by Gayl Jones
I’m thinking all that whilst I’m waiting for Ray to ask me what reason Alvarado gave for why he call him the eternal revolutionist but he don’t. I starts to repeat that line about comparison being a petty demon. Then a woman who look like the daydream of Raymond’s former girlfriend or even some El Salvador lover come over and start talking to him in I don’t know what language. I don’t know what they saying. Then she go over to the buffet table.
What did she say? I asks.
About English lessons, he says.
English lessons?
Yeah. She’s a mathematician in Indonesia, but here she works in a factory because she doesn’t know English well enough, so we’re getting her some English lessons.
You know Indonesian? Y’all be talking Indonesian?
Yeah. Actually I’m Filipino, African American and Indonesian.
Oh, yeah? I thought you already told me that. Or somebody told me. You one of them multiracialists?
There are some places people get to decide what race they wanna be.
I’m thinking how in the old days African Americans usedta always be telling people what all they had in them wasn’t African, most be talking about that Indian in them, that Native American, then they got so they just be boasting about being African, and then they be telling you again what all they got in them, except now most of them includes the African. And some of them even includes the African before they includes everybody else. In fact, I remember when us was in grade school, me and Monkey Bread, and they asked us what we had in us and ain’t nobody say African. Of course, I said Moroccan and Mexican and Cherokee, but that still ain’t say African. I mean Morocco in Africa and they’s Moroccans my color, but that still ain’t say Africa itself. Others in the class was mentioning Greeks and Italians and even Irish.
I do know when I said Mexican I heard somebody say, Mexican from the west coast of Africa.
I do know when I said Cherokee I heard somebody say, Cherokee from the west coast of Africa.
So that just made me start calling more people as my own.
Italian from the west coast of Africa.
I said Italian ’cause you know I likes them Italian actors and actresses. As far as I know, I ain’t got no Italian in me, though.
Greek from the west coast of Africa.
I said Greek ’cause I know how us peoples likes to claim them Greeks, all them Alpha Beta Gamma sororities and fraternities.
Irish from the west coast of Africa.
I played with my classmates a little bit, though I didn’t mention Africa myself. To tell the truth, I think I’m the only person who heard that person chanting that every time I said some new group of people. I kept claiming everybody’s people as my own people, even the Russians and Swedes and Dutch, till the teacher say, Hush, Nadine.
Since us was a segregated classroom of all colored childrens I thought it would be a lesson in ancestry and that the teacher would ask us how come none of us didn’t claim Africa. In fact, I thought the teacher would praise me and say that of all the childrens, even Monkey Bread, I come the closest to claiming Africa, even if it was Morocco. When somebody asked the teacher, teacher said, Ah, my people’s all Creole from New Orleans, got Indian in us, and a little Cajun, though.
’Cept when she said Creole I thought she still mean colored till we got outside of class and Monkey Bread explained to me that in Louisiana Creoles didn’t think of theyselves as regular colored people and that they had they own community and that us teacher’s people had settled amongst the colored people in Kentucky because in Kentucky they didn’t make the same distinction amongst colored peoples as in Louisiana.
We’s all niggahs here, say Monkey Bread. I was waiting for one of y’all niggahs to say something about Africa.
Didn’t you hear that little boy?
What little boy? I didn’t hear none of y’all niggahs say Africa. I know I ain’t said Africa myself. I was just waiting for one of you other niggahs to say it first. Anyway, when I started to say Africa, Miss La Sagesse thought that I was trying to be you and told me to hush just when I was ready to call Africa by name. What I shoulda done was said Africa first. And then named my Greek and Italian and Seminole. Course us people claims to be more Italian than anything else. You know how us niggahs is.
And I gots to tell y’all the truth, it weren’t a white person the first person to call me niggah, although plenty of them looked niggah at me, it were Monkey Bread the first to call me niggah by name, although it were in a collective context.
Anyway, I’m talking to Ray.
Alvarado say that where he from it against the law to ask people what race they’s from. It against the law to ask people they origins.
