The Ghosts of Eden

by Andrew JH Sharp

  When the bishop dispensed the blessing, Michael whispered in Simon’s ear, ‘We must go to Mr Patel straight away.’

  The Boys’ Brigade struck up outside as the congregation poured out through the big arched doorway. The noise of the bugles, drums and tambourines hurt Michael’s ears. Sunlight flashed off their instruments, hurting his eyes. The band marched up and down one side of the cathedral forecourt. Michael longed to try on one of their dark blue pillbox hats; they wore them cockily on the side of their heads.

  Auntie Beryl was trying to gather her flock for the walk back to the school. Michael and Simon waited behind the crowd. Nurse Janine was looking for stragglers but then became distracted in talking to the American Crossroader man. The Crossroaders were rebuilding a small clinic on a hillside. The last clinic got washed away in a mudslide but this time they were digging deep foundations. Freda had told Michael that the Americans were ‘very fine’ and Michael could see what she meant. The British missionary men had twiggy arms sticking out of buttoned shirts but the American men had big muscles and worked stripped to the waist. Michael noticed that the Africans were most interested in the black Americans: children let their hoops fall, women stopped hoeing in fields, men put down their wheelbarrows; to see black people, like themselves but not like themselves: cowboy hats, wristwatches with huge dials, Levi ‘pants’ (that made Michael snigger), white gym shoes, lipstick, eyeshadow, sunglasses and lots of money. And the Americans didn’t care what they did: one man had put his hands on Auntie Beryl’s shoulders and said, ‘Well, well, if it ain’t the Queen of England herself.’ The Crossroaders hugged each other all the time, and when they shook hands with Michael they practically pumped his arm off. The previous year they had all blubbed like babies when they left.

  Michael could see the tall American putting on his hat again which meant Nurse Janine was leaving as well. He was the only Crossroader who came to the cathedral service – the rest went to the Baptist Gospel Hall in the town – and he always talked to Nurse Janine. He wore his hat to church, holding it to his stomach during the service and replacing it when he came outside, only to remove it again when he spoke to Nurse Janine.

  ‘I bet she would let him lick the malt off her spoon,’ Michael said.

  ‘My dad licks sherbet off my mum’s titties,’ Simon said.

  Michael made a gagging face. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Seen it. Through the keyhole. My mum was in agony.’

  ‘Why didn’t she just push him away?’

  ‘My parents are disgusting.’ Simon turned away with a shudder.

  Michael could see it: Simon’s hairy demon-father hunched over his mother, slobbering like a hyena with rabies, his paws on her shoulders, the fur on the back of his neck raised; but worse than that: his mother letting him eat her, wanting him to, as if she were one of those wild and revolting pagan women Auntie Priscilla had warned them about. His visit to Simon’s house was going to be the hardest thing he had ever done. He hoped Simon’s father didn’t like to munch on small boys.

  Now they put their hands in their pockets to look as if there was nothing wrong and tiptoed off the edge of the crowd, taking the path down the valley to the shops. Michael held his diamonds tightly in his pocket.

  In front of the dukas, which lined both sides of the street, was a covered walkway with square pillars. It seemed very quiet to Michael – just two tailors working the treadles outside Mehta’s Textiles – until he remembered that the shops were not allowed to open on Sundays. He expected Mr Patel was asleep, or counting his money, or whatever he did on a Sunday – he certainly wouldn’t be at church. Feeling conspicuous he followed Simon up the three concrete steps onto the walkway. The tailors looked up as they passed. The tic-tic whirring of their treadles slowed. ‘Naughty boys, naughty boys, mistress will catch you.’

  They hurried on past Kapoor Stores, selling framed images of Hindu gods, past Gupta and Sons, Grocery and Foodstuffs, then Jaz Shoe Repairs (Certified), then Jethas Motor Parts (Imports). So many Indians, thought Michael. Auntie Beryl had told them that there were lots of different types. He had written them down in his exercise book (as he had different types of cars): Gujaratis, Goans, Parsees, Punjabis, Sindhis, Hindus, Catholics, Sikhs, Ismailis, Sunnis, Shias; and they all spoke different languages: Cutchi, Gujarati, Punjabi, Hindi, Urdu. He wondered what type of Indian Mr Patel was. He would ask him and put a tick mark next to that type: to show that he had spotted one.

