May We Be Forgiven Part 70

"Thank you. Lala kahle," he says. "Sleep well."

Our beds are like pallets, a very thin mattress, and piles of blankets that smell like sweat and dirt; it is not unpleasant-it is musky, human, real. The mats have been draped with hotel sheets that have been borrowed (or stolen), as though someone told them that Americans need ironed sheets and fluffy fresh towels in order to feel comfortable. On top of our beds are rolls of toilet paper with fancy stickers on the ends. I have no idea what time or day it is-all I know is that tomorrow will come soon. The children are almost instantly asleep.

Just after sunrise, I smell coffee. I dress and go outside; on an open stove, three women are making eggs and pancakes-per Sofia's directions. Ricardo and Ashley eat the traditional porridge, and I have the anchovy paste on toast as well as everything else. There is also marmalade and tea, which Ashley declares the best ever. The village children taste the pancakes and maple syrup and call the syrup "good medicine."

Around the village, decorations are being put up, streamers in blue and white. At about eleven-thirty, we come back to our rooms to get dressed. I packed dress-up clothing, which now seems ridiculous, like putting on a costume, but because Ricardo and Ashley want to, we do. Nate thinks we're being weird and wears jeans and a green-and-yellow Bafana Bafana T-shirt Sakhile has given him.

We go to the center of the village, where there is a large circular open s.p.a.ce. The village children open with a traditional Zulu song, which I think says something like "Here come our mothers, bringing us presents...." Then the men of the village surround Nate, wearing whatever they have, bits and pieces of "traditional" Zulu gear-I'm no longer sure what is traditional and what are tourist props. They dance in an energetic circle around Nate, their song a call and response between Sakhile, the village men, and Nate-gathering momentum and ending suddenly with a loud shout.

Sakhile turns the podium over to me. I introduce myself and begin to talk about Nate and tell the story of when Nate was born, how proud his father was-he saw the child as an extension of himself-and that I then also saw Nate as an extension of my brother and brought to my relationship with this young boy all the complications of my relationship with my brother. I go on to say that it wasn't until this grievous family tragedy that I began to see Nate as a person in his own right. "Nate has pushed me to be a better version of myself, to expect more-to rise to an occasion and not run from it or sink beneath it," I say. "The circ.u.mstances of his life were not of his choice, but when I see Nate, and Ashley and Ricardo, I am impressed with their resiliency. What I have learned this year is that the job of parent is to help the child become the person he or she already is. I am not just Nate's uncle, I am his biggest fan, and I thank him for bringing me to you." And then, as though I'm introducing a performer, I say, "Ladies and gentlemen-Nathaniel Silver."

"Today I celebrate my bar mitzvah, which in the Jewish religion happens on your thirteenth birthday and marks the time when a boy officially becomes a man. I celebrate in the absence of my mother and father. I feel lucky to have survived.

"I have often thought of you and this village since my visit two years ago. I have thought of hardships of economy, race, and illness and become aware of how privileged my life is. When things got difficult for me, I thought of you and felt an obligation to survive, not just for myself, but for others. And it is what you taught me two years ago that kept me alive. For this I come back and say thank you-you have given me my life."

While Nate is still talking, Ricardo leans over and tells me that when he's thirteen he wants to come back to this place for his bar mitzvah, and that he also needs to get his p.e.n.i.s "fixed."

"I think it's better to just be the way you are," I say, trying to stay focused on Nate.

"How come you and Nate get to have a better p.e.n.i.s than me?"

"Ricardo, I hear what you're saying, and I promise you it's something we can talk about when we get home, but it's not something we're going to deal with in South Africa. And there is no such thing as a better p.e.n.i.s.... Have you noticed that the boys in South Africa have the same kind of p.e.n.i.s as you?" I say, directing his attention back to Nate.

"Yeah," he says, "poor boys have bad p.e.n.i.s," he mutters. "I want to have a rich man's c.o.c.k." He looks down at his lap.

I am devastated by his reading of the situation and his use of the word "c.o.c.k."

Nate concludes by reading a poem he wrote at school, and everyone applauds.

