Monument Maker, page 15
25/4/1884
By night the house is silent. No wind penetrates the wooden shutters. Every footstep is swallowed by the sand. Occasionally there are voices, in the distance, inchoate. Still, I am unable to sleep. Was the night ever so bright? Khartoum seems caught in a perpetual day, a dark-blue blanket curves around us, and I have fitful dreams of the story of Moses, how he was wrapped in swaddling clothes and sent down the river.
I woke in the early hours and ventured out. The streets were deserted, though luminous, still. At the crossroads near the disembowelled statue I could make out the silhouette of two figures, one leading the other on some kind of rope. The one pulled the rope savagely, jerking and whipping it, when the one following fell behind. Still they moved in silence, two blurred figures connected by an umbilical, until they passed close by me and I was able to see that it was a blind man being led on a rope through the darkness of the city. The futility and unnecessary cruelty of it made me despair. I made my way towards the fortifications in the south. I passed solitary sleepers, pressed up against the walls of buildings, sometimes three or four bundled together in the same spot. I am walking through a graveyard, I told myself. Somewhere there was music playing, a lament, but not quite, a song that had everything to do with the future, but that came out of the past. There was something erotic about it and I felt the stirrings of my own manhood for the first time in weeks. I slid a hand beneath my robes as I remembered the shaved girls of my youth, their vaginas tough like beaten leather.
I approached the source of the music, the basement of a large abandoned building whose windows had been boarded up. There were no sounds of reverie, of drinking or shouting, even, just the turning of this strange music box that seemed to have sprung up from my dreams. I descended the stairs and pushed open the door. There was a large group of men, seated in a circle, with low candles lighting the gloom. In the centre of the circle there was a woman, a middle-aged woman, not beautiful but not unattractive, who was dancing slowly, rotating on the spot and angling her arms like branches, like a tree growing over centuries and decades, twisting this way and that, suddenly, but without surprise. I took a seat at one of the tables. No one looked at me or acknowledged my entrance except for a small boy who offered me a bottle and asked me for payment. I put my hand in my pouch and came up with some buttons, a few trinkets, a small pendant. He sat the bottle down and wiped a glass clean. I watched as the woman turned slowly in front of us. I noticed the moles on her face, her dark skin and darker hair. I felt as if I could see the very sockets of her skull, the eyeballs sunk inside them like pebbles in a shallow tide, rotating, slowly. I took a drink. I felt it illuminate my insides. I longed for the connection that I had missed for so long, the channel to the belly of a woman. Now everything was spinning. How did we get here?
1/5/1884
There are fires burning across the rooftops of Khartoum, sometimes three to one roof. No one knows who started it, but the rumour is that it was commanded by Gordon. I saw people smashing wooden doors to splinters and carrying huge planks over their shoulders. I climbed to the roof of an abandoned building, where I found the mutilated body of a dog and bloodied footprints leading away, as if it had been trampled to death in a rage and its corpse left, still smouldering, in the sun. Only a few weeks ago I would have fled such a place but today I crouched over it and picked through the entrails with a stick, unfolding viscera and spearing punctured organs. I wondered whether the footprint in its guts wasn’t the writing of Khartoum in its flesh. Afterwards I sat on the edge of the roof and watched the fires as a southerly wind blew through the city and drew the flames into a cone of black smoke that seemed to form a tunnel, a northern passage, and I imagined a great company of warships billowing through it, lowering ropes onto the rooftops and saving us all. The fires are a bluff, I hear, a show of arms to test the resolve of the Mahdi and his troops and to exaggerate the numbers still present in Khartoum. I looked to the west and to the north, across the Nile, but saw no fires in response, no thin chimneys of smoke rising like ladders to the stars. We have the advantage, I told myself. Besides, relief is close at hand. Rumours of a rescue mission from England have reached the city.
