by Shani Mootoo
Just as I was hoping the tower would come crashing down and extinguish me forever, a revelation came. The reason Miss Ramchandin paid me no attention was that, to her mind, the outfit was not something to either congratulate or scorn—it simply was. She was not one to manacle nature, and I sensed that she was permitting mine its freedom.
I took the drawer from her, climbed up on her bed and placed it at her tower’s peak. I would have to pull it all down before Sister’s inspection, but right then every instinct in me wanted to take all the furniture in her room and help her build the biggest and tallest tower she needed. (Sister was appalled, sure that Miss Ramchandin was building a deadly trap for the nurses. She made me take it down, naturally, but it became part of my schedule. Every night Miss Ramchandin would build and every morning I would deconstruct.)
I did not even consider leaving her room dressed as I was. I was endowed with a sense of propriety, depended on it, for that matter, for the most basic level of survival. I changed back into my trousers and white shirt, and rubbed my cheeks and lips clean. I stuffed the dress and stockings behind her dresser, deciding to keep if not to wear it again, at least for the memory of some power it seemed to have imparted. It had been a day and an evening to treasure. I had never felt so extremely ordinary, and I quite loved it.
Once Miss Ramchandin was in bed, I sat next to her and smoothed her hair back, reluctant to leave. My hand on her scalp released the sweet scent of yellow potatoes. She sighed pleasantly, with an air of accomplishment. Her breath had the delicate perfume of fresh young carrots. She began to make mellow cricket sounds. When I approached the door to leave, she paused long enough to ask, as if to the ceiling, “Where Asha?” She did not wait for an answer and immediately resumed her faint, perfect imitation of the cricket’s one note song.
AS THEY GREW older, Pohpoh and Asha would sometimes slip away from their father’s house for several hours, fully expecting to face his wrath on their return. The momentary escape, however, was worth any sting afterwards.
One morning Asha awoke so early that even roosters seemed barely awake. Street sweepers were pulling their wide brooms down the road and the swish of their brooms filtered through the tail end of her dreams. She waited quietly and patiently to embark on the outing Pohpoh had promised. When Asha could lie still no longer, she tiptoed across the room and sat on her sister’s bed, hoping to nudge her out of her sleep. Pohpoh, forever on guard, suddenly stiffened and awakened fully. Seeing Asha in front of her grinning nervously, she relaxed slightly.
Shafts of dusty light broke through the branches of the pomerac tree outside the open window. Pohpoh stared at the glittery dust particles that rose and fell in waves around Asha’s head, partially silhouetting it in a halo of shimmering light. She slid closer to the wall to let the little girl slip under her coverlet. The bed sheets and Pohpoh’s pillow held the odour of stale camphor, eucalyptus and turpentine. They clung to each other, inhaling the pleasantly sour blend of their rubbing oil and each other’s talcum-sweet scent of sleep, night sweat and stale breath.
They crept out into the drawing room, every moment aware of their father’s guttural breathing. The air in the closed-up room was thick with the smell of spilled full-proof babash. When Pohpoh unlatched the window above the enamel sink, yellow light sliced through the opening, hauling in a cold, fresh morning draught. Asha rubbed her bony shoulders for warmth. Pohpoh was oblivious to the cold. One ear continued to monitor her father’s sleep. Asha watched her sister prepare breakfast. She stared at Pohpoh’s skin, her hair, eyelashes, cheeks and nose, entranced by their change from silhouette dark to brass to gold as she glided in and out of the shaft of dancing light.
“You look like Mama,” she whispered reverently.
Pohpoh stared at Asha. Pohpoh had tried to speak with Asha about the day her mother and Aunt Lavinia had left. Asha not only had been unable to remember the day, but her eyes would glaze over and her body would slump with sleepiness and fatigue, making her look, eerily, as though an old woman were about to emerge from her. The only memory Asha seemed to have of her mother came from a photograph hidden in their armoire.
“But you can’t even remember what she look like. You said you don’t remember her,” said Pohpoh.
Asha, hurt, raised her voice, “I do! I do. She look like you.” Pohpoh rushed over and hugged her into silence. Suddenly feeling like her mother, like a mother to Asha, she looked into her sister’s eyes.
