Authors: Jamaica Kincaid
Mr. Potter (2 page)
All turns in the road harbor death, thought Dr. Weizenger; any turn in the road might lead to death, thought Dr. Weizenger; but the roads to death so far had been accompanied by fog. “Radiant” and then “radiance,” thought Dr. Weizenger to himself, and he thought this so deeply that he did not know that the words had crossed his mind. But he was standing in the middle of that light coming from that sun that shone from the middle of that sky, so harshly and it was even so, the middle of the day. “Radiance” and then “radiant,” thought Dr. Weizenger, only he said these two words to himself in another language, not the English that Mr. Potter could understand but not read; he said these words in a language that Mr. Potter had never heard, and when Mr. Potter heard
Dr. Weizenger speak, he thought to himself that it was as if Dr. Weizenger came from some other form of humanity, people like thatâDr. Weizengerâcannot even speak properly, so said Mr. Potter to himself. And again, “Radiant” and “radiance,” thought Dr. Weizenger, the two words now spinning around in his head; he was thinking of how beautiful light of any kind was and how brightness was better than darkness, and how light itself was the cure for the dark, everything he knew had told him so, all the things he had abandoned had told him that the light was the enemy of the dark and all the things he had come to embrace had insisted that only the light was a prescription for the dark. “Radiant, so radiant,” said Dr. Weizenger loudly, but only he could hear himself say it; “and all the goodness in the world, and that goodness is small, and all the evil in the world, and that evil is enormous, is transformed by this radiance and the world then becomes, finally, not indifferent to good or evil, for one is embraced and the other is rejected, such is the power of this radiant light.” And Dr. Weizenger was saying all this to himself very loudly, so loudly and yet only he could hear himself say it. And Dr. Weizenger looked at Mr. Potter and Mr. Potter thought to himself, Now this man who cannot speak properly is angry with me, now he is pleased with me, now he is both at the same time.
Dr. Weizenger speak, he thought to himself that it was as if Dr. Weizenger came from some other form of humanity, people like thatâDr. Weizengerâcannot even speak properly, so said Mr. Potter to himself. And again, “Radiant” and “radiance,” thought Dr. Weizenger, the two words now spinning around in his head; he was thinking of how beautiful light of any kind was and how brightness was better than darkness, and how light itself was the cure for the dark, everything he knew had told him so, all the things he had abandoned had told him that the light was the enemy of the dark and all the things he had come to embrace had insisted that only the light was a prescription for the dark. “Radiant, so radiant,” said Dr. Weizenger loudly, but only he could hear himself say it; “and all the goodness in the world, and that goodness is small, and all the evil in the world, and that evil is enormous, is transformed by this radiance and the world then becomes, finally, not indifferent to good or evil, for one is embraced and the other is rejected, such is the power of this radiant light.” And Dr. Weizenger was saying all this to himself very loudly, so loudly and yet only he could hear himself say it. And Dr. Weizenger looked at Mr. Potter and Mr. Potter thought to himself, Now this man who cannot speak properly is angry with me, now he is pleased with me, now he is both at the same time.
And so Dr. Weizenger looked at Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter standing in the light of the sun, the sun eternally bright, the sun the very definition of light, the sunlight to which all light bowed, light that was itself and also a metaphor for all other aspiring forms of brightness. But the light in which Mr. Potter stood was not radiant, it was only the sun shining down in its usual way, a way familiar to Mr. Potter yet so unfamiliar and then so disappointing to Dr. Weizenger. And so May said, “Well!” and she meant by this that everything was in its place and so everything should then go ahead, proceed, for there were no impediments that her authority could not subdue, and she said “Well!” and “Well!” again. And Dr. Weizenger was thinking how beautiful light of any kind was, light that did not come from a furnace, a real furnace fed by the fuel of coal or human bodies; light, real light, with its opposite being darkness, real darkness, not a metaphor for the darkness from which Mr. Potter and his ancestors had come.