I thought of my own father, of the travels he had made as a young man. Where were those travels now? What footprint on his insides? Though I knew truly that his insides had long ago been hollowed out and that I myself was an echo only, a solitary memorial, to his own being in time. To remember, the scholars teach us, is to reattach the limbs to a god whose body lies scattered to the wind. Wasn’t there a deity spoken of in Egypt whose task was to search out the severed phallus of the beloved? I sat on the edge of the roof and looked out at the fires and considered these things. I watched for a reply in the distance, any sign of defiance.
Nothing came of it, and I retired to my quarters after several hours.
3/5/1884
I saw Gordon again and this time not in a dream or a vision or as the result of grotesque mental straining. At my approach he beckoned me towards him and, taking my arm, led me through several checkpoints, to the inner courtyard of the palace at Khartoum. You are a bibliophile? he asked me. I admit I was taken aback by the question. I am a scholar, I replied, and a sincere student of the word. Very good, Gordon said. We passed through a garden that was covered by high netting and about which flitted many exotic birds that made rude senseless cries. Birds of paradise, Gordon replied, in answer to my unspoken query. He led me into a tall minaret-like structure in the corner of the garden where we climbed a claustrophobic staircase. We came to a small circular room that was shelved on all sides and carpeted in deep, luxuriant red with a small iron bath set directly in the centre. Here we are, he said, the belly of the beast. I have come upon a singular collection of books, he explained. And I would like your professional opinion on them. The subjects of the collection seem somewhat arbitrary, puzzlingly so. But I fear there is some logic to it, some sense or seed that will serve to unlock their purpose. What do you think of African literature? he asked me. What I have read is insular, myopic, characterised by huge swathes of lexical desert, I replied. What of Arabic literature? Sensual, mystical, but without a political dimension. And what of the Egyptians? Ah, I said, there you have me, for I am a great lover of the Egyptians. There you will be disappointed, he told me. For this collection is no Egyptian treasure. Rather, it is concerned with the obscure, the humdrum. In it you will find no channel to the afterworld, not even a boat from east to west. There are books on bonefires, he told me. On famous fires and ceremonial pyres and on notorious burnings. What of the fires in Khartoum? I asked him. I ordered them, he said, it is true. But I took my instructions from a book, at which he handed me a small custom-bound volume entitled The Bonefires of the Monk Lands. The burning of the summer fields goes back a long way, he said, and he nodded slowly and took a seat in the east of the tower. What else have these books instructed? I asked him. There is a collection of books whose subject is Saturdays, he said. Neither of us said anything. How can there be books on Saturdays?
There are books on Saturdays, he said, and he nodded to himself, as in disbelief at the surfeit of wonders in this world. Are there books on other days? I quizzed him. Not in this collection, but from my researches it appears that, yes, there are books written on every day of the week. There is a lore of days, he said, and he held his head in his hand and despaired.
4/5/1884
Fonte took me to the house of the Yezidis. They have moved house four or five times already, he told me. Locating them has become a chore. They claim that they haven’t moved at all, rather that it is the city of Khartoum itself that is on the move, the buildings walking by night and recombining by day. They insist that they have uncovered the location of their original domicile on its peregrinations across the city. How come it looks completely different every time? I asked him. How come I can still find my own way home? Are you sure? he replied, and he looked at me as if he had already crossed over himself. When we arrived at the house, this time a tall, thin building perched between a stable and a narrow river filled with excrement and debris, Randar and Fitchin were on guard outside, peeling something rancid with a knife and passing it between them. I had my first good look at them in daylight, brutes with blunt noses and long matted hair, like from an old photograph of Russia, blind faces in a nameless horde. Ah, Randar said, rising and mock-bowing, he deigns us with his presence, the little prince! I hear your home ran away in the night, I spat at him. I can’t say I blame it.