“I believe you, I do,” she said earnestly. When Asha seemed comforted, Pohpoh returned to her work.
She quietly tapped a solid nest of cocoa patties with a stone pestle too large for her hand, then melted the patties with molasses and water and ragged slivers of cinnamon bark over high, green flames. The thick liquid bubbled, each bubble bursting and puffing perfumed steam into the room. They ate thick slices of sweet egg bread and drank the cocoa quickly and quietly. The snoring continued. Should he awaken, there was enough cocoa for him too, but the plans for the day would have instantly ended.
Pohpoh brushed and braided her own thick, straight kohlblack hair, then did the same to Asha’s. She took more care with her sister’s hair than her own, handling and nudging Asha’s head this way and that, imitating their mother’s manner. Asha winced as her wavy hair was untangled bit by bit until it spread like an undulating fan across her upper back. Down the middle Pohpoh etched a perfectly straight part with the pointed tip of a little wooden comb.
“It have to be real neat and tidy today,” she said firmly, “because today you and I going to be leaders, right?”
Asha nodded and then remembered to be perfectly still.
“Yuh hair pretty, Ashie, but I really glad mine not like yours.”
“Like how?”
“Curly. Curly-curly and unruly. Yuh hair like Mama’s.”
Asha tried to turn to look at Pohpoh.
“My hair like Mama’s? Is true, Pohpoh?” she whispered.
“Uhuh, curly just like Mama’s, like the waves in the sea, crashing and all.” She divided the springy handful into three parts, working her hands like lightning. “I could even see little fish and seaweed and seeds from other countries floating in yuh hair.”
“And starfish?”
“Uhuh.”
“And seagulls?”
“Yep.”
“And shells?”
“Yeh.”
“And—” but before she could continue Pohpoh tickled her under her arms and said, “and and and.” They cupped their mouths and giggled without sound. After tying one braid with a length of red cord behind the ear, Pohpoh began to rein in the wildness on the other side.
“I have bad hair, Poh?”
“No. Is just that if mine was like yours and I had to comb it out every day I wouldn’t find time fuh school or to make cocoa-tea for you. It would be plenty work. It pretty, yes, but it take work to see yuh face. An yuh face pretty.”
Asha was pleased. “Yuh’d just get muscles from my hair.”
“I already have muscles.”
“I mean more, Poh.”
Asha’s scalp stung from all the brushing. As she got dressed she was distracted by the stinging and pain, finding them alternately irritating and exhilarating. Her hairline pricked and itched, and she made exaggerated frowns and raised her eyebrows as high as she could in an effort to pull the hair out of the grip of the cords.
* * *
—
Boyie was nearby, waiting on the corner at Government Alley. He waved. Asha waved back but Pohpoh walked past without looking at him.
“Why you come here?” she said. “I tell you to wait in the park for us. You shouldn’t come here.”
Boyie grinned at her rebuke. He jumped in line and followed behind the two girls. “Where are we going? What are we going to do? Tell me, na?” he asked.
Their goal, Pohpoh told them as she ran ahead, was to
be the first children to arrive at El Dorado Park and to take charge of the day. She had other, secret motives. First, she wanted to pass as much of the day as possible away from her father’s house. And she wanted to confront Walter Bissey, a bossy boy from school. He was the most popular boy there, and had recently become territorial in the park, harassing and shooing away Pohpoh, Asha and Boyie whenever they arrived. He led his friends in sneering at her and her sister. Today, she intended to prove to him that she and Asha were not stupid and dirty but were strong and could fend for themselves. But most of all she wanted Walter, not Boyie, to like her.
Rather than taking the cobbled street in front of their house—where people often stared at Pohpoh and Asha and shook their heads in pity—Pohpoh led Boyie and Asha to the paved drains behind the backyards. The drains were already becoming swift-running creeks of soapy suds as the neighbourhood’s breakfast dishes were washed. Pohpoh nimbly manoeuvered the splashiest sections and sudden torrents. Boyie, full of admiration for Pohpoh’s leadership and agility, tried to keep up. Asha followed in his tracks exactly. The backyards smelled of decaying guavas, uncleaned chicken coops and outdoor latrines. Finally they picked their way through an opening between two houses that delivered them to El Dorado Square, a block away from the playground.
