Caryl Phillips - The Nature of Blood

Once Gerry returned to England, he wrote her many imaginary letters. Dear Eva, I think I ought to explain. . But he never sent any of them, preferring instead to believe that the strange girl would soon forget him. However, his conscience troubled him. If, when he asked her, she had said yes, then he was convinced that he would have made whatever arrangements were necessary. He would have told her everything, and then taken a chance and brought her back to England. They might have had to wait a couple of years before they could actually get married, but he'd have done it. That's what everyone wanted after the war. A new beginning. A chance to put things behind them. To begin again. But when he got back and saw Noreen and the kiddie, he began to write the letters in his mind. I mean, Noreen wasn't a glamour piece or anything, but he had made a commitment. Dear Eva, I think I ought to explain . . It was silly, really. For one thing, how could he have afforded it? It was bloody hard work to get a job again. Nobody gave a bugger that you'd served king and country. So bleeding what, mate? You were over there with your foreign crumpet, while we were stuck here getting bombed on. Triumphant England didn't live up to his expectations. Things were bad for everyone. And so eventually he stopped writing imaginary letters. And, soon after, he saw Iris, who was dancing unconsciously to the static crackle of a wireless as she rearranged cups on her tray. She was a waitress in the tea shop that Gerry stopped in on his way home from the factory. It was the sign above the door, which boasted 'A good selection of cakes and pastries', that first caught his attention. Gerry liked the familiar tinkle of the doorbell, then the pleasing rush of warmly scented air as he edged his way in and found his usual seat in the corner by the tall glass window. From this position, he could gaze out at the tide of people who washed by in both directions, but inevitably he was shaken from his day-dreaming by the elderly woman with her notepad and her hair that was tied back in a frighteningly severe bun. She took his order and, soon after, his tea would arrive at the table with a clatter. And then one day he saw the girl dancing as she rearranged cups on her tray, a new girl with eyebrows plucked into dark arches. Gerry looked at his watch and realized that they would be closing up in ten minutes, so he deliberately waited until she came to his table to take away his cup. 'You're new here, aren't you?' She smiled, and Gerry could now see just how young she was. Sixteen at most. But she refused to reply. And so it went on, day after day, week after week, with Gerry being unable to torment a conversation out of her reluctant person. His sole knowledge of this girl's background was her name, Iris, which he discovered only by overhearing the elderly woman shouting at her when the girl appeared to be slacking. Eventually, Gerry accepted that his infatuation with the girl was leading him nowhere, but it had served the function of removing Eva from the front of his mind. He no longer peered anxiously down the hallway in case a foreign-looking letter lay by the door, nor did he worry about whether he should say something to Noreen about the Jewish girl. Gerry's conscience no longer troubled him. Although he had given up hope of winning her over, Gerry still sat in the tea shop, in the corner by the tall glass window, and stared at his Iris. He particularly enjoyed watching her when she raised her arms to tie back her hair. It occurred to him that young girls needed protecting. But Iris would be fine. She knew how to look after herself.

