too pleasurable.

  This must be what Heddi was saying about a lightning bolt from the gods. It’s so simple, really, that it’s hard to believe how amazing, how profound, it is. How much of a miracle.

  It’s Larry’s last gift to her, and his parting shot of vindication, too.

  Because she’s falling suddenly, madly, in love with living flowers. Some passion that had gotten all balled up in acquisition, in ownership of heaps of dead things, suddenly threw the entire weight of its being into love of the ephemeral. Every blossom a hymn to the fleeting moment. Each a treasure house of color, scent, form and giving Grace...

  A vile smell draws her out of her reverie. Pearl’s pipe! What a rancid, nasty smell! A rose it’s not, by any name.

  Ondine and Heddi are still talking. Heddi is saying, “To take the unconscious seriously is really an act of personal integrity and courage.”

  And Ondine replies, “I can see how the loss of the power of religious symbols is compensated by a kind of scientific excitement, as we delve into the unconscious on a strange new kind of ethical adventure...”

  Betty should be listening to all this. She could learn something that might help her make sense of this analysis she’s taken on – or even this situation she’s in. But the narrative keeps drawing her back in with an irresistible attraction.

  She handles living flowers now, with love, every day. She works at the florist’s shop.

  She handles Herb – he’s the owner, well, half-owner, Betty’s the other half – that way, too: with love. He’s a good man and they’re happy together, mating their flowers to one another; mating themselves to one another.

  They live in a kind of bliss of fragrance and color. It’s like opening a door in a dream and walking through and finally finding yourself in your own life. What a surprise!

  And then comes the part that she’s just working on. It’s hard and she can’t get it to flow. It’s about Serena.

  Things are so broken between them. She can’t imagine anything – even the actual death of her father – that would bring them back together again.

  In fact, her father’s death and Betty’s remarriage would most likely send Serena screaming out of Betty’s life forever. She’d blame Betty for her father’s death. She’d accuse her of wicked things. Betty knows all that. But she at least wants to be able to imagine that things could be better between them.

  The last time she saw Serena was terrible beyond description. She came to the house looking like a street whore. She’d dyed her hair carrot orange. She had so many piercings Betty was afraid of infection. And tattoos! All her clothing was sawn off or shrunk up or ripped open to show them off.

  She came to announce she was moving into a new apartment – with her lover!

  Betty’d scarcely grasped the meaning of that proclamation when in came this new mate: a woman of about 35! She had on motorcycle boots and a black leather jacket and she took possession of her daughter’s body in a familiar way that made Betty nauseous.

  Betty thought she’d faint.

  But the worst part was that Serena didn’t come for Betty’s blessings or simply to inform her. She came to torment her.

  And she succeeded.

  X

  X is digging in Fat Guy’s lunchbox, listening to the news with her back to the television when she hears it – that voice!

  She spins around and there is a man in an FBI jacket talking to the blonde newswoman. He is saying things but she cannot really understand them because her heart is beating so hard.

  It is he! It is the man who came to talk to the Brothers at the Kultur Klub meeting! She knows it! It is a very distinctive voice – deep, with a small way of slurring his words that makes her believe he may be from one of the southern states.

  She did not hear the announcer say his name. Who is he? What is he doing here? She tries very hard to focus her attention.

  “We believe the terrorists are holed up in the food court,” he is saying.

  “And why haven’t you gone in for them yet?” The blonde is shoving the microphone at his mouth in a way that is almost sexual.

  “Because they’re holding hostages. We’re sure of that, now. We’re waiting for them to make a demand.”

  X cannot concentrate on his words. The blood is pounding in her ears like a drum.

  She feels dizzy and sick, the way she felt spying from the next room, that night.

  This is the man who provoked the Brothers to this action! What is he doing here?

  She feels sick in her stomach.

  “Commander, can you give us a way to think about terrorism?” the newswoman asks. “I’m sure many of us are grappling with that, right now.” The reporter thrusts her microphone toward him and, with the other hand, pushes her blonde hair, blown by the wind, back from her cheek.

  The man clears his throat and shifts his stance. His eyes are on the ground. Around him a herd of television cameras waits on his opinion with the black, inscrutable eyes of animals. “Well, basically, terrorism is comprised of violent acts by sub-State actors against noncombatants,” he intones, unaware that the PIO has already stolen his line.

  The reporter nods her head enthusiastically, as if in full comprehension – while wondering if her mascara has smeared by this late hour, X guesses. “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “No, actually, I can’t. And that’s because terrorism is taking so many forms these days. Some terrorists are moved by political concerns, some by religious conviction, and others by tribal loyalties. Sometimes, all three. Or by other things, like economic oppression, environmental erosion, simple hunger and thirst. It’s impossible to generalize further. Each event calls for a different understanding of motivation.”

  He shifts his feet again, clearly desiring to leave this obligatory interview and return to his command post.

