Clarence Major - My Amputations

Now an air traveller from Accra to Monrovia must get there the best damned way he can — no, no! Start again. Sincerely: the plane must stop in Abidjan. Mason was mobbed by cab drivers and shoe shine boys at the airport. Serious-eyed skinny boys carrying boxes and rags clung to his legs. He could barely walk to the currency counter as he pushed his luggage cart. Ethiopian Airways flight number-what-ever had just landed and the whole place was buzzing with the itch for francs. While standing at the exchange window he shook a boy off his shoe. He was sweating so he thought he had malaria. Mosquitoes surely would win their war with chloroquine. His contained-mood was one of humiliation and rage: a freemason was not a victory but a question…. Ivory Coast was a shock: as he was driven into the city Mason felt as though he was in some modern European metropolis: massive traffic jams, skyscrapers, the whole bit. But he'd known… but, b-but why were the French-speaking African countries so much “better off” than those ex-English and ex-Dutch and ex-German colonies?… The contrast to Accra was sharp: no need to put out the hearth fire before dusk here… Grande Hotel on rue De Gaulle faced the river, the bridge, on the big highways… Settled, Mason went down to the bar to doctor — no, to perform surgery — on a scotch on the rocks. He got it okay despite accent. Then he held forth in great gloom…. Night life in Abidjan? A vague sense of urgency — remember? — drove Mason out into darkness toward mudfrog-cream, magic solutions, questions, linear answers; and he stumbled, first, into a bar where the scotch was really weird — tasted like celt-weed. A guru came over from shadows and sat next to him. “You have eye trouble. I suggest you try seven grams of curikon, a pinch of girongrie and ten grams of estravec.” Mason said his vision was all right. The shady guru laughed derisively. Another figure, an obvious companion of the guru, came forward and perched himself on the stool next to Mason. “You want to add paprogue, too. Mix well. Then sit the whole thing outside on the terrace. In the morning stir in valainades — only an ounce. After an hour add two pounds of aromanout and six leaves of epicaselles. Let the whole mix sit in a cool place for six days then eat it at midi. You may feel it's a killer but it'll give you a kick — open your sense of reality, clear the—”… Mason was so shaken by the pregnancy of the moment he fled: dashed into the lighted-night: only to encounter people in the street responding to some sort of madness — crazed by music and the spirit of festival: was it disco or boogie woogie or, humph, polka! Certainly not African traditional drum rhythm! The city market area was lighted and busy. He found his way among unknown streets, unresponding people. In a night club he saw a black girl do a strip-tease. The show was billed as a See-Kript Act. Her stage name was Colt “Forty-five” Coo-Wow! At the end of her strip she shot two pistols into the audience. (Normally, a couple of dudes dropped.)

He was in the redhandedness of impeccable sleep when the pounding came at the hotel door. He struggled up, thinking he was in Attica and a prison break was in progress. About to piss on himself, he opened the door. Glare of light rubber-stamped his face. “You're under arrest,” the officer said in French. The other two black policemen stepped forward and grabbed him: one by each arm. In his pajamas, they took him down in the tiny elevator, out through the bright lobby. The marble floor was cold. Only after he was in the hearse-like vehicle did Mason remember that he was in Abidjan. At headquarters tough black men in uniforms were speaking thick French and it was like listening to a record on the wrong speed. What'd they want with him? What'd he done? Suddenly he pissed in his pajama pants as they led him into a tiny room with a bright light suspended from the ceiling. Three big men in suits stood before him. “Remove your clothes,” one of them said. Mason took off his pajamas. “Go down on ze floor.” “Your rights they are not your rights. As a member of the PLA, enemy to Ivory Coast we hold you. You confess? You stranger. This is bad enough. In Ivory Coast this is impossible.” No survival manual could save him now. He hadn't prepared well for the trip. Hadn't told anybody where he was going? He was alone? When moving into the wilderness one should take along more than a passionate search for self. Mason didn't even pack a compass. He had no map. Headgear? Never heard of it! Flares? Dehydrated food? Screwdriver? Except now he wouldn't have to wait for hypothermia or a loose rock to slide from beneath his foot. All the romance of Africa suddenly slipped away. Two of them took him down a steep, narrow, winding staircase. It was