  When they reached Patel, Patel and Patel (All British Subjects) General Stores they found the door a quarter open. They peered into the dim interior to see if Mr Patel was at home. The shop smelt of polished metals and strong spices, making the boys hesitate in the doorway. Pots, paraffin lamps, handles for hoes and brooms, wire coils, matches, string, candles, maize oil, bags of sugar and flour filled the high shelves on the sidewalls. A ladder leant against the shelves. On the counter was a glass-fronted wooden cabinet and behind the glass were trays of powdered spices of flaming hues. Behind the counter, bottles of boiled sweets – mauve, crimson and glassy white – glistened in their glass jars.

  For a moment Michael thought no one was in the shop, but then a boy about their age appeared around the end of the counter. They stared at each other, Michael unsure who should speak first. The boy’s large black eyes gleamed back at Michael under eyebrows so neat and dark that they looked to have been drawn with a felt pen. Oil in his hair deepened its blackness.

  Eventually the boy said, in carefully pronounced English, ‘You want sweets?’

  ‘We’ve not come to buy anything,’ Michael said hastily. ‘It’s the Lord’s Day and should be kept holy.’

  Simon looked at him as if he was mad. ‘What?’

  ‘Umm, sorry. I don’t think he knows that.’

  The Indian boy started twisting his fingers together. ‘You come to steal something?’

  ‘We British don’t steal,’ Simon said abruptly.

  There was another awkward silence in which Michael felt uncomfortable with what Simon had said. Things weren’t going very well. The boy put his arm out and held the edge of the counter as if to stop them getting through to the sweets.

  ‘We want to speak to Mr Patel,’ Michael said, and then, anxious to be friendly, added, ‘Please!’

  ‘I find,’ said the boy and turned to go, but then thought better of leaving them unattended in the shop.

  ‘Papa,’ he shouted.

  A sack curtain hiding a door was pushed aside. Mr Patel wore a long shirt not tucked into his trousers (or were they pyjamas?), which Michael thought was very slovenly. He had not even shaved.

  ‘You boys want sweets?’ Mr Patel asked.

  ‘We’ve come to ask you a question,’ Simon replied.

  ‘Very good, any question, I can answer.’

  ‘It’s about diamonds. Do you know what a diamond looks like?’

  Mr Patel’s face darkened. ‘Bandhu, go and see your mother.’

  Bandhu looked crossly at Michael and disappeared behind the curtain. Mr Patel closed the door to the street but did not turn on the light, so at first all Michael could see was a green glow from Mr Patel’s luminescent watch.

  ‘Why you ask me about diamonds? Who has sent such young boys to ask such silly questions? I’m an honest trader. Small talking that Patel has diamonds hidden in his house and the next thing Patel is found face in the swamp and his house is robbered.’

  Michael felt hurt. ‘We only want our dads to be able to win the East African Safari. And I think we should say that we don’t want to spend the money on wonton living.’

  ‘What is wonton living, my boy?’

  ‘It’s when you spend all your money and then have to live in a pigsty like the Prodigal Son,’ Michael said.

  ‘Pigsty, ha? Like Bandhu’s room, heh, heh. But that is bad, it’s best to be tidy.’

  Simon said, ‘We have some crystals and we want to know which ones are diamonds.’ He dug his hand into his pocket and displayed them to Mr P
atel. They looked like gravel chips in the dim light.

  ‘I’m a trader of household goods. What do I know of diamonds?’ Mr Patel said.

  Michael looked dejectedly at Simon. Simon started to put the stones back in his pocket.

  ‘But my cousin in Kampala; he has jewellery business. Maybe he has taught me a few little things. Come, come, we’ll talk.’ Mr Patel motioned them to follow him behind the curtain. Stepping through it he collided with Bandhu. ‘Did I not tell you to go to your mother?’ he shouted. Bandhu started to move back. ‘No, no! Now you must go in the shop. I have business to do with these boys.’ Bandhu scowled at Michael.