And the bright light, thought Mr. Potter, was far, far too much (but Mr. Potter's thoughts at that time were not separate from him, Mr. Potter's thoughts and himself were one), and he longed for some protection for his eyes, he longed for some protection for his entire being, but there was none that he had ever heard of. And Mr. Potter squeezed his high-set cheekbones and his low-set brows toward each other into that
thing called a squint, and he thought such a thing as a squint was unique to him; he did not know that other human beings might respond in that way to the harsh light cast by the sun; and all human beings might respond so, in just that way, to a surge of bright light: a squint might be a universal arrangement of human features in response to a certain kind of assault. How repulsive is this man, thought Dr. Weizenger; how ugly is his face, thought his wife May. “It might rain soon,” said Dr. Weizenger; “It will most certainly rain soon,” said Mrs. May Weizenger. No rain will come ('E no rain you know), thought Mr. Potter to himself, but his thoughts were then not spoken out loud and his thoughts were then not separated from himself, his thoughts and himself then, were one.
thing called a squint, and he thought such a thing as a squint was unique to him; he did not know that other human beings might respond in that way to the harsh light cast by the sun; and all human beings might respond so, in just that way, to a surge of bright light: a squint might be a universal arrangement of human features in response to a certain kind of assault. How repulsive is this man, thought Dr. Weizenger; how ugly is his face, thought his wife May. “It might rain soon,” said Dr. Weizenger; “It will most certainly rain soon,” said Mrs. May Weizenger. No rain will come ('E no rain you know), thought Mr. Potter to himself, but his thoughts were then not spoken out loud and his thoughts were then not separated from himself, his thoughts and himself then, were one.
And as Dr. Weizenger stood on the threshold of the house, his house, on the island of Antigua, the sun was shining and his wife, her name: May Weizenger (now it was Weizenger, but before it could have been Smith or Locke, something like that would do), was standing next to him and he wanted to go through the door and so he did, he stepped over the threshold and he remained just as he had been, the same man who had come from Prague and all the things attached to that, his escape from death, his expulsion from his paradise, his journeys to places with those awful names that he had only known on a map, and now to Mr. Potter and the place which had
made Mr. Potter what he was and what he would be, and all of it so without importance, Dr. Weizenger had never even seen it on a map, for no mapmaker yet knew of Mr. Potter and where he came from and what had made him. And Mr. Potter went into Dr. Weizenger's house also and opened all the windows and he showed Dr. Weizenger and his wife May how the windows could be made to do that, open and shut, with their bars turned this way and then that, and Dr. Weizenger was surprised at the very scrupulous simplicity of the working of the windows and immediately dismissed that such beauty, the clean and clear motion of windows opening and then being shut, could have anything to do with Mr. Potter and he wished Mr. Potter would just go away, but Mr. Potter knew very well the person who had made the windows, in some roundabout way they were related; Dr. Weizenger could not have known that and Dr. Weizenger just then did not want to know it, and then again, why should he?
made Mr. Potter what he was and what he would be, and all of it so without importance, Dr. Weizenger had never even seen it on a map, for no mapmaker yet knew of Mr. Potter and where he came from and what had made him. And Mr. Potter went into Dr. Weizenger's house also and opened all the windows and he showed Dr. Weizenger and his wife May how the windows could be made to do that, open and shut, with their bars turned this way and then that, and Dr. Weizenger was surprised at the very scrupulous simplicity of the working of the windows and immediately dismissed that such beauty, the clean and clear motion of windows opening and then being shut, could have anything to do with Mr. Potter and he wished Mr. Potter would just go away, but Mr. Potter knew very well the person who had made the windows, in some roundabout way they were related; Dr. Weizenger could not have known that and Dr. Weizenger just then did not want to know it, and then again, why should he?
