Cereus Blooms at Night

by Shani Mootoo

  As I walked back to the house quickly, nervous that Sister would catch me, I tried to decipher the words in her eyes. I did not see fear in them but a pleading. I took that pleading to mean she hoped I would be true to my word.

  * * *

  —

  Miss Ramchandin had hardly been in the home a full twenty-four hours before she had visitors. Three gentlemen in one day. The home’s doctor was the only one Sister permitted. The other two neither Miss Ramchandin nor I had the opportunity to see. Sister received them and their gift of a plant clipping. She then turned them away, explaining that the new resident was incapable of having visitors so soon. She brought the plant to me and said “Do something with it.”

  I recognized it immediately. I had seen one in bloom in the Exotic Items Collection of the SNW National Botanical Gardens: the rare night-blooming cereus. Without blossoms the plant appears to be little more than an uninteresting tangle of leafage, hence Sister’s dismissal. However, in bloom it is stunningly gorgeous. I put the ample greenery in a milk can filled with water to let it catch. When I entered her room, Miss Ramchandin watched me closely but paid no attention to the clipping. (Without blossoms the plant soon became as much a part of the room as her bedpan and even I forgot all about it—and about them, the visitors. I had decided, illogically, that they must be solicitors or the like.)

  That the doctor’s presence made me blush is not important to this story, but to ignore how alive and frisky I felt in his presence would be to deny the part of me that hopes for freedom. What he thought of me as I tried to accommodate his needs during that visit I do not know. What I do know is that he talked and joked with me in the same manner he would have with any of the other staff. I know my propensities are not invisible yet he did not recoil. For the first time in weeks I was not a curiosity. I was so accustomed to being seen as one that when treated like a regular fellow, I fumbled and blushed. And became aware of how desperately I want to be—and be treated as—nothing more than ordinary.

  The good-natured and good-looking doctor laughed rather nervously when he saw the straps still on. He teased Sister about being afraid of an old, frail woman, and reiterated that no one knew if she really committed the crime. I refrained from interjecting that no one knew for certain that a crime had even been committed. He made a show of regarding Miss Ramchandin pensively, walking (elegantly) around her bed and taking her in from different angles. He then pronounced that, based on his experience, she did not have the personality of a criminal and removing the straps would bring about no incident.

  “Unless, of course,” he said jovially, “you were one of the people who used to harass the poor lady!” The comment seems to have been the joke about town.

  The doctor himself unbuckled each strap. As he chatted with Sister about a mutual acquaintance, he coiled the straps around his brawny right hand and slapped the three blunt ends against the palm of his left. He left Miss Ramchandin’s bungalow taking the straps with him, wishing her and me, with no special nuances, I should add, a good day. Miss Ramchandin made her biggest gesture since arriving at the home. She followed his body not only with her eyes but with a turn of her head.

  That night I fell asleep holding her, just in case. When I awoke in the middle of the night she was sleeping, her face serene.

  The next day I put her in a wheelchair and rolled her along the path. The other residents were not as wary as the staff. They passed close by, a couple of them trying to introduce themselves and make conversation, happy and curious that there was someone new to get to know, to show around or show off to. They quickly lost interest in this new resident though; she was uncommunicative and seemed to live in a world that did not include them.

  Miss Ramchandin made no sounds besides crying, moaning, wailing and sighing. I talked often to her though I truly thought she was unable to speak, and I watched her eyes, which I had come to believe were what she used for communicating. Then one evening, perched on the edge of the grounds, we were taking in the yellow sunset and the purpling of the distant valley—well, I was taking it in; I did not know what she was up to in her mind—when a pair of parrots flapped across the sky, squawking leisurely. She made no movement but I distinctly heard a perfect imitation of the parrots’ calls. I dropped to my knees at her side.

  “Miss Ramchandin! Was that you? That was perfect! That was so beautiful! Can you do it again? Please?” She did not respond but I detected a brightening of her eyes, whether at the sight of the parrots or my surprise I could not be sure. Then, as I rolled her back to her bungalow after the sun had fallen behind the hills, I heard a high-pitched, pulsing tremolo and saw the vibration in her throat, as though a cricket had begun its evening ritual. I looked into her face, my jaw dropped in admiration and disbelief. She looked directly and proudly back, for the first time a hint of a smile lighting her face, and continued the humming long into the evening, not missing a fraction of a beat.

  Days passed with her calling out, only loud enough for me to hear, perfect imitations of all the species of birds that congregated in the garden and dotted the tropical Lantanacamaran sky. I would catch her watching me through the side of her eyes, as she did bird, cricket and frog calls as though she meant to entertain me.

  The rumours about Miss Ramchandin continued. The staff quickly sensed that I was becoming protective of her and would hush their tales in my presence, but I could tell they were still talking. Sometimes, I have to admit, I thought of the stories I had heard. I would edge myself out of Miss Ramchandin’s sight whenever I tried to imagine her in the roles they had cast her in, for it did occur to me that this unusual woman might know what was going on in my head.