  “What are the factors in this case?” the reporter persists.

  “We’re just beginning to put together profiles of the individual terrorists. I’ll let my Public Information Officer fill you in on what we know.” He shifts his weight away from her and, taking the cue, the reporter lets him go.

  “Alright, thank you, Commander.”

  Before she can continue, his back is already disappearing through the media throng, the emblazoned FBI glowing eerily in the artificial light with a cold phosphorescent fire, long after his human form is dissolved in darkness.

  “We’ll take a commercial break and then we’ll be hearing from the FBI’s Public Information Officer with some very interesting information on the background of the terrorists.”

  She lowers the mic and snarls into the glare of the lights. “Where the hell is Stacy? I need my makeup checked, like, yesterday,” unaware that she is still on camera.

  So now X understands: it is not that her body is cowardly and weak. It is that it knows! It knows danger and it knows when to eliminate or refuel – and, it knows the voice of betrayal!

  Her entire being is quivering like a frightened animal. She cannot think clearly. How did this man come to be in their lives? How is it that his promises of glory spurred them on, so that she is here now in Fat Guy’s room eating his tuna sandwiches and shaking with shock? None of it makes sense.

  After the meeting when the man came and she was dismissed, she asked Jamal what had happened, even though
she already knew.

  His answer was strange. “I think the President needs an incident – and we are it.”

  When she tried to get him to explain, he said he was sorry he had said anything and would respond no further.

  Later, she heard him arguing with Ibrahim, asking, “Are we pawns in the game of rich men, then? Is that what you think we should be?”

  And Ibrahim answering coldly, “What difference does it make how we do it, as long as we make our point?”

  The argument went on and on and, at the time, all she wanted was to get away from their harsh voices. Now she realizes that she should have listened and learned.

  Can it be possible that they are here to be exploited for the present administration’s political gain? Is it possible that the President is so evil as to wish death on his own citizens, so that he may then be a hero, soothing them? Or even that he might use their attack as a pretext for war?

  Allah! What have we done?!

  She glances at the television, just as the Public Information Officer steps before the cameras. He’s a slender man in his thirties, handsome in a weak way, with perfectly razor cut and moussed hair, and a well-tailored suit. He holds a sheaf of papers in his hand, obviously aware of the expectant hush that falls around him.

  “Our agents have been working tirelessly,” he begins, “to identify the terrorists. Tonight, I will reveal the identity of some of them and give a brief synopsis of their lives.” He shuffles the papers importantly and then begins his delivery.

  His information, the PIO claims, comes straight from investigators who have been poring over notes in Father Christopher’s files, discovered in his university office two days ago.

  X suffers a second shock because Jamal comes immediately to her mind and his closeness is almost palpable. She is remembering him coming to her apartment, acting oddly, only a few days ago.

  “Why are you acting so strangely, Jamal?” she had asked him, her brow furrowing.

  “I have something to show you,” Jamal answered, looking about him as if there might be others in the room.

  X laughed out loud. “You are acting silly, Jamal. You are not in some American film. We are alone, obviously!”

  He shrugged nervously and gave an embarrassed smile that faded too quickly. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a large but not very thick black book and held it indecisively, still glancing about nervously.

  “What is that?” X asked, approaching him curiously and reaching for the volume.

  Jamal jerked it up, out of her reach, his nostrils flaring and his eyes wild. X became suddenly frightened.

  “What is that?” she asked again, almost in a whisper. “What have you got there and where did you get it?”

  “Sit on the couch,” Jamal said, jerking his head in its direction. X wanted to bristle, to assert her rights as a woman, but something warned her to be compliant. She went dutifully to the couch and sat. Jamal came to sit beside her.

  “This is Father Christopher’s journal,” he said flatly.

  X frowned deeply. “How do you come to have this thing, Jamal?” she asked warily.

  He looked her in the eyes for the first time that evening, with a mixture of fierce pride and apology. “I stole it.”

  Her eyes grew large with alarm. “Jamal! Then you must take it back!”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I have to take it back, and I will – but not before you see what he has written here.” And he opened the book to a place that was marked with a piece of torn paper.

  Her head was shaking by its own volition and she looked at Jamal with confusion, pleading, “Please, Jamal! You know this is not right!”

  But Jamal had been firm, almost cold, when he responded. “Just sit still and hear what I will read you.” And so, she had.

  “‘The Dean has asked me to compile some notes on the members of the Kultur Klub,’” Jamal began reading, in the accented English and soft baritone that X loved so much. “‘I assume his interest is personal, although I can see that the success of the Klub could be a political feather in his cap, as well. I will begin by assembling what little I know about the various members.’

  “Do you see. Father Christopher has been spying on us,” Jamal said, his eyes flicking fiercely in her direction.

  “Oh, I don’t think...” X began. Then she shrugged her shoulders and said softly, “Go on.”

