Norman Rush - Mating

I was also getting sensate confirmations thick and fast. It was cold and we were cutting back on using the bathing engine because of that and also to set the usual noumenal good example re water use, which resulted in cooperative rather sloppy indoor showering and sponge bathing. I actually had to admonish him to slow up on the worshipful and hyper-intimate aspects of our lustrae unless he was willing to be a little less sparing with the briquettes we used for our heating fires, which were kept minimal, also as an invisible Kantian good example.!Gum, we would say, shivering and lumbering around in our anoraks and layers of sweaters. He was sexually very available. The number of erections coming to my attention was, for someone his age, outstanding, I told him, willing as ever to stoop to any depth for a smile.!Gum is winter in Sesarwa.

This especially I prized: once when he was refusing to let me help wash up after dinner I decided to read something while he finished, but there was nothing to read immediately visible so I mock-complained, to which he said You can read my fichier if you want to. This was a surprise. His fichier was an oversized oilskin wallet he kept next to his bedlamp and in which he stored excerpts and quotations that spoke to his essence, in essence, all transcribed on two by five cards in his neat handwriting. Nothing he’d ever said had specifically laid out that these were private materials — in the way my diaries were, for example — but the tender way he handled this wallet when he wanted to find something in it told me it was at least personal. My hood is up, is what he was reinforcing with this offer, clearly. I was flustered because I felt reading hungrily would seem unseemly, so I was brief and consequently remember only a few things in any detail. There were his warhorses à la Zeno’s arrow in my heart, and Society — an inferno of saviors, but there was also a quotation from Rousseau that struck me as central and which he later let me copy for my own information, and which I still have: The problem is to find a form of association which will defend with the whole common force the person and goods of each associate, and in which each, while uniting himself with all, may still obey himself alone. And there were several long passages from a book on the enclosure movement in England, about the one village that had the good sense never to enclose its common, a town called Laxton, which survives into the present: I remember it was described as a proud village, a happy one, and a prosperous one. This led to a discussion or more accurately an impassioned lecturette by Nelson on the enclosure movement. He was against the enclosure movement! What manner of man is this! was all I could think. The enclosure movement is hardly something you can still be against in any personal, burning sense, you would think. But he was!

There was even more being done for me. Nelson was cooking more dinners than he had been recently, soups or other one-dish propositions by and large, but I love soup. Keep talking to me, he said a few times when I thought we had covered something and I was moving off to attend to something not in his vicinity. For someone always afraid she’s overtalking, what could be more reassuring? Also he was responding, it seemed to me, to my encouragements to get beyond his stimmung when it came to women in general, which I found ideological. Women are not semisacrosanct. I informed him our nurse was still fighting against isolated outcrops of the traditional method of weaning children when they got to be two or so, viz. putting snuff on the nipple or telling the children worms were coming out of it. How nice was that? I saw progress when he made jokes of the following sort: at breakfast by mistake he took my pile of various pills rather than his, mine including Enovid, and then that evening when I pointed out what he’d done he said That explains why all day I’ve been unusually sensitive to the needs of others. There were a handful of retroconfessions unprompted by me. One was that he felt he’d been a prig in one of his responses to me. I’d said something like Don’t you ever get the feeling you’d like to get out of here just for a few days and act like a pig, eat steak and profiteroles and dress up and go dancing with the kind of funheads who like to go dancing, drink whiskey sours, in your case one just before dinner and one glass of wine with dinner, out of consideration for me? He’d said no and now he took it back and of course he could go for a steak chasseur. He also said he was sure he’d implied that he’d read Middlemarch, but the truth was he’d only read two thirds of it, or a half.

As if to complement the impression of a barrage of lovely things occurring we had on two successive nights displays of unusually brilliant shooting stars. Everywhere people agreed this meant great changes coming.

A Pedestal for Something

The woman who ran the meat tree was one of ours, very pro-Nelson and Dineo. She served up all kinds of news and gossip from her customers, so it paid to stop and chat even if the meat offerings were not exactly what you had in mind. I was reminded how circuitous everything in Tsau was when I gathered from what she was saying that Rra Puleng had fixed it for the summarist to continue reading and announcing everywhere, just as before. So he’s still machinating outside proper channels, I thought to myself. How interesting. I bought two hares because she had so many and it was late in the day. There seemed to be a steady flow of hares from the Basarwa camp lately. This was good because the situation in our rabbit domes was unpromising again.

Then I was converged on by several women, good friends like Mma Isang and Dirang Motsidisi among them. What followed was odd and left me thinking This is a pedestal for something. We were going to walk homeward together, so I had to wait while protracted transactions went on over hares. A conversation began, in the echt traditional way, with inquiries about key relatives. Was my mother keeping well? She was a poor person, wasn’t it? I had no father, wasn’t it? This really set me back because I’d discussed my pater absconditus situation with only two people in Tsau, Denoon and Mma Isang. Wasn’t it so, that no moneys were being sent to me from my home? Other questions established that if I returned to lefatshe la madi there would probably be no one to pay me for my studying about birds and that I would have to go for lowly work as in serving up drinks to men. I was a little irritated. They began commiserating almost before each individual drawback was acknowledged. It seemed to me I was getting oeillades from Mma Isang and Dirang to play up any sadness or forebodings I had. The scene was a contrivance. We were back and forth between English and Setswana. I was uncomfortable and wanted to leave not only because of the oddness of what was going on but because I had what I thought was a consummate entry in a stupid comedic competition Nelson and I were engaged in. He’d started it. Just to annoy me, and based on my age and milieu, he asserted that I had to be a fan of Bob Dylan. This had come up in the umbra of allusions to the difference in our ages. I was such a young person that naturally I was a fan of the great bard of my age cohort, with his wonderful elegant grasp of the lyric, as in Lay Lady Lay, or as in his whining queries as to when we all might expect cannonballs to be forever banned. Denoon liked this conceit so much that my protests were wasted. I think at one point I defended as pretty good the line The pump don’t work ’cause a vandal stole the handle. Somehow this led to a Ping-Pong competition re completions of the phrase The band can’t play ’cause dot dot dot. We had gone through the simple completions like ’cause a strumpet stole the trumpet, or a bum stole the drum, and were at about the level of Jean Arp stole the harp, or a wily crone stole the xylophone. I wanted to spring on Nelson that the band couldn’t play because Vera Hruba Ralston stole the tuba for Halston. Since he knew nothing about movies he was sure to assert Vera Hruba Ralston was a name I made up.