  * * *

  —

  I remember the first time I heard the name Chandin Ramchandin. It was long before arriving in Paradise to work in the alms house. Indeed, the recent rumours were elaborations of what I had heard many years ago when I was too young to pay attention.

  I was ten or so. I was in the back of our house passing time with Cigarette Smoking Nana (to differentiate her from Bible Quoting Nana, whom I couldn’t bring myself to get too close to, nor she to me since I was not turning out to be boyly enough for her church-going satisfaction). We were sitting on the back steps, and I was working up a froth pondering the specifics of family relationships. Could a nephew be the father of his uncle? I wondered, or could a mother ever be any other relationship to her child? Could she be the father? (I implore you, please keep an open mind and hold your judgement. I was, I remind you, a child, and children were innocent, if not ignorant, in those days.) Could your sister be your brother too? Could your brother be your father? I decided finally to ask Cigarette Smoking Nana.

  “Nana, I have something on my mind.”

  “Uhuh. Tell me. What is on your mind, child?”

  “Nana, can your Pappy be your Pappy and your Granpappy at the same time?” Nana cocked her head toward the sky and wrinkled her nose.

  “Huh? Come again?” Exasperated by her slowness to catch a question that seemed plain enough to me, I merely repeated myself, but slowly, stressing and drawing each word out. She stared at me grimly for a long time. Her eyes were open wider than usual. I thought the look on her face was because it was, after all, such a good question and it made her think extra hard. She took a long, pensive drag on her cigarette and she thought and she thought and she thought and made several attempts to answer, but she kept hesitating.

  Then finally she said, “Yes, child, it could happen. The father could be the grandfather too. But it doesn’t happen often and it’s not, well, it’s not good, it’s not nice, you know, son.”

  “Yes?” I said, and waited. I had no idea what she was trying to say.

  “Tyler, boy, why you so inquisitive? Why you thinking about these things?”

  Still I waited. Suddenly she seemed to perk up as if she’d seen a vision of the perfect explanation. “Look here, son, you see, there
was a fellow…not from near here, he was from Paradise, a fellow name Chandin, Chandin Ramchandin. You know, he only had a handful of years over me but when I was your age or so, they used to tell us that we must study hard so that we could have the luck of that Ramchandin fellow. Hmmm, I wonder what become of him? Nowadays you don’t even hear his name. It’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  Nana took another pull on the stub of cigarette, and as she exhaled long and slow she stared up into the sky.

  OLD MAN RAMCHANDIN, who was only ever known as Ramchandin, was an indentured field labourer from India. He was relaxing as he did every evening after work, rocking himself in the burlap hammock that hung from a cashew tree at the back of the estate barracks. His eyes were closed but as usual he was not asleep. The old man kept himself awake by worrying about the future of his only child. He had been turning mathematical estimations this way and that, inside out and upside down in his head. He had, as usual, whipped himself up a headache with his obsessive predictions of what the state of his finances could be if he and his wife, Janaki, were to work one hour more, or even two hours more per day, so that enough funds might be accrued to send Chandin to a college in the capital, or even abroad to study a profession. With the rhythmic flicking of his thighs, he rocked in the hammock and calculated how many years it would be before Chandin were eligible for enrollment in a college, how many extra hours there were in that many years—times two if his wife were also to work the extra time, factoring in a possible raise in their salaries—and he even went so far as to do a little division and addition to account for the inevitable rise in the cost of living.

  Old man Ramchandin thought about life in the barracks and life in India before his recruitment to Lantanacamara. There was no difference. But by making the long journey across two oceans, he hoped to leave behind, as promised by the recruiter, his inherited karmic destiny as a servant labourer—if not for himself, at least for his son who had been born just before they left India. In Lantanacamara it was easier to slip out of caste. He planned to work hard, save money and educate Chandin out of the fields.

  In the midst of all this mental confusion he heard the crunch of gravel and the ruckus of a horse and buggy manoeuvering the dusty path. Ramchandin pulled himself out of the hammock. His daydreaming evaporated like dewdrops in morning heat. Before him lay the harsh reality of his two-room ajoupa quarters in the barracks. His two thin cows were yet to be tied up for the approaching night. He was exhausted. He could have told Chandin to tie up the cows but he considered the task too menial for the gold bead of his life. Ramchandin straightened and smoothed his white kurta and dhoti, which hung loosely on his stiff frame, and made his way to the front yard with as much dignity as age and fatigue would allow. His son stood by the front porch and scratched the dry clay soil with his bare foot. The rumble of the buggy coming down the path so late in the day had not surprised the boy as much as his parents. He was, in fact, awaiting the arrival of Reverend Thoroughly. His mother, smelling of coals and charred eggplant and a sweat that embarrassed him with its pungency of heated mustard seed, had left the clay oven at the back of their quarters. She quickly pulled her orhanie over her head and nose and mouth, and hurried around to the front.

  The graceful Reverend pretended not to notice the large cloud of dust his horse and buggy had whipped up, or that he was covered in it. He declined a cup of well water and stated his case without formalities.

