And when Mr. Shepherd showed some kindness to Mr. Potter, it was on a Christmas Day (he spent even Christmas Day in the Shepherds’ household), and Mr. Shepherd gave him a small glass of port, a sweet liquor he had purchased from the large general store of Bryson & Sons, and a piece of plum pudding from a tin, purchased in the large general store of Joseph Dew & Sons; and the port would have been awful but Mr. Potter would not have known that, he had no other port with which to make a comparison; and the plum pudding would have been awful, but he could not know that then, he could only know that many years after, when he came to know my mother, Annie Victoria Richardson, and she was a very good maker of many good things to eat but on balance she added to his life an excess of bitterness and ill feeling, so much that he extended it to me, and I can write it down and make clear how all this came to be. And this kindness at Christmas of a glass of port and a slice of plum pudding from a tin did not leave a lasting impression on Mr. Potter, he did not incorporate it into his own life, he did not repeat it in his own household when he eventually had a household; after this Mr. Potter never again drank port; and he was hardly ever kind after that, and when he was kind, it was not at the same time every year and it was not accompanied by anything familiar from a time before.
And this boy in Mr. Shepherd’s household, despised for his vulnerability (his mother had abandoned him and had chosen the cold, vast vault that was the sea), held in contempt (for he could not protect himself, he could not protest when he was too tired to do one more thing that was required of him), thought Mr. Shepherd was a man of some distinction and he liked Mr. Shepherd’s hat and the way he wore it, as if it topped off something, something substantial, so substantial that no words could be given to it; his hat made Mr. Shepherd, and when Mr. Potter saw Mr. Shepherd, he thought, There is the hat and there is Mr. Shepherd. And Mr. Shepherd had that handkerchief in the pocket of his severely tailored and nicely ironed trousers made of coarse brown linen, and tucked into his trousers was a shirt of white poplin and it was very white, for it took four days to be laundered and two of those days that shirt was spread out in the hot sun on a heap of stones, and was constantly made wet by a woman who did only that, tend Mr. Shepherd’s clothes. And Mr. Shepherd’s shoes were brown leather and given a proper coat of polish once a week (Sunday evenings) by Mr. Potter and then each evening, by the light of a small oil lamp, Mr. Potter buffed them up. And so Mr. Shepherd went to work each day, to teach and discipline the wayward boys at the Shepherd School, and the boys were so poor and so malnourished they could hardly keep themselves steady, for their stomachs were empty and their clothes were sometimes dirty, sometimes full of holes, and all this made Mr. Shepherd hate them; their misfortune was a curse and to be cursed was deserving of hatred. Mr. Shepherd had been judged cursed and he had been judged deserving of hatred, but when standing before the boys at the Shepherd School, or when standing before Mr. Potter, how could he be expected to remember such a thing? For all people hold so much in common and that is why they despise each other and that is why they show it as soon as they get a chance. Mr. Potter loved the handkerchief in Mr. Shepherd’s pocket and he loved the well-ironed pants and the poplin shirt and the beautifully polished shoes (he had been responsible for them all by himself) and these articles of clothing were all he wore himself, with not too dramatic a variation, for his entire life. And Mr. Potter was born in nineteen hundred and twenty-two and he died in nineteen hundred and ninety-two.
And Mr. Potter was born with a line drawn through him, for his father’s name did not appear on his certificate of birth and it was always said about him that he had a line drawn through him, and by this it was meant that he had no father, no father’s name was written in that column on his birth certificate, only a line had been drawn through it, and that line meant no one was his father; this baby, Mr. Potter, had been born to Elfrida Robinson; she was his mother; he had no father. But when walking with his mother Elfrida one day, his small hand holding on to her big dirty skirt, taking two small slow steps to her one big slow step, they passed by a man sitting under a tree surrounded by fish pots and a fishnet and his mother Elfrida hurled out words at this figure, the man sitting under a tree (it was a tamarind tree, the tamarind tree is native to tropical Asia), and those words were not words of kindness or good wishes or love, and the words came out of his mother’s mouth as if her mouth were a weapon and the words ammunition made especially for that weapon, and the words stopped at the back of the head of the man sitting under the tree surrounded by fish pots and a fishnet, and the words must have wounded him for he turned his head, as if to see the source of the pain he felt raining down on him. And Roderick Potter (my father, but he was not that then, he was only a small boy then) saw his own father’s face, he did not see the color of the eyes, he did not see the shape of the nose, he did not see the outline of the lips: not how thick they were, not how wide they were, not the shape of the brow, not the shape of the cheeks, not the size of the ears; he saw only the face of that man, that man who was his father and who caused a line to be drawn through him. How well he could remember that face, not the eyes or the nose or the mouth or the ears or the brow or the cheeks, just the face, and he was only two years old then, or only three years old then, or four or five or six or seven years old then, or thirty years then, or fifty years then, or seventy years then—and he was seventy when he died—right before he died then he could see his father’s face. That was his father, the man sitting under the tree (it was a tamarind tree) was his father, and no one had told him, he just knew this. And before this moment of his mother passing the man sitting under the tamarind tree he had never thought of a father and that he did not have one, and at that moment he only knew that man was his father. Looking back, looking over his shoulder then and at three and at four and at five and at seventy years old, just before he died, looking back and just over his shoulder, he could see that face and it was his own face, it was the face he saw when he looked into a mirror, his own face was the face he saw looking back at him from under the tamarind tree or in a mirror. “No use crying over spilled milk” was a saying that he always thought of when thinking of that moment when his mother Elfrida Robinson hurled harsh words at the back of his father Nathaniel Potter and Nathaniel’s face was revealed to him and not Elfrida’s face, he could not remember what her face looked like. And he did not know where he heard that or why it was said, but only those words collected together into that sentence, “No use crying over spilled milk,” came to him as soon as he thought of his father and the first time he saw his father’s face. And why was milk spilled, for milk was so valuable, Mr. Potter, when a boy, or in his whole life, had never seen milk spilled, he had never seen so much milk that some of it could be spilled and then spilled in such a way that a saying could be made of it: the milk is spilled, the milk is lost. And Roderick Potter did cry, from the moment he was born until the day he died, but Mr. Potter himself never cried, for no one gave any care to Roderick Potter’s cry, everyone told Roderick Potter to stay quiet and sometimes they asked him to do so in a gentle tone of voice and sometimes the tone of the voice was harsh.