But that opening of all the windows by Mr. Potter, why that? Mr. Potter had entered the house and moved about, entering room by room, and opened all the windows; there were twenty windows all in all but the numbers were not of interest to Mr. Potter and Dr. Weizenger was so suffused with sensation that such a number of windows had no meaning to him then (but only just then, at another time this might not be so,
but who knew, another time might come again and then again, perhaps not). And Mr. Potter opened the rooms as if he had authority over not the rooms themselves and not the windows themselves, but as if he had authority over the space outside the rooms, the space beyond the windows. The space beyond the windows was the very air itself, empty of things that were made by human hands, but not empty of things that were the product of the human mind: there were trees, shrubs, herbs, and other annoyances of the vegetable kingdom; there were animals and birds and other annoyances of the animal kingdom; there was emptiness waiting to be filled up with what? with what? and with what again? But Mr. Potter, the entity that made up Mr. Potter, was nothing itself, nothing in the sense of something without worth, nothing in the way of a lighted matchstick when it is not needed, so Dr. Weizenger thought, and so too thought the rest of the world, the rest of the world who could have an idea in regard to anything and then launch that idea into the realm of the everyday.
but who knew, another time might come again and then again, perhaps not). And Mr. Potter opened the rooms as if he had authority over not the rooms themselves and not the windows themselves, but as if he had authority over the space outside the rooms, the space beyond the windows. The space beyond the windows was the very air itself, empty of things that were made by human hands, but not empty of things that were the product of the human mind: there were trees, shrubs, herbs, and other annoyances of the vegetable kingdom; there were animals and birds and other annoyances of the animal kingdom; there was emptiness waiting to be filled up with what? with what? and with what again? But Mr. Potter, the entity that made up Mr. Potter, was nothing itself, nothing in the sense of something without worth, nothing in the way of a lighted matchstick when it is not needed, so Dr. Weizenger thought, and so too thought the rest of the world, the rest of the world who could have an idea in regard to anything and then launch that idea into the realm of the everyday.
But that opening of all the windows by Mr. Potter made Mr. Potter look out at all the light outside, how it thrilled him ('E ah make me trimble up inside, 'e ah make me feel funny), for it was the light as he had always known it, so bright that it eventually made everything that came in contact with it transparent and then translucent, the light was spread before Mr.
Potter as if it were a sea of water, it covered and yet revealed all that it encompassed; the light was substance itself and the light gave substance to everything else: the trees became the trees but only more so, and the ground in which they anchored themselves remained the ground but only more so, and the sky above revealed more and more of the sky and into the heavens, into eternity, and then returned to the earth; and Mr. Potter thought, for he was lost in the light outside the window (but which window? For it could have been any of the twenty windows), he thought, but his thoughts then are lost now, his mind went blank and he existed not as a man who could cause pain and would cause pain, and not only as a victim of pain and injustice. And he saw the light outside making everything so transparent and then everything becoming translucent and Mr. Potter was happy, he swelled up with it, happiness, and I was not born yet, he had not yet abandoned my mother when I was seven months old in her womb, my mother had not yet taken all his savings, money he kept in the mattress of the bed they shared together, and run away from him; he could not read or write, he could not go to a bank, and my mother had taken all his savings meant for him to one day buy his own motorcar and carry his own passengers, and when she abandoned Mr. Potter and took all his savings, I was then seven months old in her womb. My mother's name was Annie. And because
Mr. Potter could neither read nor write, he could not understand himself, he could not make himself known to others, he did not know himself, not that such things would have brought him any amount of happiness. And because Mr. Potter could neither read nor write, he made someone who could do so, who could even love doing so, reading and writing. And as Mr. Potter stood before the window, seeing the world (for it was the world he was seeing) in that special light, in that special way, he did not think to himself, This is Happiness itself, This is as happy as I will ever be, This is as happy as anyone, any human being, will ever be; he did not think that at all, for he was not at that moment separated from himself, he and that particular sentiment and that particular moment were one: he was happy in that light and all the glory of the world could not exist without him.
