Clarence Major - My Amputations

“Tomorrow at noon come to Village Tabli-Gablah in Bomi Territory for official meeting. Essential you be there. You must appear in wooden mask. No one is to see your face. Q.T.” This message awaited him upon his return to the Ducor. It was on letter-head stationary: Q.T. Secret Society. No address. No phone. Reader, for hours Mason was in a quandary! Yet he bought a mask. He didn't sleep well that night. The taxi trip to Tabli-Gablah would cost forty cruddy dollars. (Did the American government send all its dirty money to Liberia?) On his way, he thought how odd he'd felt to discover yesterday in the afternoon during the dinner party at Kakotu's that Kakotu had four wives. Mason'd known in the abstract that polygamy was still widespread here but to see it in action — all the wives busy in the kitchen — was different. The whole neighborhood came to Kakotu's home in northwest Monrovia to help him celebrate the visit of the American poet and novelist. It was also a party to honor the birth of Kakotu's first grandchild. Mason felt a little cheated. Scotch, rum, wine, beer, soda pop, a dining room table in a dark house filled with serving dishes of sizzling hot stews, fried meats, peppered baked dishes, salty, tangy, sweet meats and yams, overripe fruit. Guests chattered politely standing in line around the table, loading and reloading their plates. The cool darkness complimented the soft, low, sweet voices. As Mason listened to Jacquelyn Cloves tell of her adventures in New York, there suddenly came the clamor of something afoot out in the yard. Had Mandingo tribesmen come with unfriendly intentions? Had Camp Johnson Road been taken by the advanced guard of a new government? Naw. It was only The Devil: tall as a Georgia pine, with a red face! Mason, with the others, rushed out onto the screened porch to see what was up. The Devil was a sight standing there in the dust surrounded by a hundred or so awed and giggling children. Then His Satanic Majesty started a little sweet dance step. He had the charm of little Shirley Temple. A lifted foot, a lifted arm. His body was wrapped in yellow sacks all the way down his wooden — stilt-held — legs. The sucker was every bit of twelve feet! He had no voice but gestured toward his mouth with a webbed set of fingers — indicating thirst. Impatient with the slowness of spectators, The Devil snatched a bottle of beer from a man's fist. Toodleoo, beer. Whoa, now! Back up! But it was too late. He drained the bottle then snatched a glass of scotch from Robert's grip — spilled most of it in his clumsy effort to get the liquid in through his slit. Sort of wavering in a dust cloud of his own making, he accepted bits of meat, sips from bottles of soda pop, potato chips, crackers, pieces of chocolate. Even money. After taking Mister Nobody's scotch he demanded money — making his request clear by rubbing his thumb against his index and forefinger. The crowd roared. Mason gave The Devil a couple of dollars. He stuffed them into his shirt front then reached down and grabbed Mason by the shoulder. “Tonight… ” he whispered through the mask. But there was something else. Mason missed it: a few words at the end: unclear, curved, clay-clogged, in a wheeze. A boy at the back of the crowd — perched high on a fence — was beating a drum to The Devil's dance. The Devil stepped now to the dreamy drunk sick rhythm of his Shirley Temple tap. Where was Big Bill? Calm as a clam, innocent as a curl, he danced his magic whim. He danced till he couldn't stand. By now the whole party'd moved outside. Then the poor-devil-of-a-guy dropped and leaned against the high terra cotta wall that separated the yard from the dusty road. As in novels of old, the afternoon wore on…. Tonight?

