Manderlay Page #3

is rather one-sidedly

in the hands of the employer,

but nevertheless...

Manual labor...

for you and your family

and Mr. Mays.

Hard labor.

Say something, Bingo.

My father's back

ain't so strong.

He climbed up

to reach the chandelier

one Christmas day,

and he fell off the banister

and struck a table.

Well, that's what happens

when you've got chandeliers.

When I consider

that your understanding

of the worth of other

human beings

has reached

the desirable stage,

you and Mr. Mays

and your family

will be allowed to go.

Go?

- And leave our home?

- Yes.

And I assure you that

even starting from scratch,

your prospects will be

a lot better than your former labors

would have been.

With regards to

the presence of me and my men,

we'll only act

as your counselors.

The guns are merely a precaution

in case of any threats

to the new community.

We intend to stay here,

but only until

the first harvest is home,

after which, any of the new

shareholders who wishes to do so

may cash in his or her deed of gift

and receive a dividend.

All right, will you

collect your deeds. Mark?

Nobody

was particularly enthusiastic

or confident about

these late-night legal formalities.

Victoria.

Flora.

But Grace could see

beyond this,

and if she saw little else

than fear and disquiet

in all these eyes,

at least she saw gratitude

in one single pair...

namely, in Wilhelm's

mild old gaze.

Bert.

Got a deed of gift here

that ain't been accepted.

Will Mr. Bert approach forthwith

and take delivery of his deed of gift?

Mr. Bert.

Mr. Berr?

Bert had actually

prepared his escape

from his ferocious wife.

Despite her lack of faith

in his abilities,

Bert had succeeded

in meeting a woman

through the fence,

and she had agreed

to help him to abscond.

And there he was,

waiting at the agreed place

at the agreed time.

A helping hand,

the woman had said.

What a peculiar coincidence

that two women

should come to the aid

of the Manderlay slaves

at the same time.

Grace and Bert's

"helping hand."

And the similarities between them

were also peculiar.

Young, beautiful, white,

in male company.

Actually, male company

in alarming numbers.

Where's the n*gger?

Grace had moved

into the freed plantation

among its new shareholders.

She was there

as a guard, no more.

But no one could stop her

from using this beautiful spring

to make her own little observations

on the people of Manderlay

in the hope of spotting

the burgeoning change in character

that freedom ought to bring.

But unfortunately,

she saw little of just that.

She saw Victoria for the third time

looking down the well

in hope of a glimpse

of the body of Bert.

She saw Flora and Elizabeth

swooning for Timothy as ever.

She saw the men

spending their time on card games

playing for tufts of blue cotton

under their leaky roof.

And she saw how everybody

would ignore the eager Mark

whenever he opened his mouth,

not knowing that he was notorious

for never being able

to give an intelligible answer to anything.

Well, we called him Puddin' Head,

but his real name wasn't Puddin' Head.

Grace saw Victoria

beating her eldest son

for stealing a moldy cookie.

And she saw the unstoppable,

irrevocable hierarchy of the beatings.

Victoria beating Ed,

Ed beating Milton

and Milton, Willie,

who finally vented his frustration

further down the food chain

on Claire,

who far too rarely

managed to make use of the window

with the outside handle

that her loving father Jack

had installed

as an emergency entrance.

Which also allowed her to fall asleep

every night to her favorite view

of the twinkling stars.

Every noontide,

Grace witnessed with pity

how the former slaves

were arrayed on the parade ground

with mysterious numbers

and marks beneath Mam's balcony,

as if nothing at Manderlay

had changed.

However, one of them

did not submit

to this all-too-soothing

power of habit.

Timothy, of course.

In a flash, his exotic pride

almost took Grace's breath away.

This day, Grace walked on

past the old peach house

where the whites

were now detained,

put to work on sundry,

more or less needless little repairs,

on her way to the barn

housing her gangsters.

So how's everyone doing?

I'm afraid the men

got nothing to do,

and it's not so good

for the morale.

In situations like that, your father

always came up with something.

I bet he did.

But it's patience that's required.

Not this much patience,

Niels says.

Niels' grandpa

was a cotton grower,

and he says the cotton

should have been sown ages ago.

The soil doesn't look ready.

Might be because

nobody's plowed it.

Maybe things are different here

from where your grandpa lived.

No, ma'am.

Don't reckon so.

Well, if... if it should've

been sown,

surely the people here

would be the first to know.

As she did not

want to impose,

Grace's intercourse

with the former slaves

had been limited

to brief greetings and the like.

But now it was time for a talk

with some meat to it.

Excuse me. Sir?

Mark? May I ask you something?

It's about planting the cotton.

I've been around

for sowin' and harvestin'

and birth and death.

Right.

So when should the cotton

be planted?

There's strict rules for that.

You can't mess around

with that sort of thing.

Manderlay has always been

renown for the precision of its harvest.

The swallows always migrate

right afterwards.

They settle here for the night

on their way across the marshes.

But the planting?

It's a science, my dear lady,

and the weather,

which you might have expected,

plays a fearsome role.

Yes, yes.

And when will it

be time this year?

Not too soon

and not too late.

Yes, but when?

Should the cotton

have already been planted?

I'm not the sort of fella

to pass on information

unless I'm damn sure of it.

Unless the facts of the matter

are 100%.

In other words,

the facts need be beyond dispute.

You know when to plant?

No.

I better ask Wilhelm.

Is he in his cabin?

This mornin', he went down

to the bathhouse.

He'd gotten a little frayed

around the edges, as they say.

- It's a funny thing...

- I'm sorry.

I'll go find him myself.

Excuse me, Wilhelm.

I've come about the fields.

The fields should've been plowed

and harrowed three weeks ago,

and the cotton planted

two weeks ago.

But does everybody know that?

Oh, yes. But I reckon

they thinkin'

somebody else oughta go out

in the field first.

In the old days,

Overseer Mays

would've driven us out there.

Maybe it's because nobody

really trusts you, Missy.

Yeah. But Wilhelm, they could

be doing something else instead.

Repairs to their homes.

They badly need it.

The cabins have always

been a sore spot.

But Mam said we ain't got

no materials to fix 'em up.

But we're going to need

what we make on the cotton.

How else will people survive

on their own?

Yeah, if folks felt

they was given somethin'...

something brought out by this,

these new times...

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