He lift an eyebrow but say nothing. He ain’t say which of them races he call hisself, though he look like a man who know who he is.
Another rocket scientist, I says. Your friend.
She’s just someone I’m helping to get English lessons.
Teach her yourself?
She come up to him again and I hears the word guru. And words that sound like radjin and pintar and elok. Guru datang, say Raymond. Then she point to me. She holding a small chinette plate from the banquet table with one hand and pointing to me with the other. Orang Amerika? Orang asing? Orang Amerika, he reply.
I hope y’all ain’t calling me no orangutan, I says, looking from one to the other. And maybe that’s another reason he a good Sanctuary worker, I’m thinking, not just disguised as a priest, but maybe because almost anybody can see theyselves in him.
She’s asking me if you’re an American.
Oh, yeah? An American orangutan?
Apa? ask the woman.
Ape? I asks.
She’s just asking what kind of American you are, he say.
He tells her. Bern, she say.
I know what that besar mean in Spanish, but I don’t know what it mean in that Indonesian. They ain’t talking pidgin Indonesian, though, them’s just the words I make out. And I knows in Spanish besar has something to do with kiss, but I don’t know what it means in Indonesian. I’m still thinking about comparison’s a petty demon. She’s very beautiful, I says when she go to join a group of others. Maybe Indonesian speaking.
Oh, yeah? In Indonesia, she’s really considered rather ordinary-looking. There are many Indonesian women far more beautiful than her.
Then they’s a beautiful people, I says. They’s a lot of women wouldn’t mind being that kinda ordinary-looking. But comparison’s a petty demon, like you said.
Where’s your apartment?
Raymond is telling me that the reason he’s brought her here is because the other refugees from her country they don’t trust her. As he talking I’m thinking of first opening my apartment door and seeing them standing there. At first I think it’s that Indonesian woman, her hieroglyphic eyes and his and her with this scarf wrapped around the lower part of her face like them Mediterranean-type peoples, and the next thing I’m thinking is that’s her, that’s la mujer, that’s his lover from the old days, the rocket scientist, and then when they gets inside she take that scarf off and put it in this tacky bag she carrying, and don’t look like the kind of bag no woman of mystery be carrying, and he ask whether they can spend the night here. They’s a guest bedroom in my apartment, so I says yes, but him he say he’ll sleep on the couch. He in his priest’s clothes, and he behaving like sort of her protector.
Her she holding tight to that tacky bag and’s wearing combat boots with what look like them palazzo trousers and a sweatshirt, I think they calls them palazzo trousers, them real wide trousers, and look incongruous with them cowboy boots and sweatshirt, and she ain’t wearing them stereotype of Latin American women-type clothes, though I know she Latin American. Her she don’t say a word and I figures it ’cause she don’t speak English. She look Latin American, though, like I said. He don’t tell me her name either. I ask him her name, but he don’t say la mujer name and I shows her where the guest room is and where the bathroo
m is and I gives her a extra pair of pajamas, though they’s too big for her and she got to roll the cuffs and sleeves up, and gives her a fresh towel and washrag. I don’t got no extra toothbrush, but I see her take out a toothbrush from that tacky bag and some clean underwear, but it that clean underwear that them Sanctuary workers gives them.
When I go back in the living room, Raymond sitting on the couch with his arms thrown back along the couch, and he rise and look like he want to kiss me, but I waves him away with her in the house and I still don’t know if that he old girlfriend. I got one of them couches they advertises in the newspaper as Western-style couch, but it got the same Mexican colors—reds and turquoises and yellows and them same geometric-type patterns—in it as that rebozo of Maria’s and that scarf of la mujer. I ain’t got as much eclectic furniture as that Raymond. It eclectic but it mostly American eclectic. Then I makes him and me some hot chocolate and then we’s in the living room drinking that hot chocolate and sitting on my Mexican-style couch and talking and he start to kiss me again, but I says naw not with la mujer here. He won’t tell me her name, though, but he don’t mind telling me her story. She in with a group of them refugees but then one of them refugees from her same country and same village point her out to the others and tell her tale to them and he decide for her own protection to bring her here. She were staying for a while with some others, but the refugees got wind of it, and so he decided for her own protection to bring her here.
