Posts Tagged ‘short story’

Dogs, People, and Apartheid in Mphahlele’s “Mrs. Plum”

Monday, October 19th, 2009

My Madam’s name was Mrs. Plum. She loved dogs and Africans and said that everyone must follow the law even if it hurt. These were three big things in Madam’s life.

The “three big things” listed by Karabo, the young African woman who narrates Es’kia Mphahlele’s short story “Mrs. Plum,” have a distinct order to them. Mrs. Plum treats her dogs better than her black African servants. The dogs, Monty and Malan, sleep on pink linen sheets in Mrs. Plum’s bedroom and are pampered with brushings and meals. Mrs. Plum tries to be a mindful, politically progressive employer of Africans, and, as we will discover in this tale, she has more respect for her African help than she does for the law.

The magic of a short story is that the author can show us, through a portrait of ordinary days and lives, the values and conflicts that fracture lives and even whole cultures. In this seemingly simple tale of employers, servants, and dogs, we can see, in close-up, the world of Apartheid and its stratifications that even now divide South African society. As readers, we can notice that the seemingly nonchalant opening of a short story can, in the order of a list, speak volumes about character and what lies ahead.

“They make me fed up when I see them in their baskets, looking fat, and as if they knew all that was going on everywhere,” says the young servant Karabo of the dogs. The exalted position of the dogs over the servants poignantly illustrates the everyday inequalities integral to domestic life during Apartheid. Perhaps for this reason, much of “Mrs. Plum” centers around dogs. Monty and Malan, spoiled as they are, are not the only specimens of their type in Greenside:

In winter so many families went away that the dogs remained the masters and the madams. You could see them walk like white people in the streets. Silent but with plenty of power. And when you saw them you knew that they were full of more nonsense and fancies in the house.

Regardless of Mrs. Plum’s good intentions on the subject of race relations, she distrusts the gardener whose job it is to care for her dogs. This gardener’s name is Dick, and his fear of white people makes his manner uncertain. His relationship with the dogs and with the dogs’ owner is strained.

Although he had a long heart, Madam was still not sure of him. She often went to the dogs after a meal or after a cleaning and said to them, did Dick give you food sweethearts? Or did Dick wash you sweethearts? Let me see. And I could see that Dick was blowing up like a balloon with anger. These things called white people! he said to me. Talking to dogs!

Karabo, Dick, and other black servants find themselves keeping secrets from their white employers. Dick must keep his resentment of the dogs in check, Karabo attends lectures and lessons at the near-revolutionary Black Crow Club without revealing their true subject matter to Mrs. Plum, and Karabo’s friend Chimane gets an abortion in secret to keep her job and preserve her reputation.

Mrs. Plum, however, does have good intentions. She makes Karabo eat at the table with her and her daughter Kate, holds dinner parties with black guests, and belongs to a group of women who protest interracial violence in front of government buildings. Even Dick is occasionally a beneficiary of her half-hearted crusade for Africans’ rights: when the police, searching for loafers, begin berating him in the back yard, Mrs. Plum soaks them with the garden hose, landing herself fourteen days in jail. She refuses to pay the bail, despite the small sum, and stays out her time to prove her point and stay true to her political ideals, proving at the same time that her own injunction to “follow the law even if it hurt” is less important to her than her “love” of Africans.

It is to Mphahlele’s credit that he could write such a believable account of a respectable housewife turning a hose on the police. In this portrait of a strictly hierarchical society, the characters are sympathetic and believable, and the most outrageous of social norms are deftly illustrated in incidents and details. In Apartheid South Africa, the almost comic image of Mrs. Plum soaking a couple of sputtering policemen represents something far more nefarious and far-reaching than a backyard dispute over a servant’s rights.

South Africa: A Traveler's Literary Companion

South Africa: A Traveler's Literary Companion

You’ll find the story “Mrs. Plum” in our collection, South Africa: A Traveler’s Literary Companion, edited by Isabel Balseiro and Tobias Hecht.

Paradise Lost in Southern France: Le Clezio’s “Villa Aurora”

Monday, April 27th, 2009

photo_mediterraneanvillaNobel Prize winner Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clezio celebrated his sixty-ninth birthday on April 13. In commemoration, we offer this post about one of his short stories.

When a place you’ve loved dearly in childhood changes irrevocably, can you bear to return there to live?

That’s the question the narrator of Le Clezio’s short story, “Villa Aurora,” must answer. This story, which appears in France: A Traveler’s Literary Companion, pays homage to the old, grand villas of Mediterranean France—villas whose lands, buildings, and picturesque charm are increasingly threatened by sprawling commercial and residential development.