  “‘Hansi Nyirabazungu’”

  “‘Hansi first came to my attention in 1994, when Sister Elizabeth went to work in Rwanda, immediately after the massacre at Gikondo. From the assassination of Juvénal Habyarimana on 6 April through mid-July, at least 500,000 people were killed. Sister Elizabeth left her mission in Uganda immediately upon hearing of the commencement of hostilities and narrowly escaped death herself, as violence between the Tutsis and the Hutus swept the country.’”

  X took advantage of Jamal’s presence, an increasing rarity as the training had intensified, and snuggled closer to him on the pretext of reading along with him.

  “‘Sister Elizabeth’s reports were almost not to be believed, so vast and horrible did the cataclysm of death seem to be. She talked of heaps of bodies lying bloated in the hot sun; of men, women and children maimed horribly, most often by machete. The disruption of communities was disastrous, as well. People fled, often without even the basic necessities of food and water or clothing and bedding, creating a huge humanitarian crisis.

  “‘She was working, one day, in a Tutsi refugee camp, trying to organize things – to get latrine pits dug, cooking fires going, shelters rigged. Suddenly, a band of Hutu militia charged into the camp, machetes swinging. People ran screaming in all directions. Sister herself was saved when someone reached a hand down from the branches of a tree and pulled her up to be hidden in the leaves. From that vantage point, she watched, terrified, as the soldiers sliced and hacked for more than two hours.

  “‘Finally, exhausted with their labors, they began to hobble their victims by slicing their Achilles tendons so that they could not run. Then, the soldiers took their leisure for an hour or more, rummaging the camp for food, resting in the rude shelters and rinsing blood from their bodies in the river. When they were sufficiently rested, they followed the blood trails of their crawling victims and finished them off.

  “‘At last, when it seemed the militia had no one left to kill and was about to depart, a little boy of about three or four came to hide behind the tree where Sister Elizabeth was perched with her benefactor. A soldier spied him, came running and, with one swoop of his machete, cut off the boy’s hand. Screaming, the boy collapsed against the trunk of the tree, holding his wrist from which blood squirted. And he cowered there, awaiting the killing blow.

  “‘Just as the soldier was about to strike again, however, he was himself struck from behind. A tree branch landed solidly on his head and he went down. It was the boy’s mother, apparently, who then threw down her weapon and ran with arms out to rescue her son.

  “‘But it was not to be. Two more soldiers, witnessing the scene, ran over. Meanwhile, the first soldier had recovered his senses and was pushing himself up from the ground. In concert, the three of them reached for the mother just as she was about to snatch up her child. They threw her violently to the ground and one was about to decapitate her with his machete when another of the three had an idea – they should rape her instead.

  “‘Sister Elizabeth watched in horror. All she could see from her vantage point were the woman’s lower legs and feet, which first beat the ground in frantic struggle but, as first one man, then the next, and finally the third brutally mounted her, subsided and then went limp – whether in a faint or in death Sister could not tell.

  “‘All the while, she had a clear look at the boy who still leaned against the tree trunk, holding his severed wrist tightly, his face blank with shock. He witnessed the violence meted out to his mother without uttering a sound.

  “‘When it was over at last and the militia had departed, Sister Elizabe
th came down from the tree. She saw instantly why the mother lay so still. Her throat had been cut. And still, the little boy leaned against the tree trunk, as if turned to stone.

  “‘Sister Elizabeth herself was in profound shock. Her only thought, just like the Tutsi refugees, was to flee – and this she did, but not without reaching out for the little boy. Tying a crude tourniquet around his wrist and sweeping him up in her arms, she fled. After two days of walking, she was able to hitch a ride to the capitol and from there, a plane back to Uganda.

  “‘There, she got medical attention for the boy and then placement in an orphanage run by Dominican sisters. Then, she requested refuge in a Dominican mother-house in Belgium, was accepted and departed Africa, still in deep psychological shock. In Bruges, she took vows of silence and is, as far as I know, still living a silent, contemplative life. I sincerely hope that she finds it healing.

  “‘The boy, who when he was finally able to speak, called himself Hansi, took a long time to heal psychologically, even while his severed wrist quickly mended. His teacher at the orphanage, whose last name was given to him – for he could not remember his own, if ever he had known it – reported that he was very bright but too quiet in class, only responding when spoken to and then as briefly as possible.

  “‘Nevertheless, he passed the next years excelling in academics. So when it was time for his college education, his teacher helped him get a scholarship to this American university and it was here that I met him, at last, and encouraged him to become a participant in the Kultur Klub.

  “‘According to his professors, he is doing well in his classes. However, I have discovered that he lacks completely a religious life or even an obvious personal philosophy, and also cares nothing for politics; nor is he the least bit interested in sports, societal issues, or even girls. He seems to dwell in an inner space that is devoid of anchors, therefore, as if his roots, having been severed so early, never again were able to penetrate into the soil of human culture.’”