Potter as if it were a sea of water, it covered and yet revealed all that it encompassed; the light was substance itself and the light gave substance to everything else: the trees became the trees but only more so, and the ground in which they anchored themselves remained the ground but only more so, and the sky above revealed more and more of the sky and into the heavens, into eternity, and then returned to the earth; and Mr. Potter thought, for he was lost in the light outside the window (but which window? For it could have been any of the twenty windows), he thought, but his thoughts then are lost now, his mind went blank and he existed not as a man who could cause pain and would cause pain, and not only as a victim of pain and injustice. And he saw the light outside making everything so transparent and then everything becoming translucent and Mr. Potter was happy, he swelled up with it, happiness, and I was not born yet, he had not yet abandoned my mother when I was seven months old in her womb, my mother had not yet taken all his savings, money he kept in the mattress of the bed they shared together, and run away from him; he could not read or write, he could not go to a bank, and my mother had taken all his savings meant for him to one day buy his own motorcar and carry his own passengers, and when she abandoned Mr. Potter and took all his savings, I was then seven months old in her womb. My mother's name was Annie. And because
Mr. Potter could neither read nor write, he could not understand himself, he could not make himself known to others, he did not know himself, not that such things would have brought him any amount of happiness. And because Mr. Potter could neither read nor write, he made someone who could do so, who could even love doing so, reading and writing. And as Mr. Potter stood before the window, seeing the world (for it was the world he was seeing) in that special light, in that special way, he did not think to himself, This is Happiness itself, This is as happy as I will ever be, This is as happy as anyone, any human being, will ever be; he did not think that at all, for he was not at that moment separated from himself, he and that particular sentiment and that particular moment were one: he was happy in that light and all the glory of the world could not exist without him.
And Mr. Potter stood before the window (it could have been any of the windows) and just for a moment he paused, and in that moment all of the world was revealed to him and he could see it clearly, the world, that is, the world and all that was in it and all that would be in it, but words just then failed him, for he could not read and he could not write and then he turned around to see Dr. Weizenger and his wife and made a gesture, he flung his arms out and away from his body, he flung his arms open wide and without hurry, as if to say, Here! All this in front of me is mine
and I want to share it with you, let us live in it together, but Mr. Potter could not read and Mr. Potter could not write and in any case Dr. Weizenger did not want to share anything with him; Dr. Weizenger, so recently placed on the very edge of extinction, did not want to share anything with Mr. Potter, a man so long alive in a cauldron of terror. “What is your name?” asked Dr. Weizenger, “What do they call you?” asked Dr. Weizenger, and just at that moment Mrs. Weizenger, Dr. Weizenger's wife and also his nurse, said “Zoltan,” she was calling out her own husband's name, “Zoltan,” she said, and Dr. Weizenger turned away from Mr. Potter and looked toward his wife and Mr. Potter supposed that he saw her, he was looking at her, he was looking in that direction over there where she stood, and what was her name, thought Mr. Potter suddenly, as if it would matter, as if knowing her name, the one that was not Mrs. Weizenger, would ever matter to him. And when Dr. Weizenger looked at his wife (her name was May, that was the name Mr. Potter wondered about), something passed between them, words perhaps, a meaningful silence perhaps; it was words but they spoke in a language that Mr. Potter did not understand, it was English but Mr. Potter did not understand it, and that exchange between Dr. Weizenger and his wife ended and he, Dr. Weizenger, now turned again to Mr. Potter, resuming his interrogation, but silently now, he picked up where he had