Le Clezio’s story begins with the narrator recalling the seemingly timeless Villa Aurora in whose gardens he used to play as a boy:

Aurora had stood, for all time, up there on the hilltop, half lost in the lush tangle of plants, yet still visible between the trunks of latania and palms, a great, white, cloud-covered palace quivering in the leafy shadows. It was called Villa Aurora even though no name had ever been inscribed on the pillars of the gateway, only a number engraved on a marble plaque that had worn away long before I could even remember it. Perhaps it had been given the name precisely because of its cloudlike color, so like the faint, iridescent hue of sky at dawn’s first break.

The villa is high, remote, and enshrouded by mists, much like the abode of the old Greek gods. The ancient, otherworldly character of the villa is reinforced by the worn away street number and the likeness of its color to dawn. We’ll soon learn that the villa includes within its walled garden a small stucco temple inscribed with the Greek word for “heaven.”

Aside from the myriad cats roaming its gardens, the villa has a single inhabitant: the lady of Villa Aurora. Like her ethereal home, she is difficult to pin down. At the beginning of the story, the narrator’s recollections of her are “blurred, elusive, barely perceptible.”

As a boy, the narrator used to sneak into the villa’s garden through a breach in its wall. There he and his friends would explore, play hide-and-seek, and relax.

The days were long and bright back then in the garden of Villa Aurora; there was nothing else of any interest in the town or the streets or the hills or even the sea, which we could glimpse off in the distance between the trees and the palms.

But the narrator grows up, and he no longer visits the villa. He even comes to forget about it, cutting himself off, he says, from the “heaven” promised by the temple’s inscription.

Years later, just before exams, he returns to his home town and the environs of the villa. In this part of the story, Le Clezio paints a vivid picture of a new French Mediterranean landscape: a paved, almost savage terrain crowded by the elevated freeways and high-rises.

Everywhere up on top of the hill were gutted gardens, ruins, gaping wounds dug into the earth. At the building sites, tall, threatening cranes loomed motionless, and trucks had left muddy tracks on the pavement. The buildings hadn’t finish sprouting up yet. They were still growing larger, biting into the old walls, scraping the earth, unfolding sheets of asphalt, dazzling concrete grounds at their feet.

Soon the narrator comes upon the villa itself:

All of a sudden, I saw it. I hadn’t recognized it because it was below the level of the circular highway, so crunched down under its supporting wall in the crook of the curve that I saw only its terrace roof and its chimneys. . . . I’d never seen it up so closely before, and most of all, I’d never imagined what it might look like seen from above, as if from a bridge. Then it struck me as looking sad, gray, forlorn, with its high, close-shuttered windows and the plaster stained with rust and soot, the stucco eaten away with old age and misfortune. It had lost that faint pearly color that had once made it seem ethereal when I spied on it from between the low laurel branches. It had lost its color of dawn.

The villa, which once surmounted the hilltop, is now itself surmounted by a freeway and high-rises. Modern development is strangling the quaint, lush world of Villa Aurora.

The narrator discovers the name of the villa’s inhabitant: Marie Doucet. She still lives in the villa, and a year later she posts an ad, seeking a student “to look after the house and protect it.” The narrator finds this opportunity irresistible. He applies for the job. After decades of admiring the villa from the outside, he at last enters the villa itself and meets Mme Doucet.

The question in the story then becomes, can he bear to take the job and live in what remains of Villa Aurora? Can he stand to live in a place cherished in childhood but now utterly transformed and under siege, caught in the crook of the highway’s curve?

He cannot. He flees, abandoning Mme. Doucet, who remains in her home like a creature fixed in amber.

I don’t know how I ended up leaving there. I think I must have slipped away like a coward, like a thief . . . The old lady was left alone in the middle of her big, forlorn house, alone in the large room with flaking plaster walls and amber-colored sunlight. I walked back down the street, down the avenues, toward the bottom of the hill. . . . As I went into the crowd of cars and trucks between the high walls of the buildings, I thought I could hear, off in the distance, the wild cries of the city’s thugs bringing down the roofs of Villa Aurora one after the other.

France: A Traveler's Literary Companion

France: A Traveler's Literary Companion

You’ll find the complete story of “Villa Aurora”—and many other wonderful French stories—in France: A Traveler’s Literary Companion.

Mediterranean villa photo by Villa Regina, Creative Commons license, some rights reserved.

