Caryl Phillips - The Nature of Blood

Yesterday they beat me. Having wiped my tear-stained face, Mama insisted that, in future, she would walk with me to school and then meet me again at the end of the day. And so this morning we had set out together, with Mama tightly clutching my hand. I looked around as we passed through a grubby courtyard, a short-cut that Mama was introducing me to. The truth was, I was ashamed that I had let Mama know the true nature of my distress. I had run home, my face streaked with tears, but once she had cleaned me up, Mama simply sat me down and changed the subject. Three boys had pushed me and kicked me and called me names, but it appeared that all Mama wanted to talk about were her daughters. About how different we were from each other, and how I was the more studious and determined, and Margot the more fanciful. And then, when Margot returned from her club, the three of us sat together and Mama told us about the problems of young girls, and how they differed from the problems of young boys. And then, looking closely at Margot, she began to share with us her understanding of the many difficulties of love, and offer advice as to how best to cope with boys. She even spoke about Papa's courting of her, but this was a story that she had related to us on many occasions, although Mama seemed to have forgotten this fact. As the candles burnt low, and Mama began to revel in the warm glow of her private memories, it began to upset me that she never once referred back to the fact that I had just been beaten. Finally, after Mama's anecdotes and advice had run their course, and as Margot and I began to make our way to bed, she looked at me and confirmed that, from tomorrow, she would be accompanying me on both the journey to school and the journey back home at the end of the day, but she mentioned this as though it were an afterthought.

We passed out of the filthy courtyard and turned right on to the main street. On this broad thoroughfare the destitute former musicians gathered, and all day the place was awash with mournful song. In a week or two, I knew that most would have been forced to sell their instruments, and they would be reduced to merely standing on street corners. But there were always new musicians to take their places, with old violins wedged hopefully under their chins. Mama quickened her pace and then, from a small alley, a column of men swung into view. They walked in perfect step under the assiduous scrutiny of a pair of youths in uniform. The prisoners' faces were emaciated, the details of their crimes almost certainly invented. Mama tugged at my hand to tear my attention away from these men. But what else was there to look at? The skies were grey, the buildings dull, and the other people who walked these streets did so with their hands pushed deeply into their pockets and their eyes peeled, searching for crumbs and morsels that they knew did not exist. All about me, shoulders were habitually hunched and hats were worn with sad resignation, for there was nothing rakish or jaunty about people's lives. What else was I to look at besides this column of prisoners?

As we neared the school, we passed the place where the boys had cornered me on the previous day. Assaults in the street were becoming increasingly frequent, and even decently dressed people were being waylaid by uniformed brutes and ordered to scoop up dog filth with their bare hands, or lick clean the windows of a nearby shop, or simply hand over their money and valuables. Only the previous week I had witnessed the sight of a lady in a fur coat being forced to remove her lower underwear and scrub the icy streets with the garment. She was then made to put the dirty wet rag back on and proceed on her way. Mama knew about such incidents, but they were not to be talked about. And then something had happened to me. It appeared that even this was not to be talked about. Just before we reached the school, a uniformed man passed by. Mama stopped, and there was silence. In fact, everybody stopped until this man had passed from sight, and then, as though being awoken from a hypnotic trance, we all resumed our lives.

At school I always sat near the window, for, when the teacher was not spying on me, I liked to look outside. From my classroom window I could see the street, and I could therefore follow the lives of the people down below. Mama had warned me about dreaming at school, but these days she did not seem as interested in how well my studies were going. We both knew that I would soon have to leave this school. Last night, when talking to Margot and me, she again told us of how she had given up her studies at the university to marry this serious young doctor. He was a young man of medium height, bespectacled and shy, a man who dreamt of a future he could not afford. She told us of his diligence, his determination to learn to dress himself in the fashion of this big city, and his desire to secure for himself and his family a life of leisured comfort and happiness. And in spite of her parents' feelings, Mama had insisted on marrying this man, and, having done so, she watched her own future walk away from her. Mama paused at this point, and she looked closely at her daughters. And then she reminded us that although she loved this shy, bespectacled man, she had prepared her own girls for something else. Hadn't she always encouraged us to dream beyond marriage and children? The world would be ours in a way in which it could never be so for her generation. Mama reminded us of this.

It began to snow. I looked out of the classroom window and watched the ground receive a thin sprinkling of what appeared to be sugar. However, I knew that, should I taste it, the snow would be bitter. I watched people huddling under arches and stairwells, with a profound fear of the forthcoming winter etched clearly across their faces. In the summer, I would look out at this same street and see men with abandoned jackets and loosened ties lounging about idly. The windows to the apartments would be thrown wide open and the curtains tied back, creating wide holes that were desperate to suck in fresh air. I imagined these same windows at dusk, after I had left school and gone home, beginning to close, one by one, a thousand eyelids slowly shutting. But today, as the snow continued to fall, they were all tightly sealed.

This morning, before I left for school, I heard Papa shout at Mama. I was lying half-asleep in bed, but I clearly heard him asking her for something that he claimed she had taken. And then I heard Mama begin to cry, and then Papa evidently discovered whatever it was that he had been looking for. There followed a quiet period in which I assumed that Papa was begging Mama for her forgiveness, which I knew she would eventually give. I rolled over. Relations between them were not good. A week earlier, they had left their two daughters and gone together to the woods. On their return, they had told their daughters that today they had buried some precious family objects beneath a large oak tree, and that Margot would have to go into hiding. Margot looked dumbfounded. Both she and I had assumed that she would be coming with us to the small apartment, and, in a peculiar way, we were both looking forward to this new enterprise. But a grim-faced Papa went on and reminded us that, these days, people were hiding in every imaginable place. People were building tunnels under hallways, widening cellars, creating hiding places inside furniture, in woodsheds, in fact anywhere. Until these ugly times passed by, it was better to be safe. In less than a week, we would have to leave the four-storey house for the apartment on the other side of town. It made sense that we should take precautions now, for after the move it might be too difficult. Luckily, Mama and Papa had found a family who would take Margot. They were still looking for a family who would take me. And then, before either daughter had a chance to protest, a tired-looking Mama and Papa left the room together.