  * * *

  —

  Before the Reverend had returned to his own home, his visit and the name of Chandin, son of Ramchandin, were known to immigrant workers throughout barracks across the width and breadth of Lantanacamara. Even at the farthest end of the island, in Nana’s humble and unremarkable village, the Reverend’s visit and Chandin’s bright and prosperous future were discussed and debated.

  “Is a Reverend who come from the Shivering Northern Wetlands. A white man who set up school and church for Indians. Is he who make the trip inside of the cane field area up to the barracks.”

  “So he gone all that distance in all that dust!”

  “He travel dirt road to bring them such a news. And I hear he face and he hair and he clothes and he shoes was covered, like white sheet, in dust by the time he get to the house.”

  “Eh-heh!”

  “So he taking the boy to go and live in he own house?”

  “Yes.”

  “In he own house. Hmmm!”

  “To raise like he own child?”

  “Eh-heh.”

  “He is the oldest student in the school, so that mean that he will be the first one, the oldest one, to make the first graduation, with ceremony and thing, na! And the Reverend want to send the first graduate from his school to college to study. So he taking him to make sure he study good good.”

  “But that child lucky! What is the family name again?”

  “Ramchandin. The child name Chandin. Chandin Ramchandin.”

  “Well, the father and wife lucky!”

  “You think so? I hear they did have to convert. That was the condition if they wanted the child to go to school. I can’t do that. No. I just don’t want to do that.”

  “What you talking? What you mean you don’t want to do that! If it is the only way for your child to get education and not have to work like a horse sweating and breaking back in the hot sun for hardly nothing, you wouldn’t convert? I will say my piece now. Listen. Since the Africans let go from slavery, all eyes on how the government treating them. It have commissions from this place and from that place making sure that the government don’t just neglect them. They have schools, they have regular and free medical inspection. Now, you see any schools set up for our children, besides the Reverend’s school? When we get sick and we have pains, who looking after us? We looking after our own self, because nobody have time for us. Except the Reverend and his mission from the Shivering Northern Wetlands. All he want from us is that we convert to his religion. If I had children, I would convert! Besides, nobody but you really know which god you praying to. Convert, man! Take the children yourself to the mission school. And when you praying you pray with you eyes and you mouth shut. Simple so. That is all.”

  “Is true. Yes. I suppose is true. It make sense.”

  “Mm-hmmm.”

  “Chandin Ramchandin will be the first one of all of we to get profession. The first Indian child in Lantanacamara to get a title. Remember that name. I tell you if I had children is what I would want for them too. I don’t see nothing wrong to want the best for your child.”

  And so the news of Chandin’s fortune spread, and even before he entered the Reverend’s seminary he was unwittingly helping to convert Indians to Christianity.

  * * *

  —

  Nana rolled herself another cigarette. I liked the smell of sulfur when she outed her match and was fascinated by the way she cupped the cigarette in both hands and sucked erratically before she got a good enough light.

  “He was bright, Nana? He went to study abroad?”

  “He was bright, yes. But I don’t think he went to study abroad.” Seeing my face fall, because she knew it was my dream to go abroad and study, she slowed down.

  “He didn’t have to go abroad. I’ll tell you more. You see, the Reverend set up a seminary right here in Lantanacamara, right there, in Paradise and it is there he went…”

  * * *

  —

  Once the Ramchandin boy left the barracks he was not inclined to return. He hardly saw his father but his mother went to church services at least once a week, especially to see him sitting up there in the front, looking very foreign in spite of his dark skin, all dressed up in his jacket and tie, right next to the Reverend’s wife. The few times he went back to the barracks to visit it was evident his mother had not really converted to Christianity. When he inquired after the foot-long brass crucifix the Reverend had given her to put
above the doorway, she shyly said that she had wrapped it carefully in a clean white cloth and put it away, for safe-keeping, in a trunk. However, he noticed that the number of statues of Hindu gods and goddesses lining the walls had increased since his move to the Reverend’s house. Sometimes sacred camphor and incense used in Hindu prayers coloured the air, and always a faint cloud of pooja smoke permeated his parents’ hair and clothes, replacing the odour of coals and spices that used to emanate from his mother’s body. He was embarrassed by his parents’ reluctance to embrace the smarter-looking, smarter-acting Reverend’s religion, and there soon came a time when, to his parents’ dismay, he no longer visited.

  * * *

  —

  A name change for Chandin was briefly discussed by the Reverend and his wife. Mrs. Thoroughly thought that a Christian, if not Wetlandish name was more suitable for a son of theirs. Chandin was eager to have his Indian name replaced. Mrs. Thoroughly suggested Matthew, Mark, Luke or John. Even Ovid, Errol, Oscar and Atticus were considered. She half-joked that it was her first and probably her last opportunity to name a boy child. The thoughtful Reverend, however, suggested that Chandin Ramchandin would one day be a Christian teacher, theologian and missionary whose success in the field would be due, certainly to the blessings of God, but also to the novel idea that people were most likely to be swayed by one of their own kind. Chandin and Mrs. Thoroughly gave in to the Reverend’s idea that Chandin’s own name would win his people’s trust.