Mortals

chose to and could afford it and many of the overprivileged did.

“Thus the famous bond begins, which you know more about than I do, since you have it in front of you. Suddenly, Africa interests our man greatly. In six months it was bon voyage and over to you.

“That’s about all I have, my boy. But I want to say something. You get these guys pretty rarely. He goes to extremes. He does that. But don’t look only at that. What I want to say is… the man is real. You know the Quakers during the war who wouldn’t cooperate with selective service? They called themselves absolutists. He’s like that…”

Marion had injured him. Ray hated the idea that Marion was implying a distinction between the two of them, Ray and Marion, what they were, and Morel, of the kind that he seemed to be implying. I know what I am, he thought.

“As a historical type he reminds me of Tommaso Campanella, although he probably won’t spend twenty- seven years in prison, although that might be what would make him happiest, you never know with these guys. Anyway, he was a relentless, amazing man.”

It was time to hang up. Using the word prison had been a departure from the level of prudence established from the beginning. He didn’t like it. Marion was liable to very… what, very flowing presentations.

“The key to the man is his mother, poor woman. I would say. She died of what the Romans called inedia. She ate less and less and then stopped eating altogether. For a long time, she concealed what she was up to and kept working at this place I mentioned. She was an extremist, in her way. She came from a famous antislavery family, abolitionist, people always on the right side of the issue when the Quakers were temporizing, some of them. It seems she conceived a horror of the world, or something. Imagine that. Her friend says she died of her disillusionment. She never asked for custody. She was in bad shape after the breakup. I saw the medical records. She was very petite, a very fine person. Very active person in the civil rights movement before she married and for a while after. His aunt had possession of his mother’s ashes and he went to some trouble to get a portion of them to take along to Africa.

“So, my boy, now you have him. Leaving us was no gesture. He has nothing here, no property, not a dime in the bank. He sold all his stocks. He’s not a tourist.”

That seemed to be all.

“Goodnight, my boy. Be good.”

“I will,” Ray said. He turned swiftly to the task of packing up.

He hadn’t thanked his friend. What was wrong with him, not to have clicked?

“Goodnight. Thank you,” he said to the device now cooling in his hands.

18. The Piggery Had Its Uses

It had taken a certain amount of art to get Ponatsego Mazumo properly disposed toward the mission Ray had for him. Money alone might have done it, of course, but that would have changed the relationship between them forever, and Pony was a fixture at the school and someone he had to work smoothly with for as far into the night as he could see. How much Pony believed of the rationale for Ray’s proposed operation was beside the point. What was important was that they both have an unsordid rationale they could coexist in respectably with one another. Rationale was a subheading in the Acquiring Assets segment of the agency training program he’d gone through. He’d done well in Rationale, but then he’d done well in most subjects, not excluding Flaps and Seals, which was boring.

Pony was in a considering state, still, gazing up into the thatch. It was nearly dusk. They were seated across from one another at the conference table in Ray’s office. Pony was pursing and unpursing his lips. Ray had the feeling Pony was enjoying being there and might be prolonging things just for that reason. Not very many of Ray’s colleagues had been invited to visit Ray’s office. There was almost a deal. But Pony was obviously savoring the ambience. No place smelled better than Ray’s office. It was furniture polish, books, thatch, the pipe tobacco in the humidor whose lid he left cocked for a few minutes from time to time to remind him of the pleasures of the vice he had overcome.

The deal would come. Cash hunger was overwhelming in this part of the world, or rather cattle hunger was, which was what the cash was for. The Scandinavians wanted there to be a cooperative movement in the worst way… hypermarkets, sorghum mills, garages. In theory it was a good idea, an excellent way to get prices down for the marginal farmers who were at the mercy of the transplanted Boer businessmen. But the movement was perpetually collapsing because petty cash was always disappearing and these were not undertakings that could run without a petty cash system. So the Danes and the Swedes were endlessly topping up the co-op cashboxes and finding themselves reluctantly having to bring charges against various pillars of the community, the big cattlemen who had joined the cooperatives precisely because there was sure to be loose money around, cash, the pula they could use to sustain their herds during the drought. Cattle ownership equaled manhood. It went deep. People would rather let their cattle die during drought times than sell them while they still could to the abattoir. It was subtle. Selling the cattle diminished the numbers in a way that letting the buggers die naturally did not, somehow. It was important to be known in perpetuity as having been the owner of a herd of maximum size. This was the famous insoluble offtake problem they kept complaining about over at AID. Pony’s cattle post was at Pandamatenga, north of Francistown, far from Gaborone. Ray didn’t know how many beasts Pony had. It was impermissible in the culture to ask that question, but Batswana seemed always to know that about each other, somehow. It was occult. Apparently anything could be a fundamental object of desire to somebody… yams, pigs, beadwork, extra wives, real estate, gold, shoes.

Pony was twenty-five. He was slim, very dark-skinned, with good presence and good English. He was a definite blade. He was unhappy working for the bursar as a clerk, or as he described it, as a scribe. He dressed above his means. The cream-colored safari kit he was wearing today was pricier than anything Ray owned. It was tightly cut, according to the mode. The breast pocket of Pony’s shirt jacket bore a monogram so lavishly worked that it stood up off the cloth like a brooch. Pony was guarded, like most Bakalanga. He was a defiant Kalanga, keeping the nail of the little finger of his right hand long, out two inches or so, and filed to a point, for use as a nosepick, was the story. Ray had never really seen it employed in that way. The Kalanga had a right to be guarded, since they not unreasonably saw themselves as a minority tribe not popular with the majority Bangwaketse and their allies, as scapegoats-in-waiting should something go seriously wrong in Botswana, especially something wrong in Botswana’s intermittently tense relations with Zimbabwe, where the other three-quarters of the Bakalanga lived uneasily in a condition of similar underappreciation by the Shona and the Ndebele who ran the show there. In Botswana, the Kalanga were denied the use of their language in the schools, which rankled. They were a nation, in fact, or a micronation.

For some time, he and Pony had been what he would call attuned to one another. They had gotten into conversation in the school library and Pony had remarked that Kyle Innis, the head of the maths department, was violently of the opinion that the collapse of Russia had been the result of a conspiracy among the capitalist powers to destroy the great homeland of socialism before the Russians had a chance to integrate computers into the running of the collective system, which had been all that was lacking to make the planned economy fully competitive with capitalism. This conspiracy had involved the Poles and the Pope. What was interesting to Ray was that Innis’s Marxism had always been, up until then, totally crypto. It had been the debacle of the Soviet system that had brought it out, obviously. Ray thought there were probably others like Innis, keeping quiet and waiting for Mother Russia to ripen into true socialism someday soon and then getting the message, Drinks, gentlemen! and the pub was closing for good. Pony had asked Innis if by socialism he meant communism, which had made Innis glare at him before answering Of course.

Ray decided that they should go for a stroll, to wrap this up. Pony was agreeable.

Outside, Ray steered them in a direction that would take them away from the frequented parts of the campus and toward a feature of the place that could always be expected to be clear of humanity of any kind, the piggery. The stench of the facility, which was being incompetently managed, guaranteed privacy. They kept hiring and losing people who claimed to be competent as pigherds, or whatever the correct job title was. The wire-fence enclosure containing the two remaining pigs, sows, was in need of replacement, although in their present state of