2006 - What is the What (28 page)

—Who is that?

A voice came out of the thicket.

—It’s a boy, I said.

No person was visible. The voice seemed to come from the pink air itself.

—Why are you walking that way, with your hand on your leg like that? I did not want to carry on a conversation with the air so I said nothing.

—Are you an angry boy or a happy boy? the voice asked.

A man emerged, round bellied and wearing a hat, a blue shadow against the pulsing sky. He approached me slowly, as he might a trapped animal. The round-bellied man’s accent was strange, and I could barely follow his words. I didn’t know which answer was correct so I answered a different question.

—I am with the walking boys, father.

Now the man was upon me. His hat bore a camouflage pattern, like the uniform of the soldier Mawein. But this man’s camouflage was superior: it blended perfectly into the landscape, its tans and greys. He was of an indeterminate age, somewhere between the age of Dut and the age of my father. In some ways he resembled my father, in his slender shoulders, the fluid and upright way he moved. But this man’s stomach was full, overfull. I had not seen a stomach so large since my village’s Fatman contest, an annual rite abandoned with the coming of war. In the event, men from all over the region would gorge themselves on milk for months, living as sedentary a life as possible. The winner would be the man who was largest, whose belly was the most impressive. This contest was not possible during civil war, but this man before me seemed like a viable contestant.

—Let me see why you’re holding your leg, he said, crouching at my knee. I showed him the wound.

—Ah. Hmm. The barbed wire. I’ve got something for that. In my home. Come.

I went with the round-bellied man because I was too tired to plan an escape. I now saw the man’s hut ahead, looking well-made and standing amid absolutely nothing else. There was no sign of humans anywhere.

—Should I try to carry you? he asked.

—No. Thank you.

—Ah ah ah, I understand. You have your pride. You’re one of the boys going to Ethiopia to become soldiers.

—No, I said. I was sure he was mistaken.

—The jaysh al-ahmar? he said.

—No, no, I said.

—The jaysh al-ahmar, the Red Army? Yes. I’ve seen you passing.

—No. We’re just walking. We’re walking to Ethiopia. For school.

—School, then the army. Yes, I think this is for the best. Come inside and sit for a moment. I’ll fix your leg for you.

I paused for a moment outside the man’s sturdy home. He did not know who I was, but he thought he knew something about me. He had been seeing boys my age passing through and he was calling them Red Army, just as Mawein had. There was something slippery about the man, and I thought that entering his home was a questionable idea. But when one is invited into a home in Sudan, particularly as a traveler, one expects food. And the prospect of being fed far outweighed any concerns I had for my safety. I ducked into the darkness of the man’s large hut and saw it. My lord it was the bicycle. It seemed to be precisely the same bicycle. I swear that it was the same one—silver, shimmering, new, the same model brought to Marial Bai by Jok Nyibek Arou. This one, though, had been freed of its plastic, and was far more remarkable because of it.

—Ah! You like the bicycle. I knew you would. I could not speak. I blinked hard.

—Take this.

The man gave me a rag and I dabbed at my wound.

—No, no. Let me, he said.

The man took the cloth and tied it tightly around my leg. The screaming of the wound was muffled and I almost laughed at the simplicity of his solution.

The man gestured for me to sit down and I did. We sat for a moment assessing each other, and now I saw that he had a feline face, with high, severe cheekbones and large eyes that seemed constantly amused. His palms, resting in his lap and open to me, gave foundation to fingers of remarkable length, each with six or more joints.

—You’re the first person who has been here in a very long time, he said.

I nodded seriously. I assumed the round-bellied man had lost his wife and family. There were men like this everywhere in Sudan, men of this age, alone.

In a quick movement, he pushed his carpet from the floor, and under it was a door made of cardboard and string. He lifted it and I saw that he had a deep hole underneath, full of food and water and gourds of mysterious liquids. The man quickly closed the hatch again and replaced the carpet.

—Here, he said.

He put a small mound of groundnuts on a plate.

—For me?