Sakhile takes the stage. "Nate and the family of Nate-you come to us to celebrate this rite of pa.s.sage to go from boy to man-but also from friends and relatives to being a family. Your belief in our village reminded us to believe in ourselves and demanded that we do more for ourselves-that we work harder. That hard work made us stronger-we had gotten soft and we were sad and sorry for ourselves, we had seen many hard things. You came like fresh air that says, Think outside of yourself, think forward, and I am so happy now, and we are not alone-we have a big world. And our friendship showed me that black and white can come together, can be true friends. We lived a long time carrying a great weight, and it will take a long time to feel our lightness. Someone once told me there are people you do not know-strangers-who care very much about you. I did not understand what that could mean until now. I wanted to thank you." He pauses. "Your father's friend Sofia and I talked a long time about traditions. And for this bar-mitzvah day we decided to do something very American-a celebration of independence. So for lunch we will have a giant barbecue of hamburgers and hot dogs."

"An all-you-can-eat buffet," Ricardo says, "and it's free...."

I see the village women scurrying around to indulge our very American fantasy and worry that it's wrong, and at the same time it's clear how much they are loving it, how much the images of American culture have become part of their dream. Sofia has thought of everything: ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, dill pickles, helium balloons.

During lunch Nate asks me, "Does my father know we're here?"

"I don't think so," I say. "Do you want him to know?"

Nate shrugs and takes another hot dog.

As lunch is winding down, the village children vanish-I a.s.sume gone off to play, but they return wearing the blue-and-white soccer jerseys and carrying in the cake. They sing "Happy Birthday" and joyously add the verse "You look like a monkey and you live in a zoo," and they think it is so funny.

Nate cuts the cake. He leans over and says, "I always thought you were an a.s.shole, just another one of them, someone who couldn't do anything, who couldn't be trusted. Now you're like a real person-it's cool."

Everyone is wearing a Nate shirt, everyone is playing soccer, even the old women. While the game is on, Sakhile says to me, "There is someone I want you to meet this afternoon, someone special to me, Londisizwe, the inyanga-medicine man-he is like my brother."

"What does he do?"

"A little of everything. He gives me powder for my feet to stop the itching. I am allergic to dirt-can you imagine the joke of that, living here and allergic to dirt?" Sakhile laughs and raises his pants to show me that he is wearing shoes and socks-tall white crew socks.

Londisizwe arrives during the soccer game; he looks older than Sakhile. He introduces himself. "I want to thank you for the supplies. Many of the things you brought are for my medicine bag. We are just enough in the twenty-first century that people believe everything can be fixed-I am no longer a medicine man, I am like a repairman, Mr. Maytag."

I laugh.

"It's not really so funny when you think about it," he says.

I nod. We watch the soccer game.

"You have a beautiful family."

"Thank you," I say.

Ashley runs over-she needs my help in putting her hair up. I introduce her to Londisizwe, and she shakes his hand.

"Are you enjoying your trip?" he asks.

"It's amazing," she says.

"I'm so glad," Londisizwe says, holding on to Ashley's hand.

"What has been your favorite part?"

She pauses. "I liked lighting the candles on Friday night, and then when everyone sang 'Wimoweh.'"

"All good things," he says, nodding. Londisizwe lets go of her hand; she runs back into the game.

"She has been sad a long time," the medicine man says.

"She's okay," I say.

Londisizwe looks at me as though I am refusing to hear him. "Does she do well at school?"

"It's complicated," I say.

"She is afraid, she worries what will happen to her. And the heavy boy..."

"Ricardo," I say.

"Ricardo needs to be trained. He is overflowing with energy, which he controls by eating heavy foods to slow down. He should do karate or swordfighting until he becomes himself."

"How do you know all that?"

"Some things you can see just by looking," he says.

"Tell me more."

"Nate needs to go more gently. He uses anger to push himself forward, but at some point he will collapse, he needs to find a food more nourishing than anger."

I nod, thinking this guy really does know something. And then he turns his eyes on me. He asks me to stick out my tongue, he sniffs my breath-which I imagine smells like hot dog and mustard. He nods, as if thinking about how best to say what he has seen.

"You almost died," Londisizwe says. "You may feel okay right now, but you are not okay inside. You are holding something foul-it needs to come out, and you are afraid to let it go. It is something from long ago; you have kept it like a companion so you don't feel so alone, but now you have a family, and in order to be healthy, it needs to come out."

I nod, knowing that he is right. My ability to describe my experience is limited, with the nuances unarticulated. How does anyone explain himself? It's as though all I can do is grunt and hope that, from the intonation, you might understand. I could blame the stroke, but I would be lying. How can I tell anyone that there has always lived within me a rusty sense of disgust-a dull, brackish water that I suspect is my soul?

"What is it that needs to come out?" I ask Londisizwe.