A line runs through Mr. Potter’s very own self: I hold in my hand a document that certifies the day of his birth, the name of his mother (Elfrida Robinson), the name of the midwife who assisted his mother in bringing him physically into the world, and there is an empty space with a line drawn through it where the name of his father, Nathaniel Potter, ought to have been. And I hold in my hand a document that certifies the day of my own birth (the twenty-fifth of May, nineteen hundred and forty-nine), the name given to me at my own birth (Elaine Cynthia), the name of my mother (Annie Richardson), the place in which she was assisted physically in bringing me into the world (Holberton Hospital), and there is an empty space with a line drawn through it where the name of my father, Roderick Nathaniel Potter, ought to be, for Mr. Potter was my father; my father’s name was Roderick Nathaniel Potter. And this line that runs through Mr. Potter and that he
then gave to me, I have not given to anyone, I have not ceded to anyone, I have brought it to an end, I have made it stop with me, for I can read and I can now write and I now say, in writing, that this line drawn through the space where the name of the father ought to be has come to an end, and that from Mr. Potter to me, no one after that shall have a line drawn through the space where the name of the father ought to be, and that through him coming through me, everyone after that shall have a father and a mother and so will inherit twofold the great cauldron of misery and small cup of joy that is all of life.
And “A line runs through him” is something I heard my own mother say (her name was Annie Richardson) to someone, a friend of hers I suppose, and I do not now know, which is to say I do not remember, the very first time I heard her say this, but I knew in a way I cannot explain that she was referring to my father, that is, Mr. Potter, and when she said, “A line runs through him,” that was not a good thing, I knew she meant that. “A line runs through him,” as a curse, that he was a bad man and on top of that he was doomed. I did not know then what made a man doomed and I do not know now, what makes a man doomed. Mr. Potter was born in nineteen hundred and twenty-two and he died in nineteen hundred and ninety-two at seventy years of age. All men are born and then die at some time or another and that would seem to be a natural turn of events, this borning and dying, but when Mr. Potter died his death seemed deserved, his death seemed a punishment, his death was accepted with an impatient gratitude, for a line had been drawn through him and he had no way of erasing it, he did not even know that this line, which passed through him, existed.
And Elfrida Robinson walked into the sea and when Nathaniel Potter died he was separated from all his senses, for he could not see, or hear, or smell, or taste, or feel the earth moving ever so steadfastly underneath his feet. And Mr. Potter was all alone in the world with nothing but a line drawn through him and he stood before nothing, only Mr. Shepherd, the man who had been consigned to oversee his degradation in the world confirmed, and Mr. Shepherd was the headmaster of a school for wayward boys, and all wayward boys have a line drawn through them. And Mr. Shepherd’s name was Llewellyn and Mrs. Shepherd’s name was Doreen and both their names appeared on the birth certificates of their children, all boys, and their children’s names were Horatio and Rodney and John and Francis and when those names failed they were named again Matthew and Mark and Luke and John (this time John was the disciple, not the slave trader), and all those boys, whose parents were named Llewellyn and Doreen and so did not have a line drawn through them, died; and they died sometimes when they had just turned two years of age and sometimes just before turning twelve years of age and sometimes just before they were born. And the wayward boys with the line drawn through them thrived in numbers and as individuals, and they grew up to be wayward men and had children, many children, and all of their children had a line drawn through them. And Mr. Shepherd watched all his children that he, Llewellyn, had with her, Doreen, his wife, die, suffering sometimes before they died, sometimes not suffering at all, dying without even knowing they had lived. And Mr. Shepherd watched all his children, boys born without a line drawn through them, die, and then all the wayward boys who attended the school where he was a headmaster thrived and sometimes they thrived so well that later he would recognize their faces when he saw them across the way; for some of them became occupants of His Majesty’s Prison; the Shepherd School was separated from His Majesty’s Prison by a walkway made of dirt. And Mr. Potter thrived also in Mr. Shepherd’s presence and he grew to be a strong boy and then a strong man and Mr. Shepherd did not like him and did not love him and Mrs. Shepherd never really noticed his existence, not even when she wanted him to run an errand for her, to satisfy a need: her thirst for a cup of water. And Mr. Shepherd passed on to Mr. Potter (he was Drickie then and Mr. Shepherd would never call him Mr. Potter) all that he missed passing on to his dead children, all those boys who never got past twelve years of age, and he passed on to Mr. Potter the love of contempt for all that was vulnerable and weak and in need and lost and in pain, and he passed on to Mr. Potter a love of self and the love of appearing before people well dressed, wearing a nicely pressed and clean pair of trousers, a nicely pressed and clean shirt, a tie, polished shoes, and a cap worn in such a way that everyone who saw Mr. Potter when wearing his cap thought of him as always being in a pleasant mood. And I was weak and vulnerable, not yet even a person, only seven months living in my mother’s stomach when Mr. Potter first abandoned me; I was born in nineteen hundred and forty-nine and I never knew his face.
