Norman Rush - Mortals

“So okay, and the operation he has in mind, from what little we know from this distance, the operation has the potential to get all the religious groups in the country upset, once they hear about it. The Muslims are already upset, for other reasons. And don’t forget that this character is going to be identified as what he is, one of us, an American, which may be something we don’t particularly need on our plate, this part-time Antichrist being one of us.”

Ray was going on too long and he knew it, but he couldn’t make himself stop. He had to put everything out. He hated the slings and arrows of staircase wisdom. Also it was getting to be so tough to get face to face with Boyle that he had to seize the moment. Boyle wasn’t liking this, which wasn’t fine. But he had to lay it all out.

Ray said, “Another piece of this, and I’m sure you know all about it, is that Doctor Morel has two patients in the cabinet. The Secretary for the Office of the President and the Minister of Local Government and Lands. You know, we’re not the only people in Gaborone aware of this. Everybody knows it. You mention Morel’s name and people tell you how he saved Montshwa, or rather how first he saved Fabius and then Montshwa. They were in the delegation that went to Boston. This is the story that’s around. Fabius had some sort of leg problem and somebody sent him to Morel. And then Montshwa’s back seized up and Fabius had liked Morel so much he brought Montshwa to him and the rest is history. They walk, they run, they dance …”

“Lookit,” Boyle said, hard, which only showed Ray how long Boyle must have been out of contemporary U.S. culture. Lookit was a class-descriptor … lower class, and anyway it was long out of use. Even he knew that. Of course now Boyle was trying to be hard with him.

“Now lookit,” Boyle said. “None of this matters , and …”

Ray interrupted. “Wait, I’m not saying this character is Rasputin or Stephen Ward. I don’t think he is. But. But. Wait, I lost my train of thought. I think it was … he just gets here, he hardly gets here and he has friends in high places and people are noticing him and … sorry, I lost it.”

“Lookit,” Boyle said.

Again Ray stopped him. “Wait, before I forget this … I didn’t mention this before and you might want to consider it.

“Okay, let’s set aside all the friends in high places and think about this. I mentioned how one of the subjects our friend seems interested in agitating around is circumcision. I did mention it, didn’t I? But what I didn’t mention is bogwera.

“Bogwera is a ritual. See, at one time the Tswana circumcised their young men in these bogwera camps when they reached puberty. Well the tradition died down until very recently and now it’s coming back, the same as traditional medicine is. It’s part of a cultural revival. You can read notices announcing bogwera camps in Dikgang . They’re big.

“Right, so someone coming out saying that circumcision is for idiots is not going to be popular. I mean, my guess is that the arguments that are going to be made against it are going to be that it’s medically stupid, primarily. And there’s one more point, just quickly, about circumcision, which is that most of the Tswana tribes, maybe all of them, used to do it, but the Zulus, and there are a lot of Zulus in the mix in this country, some of them doing quite well, and the Zulus don’t do it, they think it’s stupid. There’s bad blood, historically, over the issue between the Xhosas, of which there are plenty here, especially around Mahalapye, and the Zulus. And this was because Shaka stopped circumcising his guys because it took them out of circulation just when they should be getting into shape for warmaking. The Xhosas actually see the Zulus as unclean because of it. It’s serious. Down in the Republic it’s part of the problem between the Zulus in Inkatha and the ANC, which is mostly Xhosa. Anyway, we have both groups intermingled up here. So potentially any kind of open campaigning on the issue is going to be inflammatory in a number of directions. You see my point.”

Ray was parched. There was never ever anything to drink available in the room. He realized that the room had been made smaller by the newly installed soundproofing that Boyle had ordered. Ceiling and walls were now covered with porous sheathing, a good idea if Boyle was going to have free use of his shouting option. The room ate sound. That was why Ray was parched. It was voice-strain. He should always get a drink of water before he saw Boyle.

Boyle’s long, slow sigh was meant to say that Ray was being taxing. That was fine. He had said everything he could. Ray gathered himself.

Boyle began. “Okay, let me just say it so you understand it. I don’t give a fuck about this chiropractor. Wait till he sees it here. I know these guys who want to save the world, believe me I know them. This fucker will go home in six months when he sees it here. More like six weeks. This is some kind of prima donna who thinks he’s too good to be a fucking chiropractor, so he decides he should be some stupid intellectual savior instead. I know him. Don’t bother me with people like this shithead. This guy is black. He was living in Cambridge, for Christ’s sake, so wait until he sees it here. Cape Town, someplace like that, he might end up in, not here. With these black characters it’s a romantic black bourgeoisie thing about Africa and it takes about six weeks until they say uh-oh. Cambridge, Boston, places you can have a lot of fun. Believe me I know enough about this character to know he means nothing to us, and I mean nothing, zero, zero squared. These cards he’s going to hand out. I wish I could be there and see the expression on the faces over at the takeaway. It’s a joke. Believe me that this is a guy who likes to eat out. He was living on the best street in Cambridge. I know his story. He was up against all the local geniuses they have around Cambridge. So out here he’s the biggest genius around. Fuck him. It’s a safari, believe me. Over here in the bulrushes he’s going to be Moses, a light to the nations, whatever. This is a man with his head up his own ass and finding it very interesting in there, very interesting, gee.”

Boyle carried a menthol inhaler which he dug out now and applied to his nostrils.

Boyle went on. “Believe me, when he was in Cambridge what he was was a chiropractor. Now he comes over here and he’s the light of the world. But tell me something. Why didn’t the light of the world write a book instead? He never published a thing, so far as I know. Why not? Believe me when I say this guy is going to self-destruct. Besides I know twenty ways to get him out of here if he fucks around to any degree. I don’t need to know a thing about this guy I don’t already know. I …”

Ray couldn’t help himself. He broke in again.

“Yeah, but you’re leaving out Fabius and Montshwa. They swear by him. What about his protection? What about …”

Boyle said, “You know, words fail me with you. There is no protection I can’t break. You don’t know a thing about what I can do. I don’t mean to beat up on your idea, but I don’t think you understand a lot of things you should.”

New times! Ray thought. Boyle was normally laconic, and laconic at a completely standard middle-class level of word choice. He was playing a rougher class. The profanity, or the profusion of it, was new times too. There was more of it than was necessary to make Boyle’s point, which was that he was tough at the core, so watch out. And there was no way for Ray to miss the implications of Boyle’s allusions to academics as pains in the ass and problems in general for the true heroes of the world — the hard men, the practical men, less overeducated men like Boyle himself.