—Ah ah ah! The boy is so shy. Can you be so shy? You must be too hungry to be so shy! Eat the food when it’s within reach, boy. Eat.

I ate the nuts quickly, first one at a time and then filling my mouth with a handful. It was more than I had eaten for weeks. I chewed and swallowed and felt the paste of the nuts fortifying my chest and arms, clarity returning to my head. The man filled the plate again with nuts and I ate them, now slower. I felt the need to lie down and did so, still eating the nuts, one by one.

—Where did you get it? I asked, pointing to the bicycle.

—I have it, that’s what matters, Red Army boy. Have you ridden a bicycle? I sat up and shook my head. His eyes grew more amused.

—Oh no! That’s a shame. I would have let you try it.

—I know how! I insisted.

He laughed at this, his head thrown back.

—The boy says he knows how though he’s never done it before. Eat something with me and we’ll learn more about what you can and can’t do, little soldier.

I could not explain why, but I was very comfortable in the man’s home. I worried that the group would be walking on when the sun rose higher but I was eating here and having my wound cared for here and I considered the idea of staying with this man because here it seemed very likely that I would not die.

—Why are you here? I asked.

The man grew serious for a moment, as if reading the question for hidden meanings, and then, finding none, softened.

—Why am I here? I like that question. Thank you for it. Yes. He sat back and grinned at me, seeming in no way interested in answering the question.

—I was so rude! He threw the carpet aside again and retrieved a plastic container and brought it out and handed it to me.—To give you nuts without a drink to wash it down! Drink.

I took the container and the cold of its surface startled my hands. I turned its white cap and placed it in my lap and tilted the vessel to my mouth. The water was so cold. So fantastically cold. I could not close my eyes, I could barely swallow. I drank from the cool water and felt it flow down my throat, wetting me just under my skin, and then inside my chest and my arms and legs. It was the coldest water I had ever tasted.

I tried a different question.—Where are we?

The man took the vessel from me and replaced it underground.

—We are close to a town called Thiet. That’s where your group was passing. Many groups have been passing through Thiet.

—So you live in Thiet?

—No, no. I live nowhere. This is nowhere. When you leave here you won’t know where you came from. I insist that you forget where you are already. Do you understand me? I am not anywhere and this is nowhere and that is why I am alive.

A few moments before, I was thankful to the man, and was considering asking him if I could stay with him indefinitely. But now I decided that the man had lost his mind and that I should leave. It was strange, that a man could speak normally for a certain time, and then reveal himself to be mad. It was like finding rot underneath a fruit’s unblemished skin.

—I should go back to the group, I said, rising. Alarm took over the man’s face.

—Sit. Sit. I have more. Do you like oranges? I have oranges.

He reached into his hole yet again, his arm this time disappearing up to his shoulder. When his hand emerged, he held an orange, perfectly round and fresh. He gave me one and as I devoured it, he replaced the carpet over his underground cavity.

—I don’t live anywhere, and you should learn from this. Why do you think I’m alive, boy? I’m alive because no one knows I’m here. I live because I do not exist. He took the water from me and replaced it under the ground.

—Out there everyone is killing each other, and those who don’t kill each other with guns and bombs, God is trying to kill with malaria and dysentery and a thousand other things. But no one can kill the man who’s not there, correct? So I am a ghost. How can you kill a ghost?

I had no comment on this for it seemed the man did indeed exist.

—By this contact alone, me with you, I’m making a great deal of trouble for myself. I have fed you and I have seen your face. But I feel safe only in knowing that no one is likely looking for a boy like you. How many of you are there? Thousands?

I told them that there were as many of us as he could imagine.

—So you won’t be noticed. When we’re done talking, I’ll send you back toward them but you must never tell where you found me. Are we in agreement?

I agreed. I do not remember why it occurred to me to ask this man about the What but it seemed that if any man might have an answer, even a guess, it would be this strange man who lived alone and had saved so much, had even thrived, amid a civil war. So I asked him.

—Excuse me? he said.

I repeated the question, and I explained the story. The man had not heard this story but he liked it.