How do I explain her? he saying. One of the general’s concubines, one of many generals’ concubines. I don’t know her own story my ownself, but I hear, overheard, the man who pointed her out say that she takes up with every strong man that comes along, you know, takes up with every tyrant. And I gather from some of the talk, the gossip about her, that she’s much older than she appears to be because there’s more than one generation of strong men, more than one generation of generals, more than one generation of tyrants. He look around at my apartment while he talking and I be hoping he don’t think it tacky. This apartment don’t look like you, he say. But he don’t say what a apartment of mines suppose to look like.
I explains that I don’t spend that much time in my apartment, so’s you can’t say much of my personality’s here. I don’t tell him so, but I got that rent-to-own-type generic furniture and even rent-to-own TV, except for some of them things that I’ve picked up at the flea markets and thrift shops. And I got a lot of doilies on everything, though, ’cause I been reading this novel with a doily-maker in it so I bought me some doilies. Doily-maker not dolly-maker like that Maria. And I got a few of them oil paintings of the Southwest on the wall, you know them landscapes, and also them portraits of Native Americans, you know, the kind of paintings that you buy at thrift shops, and garage sales, and them roadside market stands in the Southwest.
Most recently she was the concubine of one of the members of the secret police, but now finds herself a refugee. She spied and informed on others and then found herself spied and informed on. She thought she’d make a fresh start here in this country, but one of the other refugees knew her. We’re hoping maybe to transport her to Canada.
The woman, draped in a blanket, come into the living room. She holding the blanket like a rebozo and running her hand through her hair. Waves and waves of hair, like the dream of Raymond’s lover. She come and sit in the armchair, one of them rent-to-own armchair.
Would you like some of this hot chocolate? I asks. Ask her if she want some hot chocolate.
I’ll take some hot chocolate, she say, and I will tell you my story my ownself. She wait while I pours her some of the hot chocolate. She drink almost half of it before she start telling her story. Some of the hot chocolate spill on her rebozo-blanket and she lap at it like a cat, then she dab it with her napkin. The man who pointed to me and some of the others, they only know the old me, they only pointed to the old me. They do not know the me who has been a long time a worker in the refugee camps, the detention camps. She sip some more hot chocolate and then look at Raymond. She mostly look at Raymond, but only at me when she explain the meaning of some of them Spanish word. I saw you, señor, first when you came to our refugee camp. You were with the hombre from Amnesty International and your friend the other hombre, and I was one of the ones packing the medicine kits. But it is the old me that they know, the one who some of the villagers call La Loba, the wolf woman, and some of them claim that they have seen me turn into a wolf. But it is la loba and el lobo in their own selves. La loba of their own imagination. Or the metaphor for our own country. I come from a very hard country. The tyrants are hard, but the people are also hard when they think you are not one of them. But it is true. There are those even in your group, señor, who do not like to hear me talk like this, compañeros and compañeras who do not like to hear me talk like this, for they say it feeds the stereotypes of Latin America, that it feeds the prejudices, but not for those of us who know who we are, who have learned who we are. But it is true, the only men that I ah ways attach myself to are the strong men—the strong-armed men you would say, for the strong men are not always the strong-armed men. As for him, the one who pointed me out, he tried to make love to me himself before he joined the popular forces and fled to the mountains and when they were routed from the mountains by the government police he fled here. I saw you and your friend, señor, the one who gave the speech, the Eternal Revolutionist you introduced him as, but when he introduced himself he called himself a peacemaker, not a pacifist, but a peacemaker, who said the act of making peace, the art of making peace is more difficult than the art of making war. In that part of the world those who make peace are considered cobardes, cowards, you see, but he does not seem like a cobarde. He is no coward. I thought it would be him to take up for me, but it surprised me, señor, when it was you who came to my defense, or rather brought me to safety. I was not surprised when that hombre found me at my first hiding place, for he is a tenacious diablo, a tenacious devil. Do not let all those who join the popular forces convince you that they are the innocent ones, señor. It does not surprise me, señor, that you’ve come to my defense again, and brought me again to safety.