  Simon stepped forward to follow Mr Patel, but Michael froze. It was one thing talking in the shop – that’s where the Europeans and Indians talked to each other – quite another to go through the curtain. He imagined that beyond the curtain he would enter something like Aladdin’s cave, except instead of treasure there would be glossy idols, showy statues, shiny images and hypnotising smells – like the Roman Catholic church that his parents had steered him away from when they had gone for a walk in Kampala.

  ‘What is wrong? Are you frightened of an honest trader?’ Mr Patel asked.

  ‘I’m not allowed,’ Michael said.

  ‘Boy, do you want your father to win the motor safari?’

  Michael followed Simon through the curtain and then through a door off a short corridor.

  ‘Reshma, here are my young friends. They wish to do business.’

  It was not immediately obvious to Michael whom Mr Patel was talking to, but a colourful shape in the corner – which he had mistaken for a roll of cloth – moved, and all of a sudden there was Mrs Patel smiling at them. Michael thought her very kind with her soft smile and her watery Bambi eyes. Her silky sari flowed lightly about her small body.

  ‘You like chapattis? I make you some,’ she said, tilting her head as if taking a position in an Indian dance.

  ‘Oh, thank you. That’s most kind,’ Michael said. He had heard how to speak like that on the World Service of the BBC which his father tuned into every night, adjusting the dial as carefully as if he was listening for the click of a tumbler in a lock, finding words in a whole sky of whistles, static and hiss. In the Patels’ room there was a radio playing Indian music. Michael found it mesmerising and strange. Other than that, their room was not very different from the living room at home. There were no creamy statues or spangled pictures.

  Mrs Patel offered Simon a chapatti as well.

  ‘No thanks,’ Simon said firmly, and put his mouth to Michael’s ear, whispering, ‘They chew the chapattis in their mouths before they cook them.’

  Michael looked with horror at Simon, but Mrs Patel had already slipped out to the kitchen, the trailing pallu of her sari only just keeping up with her. Mr Patel motioned the boys to sit down. Simon put his crystals on the table and Michael did the same to make an unequal pile.

  ‘Where you get these?’ Mr Patel asked.

  ‘Up Crys . . .’ started Michael but Simon stopped him, saying, ‘We can’t tell you where our mine is.’

  ‘You will make good businessman,’ Mr Patel said.

  Mr Patel picked the crystals up one by one, curling his lower lip further and further over his upper lip and frowning more and more as he studied each in turn. He got up and went over to a cupboard, moved a lot of objects noisily around, and came back with a small metal plate and a hammer. He placed one of the smallest crystals on the plate and tapped it firmly with the hammer. It crushed into small splinters.

  ‘No good.’

  He picked up another. Michael found himself suddenly fond of his crystals, diamonds or not, and pulled them back towards him, but Simon said, ‘Let him find the diamonds. You said God had told you.’

  One after another the crystals disintegrated under Mr Patel’s hammer, each making a crunch noise like a plastic toy crushed under foot. God is testing me, like Abraham with his son, thought Michael, but he will find out that I’m very strong. It occurred to him to offer the last stone to Mr Patel straight away, the one God must have chosen to be the diamond, but he remembered: Do Not Test The Lord Your God.

  Mr Patel finished dispatching Simon’s crystals and, looking bored, gathered the last three, Michael’s three, all together on the plate. Michael craned forward; this was the moment when God was going to show Simon what he could do. Mr Patel’s hammer would bounce back off the hard diamond and hit him in the eye. Then he and Simon would jump up and shout with happiness – or perhaps he should stay calm to show Simon that he had never doubted what God had said. Mr Patel lifted his hammer high, took a long time to take aim, and then hit the crystals hard. The boys jumped at the sharp noise. Pieces of stone scattered widely. Mr Patel lifted his hammer slowly, his lower lip almost touching his nose. A miserable pile of powdered quartz remained on the metal.

  ‘Very sorry, that is that,’ Mr Patel said with finality.

