Chapter 27. What Makes Sense
What Makes Sense
Natalie was manning the phones. Picking up a call, she sat bolt upright in her chair upon hearing the voice on the other end of the line. I looked at her; her face had turned white. In an impossibly solicitous voice she said, “Hold on, I’ll transfer you to Ross Fowler.” She transferred the call, carefully put the receiver back down with exquisite reverence, then sprung up and lunged at Colleen, the person nearest her, grabbing her by both arms and screeching, “That was Brent Daley on the phone! Brent Daley! Brent . . . Brent . . .” She rocked her back and forth in her fervor, almost knocking off Colleen’s glasses.
“Like, Brent Daley the actor?”
“No, Brent Daley the plumber. Yes! Yes!”
Colleen was suitably impressed, putting her hands to her face, doing a fair imitation of the famous Munch painting, asking a myriad of questions. Mr. Daley was second in line only to Ross with regard to her admiration for good-looking, big-hearted men. If anyone could ever knock Ross out of her dreams, it would be this blond god of a man.
I felt only contempt for them at that moment. If Brent Daley did agree to narrate our latest public service announcement, we would have to lock these two up. Colleen had a nice boy-faced husband; he came occasionally to the office to pick her up. Did he understand she was living this secret life? I had to wonder sometimes just how committed Colleen and Natalie were. Wasn’t it about time to grow up? They wanted to include me in their hysterics/jubilation, but I coldly turned away. What a couple of imbeciles, I thought. What exactly are they here for, anyway?
A notorious prison compound. Many of the inmates have been imprisoned unjustly for several years without trial. Some are killed within days of their arrest. Sometimes six or seven prisoners are chosen at random and marched outside; no one is of distinct value here. Grouped together, then shot dead. The bodies dumped in shallow graves. Every day the same thing happens until the death count is in the hundreds. The families of these victims of extrajudicial execution often never know where their loved ones are, never know what happened to them. Are they alive; are they dead? Often they’re driven to seek freshly dug graves under the cover of night, pushed by their need to know: lost, hidden souls and their nocturnal seekers.
It was just about 3:30 in the afternoon and I was sitting on the couch in the outer HRI office, eating a late lunch and holding forth to the assembled audience. Everyone had crashed here for the moment, a rare instance of relaxation in this highly-strung place, except for the volunteer who was gamely trying to answer the phone amid all the racket. A sense of camaraderie permeated the gab session and it felt good, materializing from nowhere to comfort our sundry and various afflictions. No one could pull away.
Drawn to the commotion, Bob came out of his office and surveyed the staff sprawled about. “At ease, folks.”
“Hey, I was here till ten last night! And I’ve been on my feet since five this morning doing the press releases with a person from the planet Neptune,” I protested. Bob made his ‘watch it’ face at this characterization of another volunteer—a new one—a bit of an operator and not well liked. “She’s not here, Bob; she had some appointment. God, you know she kept trying to get me to say we would offer her a job. I kept thinking, why am I alone in the building at six in the morning with someone who I have no idea whether they’re actually sane or not?” I hunched my shoulders and shuddered. “We kept faxing till we broke the machine.”
“Did you get’em all out?”
“Yes, Bob, they’re out. We had to do the local ones ourselves. This is the first time I’ve sat down all day; look, my ankles are all swollen.”
“Switch to boots, then no one will notice,” suggested Natalie, perched on the arm of the couch.
Well, I’m not gonna be able to get . . .”
Del, the bike courier—helmeted, visored, head-phoned and wired for sound—pushed through the door wheeling his bike, cutting short my play for sympathy. This was his second appearance today. Natalie got up and picked up an envelope off the reception desk. The volunteer still trying to talk on the phone had turned her back to us now, her free hand over her ear.
“This must get there by close of business today,” Natalie intoned, handing it to Del, who nodded his understanding, then bumped his bike back out into the hallway, head bobbing rhythmically, and went on his way.
We hadn’t yet decamped by the time Ross and Paul returned from their meeting in New York with the director of our PSA, the very au courant Robbie Sarington. The boss’ eyes grew larger at the sight of us. “I’m guessing everyone’s been released, that’s the reason for this party,” he mused.
“I told Gretchen you’d call her as soon as you came in the door,” the phone volunteer said, handing Ross several messages.
“Our fax machine is broken,” I explained. “Yeah, yeah, Paul, we called and told them it was an emergency, to come asap. Colleen and Geneva are downstairs knocking on doors right now, asking if they can come in and use their fax.”