"That is my question to you," he says. "It is something that has kept you from life. I would like to give you something to clear out the old. We will start with a tea-it will give you strong dreams and wind, but you must continue with it for four days. You will feel much worse before you feel better."

The idea of feeling much worse before feeling better doesn't exactly make me jump up and down and say, Let's start now. "What do you mean by wind?" I ask.

"Clouds of smoke from your stomach," Londisizwe says. "But no matter how you feel you must keep drinking it until the smoke stops, and then you will feel notably lighter of spirit. We will start now," he says. "I will make the tea." Londisizwe leaves.

I focus on the soccer game.

Twenty minutes later, Londisizwe returns with a large mug. I drink the tea, which tastes earthy, heavy, like boiled peat moss and mushrooms. "What is it made of?" I ask, in part to stall for time between sips.

"I cannot tell you," Londisizwe says. "Because if I told you I would have to kill you." He smiles. I see that he has only four teeth in his mouth-the front four, and there are gaping holes on either side. He laughs. "Just kidding," he says.

Forty-five minutes later, I am overcome with exhaustion. I have no choice but to lie down; I am not sure if it is the tea or the fact that the bar mitzvah is over, but it feels like a lifetime of exhaustion, like something is draining out of me. I go back to the room and sleep for hours. My dreams are uncomfortable, vivid, in incredible color-as if supersaturated. They are so intense that while I am having them I'm sure I will never forget them. And then I wake, like I'm drunk, and I remember nothing-well, almost nothing. There are strange fragments: Like, I am at a meeting with a group of men; we are sitting in an office and as they are talking I realize that it is the 1960s and I am in a suite and the men who are talking are Nixon's men and I am working for Nixon, and the men all turn and look at me, waiting expectantly for something. And then there is one with my father dancing around the house in his undershorts and wearing my mother's bra while my mother chases after him, hitting him again and again with a dish towel saying, "Just fix the air conditioner."

I get up and stagger out to find the children. I have no idea how long I've been sleeping and am now having a paranoid anxiety attack-thinking they drugged me so they could take the children.

I find everyone not far from where I left them: Nate on a ladder, working with the villagers to fix a water heater; Ricardo playing with a group of boys; Ashley helping to cook dinner. It is about as wholesome and bucolic as you can imagine.

"You're sweating," Ashley says, and it is then that I see I am drenched in sweat, that during my nap I have soaked through my clothing.

I nod and retreat without saying anything. I return to the school, to our rooms, and take a shower. Londisizwe finds me there. "How is it going? Has my umuthi begun its work?"

I nod.

"Are you okay?"

I nod again.

For dinner, everyone else eats a beautiful feast. I am given a bowl of porridge and another cup of tea. This time it is a greener, gra.s.sier tea. I drink it quickly and almost immediately throw up.

"I must have been allergic to something in it," I say, apologizing to Londisizwe.

He shakes his head. "That tea makes everyone throw up."

I look at him as if to ask, then why would you give it to people to drink?

"If I told you you'd throw up after drinking the tea, would you have drunk it? In a little while, I will bring you another tea, and I promise it will not make you vomit."

After dinner, there are fireworks. Sofia has hired a pyrotechnic team to put on a show. The children's faces are filled with delight. Even the older people have rarely if ever seen fireworks. Londisizwe brings me a new cup of tea, and this one tastes sweet and pleasant, and I drink it quickly, in part because I am distracted and just want to get on with things.

Explosions fill the sky. Red peonies, blue rings, golden dome-shaped weeping willows, fire-hot chrysanthemums, spiders, heavy golden glittering Kamuros fire up into the night, like snowflakes, like a bouquet of fine flowers, like gems or shooting stars. I wonder how far away they can be seen, and even though it seems against the grain of the celebration, I wonder what it costs.

As the fireworks whistle and hum, crackle and bang, my stomach begins to rumble, flatus starring ancient archetypical gases, primitive evolutionary elements-carbon dioxide sulphur, methane, ammonia. Enormous bilious clouds that I imagine are colored blue and green and look like gigantic, unevenly formed iridescent soap bubbles rise up out of me, wobbling, expanding-exploding. Never as scatologically invested as some, I am impressed by what is coming out of me; at one point it feels timed to the fireworks.

The show ends with the traditional bright-white salute of fireworks, low to the ground, with an enormously loud report echoing off the hills. As the white smoke billows away, each child is given a fiery-hot sparkler to wave through the air. I watch vigilantly.

