“I’ll reach a million,” I told him.
He gazed at me for a while and said, “I believe you will.”
“Will you try to teach in Africa?” I asked him.
“No, no, not at all. Perhaps someday I’ll write you a letter, but otherwise I won’t be involved in anything like that.”
“Then what will you do?”
“I’ll journey to the darkest, leafiest, most remote section of the rain forest, and try to find a tribe of my own kind that will let me forage with them. I don’t mean to worry you, but it’s pointless to disguise the fact that we’re not likely to survive as a species in the wild for very much longer. But of course I bring new tools to the problem.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that if you hear that there’s still one wily old silverback out there that no one seems to be able to throw a net over, you’ll know that’s me.”
Before long, Art dropped by to say that the ambulance had arrived.
I asked Ishmael if I could come with him.
“I’d really rather you didn’t, Julie. It won’t be a bit easier to say good-bye tomorrow than it is today.”
I reached in through the bars, and he took my hand as if it were as fragile as a soap bubble.
Life Goes On
Incredible as it may seem, on Monday morning I got up, ate breakfast, and went to school. On Tuesday morning I did the same damn thing.
It wasn’t really possible for me to stay in touch with Art. He had to stay in touch with me, and he did. Through him, I learned that Ishmael gradually recovered and one day in January 1991 set off on his own journey to Africa. I didn’t ask what the travel arrangements were; it was not going to be a fun trip, and the less I knew about it the better. In March Art called to let me know that the whole mission had been accomplished. Ishmael was home, and if he didn’t like it, he’d have to lump it.
By some mysterious process, my mother seemed gradually to come to the realization that the reality of the Zairean thing was different from what she’d been told. She didn’t challenge me about it or demand an explanation or anything like that. Instead, she developed a mild sort of grievance about it, making dark comments like, “I know you have your secrets. Well, I have mine too.”
In September the Darryl Hicks Carnival came back to town, and Art and I spent some time together. I told him that, looking back on it from the distance of a year, I found it hard to believe that the two of them had been unable to find any way of setting up the transfer except through me.
Art grinned and said, “I thought you would have figured this out by now, a smart girl like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had two other plans worked out for setting up the transfer. Either one would have been cheaper—and a whole lot easier to manage—than sending you.”
“Then for God’s sake, why did you send me?”
“Ishmael insisted on it, of course. He wanted you to do it, and no one else.”
“But why?”
“I guess you could say it was all he had left to give you. This was his last gift: the knowledge that you had played a key role in his life. And there’s no doubt that you did. The fact that we could have done it another way doesn’t change that.”
“But I might have failed!”
Art shook his head. “He knew you wouldn’t fail. That was part of the gift, of course. He wanted you to know that he trusted you with his life.”
“Did Alan show up again?”
“Yes, actually he did, just about when I figured he would. We were all packed up and on the road by dawn, and I left a man behind to intercept him if he showed up, which he did, around noon.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because it had to be ended.”