Outside the southeast corner of the square, Pohpoh wedged her face between the ornate wrought-iron railing. Inside was the regular band of stray dogs. Several of them congregated near the bandstand sniffing each other. When Boyie came up beside her she winced, feeling he might be sniffing her too. Two wrought-iron benches were occupied by homeless men sprawled in deep sleep. From the highest platform of the bandstand a wiry old man swung aggressively back and forth on his heels, preaching to the sleeping figures. The three children watched him in fascination.
“…the time is at hand. The time is at hand! He that is unjust, let him be unjust still; and he who is filthy, let him be filthy still. Blessed are they that do His commandments that they may enter in through the gates into the city.”
Across the road was the playground, in a corner of which were a row of swings, two slides and a climbing frame. Farther along, a few bay-rum trees sparsely lined the playground’s edges, leaving the centre bare. Even during the rains, the earth here was cracked and scorched, a pebbly scar from the constant friction of children tearing across it.
Pohpoh planned to take control today and decide what games would be played. Anxiously, conspicuously, they waited in the centre of the playground near a standpipe surrounded by a puddle of water. The early morning sun was hot and within minutes their scalps, faces and necks were covered in a fine mist of sweat. Asha squelched her desire to play on the swings and slide, fearing this distraction would cost them the chance to be leaders. Instead she lifted her hand, pointing a finger high in the air, rocked on her heels and shouted, “The time is at hand! Repent. The time is at hand!” Boyie imitated her imitation. Pohpoh laughed, sitting on the ledge of the standpipe base, but she told Asha, “Girl! You brave yes! What if the man see yuh? Yuh better calm down yuhself.”
There was still no sign of other children. Pohpoh got up and impatiently paced. Boyie picked up a large, flame-coloured seed from a mora tree nearby and tossed it to Pohpoh. Suddenly Pohpoh turned away from Boyie and grabbed Asha out of the water around the standpipe.
“Listen!” she said.
They came, seven of them, a band of uncontained wildness led by Walter Bissey. They pranced up the street, announcing themselves with the rapid thuck thuck thuck of a guava stick dragged hard against the iron railings that kept them out of people’s yards. Three boys and four girls, all in Pohpoh’s and Boyie’s class. Pohpoh felt a sudden need to relieve herself.
As the troupe arrived on the playground she waved to them, signalling that she had secured their headquarters for the day. Quiet fell over the band while they studied her and her companions. As if predetermined, they huddled together, a tight, impenetrable faction, secrets swishing from one mouth to the next.
“Over here! Come and play with us!” Pohpoh called optimistically. They looked up from their deliberations, almost in disbelief. Walter, the tallest, turned and stomped toward the threesome. His group hesitated then followed him to the centre of the playground.
“Okay. But we want to play blindman’s bluff,” Walter said gruffly, already waving a red and white neckerchief.
“But who is to be the blind man?” Pohpoh asked, watching his every gesture.
Walter, large boned and intimidating, arranged the group, including Pohpoh, Asha and Boyie, in a circle. He began a chant that they joined in. With an outstretched finger he poked a chest with each word. When the chest was that of Pohpoh, Asha or Boyie he used his palm and pushed hard to unbalance them. Pohpoh winced with each blow but registered no antagonism on her face, a skill she had developed at home. The children bawled:
Ole lady walk, ole lady fall.
Hit she belly. “Lord!” she bawl.
Crick crack, all say oops!
At which they all enthusiastically pointed their fingers in the air and shouted loudly “Oops!” before resuming their chant:
Brick brack, break she back,
Le we go tief pom-er-ac.
The rhyme ended here, on one of Walter’s group, not on whom they wanted it to fall. So they continued:
This ‘n’ that. Tat ‘n’ tit.
One two three: you are it!
And sure enough, the rhyme ended on Pohpoh, which seemed to satisfy them. She appeared pleased though she and Asha exchanged discreet glances of doubt. Walter refused to be the one to tie the neckerchief over Pohpoh’s eyes. Boyie, watching sadly, scratched the soil with the tip of his shoe. Finally one of the girls accepted the task of blindfolding Pohpoh.