left off, as if nothing had come between them, not silence, not its opposite, and Mr. Potter said, “Me name Potter, Potter me name,” and the sound of Mr. Potter's voice, so full of all that had gone wrong in the world for almost five hundred years that it could break the heart of an ordinary stone, meant not a thing to Dr. Weizenger, for he had been only recently inhabiting the world as if it were composed only of extinction, as if it were devoted to his very own extinction. And Dr. Weizenger was of the mammal species, not reptile or amphibian or insect or bird, but of the mammals, and so used to observing, not being observed, and so used to acting, not being acted upon. And his own extinction had almost succeeded and how surprised he was by this, and how surprised he would remain for the rest of his life, as if such a thing had never happened before, as if groups of people, one day intact and building civilization and dominating heaven and earth, had not the next found themselves erased and not even been remembered in a prayer or in a joke by the rest of humanity; as if groups of people had not been erased from the beginning of life and human memory. And the sound of Mr. Potter's voice as he spoke his own name, giving his own name the character of a caress (or so Dr. Weizenger thought), made Dr. Weizenger furious, angry, and how he hated Mr. Potter then, Mr. Potter whom history had made into nothing, a thing of no spiritual value, nothing had the luxury
of self-love, and Dr. Weizenger could hear it in his voice, “Me name Potter, Potter me name.” Those were the words that were spoken, but the sound of Mr. Potter's voice, so full of love for himself, so full of certainty that his name and he were one, made Dr. Weizenger just then want to shut off Mr. Potter's ability to take in oxygen, he wanted to silence Mr. Potter forever, or certainly just now, but all of this murderous rage was distilled into commands: where to place the suitcases, when to come again and carry them for a ride to some destination or other in Mr. Shoul's car. And Mr. Potter and Dr. Weizenger were standing face-to-face and Dr. Weizenger and Mr. Potter were standing opposite each other, and memory, which is to say, history, that frail recollection, that unreliable gathering of all that has happened, did not abandon them: Mr. Potter took off his hat (it was a cap worn by children, schoolboys, in England) and held it in his hand with his head bowed low, his head had come to a rest on his chest, and he looked at the ground in front of him as it lay at his feet, the floor it was and it was made of pitch pine and he did not wonder who made pitch pine and Mr. Potter did not wonder who had made such an idea as pitch pine possible and then turned it into floors and then tables and chairs, and who made anything valuable. Mr. Potter did not think of any of that, his eyes were cast down on the floor (made of pitch pine) and the floor became a relief, for
the floor was nothing, just itself, a floor, a man-made barrier against the shifting disorder of the earth; how Mr. Potter loved the floor just then, just at that moment when he was standing in front of Dr. Weizenger and the views and the light just outside the window (or the windows, as it may be) were now behind him. And when Mr. Potter said to Dr. Weizenger his name, he did not long to know of all the Potters that he came from and how it came to be so that he came from them, he did not seek to interrogate the past to give meaning to the present and the future, he only said his name as if he had been asked to state the shape of the earth or the color of the sky, he said his name with the certainty natural to all true things. And as Mr. Potter stood face-to-face with Dr. Weizenger and as Mr. Potter stood before Dr. Weizenger and heard all Dr. Weizenger's commands in regard to the this (the suitcases) and the that (taking Dr. and Mrs. Weizenger here and there), his mind, his conscious thinking, roused itself from the satisfaction of hearing the music of his own voice saying his own name, and now he suddenly disliked the way Dr. Weizenger spoke English, for the English language did not skip off Dr. Weizenger's tongue as if glad to do so, it did not dance out of his mouth calmly, so sure of itself; Dr. Weizenger did not speak the English language as if he, Dr. Weizenger, and the English language were one seamless, inviolable whole: âE make pappy show o'
'eself, is what Mr. Potter thought when he heard Dr. Weizenger talk then, that time when Dr. Weizenger had just arrived, so new to the new place that was very old to Mr. Potter, so new to the place that Mr. Potter knew very well, inside out or almost so, inside out.
and I want to share it with you, let us live in it together, but Mr. Potter could not read and Mr. Potter could not write and in any case Dr. Weizenger did not want to share anything with him; Dr. Weizenger, so recently placed on the very edge of extinction, did not want to share anything with Mr. Potter, a man so long alive in a cauldron of terror. “What is your name?” asked Dr. Weizenger, “What do they call you?” asked Dr. Weizenger, and just at that moment Mrs. Weizenger, Dr. Weizenger's wife and also his nurse, said “Zoltan,” she was calling out her own husband's name, “Zoltan,” she said, and Dr. Weizenger turned away from Mr. Potter and looked toward his wife and Mr. Potter supposed that he saw her, he was looking at her, he was looking in that direction over there where she stood, and what was her name, thought Mr. Potter suddenly, as if it would matter, as if knowing her name, the one that was not Mrs. Weizenger, would ever matter to him. And when Dr. Weizenger looked at his wife (her name was May, that was the name Mr. Potter wondered about), something passed between them, words perhaps, a meaningful silence perhaps; it was words but they spoke in a language that Mr. Potter did not understand, it was English but Mr. Potter did not understand it, and that exchange between Dr. Weizenger and his wife ended and he, Dr. Weizenger, now turned again to Mr. Potter, resuming his interrogation, but silently now, he picked up where he had
