Foe: Part 3 Summary & Analysis

Susan climbs the stairs, with Friday in tow, to Mr. Foe’s new lodgings in Whitechapel. She is surprised to find that the apartment is so clean, when she was expecting it to be dusty—but then again, she muses, “life is never as we expect it to be.” She wonders if she will know how to recognize the afterlife when she arrives there; “after death we may find ourselves not among choirs of angels but in some quite ordinary place, as for instance a bath-house on a hot afternoon.” 

Immediately, Susan presses Mr. Foe to say how the “history” of her and Cruso’s time on the island is progressing. Mr. Foe replies that writing is slow, because it is “a slow story.” He asks Susan to give more details about her time in Bahia, but she is hesitant to do so, explaining that Bahia is not a part of the story she wants to tell. Nevertheless, she tells Mr. Foe a few details: about the city’s system of cables and pulleys for shipping cargo, about the widespread presence of prostitutes, and about the variety of precious metals that are illegally trafficked.

Mr. Foe then asks Susan if Friday ever desired her, to which Susan responds, “how are we ever to know what goes on in the heart of Friday?” So Mr. Foe switches back to asking about Bahia, even though Susan protests that Bahia is “not the island” and therefore not worth Mr. Foe’s time. 

But now Mr. Foe reveals that he has a very different plan for the story in mind: to him, the story begins in London, with the kidnapping (or was it escape?) of Susan’s daughter. His book will then follow Susan through her years in Bahia, before switching its focus to Susan’s daughter, who has returned to Europe in search of her mother.

Foe continues his story: when the girl arrives back in Europe, she is sad to learn that Susan is nowhere to be found—until she hears about a female castaway, recently returned with a Black slave. “Loss, then quest, then recovery; beginning, then middle, then end,” Foe explains to Susan.

Susan begins to panic at this change to her own lived narrative, especially when Foe doubles down on his assertion that the island is not interesting on its own because it “lacks light and shade.” Frustrated, Susan replies that “the shadow whose lack you feel it is there: it is the loss of Friday’s tongue.” Following her own logic, Susan then concludes that the island story will not be complete until she somehow figures out how to give voice to Friday.

Susan then elaborates on the story of Friday’s dancing, confessing that she had omitted a key detail before: Friday is missing his actual tongue, but the word “tongue” is also a metaphor for Friday’s genitalia. Susan had long suspected that this might be the case, but her suspicions were confirmed when she came downstairs at Stoke Newington to see Friday dancing, bare naked save for his wig and his open robes.

Just as Cruso used more delicate terms to discuss this private mutilation, Susan surmises that Mr. Foe will have to use coded language (“figures”) in his book. Susan is disappointed in herself for sharing this detail; initially, she had vowed to keep some things to herself, but now she finds herself making “the darkest of confessions” to Mr. Foe, just like the ones she has read about in his narratives.

But Mr. Foe is still not satisfied, and still, he presses Susan to reveal more about Bahia; Susan compares him to a spider because of how patiently he waits for her to trap herself. But Susan refuses to do so, standing firm that the story of her lost daughter will not find its way into Mr. Foe’s book, just as she will not invent cannibals and pirates to break up the monotony of the island.

Moreover, Susan wants Mr. Foe to understand the difference between her silence and Friday’s silence. Because Friday has no words, Susan posits, he can be shaped into any narrative that is convenient; “I say he is a cannibal and he becomes a cannibal,” Susan decrees, “I say he is a laundryman and he becomes a laundryman.” By contrast, Susan’s silence is purposeful, a way of controlling her own narrative instead of surrendering it.

Besides, how could Susan describe Bahia to Mr. Foe even if she wanted to? Even just the list of pastries she encountered there is too long and varied to fit in a book, much less the complicated racial dynamics or the world of Brazil beyond Bahia’s borders. Susan reflects that only small, boring places like the island can be “subjugated” into words.