Inside there were Yezidis spread out across piles of old sacks, some snoring, some smoking, some huddled in secret groupings. We approached Omar, who was stabbing a large fruit with a knife and attempting to drink from it. Khartoum is running low on women, he said, without looking round, and I have only so much debauch left in me. I met with Gordon, I informed him, even now he is searching for oracles. He has discovered a library, I told him, wherein he believes there are instructions regarding the future. He goes by the book? Omar exclaimed. These Englishmen are wholly lacking in inspiration. However, that will be to our advantage. What is the subject of these books he is consulting? Ritual, I informed him, and the observance of days. Are you aware that Khartoum is on the move? Omar asked me. Sir, I said, I believe it may be the brain in the cavity of your skull that has come loose. Ha, he laughed, you lack imagination yourself, sir. I may have travelled far from my country, he said, but mine is not an exile. Nevertheless, I said, gesturing around the room. I see that your home neglected to bring any of your belongings along with it. Belongings, he laughed, that is why you remain stationary while we flit in and out of life. Fonte intervened. Enough of this double-talk, he said. What is our plan? If he desires to read the future in a book, Omar said, then surely, we shall write it for him.
5/5/1884
I was never a portly individual, but now my clothes billow around me like rainclouds, borne by the weight of cares and my distance from all that I love and that would take care of me. This afternoon I kneeled over a small pool of water in the street and felt like I was looking up, to a past that was somewhere above and beyond me, even as my own reflection gazed back in horror. My cheeks are sunken, my lips swollen and bruised, my eyes forced open in my head by all that is happening around me. But though my eyes protest, there is something in my spirit that bears me on, even as my eyes say, no, not that way. Nights in Khartoum are freezing, afternoons unbearably hot. Today I killed a snake in the street, a puff adder that raised itself up almost two feet from the ground to attack me, hidden as it was beneath a fossilised tree, its sacs of poison running to six inches on either side of its head. I sliced it in two with my sword but still it raced towards me, its two halves competing to encircle me, working in tandem even as it was sundered and making an infinity of shapes in the dust. In the end I saw its tail half turn and squirm down a tiny hole in the sand as if it were still alive. A passing stranger with tattoos around his mouth told me that I should have captured the bottom half and burned it on a fire in case it reunited with the head and resumed its pursuit, at which point I pounded the head to a pulp with a stone and then fell sick and collapsed on the ground. Later I woke to the sound of drum troupes in the street. Groups of men wearing loincloths made of bark were marching in the distance, some with small handheld rattles, others with large drum skins strapped to their waists.
Dancers led the pack, dancers with dried fruits tied to their legs. The tattooed man returned and told me these were the Lotus Eaters, a legendary travelling band who were part missionary and part Gypsy bandit. I asked him how they had come to be in Khartoum. They lay in wait, he said, at which I saw Gordon take a book from the shelf and replace it with another.
6/5/1884
There is no grief in Khartoum, no fellow feeling. There is much carnival at death, much preparation for passing, but the soul of Africa is inured to suffering. Khartoum is the eternal present of Africa. Cairo is its past. Its future lies in a small fortified island untouched by outside influence, hard by a stream.
7/5/1884
We made our plans. We made our plans. Who are we?
We were made by our plans. We modelled ourselves on possibility. We made. Volition no longer exists in Khartoum. To escape history is to refuse to stand for the count.
8/5/1884
Among the Lotus Eaters there are many players with deformities. There have been performances in the central square every evening since they arrived, no one knows from where. They play double-reed shehnais and beat their drums while the dancers move in grotesque formation. The dancers look reptilian, with flat, protruding mouths and faces of implacable damage, moonlike eyes, one with skin grown over an eye completely and legs tied together so that it resembled an upright fish dancing on dry land. They came from the marshes, someone said. The Mahdi’s creatures, said another. Even the Yezidis have been drawn out by their dance.