They spun her around and told her to count slowly up to fifty. Then she could begin to try to touch one of them. Pohpoh wanted to catch Walter, but she heard only unclear whispers, giggles, a scuffle, feet scampering in the dusty gravel, and then just the sound of an occasional cart rolling against the cobbled road in the distance, blackbirds twittering in the bay-rum trees, and the high-pitched drone of crickets, her own feet unsettling the gravel beneath her. She stood still listening for the ruffle of clothing. When she opened her mouth to breathe, she tasted the dry grittiness of lime dust risen from the trampled gravel.
Suddenly something poked her in her side. Pohpoh flung herself around with arms extended, grabbing at the air. She tried to open her eyes under the blindfold, but it was tied so tightly she could barely wink.
Whap! She was tapped hard on her head. By the time she had spun around, she again grabbed only hot and gritty air. She listened hard and heard the sound of water gurgling up and out of the standpipe tap. She called out to Asha. No reply. She called Boyie. There was just the sound of running water.
“Walter?” she whispered and picked her way, one tentative step at a time, toward the standpipe. When she got closer, she heard muffled whimpering. Asha. She quickly pried the blindfold off. Her little sister was sitting inside a pool of water under the standpipe, a bandanna tied so tightly over her mouth that her lips were stretched apart and the front of the cloth was wet with spit. Her shoelaces were knotted together, and both her wrists were manacled with a handkerchief untidily hooked to the faucet. Pohpoh gasped, overcome by anger and fear. She looked around for Boyie but he was nowhere in sight. She untied the knots while Asha cried and begged to go home. The other children were near the roadway under a bay-rum tree huddled over a game of marbles in the dry earth. Pohpoh told Asha to wait for her at the standpipe. She puffed her chest and stormed over to the bay-rum tree.
Walter saw her coming, jumped up and stepped outside his group to pick up a stick. With an exaggerated gesture he drew a line between them and Pohpoh. Then he stood with his feet wide apart, his hands on his waist staring at her. The others formed a line alongside him and imitated his stance.
>
Pohpoh, wasp red, her arms folded defiantly, stood facing him. She hated him yet wished he did not think so badly of her. Out of nowhere words foamed up and took flight.
“You shouldn’t do that. Why you do that?” Hardly had the words come out before her eyes filled up with tears that began to run down her cheeks. Angry at such a betrayal from her own eyes, she shouted, “All you too cruel. You stupid! Why you do that?”
Walter crossed over his side of the line.
“This is my side, you can’t cross it!” Pohpoh said.
He stared at her in disbelief. He and his friends burst out cackling, hissing and jeering, as though it was the funniest joke they had ever heard. They laughed so hard they doubled over, hitting their thighs and holding their stomachs.
“Is you who draw the line? Or me? I draw the line. I go where I want. Who have stick in they hand? You or me? Go home. Go! Get away from we playground. Get away from us. Dunces. Nothing but a dunce!”
Heavy sweat popped out on Pohpoh’s upper lip. She stared ahead but searched for Boyie out of the corners of her eyes. Another boy, hardly bigger than Pohpoh, spurred on by the jeering, quickly added, “Ey, Pohpoh, is true what we hear about your mother? Where your mother, Pohpoh? You giving Boyie or you like girls?”
Suddenly dizzy she shouted, “Boyie!” He was nowhere around. “Boyie! Where is Boyie?”
“Boyie is a little coward,” the boy with the stick said. “All we had to do was blow on him and he gone! The three of you cut from the same cloth. He must like boys himself.”
Someone laughed. “No, boy, Boyie like dogs.” The others howled wildly with disbelief at his bravery to dream up such a thing.
Walter, wielding the stick, spoke again. “Look, this is we park. This park is only for good, decent people. Get away from here and don’t ever, ever—you hear me?—don’t ever come back in this park.” He walked right up to Pohpoh and faced her, inches between the two faces. “Ey. Look here, if we catch you near any girl we go cut ass!”
