New Literature: re-writing Robinson Crusoe

AUT University

BA English Studies


New Literature 167102

Assignment Two: Short Fiction,
(Re-write of the novel Robinson Crusoe)

“The Truth of Black”


PART ONE

“What is life? Why do we live?
Where do we come from?
Are some people gifted with
Missions by our father and
some not?”

I struggled to think of what to write next. I closed my diary and put it down on the nicely polished table with the pen. I was sitting in my sofa with a tea cup on my hand. As I had a sip of the tea, I looked out the window and saw my Uncle’s car stopping just outside my house. I sighed.
“Uncle John again…”
I heard the bell rang and heard one of our maids running towards the front door to welcome this familiar visitor. The door flung open and I heard his usual loud voice.
“Robinson!! Is Robinson around!?”
I saw Robinson walking towards the front door, passing the door of living room where I sat.
“John! Come in! I got to tell you about this idea for my next novel!”, Robinson said, excitedly.
Within a seconds, I saw Robinson walking past me again with Uncle John following him. I listened to them entering my husband’s office, closing the door after him.
“Oh, hello, Uncle John. How are you? Oh, did you know that I lived here?’, I whispered bitterly, face smiling pathetically. It seems like he doesn’t notice my existence anymore. He is too busy chatting to Robinson about the next novel. The door of the office is kept closed at all time during my uncle’s visit. All I hear about these days is the success of my husband’s venture to this silly island and his first novel, Robinson Crusoe. It all started when he returned to England from the island with a black slave and full of righteous stories.”
“Oh, this arranged marriage was a mistake.”, I whispered.
All I have gained is the wealth, fame and the continuous visits of my uncle. He helped Robinson to publish his first novel who talks about nothing else but the venture.
And all the women!! Why do they all envy me? Do they think I am such a lucky woman who is his wife? What makes it so special to be
a wife of a writer who never love me?”, I signed. I thought of my children. I have threes precious children who love me and keep me busy. Without them, what would I be like? I will be nobody. Still, I must mention that I just have had enough of receiving stupid fan letters and seeing my husband come home late every night. All the women must be keeping him busy. What can this thirty-two year old wife do? Not much really, apart from ignoring my husband’s love affairs by focusing on the teaching at Kingston College.
I sipped the tea again and gazed out the window where I spotted nothing but the bright blue sky.
“Is there any purpose of my life and if so, where does it lead me to?”, questions stirring in my head. I imagined myself as a little blue bird, flying off this place into the empty sky. I often call this place the prison with a look of luxury hotel. The clock went. It was 12 p.m. I had to go to school to finish off marking my students assignments. I stood up and shook my head, trying to switch my mind from day dreaming to reality. I took my spring coat and a hat that I bought just the other day as walked out the front door to the bright day light.

The sunshine was particularly strong after the storm that we had last night. I could smell the wet soil and saw the trees glittering in joy with the rain we had last night. When I go outside in a day like this, I realise how dark my house is inside.
“Prison”, I mumbled as I cruised towards my school. School is just around the corner but I must go passed this old bookshop, the old bridge called Manhill Bridge and a bakery. I go there at least three times a week to get their freshly baked date’s scone. It was when I was passing the bridge, I spotted this crude oil painting of my husband with a necklace around his neck. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the one I gave him the Christmas before he left to his venture. I was sure that he didn’t mention about it in his first novel. I stared down at this black African painter who was lying on the ground, covered with the newspapers. I could tell he was an African man because he had no shoes and I saw his black feet pocking out of newspapers. I wondered how long he has been living here, trying to sell his art works day after day. I looked at other paintings of him, wondering how he got to know about the necklace. Then, I spotted another canvas which was painted only with a blue paint. It could’ve been a boring painting of the sky or the sea, I don’t know. Another canvas I saw at the back was of a red large bird that I have never seen before. Maybe it’s from Africa. I looked at the man’s face, totally confused. Who on earth would purchase these oil paintings? After staring down at him and his art works for a few minutes, he suddenly moved and sat up, trying to block the bright sun light from his face. He caught my eyes and stared at me for a few seconds, then quickly reached to his bag and got out what it looked like a sketch book. He sat up straight and started to draw. I could tell that he was drawing me because he was staring at me and his book back and forth.
“How did you know about his necklace?”, I asked. But he did not reply.
He stopped drawing, then smiled at me and continued to draw again.
“Poor thing. He must be a bit mental”, I thought.
“I haven’t got any money for you”, I told the man. But he still remained silence.
“I can’t stay here for long, you know. I have to go to work”. I received no reply. I signed. I gave him a penny and left the bridge.
That night, I wrote about this mysterious man in my diary. I didn’t know his name so I called him Mr Manhill, after the name of the bridge. I wondered how he got to know about Robinson’s necklace.
“I must ask his name tomorrow”, I told myself. I closed the diary and turned the bedside light off.