“Good,” said Ross. “And the rest of you are helping by sitting here. Unorthodox, but it might work.”
“Come on, I’ve been up since 5 AM, you know that.” Natalie and Tyler exchanged meaningful glances. “My ankles are all swollen, look.” I raised my legs up parallel to the floor. Colleen and Geneva came through the door at that moment, returning from their expedition. “Did you send the faxes?” I asked.
“Yes, down on the second floor.” Colleen, the good girl.
“Did they give you a hard time?”
“No, I gave them two dollars.”
“Two dollars?”
“That’s all I had.”
“I need my change to get home,” Geneva testified.
“You faxed sixteen pages to London and Buenos Aires and you gave them two bucks?”
“Actually, they said to forget it.” We all smiled.
“Bob, give this woman some petty cash,” Ross said pointing to Colleen, his arm extended dramatically in a Shakespearean gesture. Colleen beamed at him.
“How did the meeting go with Robbie Sarington?” Natalie asked.
“You mean the artiste?” scoffed Ross.
“Yeah,” said Paul. “He kept his sunglasses on during the entire goddamn meeting—we’re on the fuckin’ 15th floor.”
They are three young men from Myanmar: one a writer, the other two an actor and a film director. HRI is concerned at allegations it has received that the 29-year-old student and popular writer was severely ill-treated in detention while undergoing interrogation. He is said to have lost several teeth as a result of the beatings and to have been forced to recite his stories in front of his interrogators while hung upside down from the ceiling. ‘You think you’re very clever; tonight we’ll find out just how clever you are.’ Reportedly, the soldiers would slam his head into the wall each time he stopped talking. All three men are believed to be detained for supporting widespread demands for an end to authoritarian military rule and the restoration of multi-party democracy. Work continues on their behalf.
For days now, I’d been laboring under a mood that would not lift. Ross and I’d had a fight, and we were barely speaking. I couldn’t bear his anger, his withdrawal of affection, but I had worked myself up into a state of major aggrievement. Several particularly distressing reports had come in and the political news was not good, either. Everyone in the office was as irritating as possible—no one ever shut up, and it was impossible to think. HRI’s big benefit concert in New York was three days away, and I was seriously thinking about going somewhere else, anywhere else, just to get away. People were the problem, I decided; and I once again longed to sequester myself in Maine with only the birds for company.
I could just imagine the ride down to New York with Ross, his lecturing—I should do this, why didn’t I do that. Every time I complained about something, he had some constructive advice at the ready, some action to suggest. Maybe I just wanted to complain. It was easy for him; he was brought up to be a star. He hadn’t sat on his hands in class as a young girl, knowing the answer, but knowing just as well that to be too good or too smart would not bring the rewards desired. A lesson once learned not easily let go of. To shrink yourself down to nothing so as not to offend, and then not be able to rise again or shine. Why don’t I start to paint again? Why don’t I look into going back to school instead of just talking about it? Why can’t I just push forward? Why can’t I push forward? He wasn’t going to let it go. I just got here. I need time to let my bruises heal.
The Labor Day “Work for Freedom” Concert at Randall’s Island, New York: Ross stayed backstage all day giving interviews to various media outlets like an archer working his craft, fitting arrow after arrow to his bow, aiming, shooting to sometimes hit the mark. I stayed behind the stage for the most part, too, self-consciously fussing with my laminated pass, standing around gawking at the famous unless sent scurrying on the occasional errand for Gretchen, but when the Tibetan devotional singer came out on the stage midway through the concert, I left the VIP enclosure and ventured out into the crowd.
I especially wanted to see her because of the vague cultural connection with Izzie and Ben, a silly but emotional pull. After standing right up front for a little while, I turned my back on the stage and walked away, away from the massive screens towering on both sides. I wandered through the masses swirling and swaying all around me with their thousands of arms raised overhead, their thousands of hands clapping; the humid air trapped and held down upon us by the lowering rain clouds. The singer had come on after an intense rock group and a self-important fiery speaker, but the small woman standing still in the middle of the stage with her eyes closed, accompanied only by somber drums and bells brought a calm down upon the crowd, broken occasionally by an uplifting breeze carrying her undulating voice out to the far reaches of the park, the banners billowing, wafting in empathy, and most people were listening except for pockets of idiots on the fringes, a reflective, pensive mood settling over the people for a short while, brought about by the beauty of the singer’s voice and an intuitive understanding of her intentions and desires.