9/5/1884
Tonight we made our move. I met Gordon in the shadow of the perimeter. I have brought someone with me capable of reading the books, I told him, and I introduced him to Ecco Omar. At first neither of them said anything. Then Gordon asked him where he had come from. Omar repeated the same story that he had told me, that he and his men had forsaken Eden in order to return with the head of the Mahdi and fructify the garden. You believe that the Garden of Eden lies on the face of the earth? Gordon asked him. It is written in the book, Omar replied. There are many books, Gordon said, and he shook his head, many, many books. There is one book, Omar countered, and that book contains all books. What do the books contain that are contained in the book? Gordon quizzed him. Books, of course, Omar replied. So what end to books? There is one book, Omar insisted, the beginning and the end. But books within books, Gordon pushed him, what sense is there in this? A book, Omar said, is an opening, one that opens onto other books. Just as the earth is a parchment encircling a hollow centre, Gordon nodded. You believe the earth to be hollow? Omar asked him. Certainly, he said. For what purpose? There is no purpose to emptiness, Gordon replied, at which he led us through the courtyard past the wild birds and high into the book tower. There are books on music, Gordon explained to us. I had not come across them before, books of notation. He passed one to Omar. I have seen these signs before, Omar nodded. Where, man? Gordon demanded. In my youth, he said. In your youth in Eden, Gordon mocked, what are you, Moses himself? Moses brought down the tablets, Omar said. Look, he said, pointing to a sign in the books that appeared as a circle with a dot inside it. There it is: an eye. Look into it, he said, and he held the book to Gordon’s face. Look into the eye.
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You are mocking me, Gordon responded, pushing the book to one side. One character is incapable of elucidating an entire text. You know nothing. This is no more an eye than it marks the centre of the world. I fear you are onto something there, Omar nodded. Don’t pander to me, Gordon burst. Sir, Omar replied, if I were to explain to you the beginnings of time and the motivation of the creator, we would still be stuck with these symbols, these sounds and signs, black space over white space. But there is truly only one book and this character, which I have chosen to bring to your attention, is, as you can plainly see, written inside a book which, in its turn, resides inside the great book itself. Herein, sir, there lies a great mystery. This is the passage you have been looking for, Omar insisted, though without wishing you to dispense with my services altogether, you could have picked any figure and read into it the shape of the future and the confluence of the past. But I have cast the die myself, my friend, and read your fate in an open letter.
I could have handed you any book? Gordon burst. But you did, Omar nodded. Here, Gordon said, and he grabbed a random book from the shelf, now all is changed, read me my fate again. Omar opened the book at random. Here, he said, this word makes a sound. What is the sound, man? Gordon burst. Tell me! It is an empty sound, he replied, a sound that is hidden in the throat. Then unveil it, Gordon demanded. In time, Omar said, in time. There will be much music, he said, in the roaring of the blood that will attend the beheading of the Mahdi.
12/5/1884
A boat has been spotted making its way towards Khartoum. We watched with Gordon from the roof of the palace, passing the telescope between us. It looks like nothing I have previously encountered, a one-man vessel perhaps, driven by some kind of propulsive device. There is no sign of human life aboard and it attracts no fire from the hordes massed on both sides of the Nile. Yet it makes its way steadily towards us. It is no English vessel, Gordon maintains. He insists that he has made no request for relief from the British government. The Yezidis have been ordered to intercept it and to bring its occupants to the palace with minimum fuss and under cover of darkness.
13/5/1884
Fonte and I accompanied the Yezidis to a promontory north of the city, where we awaited the arrival of the vessel. Word had passed around and there were already crowds gathered along the shore, but they were soon dispersed by Randar and Fitchin, who led the Yezidis into their midst, where they brandished their swords and hacked at civilians without care for injury or distress. There was much blood and protest but soon the crowd was beaten back behind a row of tall trees, where they were held at bay. The boat appeared on the horizon as a silent flash and floated towards us; a coffin fallen from the distant stars. This is no earthly ship, Fonte said. Hell itself has given up its inhabitants. The Yezidis held up flags and the vessel turned towards us, slowly, as a sleepwalker, coming to a halt in the shallows of the Nile before us. The hull was scorched and blackened, its windows cracked and opaque, as if it had passed through great heat and become fused, somehow. Still it sat there, bobbing on the tide, this terrible singularity. Omar led two Yezidis, their swords drawn, into the water. The rest of the men raised their rifles along the shore. I saw Omar slither into the boat, his feet raised in the air as he clambered head first into the small cabin. He emerged seconds later, had words with his men, and the three of them forced the boat to the shore. There is a body inside, Omar said, the likes of which I have never seen before.