She sip more of that hot chocolate, look toward me, then back at Raymond. Now she talk only to Raymond.
At first when I was thrown out of the refugee camp, because someone thought again that I was the old me, I almost returned to being the old me, to practice the old vices, to go with another of the strong-armed men, for there are some of us, señor, who practice vices like other people practice virtues. I’m not a católica, señor, so I can say so, and I can see with you, señor, that one does not have to be a católica, but then I did not want to be the concubine of any more of the men who relish the art of war, and I decided to come north. I cannot be a peacemaker my ownself for there is always someone who sees the old me and uses it to wage war. But like everyone of my country, I have always had dreams of freedom. Even the tyrants have freedom dreams, you know. Except their idea of freedom is to control others, denying the freedom to others. Una pájara mágica that is what one of my generales called me. I call them all generales but every strong-armed man thinks he’s a general. Every strong-armed man believes himself a general. But me? A magic bird. Wouldn’t anyone prefer to be called a magic bird than a wolf? Though they say wolves aren’t as bad as we make them out to be. But if I am a wolf, then I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing. She sip her hot chocolate, spilling more on her rebozo. I notice that her lips is slightly bruised, and I be wondering if one of them men have given her a beaten or tried to kiss her too hard? She dab at her rebozo with her fingers and at her lip with her rebozo. I gets up and goes in the kitchen and comes back with a napkin.
It was when I began to write, señor, that my strong-armed man began not to trust me. It was only escritura for myself and not for the public, but he discovered one of my notebooks and began not to trust me. Mi escritura más que mí actividad con the refugee camps. Pero no me gusta hablar de mí. I don’t like to talk about myself, s
eñor, but I know you have heard all the others talking and I heard you yourself to talk about me and there are so many stories of what an ogress I am and so I wanted to tell you that I am no longer my old self but my new self. Pero el arte de la guerra es menos importante que el arte del amor.
She speak Spanish and then translate it after she speak it, so I ain’t got to translate for y’all. ’Cept that thing she say about the art of love and war she ain’t translate that. It mean something ’bout the art of war being less than the art of love. ’Cept it sound better in Spanish than English, and it seem like it got a more significant meaning in Spanish.
La loba, no es más que una leyenda. It’s no more than a legend that bit about me turning into a wolf, you know. A legend or a metaphor. But in my country sometimes the people cannot tell the difference between the legend or the metaphor or the reality, and sometimes they are even all the same thing. When I was at my youngest and most beautiful and with the strongest of the strong-armed men, someone started a rumor that I turned into a wolf.
But la mujer do look wolfish with her tousled black hair and piercing black eyes, sly wolf’s eyes, and sipping her chocolate. I asks her if she want more of the chocolate but she say no and then she go back into the guest bedroom. Then I get Raymond one of them blanket and make up the couch. I think he gonna try to kiss me again, but he don’t.
She remember you but you don’t remember her? I ask.
He say that there were many women in that refugee camp fixing medicine kits. I think he going to say more about this one, though, or how she reminds him of the other one. Then he over looking at my bookcase. I’m kinda embarrassed ’cause I ain’t got the sorta intellectual-type books that he got in his office. I gots a lot of romance novels by Nefertiti Johnson. I’s got my favorite novel which have got romance in it but ain’t all romance. I ain’t got no political books about Africa, but I has got one of them travel guides to Africa. I gots me a Swahili book. I got me a book from Consumers International. I gots me some other books, but I don’t think that they is Ray’s types of books. I got a novel that I calls a Mosquito-crafted novel, ’cause it the kind of novel I might want to write if I wrote novels. But mostly they is popular novels and science fiction novels and Westerns and some of that detective fiction. I also got me some novels by some of them African-American authors, though most of them was given to me by Delgadina. Although Delgadina weren’t the one to introduce me to African-American authors, she the one to sustain my interest, her and Monkey Bread.