John Berger: Lilac and Flag

I’ll explain to you how I see things, said Sucus, and your life will never be the same again. Everyone needs something, yes? Everyone needs some little thing to make them a bit happier or a bit less sad. They don’t talk about it. Usually they can’t get it themselves. To discover somebody’s real need, even a little one, requires talent.

I know what you’ve got tattooed on your biceps — three testicles!

Okay. Listen. When you’ve discovered the little need of twenty people, and when you know where to go to fetch them satisfaction, then you’ve got a living. Because however poor they are, they pay. If not in money, then in something. They come to depend on you. You’ve got to keep it secret, absolutely secret. If you start talking, another supplier will be there one day before you. And besides, people are ashamed of their needs.

And what do you supply?

Anything. Listen, out in Chicago the water’s turned off every night, right? Most people leave for work before it’s turned on. A friend of mine goes round to a hundred flats at midday flushing toilets full of morning shit. And in each flat they’ve left something for him on the kitchen table.

He could snitch whatever he wanted.

No, he couldn’t. One, he’s blind. And two, everyone knows where to find him. He lives on the estate.

What do you supply? Besides coffee.

I’m looking. Everyone needs something.

Everyone needs everything, Flag.

From behind a hedge of rhododendra they heard laughing. Along the edge of the road, beside each metal gate, the electronic bell and digital control panels were already lit up like spaceship candles.

You see those roses? asked Sucus.

They’re Snow Queens.

I’ll lift you up.

Ouch! You’re hurting.

I’ll kneel, said Sucus.

Give me a hand for my foot.

Hold on to my head.

She sat on his shoulders and he straighted his back. Then he held on to her heels, which were as warm as sand the sun had shone on all day.

Watch the thorns!

I’ve got two!

With the roses pinned to her T-shirt, they walked farther down the hill towards the sea. It was well and truly night. From the air Troy would have looked like jewelry laid out on black velvet.

When did you last eat? he asked.

You mean the Arctic Glory!

A meal, not an ice cream!

I got up late this morning. There was no special reason for getting up. I thought of washing my hair, then I remembered Mother had used the last of the shampoo. I had to visit Uncle but visits to that place are at four o’clock exact. I didn’t get out of bed till midday. When I got up I made myself a croque monsieur.

She was holding his hand as they walked and she brought it to her mouth with her two missing teeth and pretended to bite it.

A croque monsieur, she said laughing. And you?

Yesterday.

You must be starving!

I’ll tell you what I’d like to eat, said Sucus. I’d like to eat a plate of calamari to start with. Calamari, fried in fresh oil with parsley. Then I’ll take a steak because I haven’t seen a steak since Easter. No, I’ll tell you what I really like. It’s goose. I only ate it once in my life — at a wedding.

One day I’ll make you my dish of brown beans, said Zsuzsa, I learnt it from my grandmother. I cook the beans all night very slowly, very slowly. And when they’re cool in the morning I add crushed garlic and lemon juice and salt them and oil them and I pepper them and I give them to you with hardboiled eggs which I’ve cooked all night too, with onion skins and with oil on the water so it doesn’t turn into steam.

What’s it called, this night dish of yours?

Flag’s ful medames.

They were at the bottom of the Escorial hill, at the point where the army barracks hid the sea from the road.

How much cash have you got?

Two thousand, and you?

Your coffee money, she said, that’s all.

Under the next street light several cars were parked. Sucus tried their doors; they were all locked. It was then, as they went on walking, that an idea came to Zsuzsa. If they continued for a mile, they’d reach the docks. She knew the café where Rico hung out. She had been there a few times with her uncle. She’d deliver the message. Fetch the truck. No. The truck’s ready. If Rico, the man with ears like empty saddlebags, started in on his usual tricks, she knew how to get round him tonight. She’d make happen what she wanted to happen. Tonight she wanted to make food for Flag.

No! she said out loud.

She didn’t want to make food for Flag, what she wanted was to be food for Flag. She wanted calamari and oil and parsley to come out of her body. She might get a goose out of it too. A goose like her grandmother’s. A bird who gave white feathers for a pillow and brown flesh when cooked. She’d give Flag the tenderest morsel, the breast — where he was fingering her now through her T-shirt.

The road followed the railway lines that went to the Customs House, a building as large as twenty barns. On the other side of a wire grill were parked several jeeps with soldiers in them.

Give me an hour? said Zsuzsa.

What do you mean?

I have to go to a café over there. You wait here, and I’ll be back in an hour.

I can’t see any café. I’ll come with you.

It wouldn’t work with you.

Then do it tomorrow.

I want to do it now.

And I wait here like a post?

Lie on the grass. She nodded at a waste lot on the other side of the road. I’ll be back in an hour.

If you’re not, you won’t find me.

I promise. Here, keep the drawing for me. I’m going to give it to my children. And let me tell you something you don’t know yet, Flag. If Zsuzsa makes a promise, you can depend on it.

She walked away towards the quayside which started after the customs compound. Sucus crossed the road and clambered up a bank. From the top he could see distant white arc lights where they were loading a ship. It was very quiet. He could hear the soldiers across the road talking. He lay down on the grass and looked up at the stars.

In the sky he saw a boat. The varnished white wood of her deck glowed, the colour of resin and honey, and the boards fitted so tightly together, there was only a hairline between them. The ship’s deck was the flat stomach of the woman he’d met outside St. Joseph’s and the bowsprit was her crossed ankles.

If you are asking how an old woman like me can know what Sucus dreamt about, remember that dreams are among the oldest things in the world.

Would you be so kind as to help me move a tree off my roof? said a man’s voice in Sucus’s ear.

He woke up and opened his eyes: there was nobody to be seen.

It fell during the storm last night.

Sucus twisted onto his side and saw the talking head of a man in his fifties, going bald, with deep lines across his forehead. The head was in the grass. In front of it, like a lying dog’s paws, were a pair of arms. Each elbow was wearing a sort of sandal.

I fear, said the head, that if the wind gets up again, a branch may break a window. If you would care to accompany me?

The speaker had no legs and he advanced by moving his elbows. With each elbow step, his shoulders dragged his body over the grass.

The waste lot ended against a high wall and under this wall stood a large Cadillac without wheels. Its doors were open and, inside, two candles were burning.

On the car roof was a plum tree which had fallen from a terraced garden above.

My problem, said the man, is I can’t reach it. I can see it’s a plum tree. The wood by daylight is the colour of meat dried by winter wind, so it must be plum. It’s gone rotten, it’s been eaten, a neglected tree. My problem is, I can’t reach it, and even if I got myself onto the hood, I wouldn’t have the leverage to pull it off. That’s why when I saw you in the grass, so young and strong, I told myself I would take the liberty …