Susan again insists that she is determined to be “father” to her own story. But Foe pushes back, using the example of a woman who, when sent to the gallows, confessed a stream of sins so endless that the chaplain finally made her stop talking. Susan wonders aloud if the moral of the story is that “he has the last word who disposes over the greatest force.”

Mr. Foe tries to tell another parable, but Susan will not hear it. Instead, she loses her temper: though she once had dreams of being made famous as a castaway, now, she only hopes to feel like she is more special than an everyday servant.

Susan recounts the story of the ancient story of the Muse, “who visits poets in the night and begets stories upon them.” At first, Susan wished that there could be a man-Muse to empower her, but now she sees that Mr. Foe is the “mother” of the story, while Susan’s only job is to “beget” it. Foe listens carefully, but instead of responding, he merely offers Susan a fine Italian wafer from his alcove.

Susan compliments Mr. Foe on his lovely home and ponders whether her memoir was boring because the windowless room she wrote it in was boring. Mr. Foe reminds Susan that her story is boring because there are no adventures or cannibals to break it up. Susan answers that Friday is a cannibal, but that deprived of flesh, even cannibals can become boring.

Mr. Foe sends his servant-boy Jack out for dinner, informing Susan that he found Jack when the boy was out on the streets, pick-pocketing people. Susan wonders why Mr. Foe did not take Jack into his home as she has taken Friday into her life—but Mr. Foe replies that perhaps Friday might be happier were he able to find some of “his own kind.” Susan thinks Friday might understand what Mr. Foe is saying, but she cannot be sure.

Susan has a delicious meal with Friday and Mr. Foe. After they have finished, there is a knock on the door, and Foe opens it to reveal the young girl and Amy, the maid she claimed to have as a child in Deptford. Susan is angry, and she wants to leave immediately—“I am not a story,” she tells Mr. Foe, and she vows that there are parts of her life and history which she will keep private.

Desperate to prove Foe wrong, Susan takes the girl in her arms and kisses her; the girl returns her kiss almost like a “lover.” Yet Susan remains positive that the girl is not her daughter, and she grows ever more certain that Mr. Foe has sent them. Worse still, Susan now begins to doubt her own reality, and Mr. Foe’s, a thought process she describes out loud: “now all my life grows to be story and there is nothing of my own left to me.”

Instead of answering Susan, Mr. Foe kisses her passionately, and she kisses him back. After they embrace, Susan recalls a ghost story Mr. Foe had written several years before; the story feels like proof, to Susan, that merely talking or kissing someone is not enough to determine they are not a ghost.  

Mr. Foe advises Susan to do as he does: every time he embarks on a new story, he leaves himself a marker of some kind, a certainty he can return to when he gets lost in “the maze of doubting.” With those words, he dismisses Jack, and Amy and the girl (reluctantly) also leave Foe’s house and return home.

Susan motions to leave, but Mr. Foe insists that she and Friday spend the night with him. Foe prepares an alcove for Friday to sleep in, but he invites Susan into his bed. Before they sleep, the two lie awake talking about their dreams and memories. Foe mentions an old Italian book where a man visits Hell and is greeted by ghosts. Foe quotes one of the ghosts from the book: “do not suppose, mortal,” the ghost says, “that because I am not substantial these tears you behold are not the tears of true grief.”

Susan now recounts the story of her first meeting with Foe, while he begins to touch her and flirt with her. As the two start to have sex, Susan is reminded of Cruso, and she closes her eyes, trying to imagine the island. But Susan cannot conjure that memory, so instead, she straddles Mr. Foe, whispering that this is how the Muse visits poets; “she must do whatever lies in her power to father her offspring,” Susan explains.

After they have had sex, Foe begins to wonder about Friday throwing petals in the water back on the island. Maybe he was trying to appease a kraken, a giant sea monster. Or maybe he was visiting the ruined ship, which Foe thinks was actually a slave ship—so Friday would have been throwing petals to commemorate his dead loved ones.