*

Next morning, I saw Mr Manhill lying on the same spot as I saw yesterday. When I was walking passed him, he spotted me, then got up and waved at me, asking to come closer.
“What a strange man”, I told myself.
But he seemed to be harmless to me. I walked towards him. I noticed he was holding up his sketch book. I went closer to see his drawing. There was a picture of a woman in the dress I was wearing yesterday. It must have been me. I wasn’t smiling but looked very beautiful. This made me smile.
“Thank you. I really like it. How much is the drawing?” But again, I had no reply. Instead, he turned over the page and started to draw again, looking back and forth between me and the sketch book. How he drew was quite different to how I do. I usually want the model to stay still while drawing but he used gestures and told me to walk around while he sketched me. So I did. I walked around the bridge, looking at his art works. There were around thirty-three of them and all of them looked like if they were painted by children. He seemed to have no education in art what so ever.
“But that’s what I like about paintings.” I mumbled.
“I love my job”, I told myself.
I get to see students’ paintings everyday. All of them are unique and excellent in different ways. Thomas likes to paint objects like fruits or people exactly as he sees. Kate and Michael are different. They like to draw without models and express their thoughts and feelings on their canvases. With art, no such ways of painting are right or wrong and everyone has their own way of putting life into their canvases.
After a few minutes, I saw him waving at me, smiling like my students wanting to show off his work. I smiled back and went to see his drawing. The drawing had me looking at one of his canvases, smiling. His drawing is quite simple but he got the basics right. He got my face structure well drawn, same as my hands. I looked at him who was now smiling at me.
“Thank you, again. Nice drawing. My name is Catherine by the way. Catherine Crusoe. I forgot to ask your name yesterday.” I put my hand out to shake his hand. For a moment, he stopped, completely. Looking completely astonished. It is after all, strange for a white woman to introduce her self to a black man. Then he grabbed my hand and shook tightly. For the first time, he spoke.
“Friday”.
I was taken back with this word. I looked at him, very suspicious.
“He probably heard about the novel and pretending to be Friday as a joke”, I told myself. I laughed and shook my head, denying to believe it.
The man looked more confused. “Friday”, he repeated.
I remembered about the paint of Robinson’s necklace. And the red bird. Is that from the island too?
“It all makes sense”, I mumbled as I looked at his face closer, still suspicious.
“Are you really? I mean, are you Friday from my husband’s novel? But my husband taught you English. Didn’t he? Have you forgotten how to speak English?”
He didn’t say anything. He seemed not to understand what I was saying. He still had a look of puzzle and confusion.
After a few attempts of trying to get Friday to speak English, I realised that he only knew how to say his name. The name Robinson gave him. But why? Then I clicked and looked at Friday’s face in horror.
“Did my husband lie about educating you in Christianity and teaching you English? Did he use you to become famous? Did he treat you like a slave and not a friend?”
I slowly sat down on the ground, completely shocked about what my husband has done. For a while, I couldn’t bare look at or talk to Friday as I was so disgusted with the truth and embarrassed of being a white person.
“How selfish… How dear him do such a thing…” I mumbled, my voice was now shaking in anger. I felt Friday’s hand on my shoulder. He was trying to calm me down. I took his hand and stood up. His hand was as rough as rocks, covered in dust and dirt. I noticed a few holes in his shirt. Same with his trousers. He had no shoes and how feet looked pretty dirty too. Suddenly, I felt my responsibility for Friday, not only because the heartless man happened to be my husband, but as a white person. While Robinson made his fame and wealth, Friday got nothing. He was used and now chucked away. I felt my eyes turning hot and felt the tears run down my cheeks. It tasted really salty, just like a sea water. I had to stay strong.
“You need a good wash”, I told Friday, as I wiped off my face.
“Come. I will get you cleaned up and you need to eat something too”. I smiled and gestured him to pack his bag. He hesitated a little but nodded in the end. Within three minutes, we left the bridge and headed to my school. I wasn’t sure where I was going to get him cleaned. We walked narrow streets where not many people walked pass. Many people were staring at us. No white woman walks with a black man. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was not to be seem by people from the publishing company or worse, caught by my husband or uncle.