—What do
you
think is the What? he asked. I didn’t know what I thought.—The AK-47? He shook his head.—I don’t think so, no.

—The horse?

He shook his head again.

—Airplanes? Tanks?

—Please stop. You’re not thinking right.

—Education? Books?

—I don’t think this is the What, Achak. I think you need to keep looking. Do you have any other ideas?

We sat in silence for a moment. He could sense my deflation.

—Would you like to try the bicycle? he asked. I could not find the words for how I felt about it.

—You didn’t expect that, did you, listening boy? I shook my head.—Are you serious?

—Of course I am. I didn’t know I would offer this to you until I already had done so. I never thought I would offer my bicycle to anyone else but since you are headed for Ethiopia and you might die on the way, I’ll let you use it.

The man saw my face fall.

—No, no. I’m sorry! I was telling a joke. You won’t die on the way. No. You are many boys, and you’ll be safe. God is watching over you. You’re strong now with a belly full of groundnuts. I was only joking because it would be so absurd if you were in danger. It is absurd. You’ll be fine! And now you will ride the bicycle.

—Yes please.

—But you have never done so.

—No.

The round-bellied man sighed and called himself crazy. He rolled the bicycle out of his home and into the sun. The spokes shimmered, the frame shone. He showed me how to sit on the seat, and while I arranged myself upon it, he held the bike upright. It was the most astonishing bicycle ever seen in Sudan, and I was sitting on its luxurious black leather seat.

—Okay, now I’ll push the bike so it moves. You have to start pushing on the pedals when I begin. Understand?

I nodded and the wheels started moving. Immediately it was too fast but the man was holding onto it so I felt steady. I pushed the pedals, though they seemed to be moving on their own.

—Pedal, boy, pedal!

The man was running alongside me and the bike, huffing and heaving and laughing. I pushed on the pedals and my feet swung low and then rose up again. My stomach was in turmoil.

—Yes! You’re doing it, boy, you’re riding!

I smiled and looked ahead and tried to calm my stomach, which threatened to send its contents onto the dust. I swallowed and swallowed and looked straight ahead and told my stomach to be still. It obeyed and allowed me to think. I was riding the bicycle! It was very much like flight, I thought. The wind in my face felt so strong. I had the unexpected thought that I wanted Amath to be able to see me. She would be so impressed!

—I’m going to let go, the man said.

—No! I said.

Still, I thought I could do it.

—Yes! Yes, the man said.—I will let go. He let go and laughed.

—I let go! Keep going, Red Army! Keep it straight!

I could not keep it straight. In seconds the bicycle tilted and the tire turned slowly and I fell like the horseman had in Marial Bai, caught under the bike. My leg struck a hard patch of dirt and roots and my wound opened up, wider than before. In a few minutes I was back in the round-bellied man’s hut and he was nursing the wound again. He apologized many times but I assured him the fault was mine. He told me I rode well for my first time, and I smiled. I was certain that I could ride it successfully if I tried again. But I knew that if I did not find my way back to the group I would lose them forever and might have to live with this man until the end of the war, whenever that came. I told him I had to leave. He was not overly sad to see me go.

—Please don’t tell anyone about the bicycle. I told him I would not.

—Do you promise me this? he said. I promised.

—Good. Bicycles are secret in this war. Bicycles are secret, listening boy. Now let’s return you to your army. I will take you back to them. Which way did you run from?

It had seemed like hours that I had run the night before, but we walked back to the group in a far shorter time. I saw the mass of boys not far from the man’s secret home. Dut was not to be seen, and it did not seem that morning that anyone else cared that he was gone, or that I had been missing. I asked what was the matter and learned that a dozen boys were missing from last night’s run. Three boys had fallen into wells; two were dead. The hundreds of boys were scattered and listless. I said goodbye to the round-bellied man and found William K, who had found a large sheet of plastic and was trying to fold it to fit in his pocket. The plastic, even after folded a dozen times, was as big as his torso.

—Which way did you run? William K asked.

I pointed the way I had just come. William K had run the opposite way but had stopped after a short time, hiding in the roots of a baobab tree.