Foe remarks that it is strange that Friday, despite being on the rough seas, survived his precarious petal throwing. Foe believes that in order to access the true story, they must learn Friday’s perspective: “in every story there is a silence,” Foe comments, and “we must make Friday’s silence speak.” But this upsets Susan, who feels that she has tried every way possible of getting Friday to speak—and has failed in all of them.

Foe suggests that Friday should try writing; after all, he has fingers. Foe also wonders if God did not speak the world into existence but rather wrote it into existence (and could be still writing it). Susan feels that Friday will not be able to understand the meanings of words, much less write them down, but she gives up trying to argue with Cruso.

That night, Susan struggles to asleep. In the middle of the night, she gets up and goes to the alcove, looking in at Friday. She cannot tell if Friday is asleep or awake, and when she crawls back into bed, she is disturbed by his presence. Fortunately, she is able to fall asleep soon.

The next morning, Susan and Friday are about to leave Mr. Foe’s house. But before they can, Foe gives Susan a chalkboard and instructs her to teach Friday how to write. Using some money Mr. Foe gives her for breakfast, Susan and Friday eat, and then Susan begins to teach Friday the word house. She draws a picture, then writes the word beneath it, and encourages Friday to write the same word; he does, though his letters are misshapen.

Next, Susan teaches Friday the words “mother,”  “ship,” and “Africa,” using the same method; for  “Africa,” Susan draws a picture of palm trees and a lion. Friday shows no real signs of understanding, and Susan wonders if, privately, he is mocking her. Nevertheless, she returns to Mr. Foe, ready to demonstrate what Friday has learned.

When they get to Foe’s house, Friday takes the slate—but instead of writing on it, he draws a picture of human feet, each one covered by an eye. Susan tries to show the slate to Mr. Foe, but Friday spits on his fingers and erases his drawing. Susan despairs, comparing her situation with Friday to the tale of Sinbad of Persia. In that story, Sinbad offers help to an old man, only to find that the old man will cling to him forever and never let him go.

Foe pushes back on this—Friday’s silence makes him easier for Foe and Susan to use as they wish, as they can imagine Friday’s desires to be whatever is convenient for them. Susan insists that she knows what Friday is thinking, which is that he wants to be “liberated.” But while Susan goes on a tangent about the true meaning of the word freedom, Foe believes the solution is more straightforward; the first step to liberating Friday will be to teach him to write some basic words, rather than debating the meaning of more nebulous language. 

Susan still feels that teaching Friday to write is pointless, as he will just continue to follow her around. In response, Mr. Foe compares Susan to a slaveowner: “Friday follows you,” he points out, “you do not follow Friday.” Susan resents this suggestion, but on a walk by herself a few hours later, Susan cannot help but wonder if she is holding Friday “captive” to her desire for a good story.

And if Friday is a captive, could Foe also be a captive to the various people he writes about? Susan now begins to realize that, despite the scandalous stories in Foe’s books, he is really writing the same story “over and over, in version after version, stillborn every time: the story of the island,” which is “lifeless” no matter who writes it. 

When Susan returns to Mr. Foe’s house, the man sitting at the desk is not Foe—it is Friday, dressed in Foe’s robes and wig and writing on Foe’s papers. Susan is horrified by this, but she manages to sit down by Foe and Friday and watch as Friday tries to write.

In the daylight, Foe is very unattractive to Susan; noticing her distaste, Foe compares himself to “an old whore” who should only be seen in the dark. Susan instead compares Foe to a wife, because he is giving her a home and carrying her story—her child—to term. The mention of childbirth brings Foe back to Bahia, and Susan’s daughter there. And just as they are about to reignite the debate about the young girl who claims to be Susan’s child, Foe notices that Friday is writing the letter “o” over and over again. “Tomorrow,” Foe instructs Susan, “you must teach him ‘a.’”