And then there is ice cream-enormous cardboard bins brought from Durban of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry, which spent the night on dry ice. There are children here who have never had ice cream before, and again it is just an amazing thing to see children and adults enjoying themselves so much.

That night when we return to our quarters the children complain they can't bear to be around me: I smell disgusting. I drag my bed into the hallway of the school and debate going outside, and would except that I am afraid of the dark.

The next day after breakfast we give out the backpacks and pencils and all the things Sofia ordered as gifts. The children are polite, grateful, trained to curtsy to the white people. They are gentle, a little fragile, as though their right to life is still precarious. One of the boys gives Ricardo a tin truck he's made out of soda cans; the girls give Ashley a beaded necklace and a small basket; Sakhile gives Nate an old tribal headdress made of animal skin and beads; and then he hands me a small pouch that contains an old piece of rhino horn filled with a magical ingredient that gives warriors invincibility. "It is mixed with animal fat and rubbed into the wrists. It is good for s.e.x, gives dogs a hard-on."

"Thank you," I say.

Londisizwe brings me a kit containing the supplies I will need for the next three days-teas labeled for breakfast, lunch, and dinner-and reminds me not to eat any animal flesh while I am taking the teas and to drink a lot of water. He also gives me some teas to bring back to America. "Drink this one the day you get back," he says, "it will help loosen what you are still holding. And then drink these once a day for three days-and then as needed when you start to feel like you are becoming your old version again. They will free you." Just before I go, he brings one more cup of tea, "for the road." This one tastes vile, like horses.h.i.t that has been soaked in beer and left for days-it is fermented, dark, foul; I have a very hard time drinking it.

"Perhaps I made a mistake," he says, taking the cup back when I am done. "I put some cinnamon in and tried to make it more pleasant-I should have left it as it was."

Two Land Rovers arrive to pick us up; there are white men at the wheel who introduce themselves as Dirk Kruger and Pieter Goosen, and two black men who are helpers are introduced only as Kopano and Josia and take our bags.

We go. The village recedes into the distance-we watch for as long as we can; I'm sure everyone there is still outside waving. The children begin to cry, first Nate, then Ash, and finally Ricardo, who says, "Why am I crying? I am happy and sad at the same time."

"It's like when it's raining and there's a rainbow," Ashley says.

What to do with the strange sense of having been there and gone so quickly? It feels as though we haven't done enough, and yet what more should we do? This is the life of the village; does it need to be fixed?

We spend hours talking about the village and about the people we met. Nate is thrilled to have shared this world, and that things went well. The guy driving the car is trying to partic.i.p.ate by saying things like "So you had a good time, eh?"

We drive for a couple of hours before coming to the waterfall, which is truly spectacular. "This one breaks even the hardest of nuts," Pieter says as we get out of the car. "If you're game, we can go for a bit of a hike," he says. And on cue, Josia and Kopano open the back of the second Rover and get out walking sticks, ropes, and harnesses for the children.

Overcome with stomach cramps, I excuse myself and go into the woods. I have diarrhea and then move to another spot and have more and then more. In the end, I am holding on to the branch of a tree, my pants completely off and wrapped around my neck and shoulders as I involuntarily projectile-squirt s.h.i.t into the woods. My body empties and seizes and empties and seizes. "You all right in there?" one of the guides shouts every couple of minutes. "Make sure nothing comes up and bites you on the a.s.s."

"I'm fine," I weakly call back, not because I am but because there is just nothing to say. "Why don't you go on ahead without me," I suggest.

"We'll take the kiddies for a walk and meet you back here in an hour," one of them says. "I'll leave the car unlocked. There's water-be sure you drink when you're finished in there."

When they come back, they are all glowing. "It was amazing, we did belaying and climbed up this amazing rock," Ricardo says.

"The waterfall was so beautiful, I could feel the spray on my face," Ashley says. "And I saw a rainbow-isn't that cool? Because I said the word 'rainbow' this morning, when we left the village, and there it was...."

"Safe as kittens in their mother's mouth," Dirk, who Ricardo later refers to as Dirtik, says.

"And then there was a zip line and we went flying through the forest," Nate adds, as though I need to hear more. "Are you feeling better?"

"I hope so," I say, because, honestly, I can't imagine feeling worse.

"Likely something you ate," Pieter says. "Zulu cooking can kill you."

"Really?" Ashley asks.

"Not really," Pieter says for her benefit. There's something in his tone-call it racism-that I really don't like.