Emerging from Mr. Shepherd’s household, not from the fog, or the mist, or the shadow, only emerging from the household of Mr. Shepherd, and emerging at that time when he was no longer a boy but not yet a man, Mr. Potter walked into Mr. Shoul’s life, and Mr. Shoul’s life, so calmly fragile as is all individual existence, was then vividly engulfed by a sudden fiery collapse of the world as Mr. Shoul knew it. The world as we know it will from time to time do that, collapse, engulfed by a fire generated by a vicious act; the world as we know it will suddenly change its certainties, its very soundness, and will suddenly remind us of fast-moving clouds against a backdrop of an everlasting blue sky, or the firm earth beneath our feet before it turns molten and liquid. Oh, the barren hills that Mr. Shoul could remember were forced to support olive trees and grapevines, and the hills eventually were happy to cease being barren for the olive trees bore much fruit from which came oil and the grapevines bore much fruit from which came wine and vinegar, and the barren hills, now filled with olive trees and grapevines (for this was how Mr. Shoul remembered it), sloped down into a green valley and the green valley was filled with sheep and the sheep had horns and the horns were good and the horns were only good. And Mr. Shoul could see, in his mind’s eye (and that would be his memory), himself as a boy walking over hills and valleys (but he never did any such thing as walk a great distance) and at the top of the hills he could reach up and purse his lips and kiss the sky and then walk down into the valleys and the valleys eventually ran into the sea and the sea was not dead, it was only so very still and did not move up and down with waves and wavelets, and when he reached the foot of the valley and was faced with the still sea, just a wave of his hand could make a series of beautiful wavelets all arranged across the stilled waters of the stilled sea (and this too was his memory); and no fish lived beneath and so could not pierce the surface of this stilled sea and no birds hovered just above the surface of this stilled sea. And Mr. Shoul could see, in his mind’s eye, himself as a child (he was a little boy) in trousers with short legs and then trousers with long legs, wearing shirts with short sleeves and then shirts with long sleeves; and his skin was the color of the barren hills before they were forced to support olive trees and grapevines, and his arms were arm’s length and his legs were just so and his hair was curled naturally.
And not going backward at all, his past not unrolling behind him and with an inward turn of his head can he view it, not that way, not that way at all, but this way, through a sharp glint of light darting out of the corner of one eye (it would be a memory, it would be memory): his father, a thick bolt of flesh himself, surrounded by thick bolts of cloth, silk it was, silk from fabled places (China it was, but China was so far away it seemed a place of many places) and silk of such silkiness that it could only be likened to the petals of roses; and roses now, his mother liked roses, they came sometimes from Damascus, they came all the time from Damascus (but how could that be?), and her arms were plump and dimpled near the elbows and her legs were plump and dimpled near the back of her knees and her cheeks were plump and short hairs grew thickly and formed half a circle just above her eyes and she ate dates and figs which were often piled up in a glass bowl made of pure crystal and placed right in front of her and she looked out of windows and laughed at nothing (but how could he know that, Mr. Shoul then was only a child) and got tangled up in cross words—words that did not dwell in the land of anger, only words that express
ed the luxury that is irritation—words that were not really meant for her and got tangled up in malicious acts that were not really directed at her, and all sorts of ancient hatreds that had begun before anyone could even imagine a time that would include her. “Mr. Shoul,” said Mr. Potter, but Mr. Shoul could not hear him at all for in his mind’s eye he could see his mother and she died while going toward Damascus, not on the road to Damascus itself, just going toward Damascus, perhaps for roses, perhaps for something else, and he could almost hear the last words she said to him before she left, he could almost hear them, but then, not really, not really at all, for he was in his mind’s eye and the mind’s eye is the land of the almost, the geography of the mind’s eye is the almost, its atmosphere is made of the elements, the almost, the as if, the like, the in the vicinity of, the almost, its reality: the almost!
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