Welcome to another installment of If My Book, the Monkeybicycle feature in which authors shed light on their recently released books by comparing them to weird things. This week Elaine Neil Orr writes about her new novel, Dancing Woman, out now from Blair.
If Dancing Woman were a storm, it would begin in winter with the Northeast Trade Wind circulation in northwestern Africa. It would be the color of sand and would gather strength as it blew south. In fact, the storm would begin as sand or the top dusty layer of it, the wind capable of moving it airborne across the vast desert like the breath of God. Called the Haramattan, this wind would arrive in West Africa like a shroud, covering everything it encounters: every mango still in a tree, every stall in the market, every basket, every human being, clothed in fabric from head to toe, hoping to avoid its penetrating power. It would cover the mahogany table in the living room and create a film in a bowl of water set out to wet the roots of a lemon tree. The storm would arrive as a whirlwind bringing cooler temperatures that would strike the hardiest young cow wrangler and cause him to pull an extra blanket across his shoulders as he sat by the fire at night, watching his herd. The storm would bring a dry season from late November to mid-March. It would linger like a dramatic dream that can’t be shaken the next day or the next or the next week. It would dry that young wrangler’s hands and his hair. But finally the dream would break and the rain come and the delight of children in houses will not be contained. They will run outside and embrace it, the storm after the storm, the light kiss of rain after the weight of dust.
If Dancing Woman were a recipe, it would be tomato-chicken stew. First make a red tomato base created from tomatoes harvested in the garden just out the back door. Begin the sauce before lunch and lets it simmer all afternoon until the scent fills every corner of the house, wafting out the louvered windows and down the lane. Meanwhile, cut up a chicken from the market, season it with salt and black pepper and a touch of hot red pepper and set it in the refrigerator. Two hours before dinner, fry the chicken pieces in vegetable oil until tender and golden brown. Cover with one half cup water and cover pot so it simmers. Now chop up a green pepper and sautee it, along with a large bunch of well-washed spinach leaves and the juice of a lemon, still warm from the tree, until tender. Add the chicken and green vegetables to the large pot with the tomato base, cover it, and lets it simmer for a final hour. Fifteen minutes before serving, make a large pot of white rice. Plate the food, beginning with two large scoops of rice followed by a generous portion of the tomato/chicken stew and a twist of lemon on top, along with a sprig of mint.
If Dancing Woman were a kiss, it would begin with a glance across a crowded room. It would live in imagination as a wave of pink across a deep blue sky, descending into purple. Later it would emerge in dream as a light touch across the forehead and down the neck. It would stir the sleeper like a memory of heaven before birth. Finally, on a rain drenched veranda, it would culminate in a remembrance of the self and other as twin mirrors of the soul.
If Dancing Woman were a map, it would be drawn in the palm of one’s hand. There would be no street names, no indication of miles, no destination except as the heart leaning forward, feet following. It would be drawn in henna against the skin and disappear every few days so that the map-maker must begin again, the heart leaning forward, feet following, down lanes, across fields where cattle graze, up rocky outcroppings where gaining purchase is nearly impossible, down into valleys where a brown creeks flow briskly, causing the tall grass to bend, until the searcher discovered—in her palm—that she was the destination.
If Dancing Woman were a form of transportation, it would be a men’s black Raleigh bicycle with a large stainless steel headlamp and a market basket strapped to the rear rack. A woman would stand to ride it, her skirts gathered with clothes pins. The tires would be slender yet capable of withstanding potholes, gravel, occasional nails and tacks, large puddles of water from July rains. It would maneuver gracefully between chickens and goats and young hawkers selling chewing gum and matches. It would fly downhill like an egret descending to land without sound on a lake. It would turn a corner and bring the rider into a field where women sit in a circle, their legs spread out before them, weaving baskets to carry everything of use: love potions, tomatoes, loaves of bread, dried beans, rice, an extra three yards of colorful cloth, a stoppered decanter of water, a book of common prayer.
Elaine Neil Orr is an award-winning writer of fiction and memoir. Dancing Woman is her sixth book. Earlier books include the memoir, Gods of Noonday: A White Girl’s African Life, and the novels, A Different Sun and Swimming Between Worlds, finalist for the 2019 Phillip H. McMath Post-Publication Book Award in Fiction. She has been a Writer in Residence at numerous colleges and universities and has been honored by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the North Carolina Arts Council. She teaches literature at N.C. State University and serves on the faculty of the Naslund-Mann School of Writing, Spalding University. Elaineneilorr.com.
