He offers his hand, staring at it as I allow it to hang in space between us. I could let it be, wondering whether he will retract it with a measure of disappointment or with disdain. I could ignore it and teach him a lesson. But what lesson? Do I teach him that he represents power and that offering his hand in friendship reflects his power and undermines my own? Do I teach him there is no bridge between what he represents and what I stand for? But what of us as men?
I take his hand. His grasp is sincere and firm. The pressure, the connection fills me. So simple, yet there it is. I study the connection and revel in it. It is an interpretation, a matter of the heart whether I have taken his hand or accepted it.
“…a revolutionary is always willing to be audacious,” I begin, finding Huey Newton’s words, “to take great risks-to dare to struggle, dare to win.”
“You’ve dared.”
“I continue to dare.”
“Even in the face of certain defeat?” he asks.
“I am one man,” I reply. “A man alone is always defeated. Then again, a man alone has nothing to lose but his dignity, and I will defend that to the last.”
He smiles, almost sadly. “You were marked from the start.”
I ponder the words a few moments and nod slowly. “How much longer do I have?”
His head snaps sharply. I avoid his eyes. The man from the corporation leans closer.
“You have some plan. You will try to escape, won't you?”
I shake my head. “I've come too far to divulge my intentions so easily.”
He laughs out loud. “But you have! You've revealed everything!”
“Think what you want.” He knows, and it infuriates me. I look away.
“Section 21 will come for you tomorrow morning. They will take you straight to court. There will be a pronouncement of guilt and then sentencing.”
“What sentence?” I ask calmly, though I fear my heart may burst at any moment.
“The only one that can be pronounced.”
My head and heart sink. What is at the end of all hope? When precisely is that realization? Certainly it is not a repose for the dead. It must be the when nothing more can be done, or with the besieging of sanity. Perhaps I am an island, and hopelessness is the ocean. The ocean swells now over my shores. But if the ocean is hopelessness, then the breath in my lungs, the swelling of my heart is a boat, and a small chance for escape.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he says with a deep sadness. It is something I have not seen in him before. “It should be comforting to know your fate so fully. Mine is not so easy.”
“No?”
“I’m dying,” he says, quite by surprise. “Cancer.”
“Cancer?” I repeat quietly. He laughs, more to himself.
“A genetic disorder. Isn’t that funny?”
“So what of your line?”
“Oh, I have been cloned. He’s a bright young boy, with a future I can only dream of.”
I stand and look down upon him. His eyes are soft blue pools that threaten to burst and rush over his tightening cheeks. It makes me terribly sad. Not for me but for him. This time my hand extends first. He takes and holds it tightly. He lays the other hand over them. His eyes are there for the longest time.
“Then I suppose this is goodbye,” I say.
“Is it a curse or a blessing that we believe our lives must account for something?” he says. “All this was created not by one for one, but by many for many. When the cell asserts itself against the body we call that cancer and cut it away.”
“And do you believe yourself a cancer?” I ask.
“Is that a flaw?’
“It may well be a burden.”
“Isn’t that the same?”
I let his hand fall, and embrace his eyes with mine. With that I smile triumphantly.
“Only for you,” I say. “And only for the Corporation.”
He nods thoughtfully and stands.
“Come,” he says, “I’ll see you home. Not so eager to say goodbye just yet.”
“You’ll forgive me,” I tell him, brushing my finger tips along his sleeve, “but I am.”
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment