constipated.
Really? said Armando, immediately thinking of a cure, Kate was sure.
And our man, not so long out of Africa where his people were accustomed to a really good diet, had perfect teeth. Though a slave he had perfect teeth. And these perfect teeth were praised by the mistress, who, not being brave enough to try to fuck him (excuse me), could and did rave about his big, strong white teeth.
Needless to say, Old Master was not amused. Being both almost toothless and entirely impotent.
Kate felt she could not go on. Though Armando was listening to her with a tenderness that encouraged each word. They were sitting on the ground near the palapa. He’d spread a large straw mat for them and while they waited for her to continue he leaned back on his elbow. She noticed some gray hairs on the side of his head and in his small mustache. His hair had grown since they arrived and was almost to his shoulders. Very strong, thick, glistening hair that had always flourished in this latitude, this humidity, this air.
He—the Master—had them pulled out, Kate said flatly. His beautiful white teeth. One by one, with the pliers they used for horses, without anesthesia. As she said this, she felt physically sick, her whole body went into shock, like a plant being pulled up by the roots.
Armando nodded. Take my hand, he said.
Kate placed her hand in his.
Armando began to sing.
He sang low and solemn, holding Kate’s hand, until everyone in the camp had come out of their huts or their spots by the river, and gathered silently around them. Everyone listened to the amazing thing Armando’s singing was. Most of them knew not one word of the language he was singing in. Perhaps Kechua or Mayan. It didn’t matter. They felt the soul of it. They intuitively felt it was that rare, audacious yet respectful song that dared to ask mercy of the ancestors. Reminding them that those of us still living already have many burdens to bear. That a time comes when we have done all we can do. We have done enough. That it is perhaps not entirely right to continue to petition the loving souls among us, those who will try to do everything we are asked. There is as well the temperament of the person to be considered, the song seemed to say. Is it right to break the hearts of those who would honor us, by requiring them to sleep, without rest, with our own bad dreams?
Kate was weeping and, astonishing to her, the tears seemed to be coursing down her arm, hot, like blood, and into Armando’s hand. When she looked, she saw it was true. Her left shoulder, her arm, her hand, were all dripping water as if Armando’s song had pierced the heavy, water-logged region of her heart. Her chest, which had been stretched high with grief and sadness, began to fall. She began to breathe. Deeply. Feeling an inner space. A clarity.
Cosmi had arrived with a rattle and a flute. As Armando continued to sing, he offered a sweet accompaniment, first with the rattle, then with the flute.
Kate remembered the poet Jane Stembridge, of the Movement for Black Freedom in Mississippi so many years ago. A white woman who was pushed out of the struggle in the South because some black people were so devastated by the past they could not forgive it. When they looked at Jane they never even saw her. They saw mistresses who’d caused them pain. But Jane in her book I Play Flute had asked a crucial question: Where is the sound of the flute, she had written, that ushers freedom in?
Kate had respected Jane for not letting herself be stuck in someone else’s image of her, but recognized instead that her very Being, white and female and descended from slave owners though it was, might be a note of freedom. And the Women’s Movement, emerging later, which uncovered and named the camouflaged enslavement at the root of white women’s lives, had proved her right. One’s struggle against oppression is meaningless, she had known, unless it is connected to the oppression of others.
Kate
Really? said Armando, immediately thinking of a cure, Kate was sure.
And our man, not so long out of Africa where his people were accustomed to a really good diet, had perfect teeth. Though a slave he had perfect teeth. And these perfect teeth were praised by the mistress, who, not being brave enough to try to fuck him (excuse me), could and did rave about his big, strong white teeth.
Needless to say, Old Master was not amused. Being both almost toothless and entirely impotent.
Kate felt she could not go on. Though Armando was listening to her with a tenderness that encouraged each word. They were sitting on the ground near the palapa. He’d spread a large straw mat for them and while they waited for her to continue he leaned back on his elbow. She noticed some gray hairs on the side of his head and in his small mustache. His hair had grown since they arrived and was almost to his shoulders. Very strong, thick, glistening hair that had always flourished in this latitude, this humidity, this air.
He—the Master—had them pulled out, Kate said flatly. His beautiful white teeth. One by one, with the pliers they used for horses, without anesthesia. As she said this, she felt physically sick, her whole body went into shock, like a plant being pulled up by the roots.
Armando nodded. Take my hand, he said.
Kate placed her hand in his.
Armando began to sing.
He sang low and solemn, holding Kate’s hand, until everyone in the camp had come out of their huts or their spots by the river, and gathered silently around them. Everyone listened to the amazing thing Armando’s singing was. Most of them knew not one word of the language he was singing in. Perhaps Kechua or Mayan. It didn’t matter. They felt the soul of it. They intuitively felt it was that rare, audacious yet respectful song that dared to ask mercy of the ancestors. Reminding them that those of us still living already have many burdens to bear. That a time comes when we have done all we can do. We have done enough. That it is perhaps not entirely right to continue to petition the loving souls among us, those who will try to do everything we are asked. There is as well the temperament of the person to be considered, the song seemed to say. Is it right to break the hearts of those who would honor us, by requiring them to sleep, without rest, with our own bad dreams?
Kate was weeping and, astonishing to her, the tears seemed to be coursing down her arm, hot, like blood, and into Armando’s hand. When she looked, she saw it was true. Her left shoulder, her arm, her hand, were all dripping water as if Armando’s song had pierced the heavy, water-logged region of her heart. Her chest, which had been stretched high with grief and sadness, began to fall. She began to breathe. Deeply. Feeling an inner space. A clarity.
Cosmi had arrived with a rattle and a flute. As Armando continued to sing, he offered a sweet accompaniment, first with the rattle, then with the flute.
Kate remembered the poet Jane Stembridge, of the Movement for Black Freedom in Mississippi so many years ago. A white woman who was pushed out of the struggle in the South because some black people were so devastated by the past they could not forgive it. When they looked at Jane they never even saw her. They saw mistresses who’d caused them pain. But Jane in her book I Play Flute had asked a crucial question: Where is the sound of the flute, she had written, that ushers freedom in?
Kate had respected Jane for not letting herself be stuck in someone else’s image of her, but recognized instead that her very Being, white and female and descended from slave owners though it was, might be a note of freedom. And the Women’s Movement, emerging later, which uncovered and named the camouflaged enslavement at the root of white women’s lives, had proved her right. One’s struggle against oppression is meaningless, she had known, unless it is connected to the oppression of others.
Kate
Similar Books
