Far Afield

XXVI

175 XXVI Much, much later—well into the small hours of the next day—I found myself stumbling around the dark back garden of Trevor’s house with mud on my shoes and a tall sweet drink in my hand. Inside there was still much celebrating (it began at sundown and reached a crescendo when Trevor was released from jail shortly after), and I had joined too strongly in the spirit. I’d begun the night drinking whiskey, then switched to champagne, and now was finishing up with tumblers of rum and cola. Yet it was not from joy that I was indulging but from something else, a curious mix of emotions that I still cannot sum up. In an interview with Sono (for she was still working and needed my words for her story), I tried to summarize this strange boil of feeling but the alcohol interfered and I think I simply babbled to her. At any rate, it was easier to lose oneself in the overall primary emotion of the evening and eventually, that’s what I decided to do. For the day’s mandate, though slight, was clear. By a shade of more than one thousand votes, Trevor had been elected president of the Greater Momo-Jiman Republic for the next three years. The results were not yet official but both Van Gland and Stanley had publicly conceded and Trevor had stepped up to claim his victory. Thus by this small margin of individuals a much larger number of people here and worldwide were to be affected, perhaps adversely. That it is a cliché does not detract from its truthfulness: the direc- 176 Far Afield tion of history often swerves on the pettiest of efforts, and I now included mine in consideration of this particular example. I was engrossed in this thought and others like it when I turned the corner, tottered along a path of hedgerows and suddenly came face to face with the president-elect. Trevor had one hand against the trunk of a sturdy tree and was preparing to urinate on it. “The bathroom inside is all full up,” he said with some irritation. “I cannot get close to it. In my own house. On the night I am elected president.” He grumbled some more, then unzipped himself and unselfconsciously began to wet the ground in front of him. “There are a lot of supporters here for you,” I replied mildly. “Some of them are quite excited.” Frankly, I did not want to watch him pee but the soft night air and my own drunkenness served to fix me into place. So instead I looked away from the earth. Upwards towards the sky that tonight showed banks of black-gray clouds and the occasional star. Its night color suddenly reminded me of the small church I had run into earlier that day and the prayers I’d heard for an unknown woman’s gall bladder. Already, that seemed like a different existence. “This is a fumei tree,” Trevor said gravely, now also staring fixedly into space as he pissed furiously on the tree’s roots. He reached out to pat it with his free hand. “A symbol of our native land.” His voice was meant to sound authoritative but I knew no such thing. It was just an old oak, like the dozens that filled my neighborhood in Los Angeles (back home!) and the thousands more I had seen in my life. And as trees went I did not care for it too much. It had an almost willful presence in the face of the many types of climate and terrain in which it was planted; to me, it seemed to place too much of an indiscriminate premium on survival. Nevertheless , concerning its identity I let Trevor have his way. “In many ways, this tree represents all the hopes and wishes of my people, as well as the dreams I have for them,” he continued. “It is a rugged tree, yet beautiful in its way. Its roots are tangled and deep but its limbs stretch high. And though it provides no fruit, the stuff of its core, its bark, is prized in and of itself. We have no national tree so maybe I should make it this one. What do you think?” Scott Brown 177 “You’ll likely have a lot to occupy you at first,” I agreed. “Maybe it would be...