Norman Rush - Mortals

He nearly pitched forward onto his face, but he righted himself in time. The parcel with its wrappings and bindings was monstrously heavy. Now he had to try to find the box containing his effects. He wanted clean clothes, he wanted his watch, he wanted anything of his that he could find. And he had to do his best to find Morel’s medical bag. That was urgent.

His helpers returned to the labor of dragging crates and cartons over to his post near the guttering candle. Time was short. It would be better to dump the boxes out in situ. He would help.

But there was a problem. He could button his shirt over the parcel but it made him look ridiculous. He would have to leave the parcel showing, his shirt open. He would have to explain a few times. They would get used to it.

A box of spoons was overturned, creating walking hazards. He kicked his way through to the action.

He saw his boots. They were desert boots and he loved them. The old man had found the correct box. He could see his knobkerrie in the box. The old man seemed to be considering Ray’s boots for his own use. It wasn’t true that people would choose to be barefoot over going about in normal shoes. Here was proof. But he had to explain the situation. Dithlako meant shoes. He shouted it a few times and pointed at his feet. Dirang smiled and said, “It’s all right.”

It was all right. The old man was backing away from the desert boots. Ray would give him the dead man’s boots he was wearing. They would be too big, but they would do. Dirang spoke very good, easy English. Who was she?

The light was execrable. Ray needed help getting his boots off. The bundle was in the way. His fingers were weak. Dirang bent to the task. Finally it was done. The old man had the dead man’s boots. He seemed grateful. He was putting them on.

Ray thanked Dirang and the old man in Setswana. Dirang replied, softly, again in English, “You’re very welcome.” Ray answered in English, “Thank you, mma.” With his own boots on, he felt reborn. Going quickly through the few remaining crates and boxes, he satisfied himself that Morel’s medical bag was nowhere around.

Ray resumed charge of the Enfield, heavy as it was. He could manage it. He was adapting to the millstone on his chest. Everything that could be taken care of had been taken care of.

He made his way back to Morel’s venue. The man was remarkable, it had to be said. This was an organized scene and there had been improvements during the short time Ray had been elsewhere. There was more light, there were more candles, and the caryatids were directing torchbeams in a coordinated way, at Morel’s instruction. Ray thought, You have to stop calling them caryatids. They were active. They were helping.

The simulacrum examination table formed by lining up overturned crates was now covered with padding, toweling. Pots of hot water had been procured from somewhere. There was an astringent odor in the air. A Basarwa woman was sitting on the examination table and Morel was attending to her neck. Ray remembered being fascinated by dead skin as a young boy. His brother had produced yards of it. His brother had gotten too much sun for his skin type, during summer vacations. I never wanted to be a doctor, Ray thought. He had been squeamish. His brother had chased him around while he was peeling off sheets of dead skin because he had figured out that Ray found it upsetting in some way.

What about these people’s children? That was a question. It looked like he was not going to have children in this life. There were orphans in the world. He could teach orphans if he could find a way to do that.

Wemberg had been taken care of. He was lying on the floor wrapped up in drapes, still alive. He had to be alive because his head was showing. If he had died his face would be covered. Ray was relieved. A surge of heavy firing shook the building. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. Ray wondered how strongly the building was constructed. He had his doubts, but there were more pressing things to obsess on, like the expression on Morel’s face.

Because Morel was staring at him. He could see that. Several torchbeams had swung in Ray’s direction, lighting him up.

Ray said, “I couldn’t find your bag.”

Morel said nothing.

“I looked around,” Ray said.

“That’s all right. No, I found it. No someone found it for me.” Morel’s tone was odd.

Morel kept talking, still oddly. “All the drugs were gone but everything else was there, except for the drugs and my hypodermics, but okay. Oh also what about the first aid kit you had, any sign of it?”

“No, none.”

Ray realized what it was with Morel.

“Oh, this ,” Ray said, touching the parcel bound to his chest. So far it was sitting solidly against him.

Morel said, “What is it, for Christ’s sake? Because you know what it looks like, it looks like a bomb strapped to you. Really. Really you look like one of those people with bombs strapped to them. It looks like metal, like a bomb, like some fucking thing, man, an infernal device. All you need is a fuse sticking out of it or something that looks like a detonator in your hand and that’s what you are. I know you, man, and you scared the shit out of me . Whatever that is, take it off.”

Ray wanted to laugh. He said, “Man, relax . This is my brother’s manuscript. I found it.”

“Well take it off .”

“Are you kidding? I won’t. Never. This goes with me just like this until we get out of here. Or not.”

Morel threw his hands up. He turned away.

Ray saw that Wemberg was beckoning to him. Ray was delighted. Definitely Wemberg was alive. He felt kinship because Wemberg was a widower and so was he, in a way. There was no noun, not in English, for the man who takes away another man’s wife. There should be. It could be something like plucker . And there was no particular word for the man whose wife had been plucked away. The French undoubtedly had a word for it. There should be an Académie Anglaise. He wouldn’t mind working for that kind of body. He was going to need a job. It would be a job that would let him elevate some of his brother’s coinages like to harbinge into the dictionary, some dictionary. There were other coinages that weren’t bad. He was carrying them around on his chest, next to his heart.

Wemberg was rolled up in floral drapery. One arm was free. He was rolled up like Elizabeth Taylor or Vivien Leigh in a carpet in Caesar and Cleopatra when she was hauled up into the fortress and let out of the carpet by the then handsomest man in the world, Stewart Granger. We have too many images for things, he thought. It was the media. It must have been better before the media.

He sat down next to Wemberg, whose eyes were closed now and who was no longer beckoning. He had certain things to say to Wemberg. He wanted to tell him that he appreciated, really appreciated, that Wemberg and his wife had done good in the world. He wanted to let Wemberg know that he was going to be doing good, himself, next, in his life. He wanted to tell him that he was going to be more like him and Alice.

“Dwight,” he said, but that was all he said. Wemberg had a smile on his face but he seemed suddenly asleep. Ray thought he must be dead. Now look what you’ve done, he said to himself, in agony, involuntarily getting back to the question of why in the name of God his mother had found the Laurel and Hardy movies so funny.

He couldn’t stand the idea but Wemberg was dead. He wanted to shout. He did shout. He shouted for Morel to come over.

“What?” Morel said, unable to contain his irritation.

“He’s dead. Wemberg is dead.”

“No he isn’t,” Morel said. He prodded Wemberg with his foot and Wemberg began to cough.