cold and dark at the bottom. A large key turned, in metal. Hinges squeaked like rats. He was roughly kicked and pushed into a cell. One of them spoke to the other in guttural French. The response was equally throaty. Mason'd fallen to the dirt floor. It was wet. He shivered. His masoned wall of faith? He was up against it now. The door slammed. His body-warmth lifted up out of his flesh like smoke from a smothered fire. His mouth was full of sawdust. Long streaks of pain like rubber tubing set afire shot through his body as he raised himself to his knees. He had to crap. No need to hold back. After a few agonizing motions, he was in a squatting position. It started slowly. Then burst out. The smell was a familiar vapor, not the least bit offensive. When he finished he crawled to a corner and curled up with his spine against the angle. Now what? Well, he could keep busy. Remember Satchel Page. Don't look back, something might be gaining on you. Keep rowing. Row row your boat gently. He slept for… who knows how long. When he woke his night-vision was better. A dim light beyond the cell? A large oblong object right here in the middle. He crawled over to it. Walking on his knees he felt its surface. No doubt about it: a coffin. He reached inside and slid his palm along the floor. Dry. He felt dizzy, terrified, hungry. Don't give in. Keep on keeping on. You survived the mirror. The prison. Being a clown. You name it. You'll get through this too. He climbed into the warmer space of the coffin and curled up again. He woke to the sound of hammering. Somebody was nailing a lid on? Losing control, Mason bellowed like a bull at the moment of castration. He beat at the lid with feet and fists. The holders of hammers responded to his outrage with laughter as they drove the final two nails in. Mason cried in long ropey sobs. As the men outside jabbered away in crude French, he whimpered and sniffed and ate his own snot. He farted and belched and continued to cry…. Some time later they went away. Then much later — days? weeks? — he heard the rusty door open again. Another presence came in. Weak and half out of his mind, he waited for a voice, a word, the sound of breathing. “When you're ready to tell us about the activities of the People's Liberation Army you'll be a free man. Do you hear me in there?” A new one! The cow jumped over the moon. High high the moon. Rise Sally rise. Mason didn't respond and before long the speaker of English went away. Another long stretch of time. Then two more of them came. He felt them lift up the coffin. He was being carried along the corridor, up the narrow staircase. Now they rested him on a flat surface. He heard and felt the hammers pulling the nails from the wood. The squeaking was like mice at play. When the lid was off he felt grimy hands lift him into blinding daylight. No moon, no sun: but a furnace of red light. Something like a grandfather clock was ticking. He smelled the old boots of a grave digger. They stood him up and he fell. Their harsh French couldn't touch the high spirit of guttbucket. He was sick of it. Their sneers too! He knew they were tying him to a tree but he didn't know he was in a courtyard of steaming tropical plants till time and a wind song helped him open his eyes. Silence and the sand of thick hands again greeted him. View: yellow teeth between grinning lips. Perhaps he was hallucinating but wasn't one of them standing there with a dead antelope around his neck? Blood dripping to the gravel! Mason had forgotten about his nakedness till one of the French-speaking Africans poked at his penis. It sent a sharp pain through his groin. The other one held up a huge Russian pistol. Mason's slit-view didn't cause panic. What the hell. You took the best so why not… He heard the distant sounds of celebration, gaiety, a banquet. Somebody was sipping excellent wine from a gold and crystal goblet. The sleep of pigeons hummed in his ears. Death? He thought he'd be objective about it. Why not. As the pistol carrier pressed the barrel against Mason's temple he whispered in Mason's ear, “Hello. Goodbye. How are you. Bang bang!” Then he pulled the trigger: it triggered the reshaping of Mason's inner wilderness: trees fell, Uncle Remus turned white, seas ran dry. Wouldn't you know it? No bullets in the gun. And these two clowns were laughing so hard their balls shrank up into their groins…. Well, so much for one day. They fed him and escorted him back to the cell. He heard them bring the coffin in later and place it exactly where it'd been…. It was perhaps a day or two later when the one who spoke good English came into the cell. He said, “You're the wrong man. An attendant will bring you clothes. Today you will be set free. However, if you find out anything about the PLA be sure to let us know immediately.”