“Is this some instruction from Ishmael?”
“No.”
“How long am I supposed to wait?”
“Until I tell you to go ahead.”
“Yes, but how long will that be? One year? Two years? Five years?”
“I’m sorry, Julie, I just don’t know.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“I know it’s not fair. I’m not doing it because it’s fair. I’m doing it because it’s necessary.”
That conversation took place in the summer of 1992. I figured he’d relent sometime during the following year, but he didn’t. In 1993 I figured he’d surely relent during the following year—but again he didn’t.
In the fall of 1994 I took a world-history course in which Alan’s book was read by the entire class as a sort of introduction. The effort it took to hold my peace nearly killed me. Otherwise it wasn’t a bad year. My mother turned some sort of corner in her life and cut out the booze cold turkey. She started losing weight, joined a women’s group, and remembered how to smile.
When I got together with Art in the summer of 1995, I said, “Look, there can’t be any harm in my writing the book, can there? Can’t I write it if I promise to hold on to it?”
He said, yes, I could write it, provided that I swore on a stack of Bibles that I’d show it to no one.
So I started writing—but I did indeed feel that I’d been screwed.
I started writing and finished most of it in six months—all of it but this chapter.
I sent Art a copy of it. He said, “It’s terrific—but you’ve got to wait.”
I waited another year, then I wrote this chapter.
Art says … wait.
The date is November 28, 1996 … and I’m waiting.
* Ishmael, Bantam Books, 1992.
* The Story of B, Bantam Books, 1996.
The Waiting Ends
On February 11, 1997, two weeks before my eighteenth birthday, Art telephoned to give me the green light. He said, “Mobutu’s days are numbered. He’ll be out of power in a matter of weeks.”
“For Christ’s sake, is that what I’ve been waiting for?”
“That’s what you’ve been waiting for, Julie. Because if Mobutu’s days are numbered, then so are Nkemi’s.”
“You mean you wanted Nkemi to be out of power before I revealed where Ishmael is?”
“That’s not quite the point. Until Nkemi was out of power, I didn’t want him to know what kind of gorilla he’d given shelter to. Remember that you named Ishmael to him.”
“True. But Alan names him too. Nkemi could have known from Alan’s book what kind of gorilla he was sheltering.”
“No, he couldn’t have known this from Alan’s book, because, according to Alan’s book, Ishmael’s dead.”
“Okay, I see that. But what would Nkemi have done if he’d known?”
“I have no idea, but I certainly didn’t want to find out the hard way, by watching him do it.”