Remembering John McGahern

Monday, March 30th, 2009

Today marks the third anniversary of the death of John McGahern (November 12, 1934 – March 30, 2006), one of Ireland’s greatest writers of the twentieth century. His novel, Amongst Women, which tells of the story of a domineering IRA veteran, was shortlisted for the Booker prize and won Ireland’s GPA Book Prize. McGahern himself was awarded Ireland’s AE Memorial Award and the Irish-American Foundation Award, among other prizes.

McGahern is rightly praised for the power of his descriptions, in particular his descriptions of characters trapped in bleak circumstances in rural Ireland. Through sonorous language and with painstaking detail, McGahern could summon the mood of a place and the daily routines that make up so much of life in a rural place. To get a sense of his style, consider this passage from the opening of his first novel, The Barracks.

The bright golds and scarlets of the religious pictures on the walls had faded, their glass glittered now in the sudden flashes of firelight, and as it deepened the dusk turned reddish from the Sacred Heart lamp that burned before the small wickerwork crib of Bethlehem on the mantlepiece. Only the cups and saucers laid ready on the table for their father’s tea were white and brilliant. The wind and rain rattling on the window-panes seemed to grow part of the spell of silence and increasing darkness, the spell of the long darning-needle flashing in the woman’s hand, and it was with a visible strain that the boy managed at last to break their fear of the coming night.

“Is it time to light the lamp yet, Elizabeth?” he asked. (The Barracks, p. 7, Penguin Books)

An almost identical description appears at the very end of the book. By then, the step-mother, Elizabeth, has passed away; the father, Ned Reegan, an Irish guard, has confronted his watchful boss, Quirke; and the children’s interest in preparing for darkness by lighting lamps and lowering blinds suggests the continuation of life, even quotidian life, after the death of the novel’s central figure.

Such repetition isn’t surprising in a long work like a novel. But it can be daring, even jarring, in a shorter work such as a nine-page story.

McGahern’s story, “The Stoat,” which appears in Ireland: A Traveler’s Literary Companion, begins with the narrator, a golfer, discovering a rabbit which has just been attacked by a stoat.

I was following a two iron I had just struck just short of the green when I heard the crying high in the rough grass above the fairway. The clubs rattled as I climbed towards the sound, but it did not cease, its pitch rising. The light of water from the inlet was blinding when I climbed out of the grass, and I did not see the rabbit at once, where it sat rigidly still on a bare patch of a loose sand, crying. I was standing over the rabbit when I saw the grey body of the stoat slithering away like a snake into the long grass.

The rabbit still did not move, but its crying ceased. I saw the wet slick of blood behind its ear, the blood pumping out on the sand. It did not stir when I stooped.

What follows is a graphic and gripping description of the injured rabbit and the rapacious pursuit by the stoat.

And then the story shifts to its main action, which concerns the narrator’s father, a fifty-year-old widower and schoolteacher, who has placed an ad in the paper, looking for a mate. A grim little comedy follows, and McGahern shows that his descriptive power works as well in miniature as it does in large.

Teacher, fifty-two. Seeks companionship. View marriage. “What do you think of it?” he asked.

“I think it’s fine.” Dismay cancelled a sudden wild impulse to roar with laughter.

“I’ll send it off, then, so.”

After about a month he showed me the response. A large pile of envelopes lay on his desk. I was amazed. I had no idea that so much unfulfilled longing wandered around in the world. Replies came from nurses, housekeepers, secretaries, childless widows, widows with small children, house owners, car owners, pensioners, teachers, civil servants, a policewoman, and a woman who had left at twenty years of age to work at Fords of Dagenham who wanted to come home. The postman inquired slyly if the school was seeking a new assistant, and the woman who ran the post office said in a faraway voice that if we were looking for a housekeeper she had a relative who might be interested.

(I love the detail of the woman in the post office remarking about her relative in “a faraway voice.” Perfect.)

Eventually, the father’s attentions focus on a Miss McCabe. The son accompanies the father to a meeting with Miss McCabe in the lobby of the Ormond Hotel.

She was small and frail and nervous, a nervousness that extended, I suspected, well beyond the awkwardness and unease of the whole contrived meeting. There was something about her—a waif-like sense of decency—that was at once appealing and troubling. Though old, she was like a girl in love, in love with being in love a whole life long without ever settling on any single demanding presence until this late backward glance fell on my bereft but seeking father.

Dinner follows, and a sort of unspoken engagement.

But a complication arises, and the story concludes with McGahern repeating word for word an earlier description of the stoat.

How he pulls this off, I’ll leave for you to discover. I’ll point out his daring. I’ll let you experience firsthand his deftness.

Photo of house and mountains in County Leitrim by dingbat2005, Creative Commons license, some rights reserved.