I ventured farther out into the hinterland and felt that, if indeed a large group of individuals could sustain a single emotion, everyone did wish at that moment for something good, that for a time we were all connected by her emotion and by the desire to believe that what we felt mattered, a desire to be better than we were, as if we were all simultaneously striking a strenuous pose, beautiful but unnatural. The ache in the soul inflicted by this yearning was heightened by our doubt in our skill and strength to hold that pose, and the knowledge that our hearts had the capacity to recognize and embrace good, but not the ability to keep it close within us. So we could only let ourselves go for the moment and let this feeling carry us along as far as it could. It wouldn’t be too long before we would hit the rocks, one after the other.
Gretchen had been among us for two days now, palpating vulnerabilities until she found the tender spots, pushing everything around. Yesterday Tyler made the rounds, graciously offering the staff pulls from his flask; today he didn’t even bother to show up. She was working at Renny’s desk and had been talking at length on the phone, her voice growing higher and louder as the conversation progressed. I was at the file cabinets nearby. The call over, she slammed the phone down and leaned back in her chair letting her head fall back as far as it would go, scarf halfway off her head, arms limp at her sides. Without further warning she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Doesn’t anyone here know anything about the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights!”
She scared the hell out of me, causing my heart to skip, but once I realized it was a rhetorical question, I went on with my filing.
I am writing to appeal for the immediate release of André Yantou, who worked for the Cameroon Development Corporation before being arrested in December 1986, following a meeting of Jehovah’s Witnesses held in his house. Since that time, Mr. Yantou has been held without charge or trial at Buea Prison, in South West Province.
Although a 1970 Presidential decree banned the Jehovah’s Witnesses in your country, it has never been suggested that the group is opposed to the government or that its members wish to do anything but peacefully practice their religious beliefs.
Because André Yantou is being detained only for his non-violent religious beliefs and Article 9 of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights states that no one shall be subjected to arbitrary arrest, detention or exile, I wish to once again appeal to you for his unconditional release.
Please accept my sincere appreciation for your time and interest in this matter.
Colleen was feeling down; she was not getting anywhere. Her emotional yearnings were producing a lot of heat, but precious little light. She was worn out from the constant scorching. She turned to Tyler who felt compelled to cheer her up. “Get out, I’m telling you. Get out while you can,” he lectured at her. “This is a non-profit organization; we don’t do anything properly, and we don’t care.” He ticked off a list on his fingers. “Our people don’t get health insurance and we pay them next to nothing; we eat our own basically—there’s always another poor sucker who’ll come along thinking he can help save the world.” Next finger. “God knows what Fowler and Templeton are doing when we don’t have the pleasure of watching them, huh?” Third finger. “Gretchen.” He made a gesture with his hand on this last point as if shooting himself in the head, closing one eye, sticking out his tongue. “That’s the way it is.”
She had been arrested several years ago for possessing Ukrainian nationalist literature and charged with “anti-Soviet agitation and propaganda.” There was no evidence of violence in her history as a human rights activist and HRI was concerned for her safety. A diminutive woman of ethereal looks with long blonde hair and a lovely face. In this upside-down world, however, her beauty was a curse, something to be despised and destroyed. She was raped repeatedly in prison, passed around from guard to guard, from cell to cell, her hair eventually torn out, her face bloodied and broken. She kept her sanity by learning several languages, the one type of book she was allowed, between the violations. Linguistics became her salvation, her one remaining line to heaven. The security of rules that are followed, of things that make sense, the unshakable reality of the written word, the lines of poetry repeated over and over as she heard the footsteps coming down the hall for her. From our contacts we knew what was happening to her in there and we worked frantically for her release, not so much anymore for her physical integrity as for her soul. When she was finally released eight years to the month she went in, what was left of her hair had turned white, her beauty long ago pounded away. But she was still breathing. Still seeing. A few months later, headquarters received a card from her, and they sent out a photocopy to all of us . . .
“Through you I would like to thank all the good people who did so much for me and our entire family . . .The doctors, bless their souls, have somewhat treated me, but not everything that has been lost can be regained. Summer has come to Odessa; the nightingales have returned—I haven’t seen them for so long.”
END OF PART IImage: Why we’re so loud. Source: Photo reproduction of a drawing of a nightingale by Philip Henry Delamotte. 1850–1876. Inv. Nr. RP-F–2001–7–493B–4. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum. Public Domain. Edited by J. Weigley.
A powerful juxtaposition of the suffering from inhumanity and the ordinariness of humanity.