left off, as if nothing had come between them, not silence, not its opposite, and Mr. Potter said, “Me name Potter, Potter me name,” and the sound of Mr. Potter's voice, so full of all that had gone wrong in the world for almost five hundred years that it could break the heart of an ordinary stone, meant not a thing to Dr. Weizenger, for he had been only recently inhabiting the world as if it were composed only of extinction, as if it were devoted to his very own extinction. And Dr. Weizenger was of the mammal species, not reptile or amphibian or insect or bird, but of the mammals, and so used to observing, not being observed, and so used to acting, not being acted upon. And his own extinction had almost succeeded and how surprised he was by this, and how surprised he would remain for the rest of his life, as if such a thing had never happened before, as if groups of people, one day intact and building civilization and dominating heaven and earth, had not the next found themselves erased and not even been remembered in a prayer or in a joke by the rest of humanity; as if groups of people had not been erased from the beginning of life and human memory. And the sound of Mr. Potter's voice as he spoke his own name, giving his own name the character of a caress (or so Dr. Weizenger thought), made Dr. Weizenger furious, angry, and how he hated Mr. Potter then, Mr. Potter whom history had made into nothing, a thing of no spiritual value, nothing had the luxury
of self-love, and Dr. Weizenger could hear it in his voice, “Me name Potter, Potter me name.” Those were the words that were spoken, but the sound of Mr. Potter's voice, so full of love for himself, so full of certainty that his name and he were one, made Dr. Weizenger just then want to shut off Mr. Potter's ability to take in oxygen, he wanted to silence Mr. Potter forever, or certainly just now, but all of this murderous rage was distilled into commands: where to place the suitcases, when to come again and carry them for a ride to some destination or other in Mr. Shoul's car. And Mr. Potter and Dr. Weizenger were standing face-to-face and Dr. Weizenger and Mr. Potter were standing opposite each other, and memory, which is to say, history, that frail recollection, that unreliable gathering of all that has happened, did not abandon them: Mr. Potter took off his hat (it was a cap worn by children, schoolboys, in England) and held it in his hand with his head bowed low, his head had come to a rest on his chest, and he looked at the ground in front of him as it lay at his feet, the floor it was and it was made of pitch pine and he did not wonder who made pitch pine and Mr. Potter did not wonder who had made such an idea as pitch pine possible and then turned it into floors and then tables and chairs, and who made anything valuable. Mr. Potter did not think of any of that, his eyes were cast down on the floor (made of pitch pine) and the floor became a relief, for
the floor was nothing, just itself, a floor, a man-made barrier against the shifting disorder of the earth; how Mr. Potter loved the floor just then, just at that moment when he was standing in front of Dr. Weizenger and the views and the light just outside the window (or the windows, as it may be) were now behind him. And when Mr. Potter said to Dr. Weizenger his name, he did not long to know of all the Potters that he came from and how it came to be so that he came from them, he did not seek to interrogate the past to give meaning to the present and the future, he only said his name as if he had been asked to state the shape of the earth or the color of the sky, he said his name with the certainty natural to all true things. And as Mr. Potter stood face-to-face with Dr. Weizenger and as Mr. Potter stood before Dr. Weizenger and heard all Dr. Weizenger's commands in regard to the this (the suitcases) and the that (taking Dr. and Mrs. Weizenger here and there), his mind, his conscious thinking, roused itself from the satisfaction of hearing the music of his own voice saying his own name, and now he suddenly disliked the way Dr. Weizenger spoke English, for the English language did not skip off Dr. Weizenger's tongue as if glad to do so, it did not dance out of his mouth calmly, so sure of itself; Dr. Weizenger did not speak the English language as if he, Dr. Weizenger, and the English language were one seamless, inviolable whole: âE make pappy show o'
'eself, is what Mr. Potter thought when he heard Dr. Weizenger talk then, that time when Dr. Weizenger had just arrived, so new to the new place that was very old to Mr. Potter, so new to the place that Mr. Potter knew very well, inside out or almost so, inside out.
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