As he approached the Ducor to turn in for the night he felt like Moll Flanders (“Who was… Twelve Year a Whore , five times a Wife … Twelve Year a Thief , Eight Year a Transported Felon … at last grew Rich , liv'd Honest … ”) but he wasn't. Had he let his Hobby-Horse grow headstrong? Mason suddenly felt a breeze. The Prince without a principality was smooth as polished wood. His stride was indistinguishable from that of a man of noble birth. Then a hand reached out of the darkness and yanked at his sleeve. Mason swung around. It was The Devil, still on stilts. The diabolical fella stank of his own sweat. He hissed. He bent toward Mason's head. Whispered: “You be an irreligious — an infindel, like me: you no unspotted one. A circle will be drawn around you feet. Be careful where you stand. Don't cross the cross. The full moon watches you as you sleep. Stay away from swastikas: they be bad signs for a scoundrel the likes of you.” As the demon whispered in Mason's ear Mason cringed, struggling to free himself from the fallen angel's powerful hold. “Hear me out! You'll go soon enough!” Two Chinese men got out of a taxi and went in the Ducor. Mason shuddered: he was a Francis Bacon figure in a bleak landscape: half-formed, trapped — deformed. The Devil's voice became sharp: “Don't let you dereliction go you to the wrong way: don't weave spells with them in Tabli-Gablah. It will be cause the end of you.” Then before Mason could form the obvious question The Devil disappeared down the dark walkway alongside the Ducor. He thought of chasing but quickly realized how pointless it was since the archfiend's stilted footfalls couldn't even be heard on the stone.

The taxi driver refused to drive him into Tabli-Gablah. “They got a pact with The Devil. Me best not go there, Mister.” He'd parked his Buick just outside the village at the mouth of the dirt road that led in. He held out his hand. Mason gave him four tens. Then got out. The air was heavy. It was eleven-thirty but felt like midnight. No sun. Giant trees caused a medley of shadows along the road. Goddamnit, had he so completely fallen out of Joyce Kilmer's? hurt himself? lost the formula? forgot his P's and Q's? his Z's? his C's? What the hell was a “smart” guy like Mason doing out here on a back road alone walking toward some unknown, uh, event? He started out. Heard the taxi leave. Then a vehicle on the highway a moment later. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a holi on its way to Monrovia — crammed with passengers. Absently, he felt the wooden mask in his shoulder bag. Should he put it on now or…? He felt foolish. Sure. Why not now. He stopped and sat on a rock alongside the road. Opened his bag. He liked the mask a lot. It reminded him of the face of the woman who'd shown up at the Sommerfield party in Greece. Mason heard voices. But he saw nobody. Quickly he placed his mask over his face and adjusted the string around the base of his head. A weird tiredness gripped Blackface Hermes. He couldn't breathe properly with the mask on. Or… was something else… wrong? Then he saw three figures — men? — coming from the direction of the village — his way. The Prodigal son stood. His foolish wooden mask felt heavy like freshly grafted skin. His mouth tasted like Robert E. Lee's old boot. Mason waited — his eyes burning behind the slits. He watched the men approach. (“The Man Who Rode Away”?) No. You wouldn't get off that easily! Before the three were at arms' length he could see they too were wearing masks made of wood. He felt his mudfrog disappear. They stopped before him. The shortest one spoke: “Follow us.” The tallest one quickly added: “We must hurry.” Then they set off at a trot. Mason tried to keep up…. On first sight the village of Tabli-Gablah seemed normal: except there were no people. Mason followed the three toward the large hut at the base of the village square. They pushed him in. Inside, he couldn't see anything — at first. Then, by candlelight, he saw that the room was packed with people sitting on the ground in a circle: all wore wooden masks. An old man in a red robe came in. He told Mason to sit. Mason sat. The old man then sat on the ground next to him. The three escorts left. The circle was then complete. The old man spoke: “The envelope, please.” Mason pulled it from his pocket and handed it over. The old man ripped it open and read aloud: “ Keep this nigger!” He then looked with calmness at Mason. “Are you the person referred to here?” Mason didn't think to hesitate. He chirped. He felt the gravity of the situation — the serious presence of the circle of wearers of masks. Pastiché? Something linear about this circle…? Mason scanned. He thought he recognized the flicker of an eye in a slit, the gesture of a body, the turn of a head, the shape of a set of breasts, the curve of a big toe. But he couldn't be sure. Not absolutely. Then the old man said, “One can carry the disease one covers oneself against on the fingers one uses to secure the cover. You, my son, have come to the end of your running.” But by now his words were meant for himself alone. Far away in the distance they all could hear the sad bullhorn of a Muslim and shortly thereafter the crier with his mournful whining appeal from the upper window of a mosque. It was hot and muggy. The hut smelled of, of, cow rocks, turtle piss and smoke.