The Sympathizer

I wept for myself then, and the tears under my blindfold had the unexpected benefit of clearing the dust from my mind’s eye, enough for me to realize that I was not blind. My mind’s eye could see, and what I saw was the crapulent major and Sonny, circling around me as I lay on my mattress. How did you end up here, with your best friend and blood brother overseeing your demise? said the crapulent major. Don’t you think your life would have taken a different course if you hadn’t killed me? Not to mention mine, said Sonny. Do you know Sofia still weeps for me? I’ve tried to visit her and put her at peace but she can’t see me. Whereas you, who I would rather not see at all, can see me all the time. But I have to say that seeing you like this does give me some pleasure. Justice exists after all! I wanted to reply to these accusations and tell them to wait for my friend the commissar to explain everything, but even in my head I was mute. All I could do was moan in protest, which only made them laugh. The crapulent major nudged my thigh with his foot and said, See where your plotting has led you now? He nudged me even harder, and I shuddered in protest. He kept nudging me with that foot, and I kept shuddering, until I realized it was not the crapulent major but someone I could not see pushing his heel against my leg. I felt the door clang shut again. Someone had entered without me knowing, or someone had been here the entire time and just left. How much time had passed? I couldn’t be certain. Had I fallen asleep? If I had, then several hours must have gone by, perhaps an entire day. That must be why I was hungry. Finally a part of me, my stomach, could be heard, groaning. The loudest voice in the world is the voice of one’s own tortured stomach. Even so, this voice was still a quiet one compared to the angry beast it could be. I was not starving, not yet. I was just famished, my body having completely digested the wood pigeon that was actually a rat. Were they not going to feed me? Why was this being done to me? What had I ever done to him?

I remembered this kind of hunger. I had experienced it so often in my youth, even when my mother served me three-quarters of a meal and saved only a quarter for herself. I’m not hungry, she said. When I was old enough to see that she was denying herself, I said, I’m not hungry, either, Mama. Our staring contest over the meager helpings led us to push them back and forth until her love for me overpowered mine for her, as always. Eating her portion, I swallowed not just the food but the salt and pepper of love and anger, spices stronger and harsher than the sugar of sympathy. Why were we hungry? my stomach cried. Even then I understood that if the rich could only spare all the hungry a bowl of rice, they would be less rich but they would not starve. If the solution was so simple, why was anyone hungry? Was it only a lack of sympathy? No, Man said. As he taught me in our study group, both the Bible and Das Kapital provided answers. Sympathy alone would never persuade the rich to share willingly and the powerful to give up power voluntarily. Revolution made those impossible things happen. Revolution would free us all, rich and poor . . . but by that Man meant freedom for classes and collectivities. He did not necessarily mean that individuals would be freed. No, many revolutionaries had died in prison, and that seemed more and more as if it would be my fate. But despite my sense of doom, as well as my sweat, my hunger, my love, and my rage, sleep almost overcame me. I was fading when that foot nudged me again, this time in the ribs. I shook my head and tried to turn onto my side, but my restraints would not let me. The foot nudged me once more. That foot! The demon would not let me rest. How I came to hate its horned toes scraping against my bare skin and pushing against my thigh, my hip, my shoulder, my forehead. The foot knew whenever I was on the verge of sleep, returning at exactly that moment to deny me even the slightest taste of what I needed so much. The monotony of darkness was challenging, and hunger was painful, but this constant wakefulness was even worse. How long had I been awake? How long had I been in what must be the examination room? When was he coming to explain everything to me? I could not tell. The only interruptions to mark the passage of time were that foot and the occasional touch of hands lifting my hood, loosening my gag, squirting water down my throat. I never got more than a word or two out before the gag was tightened again and the hood pulled down to my neck. Oh, let me sleep! I could touch its dark waters . . . and then that damned foot would nudge at me again.

The foot would keep me awake until I died. The foot was slowly, ever so slowly, killing me. The foot was judge, guard, and executioner. Oh, foot, have sympathy for me. Foot, whose whole life is one of being stood upon, of being made to walk the dirty earth, neglected by all above, you of all living things should understand how I feel. Foot, where would we, humanity, be without you? You delivered us from Africa to the rest of the world, and yet so little is said about you. Clearly you got a raw deal as compared with, say, the hand. If you let me live, I will dedicate words to you and make my readers realize your importance. Oh, foot! I beg of you, nudge me no more. Stop rubbing your calluses on my skin. Don’t scratch me with your sharp, uncut nails. Not that your calluses and nails are your fault. They are your negligent master’s fault. I confess that I am just as heedless in the care of my feet, your kin. But I promise if you just let me go to sleep, I will be a new man in regards to my own feet, to all feet! I will worship you, foot, as Jesus Christ did when he washed the feet of sinners and kissed them.