Nadine Gordimer - The Pickup

It is in the very early morning that she goes out into the desert alone; although — she couldn’t explain and does not want to delve, in the dialogue all beings have within themselves — even with the child she is alone in the sense of not accompanied by what was always with her, part of herself, back wherever the past was. The books she had ordered and that had come, once again, in the care of the bus driver from the capital, made her giggle or abandon half-read — that woman Hester Stanhope, and the man Lawrence, English charades in the desert, imperialism in fancy dress with the ultimate condescension of bestowing the honour of wanting to be like the people of the desert. Another game, another repertoire like that in the theatre company of the EL-AY Café, but with serious consequences, apparently, for the countries where the man had been. Nothing to do with her; she wrapped herself in black robes only when it was necessary for protection against the wind.

On their lean-to bed he slept, mysteriously calm in that familiar other lone region, and if he had awakened while she was gone, did not ask, when she was in the room again, where she had been.

Reading, while it was still cool under the awning. Out to buy fritters. His conscious mood was distracted and concentrated: distracted from her, from their doubled existence, and concentrated on whatever new tactics he was in the process of engaging with authority. What they might be, she did not ask either; she was somehow afraid that what she’d been told again and again by Maryam, by the ladies at the conversational teas, would be read in her face: all said matter-of-factly it sometimes took several years before permission to enter another country might at last be achieved. This was the commonplace experience of relatives and friends.

She walked through night-cooled sands into the desert. No fear of getting lost; she could always return herself from the desert, turn her back and verify the signal finger-beckon of the minaret; the houses flocked together behind her. The goats with the Bedouin woman appeared before her in the desert as if conjured up. She would walk what seemed a long way towards her and her goats but the measure of distance in this element and space was unaccustomed; the figures of woman and animals retreated although they had appeared to be only slowly veering, changing direction. There was one morning when they were discovered close; close enough to be advanced to. The woman turned out to be hardly more than a child — perhaps twelve years old. For a few moments the desert opened, the two saw each other, the woman under her bushveld hat, the girl-child a pair of keen eyes from a small figure swathed against the sun.

She smiled but the other responded only by the eyes’ acknowledgment of a presence.

The encounter without word or gesture became a kind of daily greeting; recognition. After which she would sit on, in the sands, and forget the Bedouin girl and the goats; or, sometimes summoned in an old habit of focus, would follow their eclipse like slowed film footage in which the closing of a flower at night may be followed.

The dog lost its fear of her. It swung its tail if she were sitting on the stump of masonry but did not accompany her if she went farther than a few yards into the desert; it came to the stump as part of the dregs of the village, to forage the rubbish tossed against the traces of someone who had tested the limits of habitation and been overcome.

At last, she was in the capital. Where, when they first arrived, she had wanted to ‘see everything’, as if ‘everything’ were to be known there; before they had occupied the grand marital bed and moved to the lean-to, before love-making on the vocal springs of the iron bedstead, before they had stayed through Ramadan and the season of wind, before she began to exchange the sound of one language for another, discover you could do something other than write advertising copy or arrange pop singers’ itineraries.

I never got round to going with you.

Half a question.

But he was the one who had decided that. When the suggestion had come from her: What will you do there, standing in offices. And she had stayed behind and — he saw it — occupied herself in the meantime for which he was not responsible. He had done and was doing everything possible to get them out of this place. And every time something, someone, brought to his mind the offer of his Uncle, the trap that was set to snap on him by the family, his mother the beloved — his body swelled with the blood of accusation and rage, a distress that gave him an erection, and that with a confusion of shame and desire, using her, could only be assuaged in wild love-making which she took for something else, so little did she know, in her kind of existence, emotions of the kind of survival you have to fight for, in this place.

Photographs and documents were sufficient as a general practice for him to submit on behalf of an individual such as her, a wife with credentials enough to make her an acceptable immigrant anywhere. Desirable even; one with connections that mean money. But at a certain stage he didn’t explain — so much bureaucracy, in whose ways he is expert — consulates must see the applicant’s wife in person, verifying the photographs and asking questions already replied to over and over in documentation.

The visa sections of consulates and the offices of honorary consuls — the country is not considered important enough, by some countries, to have a more formal diplomatic mission— are a scene and dialogue repeated in each. The script does not change, she learnt now at first hand, after having known it only recounted by him when she would ask for news; the premises may be equipped to impress or intimidate with chairs in a waiting area, informative brochures, framed texts from national poets and politicians in some, at others only queues proceeding under gruff orders, but all have large portraits of the head of state, President or Royal, gazing down at the young men who replicate her own standing beside her, and women hung about with babies and children who look at her, and then away, as if it can’t be that she is there among them. At one of the consulates an official of some other Oriental origin, posted by a country of the West as perhaps likely to deal best with fellow Orientals, questions her with the regard of distaste: the way this glance compares her with the husband she has chosen shows that the choice, the world being the way it is, is inexplicable. Flanked by swags of the Stars and Stripes flag and a bronze eagle on a standard, a friendly black American official draws back from her papers with a laugh — You really from Africa?—

It was right to have spared her the tedium of all this. She had waited at the dentist’s or the doctor’s, but never before had she shuffled along in a queue in hope to gain a right— that had been the history of blacks in her country, but she’s white, Nigel Ackroyd Summers’ daughter, yes. And even when she took herself off to live in the doll’s house, the only queue she might stand in with the mates from The Table was to gain entry to a cinema. That’s it, for her; in the press of supplicant-applicants, she slid her hand behind her to take the hand of hers, among them. He whispered to her ear (his smile in the tone), That fellow, he thinks you should be black.

She saw how impossible it was to tell, from the manner of the petty official you didn’t get past to anyone more influential, whether your application had a chance or not; whether your credentials, your reasons for leaving your country, your justification for expecting to be received by the one you were applying to enter, were the ones likely to be received favourably — at least considered before the rubber stamp fell against you.

The doors of consulates closed on the queues, before noon prayers. When the morning was over there was the city she had wanted to explore, getting off the plane as if it had been one of those destinations of holiday anticipation. But what they both were in need of now was something to quench thirst and satisfy hunger. They walked and walked, the thickets of vehicles and collision with bodies, the ricochet of shouts, calls, vehemence of voices echoed from shop-fronts, buildings, strung through by the cries from mosques, close by and distant, like undersea calls of mythical creatures. In this assault that is a city, the confrontation she had faced when she got out of her car in another city, there are, of course, what are called amenities to enjoy that don’t exist in a village. If a McDonald’s is to be included in the category, they passed one. Then there was a restaurant that also looked as it might have done in any city, closed off from the frenzies of the streets, potted plant either side of a handsome carved door. He was in a good mood, Ibrahim, perhaps it was a comfort to have a companion for once, on his routine quest.