Ian Watson - The Embedding

CHRIS SOLE dressed quickly. Eileen had already called himonce. The second time she called him, the postman had been to the door.

Theres a letter from Brazil, she shouted from the foot of the stairs.Its from Pierre

Pierre? What was he writing for? The news bothered him. Eileen had beenso distant and detached since their boy was born-involved in herself andPeter and memories. It wasnt a detachment he found it particularly easyto break through any more-or, to be frank, that he cared to. So whateffect would this letter from her one-time lover have on her? He hopedit wouldnt be too troublesome.

The landing window gave a quick hint of black fields, other staffhouses, the Hospital half a mile away on top of the hill. He glancedmomentarily-and shivered with morning misgivings. They often attackedhim between waking up and getting to the Hospital.

In the kitchen, three-year-old Peter was making a noisy mess of hisbreakfast-mashing cornflakes and milk in his bowl, while Eileen stoodskimming through the letter.

Sole sat down opposite Peter and buttered a slice of toast. Casually heexamined the boys face. Didnt these thin foxy features add up to animage of the Pierre who so many years ago had been photographed as asmall boy in a field of marguerites somewhere in France? Already the boyhad the same pointed urgency as Pierre, and the glossy brown eyes of adog fox on the prowl.

Soles own face had a sort of phoney distinction about it. It wastoo well balanced. Slide a mirror up against his nose and he wasntsplit into two different faces, like most people, but a pair ofidentical twins. This balance of the features was initially impressive,but the end result was a cancelling out of one side of the man by theother, more visible as the years went by.

He glanced at Eileen as she read. She was slightly taller than he wasand her eyes had an in-between colour that her last passport describedas grey, but which could easily be blue. Theyd seemed bluer inAfrica-the blue of swimming pools and open skies, which the airmailpaper now briefly reflected.

Africa. Those hot still evenings when the open louvres brought no airinto their flat and the beer came warm from the overloaded icebox. Thebrightly-lit university buildings there on the hill, and the yellow glowof the city a dozen miles away by the sea, with the sticky darkness inbetween syncopated by the mutter of drums. It had been good then, thatrapport, that togetherness, before the sadness and the contradictionsentered in. Before Pierre slipped over the border into Free Mozambiquewith Frelimo guerrilla fighters to study the sociology of liberationamong the Makonde people on the far side of the Ruvuma river. BeforeSole ever heard of the good and profitable destiny awaiting him in thisEnglish hospital unit. Before that final diffident encounter with Pierrein Paris four years ago, when Eileen had gone away with the Frenchmanfor a night and come back the next morning knowing how far their liveshad separated and gone down different tracks.

It seems hes living with this tribe in the Amazon, she said, buttheyre being flooded-fighting with poison arrows-and taking drugs

Can I read it?

She held on to the letter a moment longer, her fingers crumpling thepaper to give it a touch of ownership; before surrendering itwith a sad lost eroticism of gesture that made him ache, since it wasntdirected at him. Shall I read it out? he asked.

He suspected his voice might rob these lines of the emotional contentthey possessed for her, so that what had been a love letter would becomea mass of folklore and politics. Why do it then? To make some kind ofphysical contribution to the dialogue of Pierre and Eileenwhich hehadnt been able to join emotionally, though he reaped the fruits of theFrenchmans ideas? Or to prove that the ideas were more important-andcompete with the evidence of love Eileen had, in the shape of Peter?Eileen?

I cant concentrate right now. Hes getting milk all over the place.Read it yourself-Ill finish it later

Wiping the boys mouth with a tissue, she stared at his featuresintently, then guided his hand on the spoon, picking stray cornflakes upwith her other hand and dropping them into her saucer.

Sole cradled his hand round the letter guiltily, like a schoolboy notwanting his answers to be copied, and read.

You may wonder why Im using yourselves, Chris and Eileen, to vent myanger on? After so long too! But perhaps you, Chris, will understandwhen I say that there are some curious threads that lead through yearsand countries, linking dissimilar people, places and events-is this toomystical a thought for a marxist to entertain?-and that in this case itis that zany surrealist poem of Raymond Roussels that we talked aboutso often in Africa that is the link between yourselves and my owndiscoveries here and now among one particular Amazon tribe.

These people have Hobsons choice-doomed to be drowned if they staywhere they are-or else destroyed by a life of tin huts, rum,prostitution and illness, if theyre sensible enough to move out ofthe way of the flood that is even now covering up the whole surface oftheir world. Need I say nobody cares which option they choose.

Issues seemed so simple in Africa, compared with here in the heart ofBrazil. It was so easy to find an honourable and recognizable role toplay in the Mozambique bush. Even the remotest Makonde tribesman knewwhat the political issues were, was aware of Politics as such

Damn it, he thought, apprehensive at the mention of Roussels name. LetPierre get on trying to reform the world. Just leave me alone todiscover what the world really is, how the mind of Man sees the world!

But how can these Indians perceive any difference between the otherCaraiba-that bastard Portuguese word the Indians use for any foreigners,including the European-descended Brazilians themselves-and myself? Wereall outsiders, aliens. Frenchmen, Americans. Right Wing, Left Wing. Itsall the same. Caraiba.

Those who are aware of Politics, and the Politics of the Amazon Flood,seem so far away, city men occupied with city struggles. Even when theymove out into the countryside to fight, what have they got to do withthe Indians in their forests? What can they have to do, till theIndians have been destroyed as Indians and become poverty-strickencivilizados?

So should I be in favour of a human zoo where these quaint savagescan linger on in their interesting savagery? How much it goes againstthe grain to say, yes maybe-for the Indians there can be no politicalreply!

How glad the Brazilian rgime is of this distraction foisted onthem by the Americans!-the glory of building the greatest inland sea onEarth, the only one of Mans works visible from the Moon.

It is a political project, though its victims know nothing ofpolitics-and cannot be made aware of politics without introducing akind of virus that destroys them. Thats the paradox that sickens me: myown impotence here. I can only record the death of this unique people.Mark up the indictment for the future. And to console myself, listen tomy tape of Roussels crazy poem

Sole shuddered. A hot African sun used to warm their talk of Roussel andit had seemed so innocent and exciting then, the dawning idea of his ownresearch. He remembered the view of red corrugated roofs from a rooftopbar. Shining white plaster walls. Flame trees. A mosque. Peugeots andVolkswagens parked in the dusty street below. The sellers of carvingssquatting in shorts and torn shirts while Moslem women passed by onflip-flop sandals, their bodies wrapped in black shrouds, with parcelsbalanced on their heads. The beer bottles on the tin table slimy withcondensation, as Pierre and he talked about a poem that was practicallyimpossible for the human brain to process-which a machine would have tobe built to read

Warm and innocent then-but now that Vidya, Vasilki, Rama and Gulshen andthe others were learning their lessons in the Special Environments atthe Hospital, Pierres triggering of memories of that happy mood camewith an accusing force.