*

We managed to arrive at the school safely. When we got to the art classroom, I got the key out of my bag and opened the door. I gestured Friday to go inside. So he did. The classroom looked exactly the same as how I left it yesterday. I could still smell the paint. I grabbed his arm and took him to the basin where I found a cloth and the sink. I poured some cold water and hot water into a bucket and gestured him to take his cloth off and clean himself with the cloth. He nodded and I closed the door behind as I left the basin. I walked across the room and sat down on my desk, looking down at students’ assignments. I signed and whispered, “Thank god we weren’t caught. What do I do now? What does he need?”.

I stood up and left the classroom to go to the closest dairy where I picked up some sandwiches and pies. When I came back, Friday was fully dressed and was now walking around the classroom, looking at my students’ art works hanging on the wall. Students’ desks looked smaller beside Friday’s big body. His body are cleaned and he looked so much like ahuman being. He was smiling and it explained everything, I thought. Even he didn’t say a word, I could tell that he was grateful of what I have done for him. I gave him two sandwiches which he didn’t take very long to finish it. When he finished them, he looked even happier than ever. I slowly sat down on my desk, thinking what I’m going to do with him.
“I brought him here to keep him safe but for how long?”, I told myself.
I stared at this poor man who is now pointing at drawings on the wall, whispering something. I was the only art teacher at this school and I knew that this classroom is used only on Monday, Tuesday and Friday. So Friday has to hide during the day from Monday to Friday but he can come out from the basin during the night and weekends. But he must always be quiet. Otherwise someone will find him.
“It could be tomorrow that one of my students discover a black man hiding in the basin or if not, the day after. I must keep him hidden here some how. Forever, if necessary. I got no where else to hide this poor thing. But he can’t just hide there and do nothing. He is a human. He needs some activities.”
I jumped up the chair suddenly, excited with an idea. I quickly went into a small room where I kept all the materials for my classes. I came out with a large fabric. I neatly spread it in the corner of the classroom.
“Look, Friday, here is your place to do your paintings, now on!”, I told Friday.
Friday looked confused, staring down at this little piece of fabric. I grabbed his bag and put it on the fabric. I then went to get the easel and a brand new canvas and placed on the fabric. I opened his bag and got out his paints and brushes. He seemed to understand what was happening by then. I could see his eyes wide open, staring down at his new work place, totally astonished. He then turned around and held my hands with his hands, very tightly. He didn’t say anything because he couldn’t speak English. All he did was smile in tears and kept nodding.

I reached to my bag and got out a handkerchief and gave it to him. He wiped his face and stared at my face again, with a great respect.
“You really deserve better but all I can do for you is this”, I told him softly. Then I looked out the window into the sky. I signed and whispered in my heart.

“I wonder how long he will be able to live here before anyone finds out”.