I have made a friend. Bella. Bella with the dark complexion. Her eyes fenced by crow's feet that mark her out as one who has toiled in a southern sun. (My skin as white as paper.) They have given Bella an easy job, packing down the top of the pits. I share my bowl of soup with her. Carry me, Bella, and I will carry you. Bella tells me there are rumours that we will not win. She speaks as though everything is a confession. I tell Bella, no. No. You must see your parents again. You are only seventeen. We lie together in the hut. I look at my Bella. Her brown eyes clouded by cataracts. I am twenty. Bella, I want to live to love. To believe in something. To believe in somebody. Because of Bella, I hope with reckless vigour. Men do not know the landscape of women. Your hair is growing back. I am a virgin. Tell me, have you had a boyfriend? A kiss? Yes? In the folding places of your body? I need a piece of bread. We need a piece of bread. But somebody must remain alive to tell all of this, Bella. It is senseless to die now. I need to see Margot again. And then, one morning I look across at my Bella with her sleep-shaped hair, and I know that soon I will be on my own again. Life continues to drain from her. Too weak, now, to steal warmth from my body. I press close to her, as though my life might pass into her body like a fever. But she continues to leak. Seepage. The most undignified of all diseases. Flooding the cracks in the wood, dripping into the faces of the women below. Speckling them. It is winter now. Our second winter. And bitterly cold. The roll-call. I am going to be late for roll-call. Dear Bella. Bella with fine straws stuck through the holes that pierce her ears, keeping them in readiness for the earrings that she still hopes for. Dear Bella, it is easy to be selected. Swollen legs? A forgotten head kerchief? A soiled uniform? Step forwards. Goodbye. A scratch on a leg? Puffed with malnutrition? Step forwards. Goodbye. A flick of a riding crop to the right. Goodbye. The other women, they cry now, please, Eva. Eva, please. Bella is gone. My Bella is gone. She is no more. Eva, she is no more. Colour your hair with this charcoal. Twenty and I am going grey! Look strong. Get up. Fresh air. Fresh air. The other women. Their feet wrapped in straw that is held in place with cloth and string. Dirty spoons attached to their waists by cords. I ask them, are you still women? Look at my swollen feet. The other women drag me away from my Bella. I am screaming. Look! In my Bella's crabbed hands there are still signs of life. I cannot leave her like this. A cage of bone. As I stand in the courtyard, I know that I will have to find Mama again. The wind continues to collaborate. It makes us shiver in front of these poorly educated people. I will have to find Mama again. Meanwhile, dear Bella. Bella with the dark complexion. Dry my face with your breath. Your refusal of this world has not gone unnoticed. Death will want me too. Death is hungry. Always hungry.

And so you shadow her every move, attend to her every whim, like the black Uncle Tom that you are. Fighting the white man's war for him/Wide-receiver in the Venetian army/The republic's grinning Satchmo hoisting his sword like a trumpet/You tuck your black skin away beneath their epauletted uniform, appropriate their words (Rude am I in speech), their manners, worry your nappy woollen head with anxiety about learning their ways, yet you conveniently forget your own family, and thrust your wife and son to the back of your noble mind. O strong man, O strong arm, O valiant soldier, O weak man. You are lost, a sad black man, first in a long line of so-called achievers who are too weak to yoke their past with their present; too naive to insist on both; too foolish to realize that to supplant one with the other can only lead to catastrophe. Go ahead, peer on her alabaster skin. Go ahead, revel in the delights of her wanton bed, but to whom will you turn when she, too, is lost and a real storm breaks about your handkerchiefed head? My friend, the Yoruba have a saying: the river that does not know its own source will dry up. You will do well to remember this.

We rise with the sun. I turn from Giacobbe to Moses, then back to Giacobbe. My brothers, do not let them see you weeping like this. Today, we must leave this cell and begin our final journey, but let us do so with dignity. There will be no tears and no pleading. We will maintain our fast and continue to refuse to drink water. We are going home. I look again at my companions, but they continue to weep copiously. I redouble my efforts. The journey to the north by water, and then back here to St Mark's on foot, is designed to humiliate us. But they are not our masters. We must obey only God. Let them take away our sons and baptize them. Let them pour scorn on our women. If we have done right by God, they will capture only the outside of our people, but not their souls. Do not weep. Please, do not weep. (In Portobuffole, I was respected. My family never cheated anybody. We lived modestly and we celebrated our holidays in peace. We respected your traditions, we made charitable contributions towards your institutions. Yet now you people pluck my beard, you stone my children, you defraud me, you mock my clothes and my religion. I tell you, I have never heard of this boy, Sebastian New. I have never seen such a boy. I know not what you are talking about. My wife is suffering, my family is drowning in tears. Why? Who is this Sebastian New? What are you talking about?) My brothers, let them burn our bodies. If this gives them pleasure, then let them burn us. But our souls do not belong to them. Have you lost faith? (To whom will Sara and my children turn? You have destroyed our small community.) Do not search for God in this moment of grief. You will move too quickly to find his true depth. Trust him. Today, as we leave this cell and feel the ground beneath our unsteady feet, we must walk with confidence towards our fate. These Venetians may be uncoupling us from this life on earth, but we are journeying towards a greater place. (Who is this Sebastian New?) To these men's ears, my words are stale. Giacobbe and Moses continue to weep. The sunlight begins to pour into our cell, the light raking down the wall, then pooling on the stone floor. I am thirsty, but I will not drink water. We must refuse to drink water.