Possessing the Secret of Joy - Alice Walker [26]
Reluctantly, I refocus on the young woman giving testimony. I think of the meaning of the word “testimony.” Originally it named the custom of two men holding each other’s testicles in a gesture of trust, later to metamorphose into the handshake. I imagine the woman’s soft black hand cupping the young attorney’s balls, her shell-pink nails deep in the tangles of his pubic hair. What are we doing in this sweltering courtroom, she is saying, brushing the ebony tips of her breasts against his smooth, hairless chest, it’s actually a beautiful day outside. The attorney’s face has that curious look of concentration sexually aroused men have; he…But I must pay attention, I think, rotating my head slowly on my neck; if I am not careful, I will have a torrid romance going, and miss, as Olivia says, my own trial.
The woman says I bought the paper and a Magic Marker pen and sat down immediately to draw my signs.
What signs did you see the defendant draw? asks the prosecutor.
Only one, says she.
Would you be good enough to tell the court how you happened to read this sign, and also what was written on it?
She showed it to me, said the young woman.
She showed it to you?
Yes. She said to me: You are a young woman and your life is still before you. I am an old woman and my life is already over. All I am good for now is alerting you to disaster.
Here the young woman paused, as if the emotion of this experience had momentarily pierced her. She raised a palely painted nail to the corner of her eye.
Of course I didn’t understand, she said, as if to clear herself of any hint of collaboration.
Of course you did not, said the attorney. Please continue.
Well, said the young woman, she put down her bag, her suitcase, that is, and sat on it, over in a corner of the shop out of the way of traffic. Because it was rather early in the day, she was the only customer. She simply sat there and proceeded to make these signs.
And the one you saw? prompted the attorney.
The first one she drew, said the young woman. She held it out in front of her, gravely, and scanned it, then turned it toward me.
There was a silence.
I was surprised to read what it said. And of course I couldn’t understand what it meant.
Right, said the attorney, waiting.
“If you lie to yourself about your own pain, you will be killed by those who will claim you enjoyed it.” That is what the sign said; in big black letters. Said the young woman.
If you lie about your pain you will be killed, repeated the attorney.
To yourself, said the young woman. If you lie to yourself. This was obviously the part of the message that gripped her.
Yes, yes, said the attorney. And after she showed the sign to you, what did she do?
I believe she made several more. She explained to me that where she lived, in America, people make signs and buttons for everything they want to say, and no one ever arrests them for it. I warned her to be careful, said the young woman.
Why did you do that? asked the attorney, sharply. The young woman gave him a frightened look. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she replied. I don’t know, she said.
But of course she knew. Everyone in the room knew. Half the people in prison in Olinka were there for expressing their discontent with the present government. An audible groan escaped me. The judges glared.
I had felt happy sitting on my red Chinese pigskin suitcase in the corner of the shop. Scribbling my big letters as if I were a child. It had occurred to me on the plane that never would I be able to write a book about my life, nor even a pamphlet, but that write something I could and would. And when the plane touched down