  Michael looked at the remains of his dreams: a shattered Zephyr 6. He couldn’t bear to look at Simon; they wouldn’t even be leaving with any quartz crystals. Simon was making a half-hearted attempt to find any pieces that might have flown away onto the floor.

  Mrs Patel had come back in just as the hammer had fallen, and now she leant across the table to put a hot chapatti down in front of Michael. He was enveloped in sweet scents and feather-light touchings of her sari which somehow reminded him of his mother. The chewed chapatti lay steaming in front of him. Now he was pleased that God was going to have to watch him eat it. He would show God that he didn’t care what he thought; he had tried to do good on the Sabbath but God had stopped him.

  He chewed lightly, swallowing pieces whole, but then discovered he liked it – Mrs Patel’s saliva was spicy. He decided that he would tell Simon that it was revolting: eating a chapatti was as brave as drinking a potty.

  Mr Patel traced a pattern with his stubby brown finger in the rock dust and said, in a no nonsense way, ‘Those are glass rocks, not diamonds.’

  ‘We’re sorry to have wasted your time, Mr Patel,’ Simon said. He shot Michael an accusatory look.

  ‘No, don’t be sorry. Boys like you, you’ll become rich one day. Maybe you’ll have a big factory like Maneesh, my cousin. He has a sugar refinery. You like that? Sugar candy, jaggery, golden syrup, white granulated.’

  He paused to smile widely at the boys. Michael was still eating his chapatti and making pretend disgusted faces at Simon to show him how much he was suffering.

  ‘Manju, my brother, he has oil factories: castor oil, simsim oil, groundnut oil, cottonseed oil, vegetable ghee, oilcakes, sheanut butter, et cetera, et cetera.’

  ‘You have forgotten Lalit,’ Mrs Patel said.

  ‘Ah, Lalit. Soda ash factory by the lake – for dye process, for glass, for soap. Also salt: cattle salt, coarse salt, crushed salt, crushed raw soda.’

  ‘You have forgotten Mahesh,’ Mrs Patel said.

  Michael saw Mr Patel glance darkly at Mrs Patel. Mr Patel said, ‘You’re very nice boys but is not your school missing you?’

  Simon looked at his watch – Michael had no watch although one was promised for his thirteenth birthday, an age away – and leapt up. They said a hasty thanks and bumped into the listening Bandhu as they went through the curtain. Not waiting to hear Mr Patel shout at Bandhu, they ran up the path towards the school.

  ‘Oh, darn,’ huffed Simon, but Michael did not hear – he was still furious at God, tears not far away.

  Priscilla had seen the truants coming up the path, and her relief was turning to anger. She stood with her hands on her hips until Simon came to a halt in front of her. Michael came up behind, but he seemed not to have noticed her – she had to stop him running past her by putting out her hand.

  The child said, breathlessly, ‘We know that all things work together for good to those who love God.’ She saw him take a deep breath. ‘God is working his purpose out as year succeeds to year.’

  A gentle light played on the boy’s face. It
diffused her anger. She glanced behind, expecting to see an angel casting its luminosity on Michael, but saw only the trunks of the eucalyptus trees, smooth and marbled, as if she was standing in the Courts of the Lord. Of course, she thought, we see through a glass darkly. I can’t presume to see an angel’s physical presence, but the child has surely spoken again.

  Memory verses came to Michael at the height of his fury – they popped into his brain as if God had poked them in there with his finger. He clenched his fists in sudden recognition of what God was doing as he said the verses out loud. It was so obvious now. This was another test; a test that he only gave to Great Men Of Faith. Then he saw Auntie Priscilla. She was turning without a word to lead them back to school. That was worrying – it would be so much better if she had been angry straight away. She must be saving it up for a big punishment later on.

  Auntie Priscilla took them straight to Auntie Beryl’s office, and told them to wait outside in the corridor while she went in. After a while they heard Auntie Beryl raise her voice. She sounded fed up.

  ‘Priscilla, that is highly speculative. We’re Protestants, not Catholics – always seeing visions!’

  When Auntie Priscilla came out she looked at Michael, and nodded her head ever so slightly in a knowing way.

  Auntie Beryl called them in and told them to stand on the mat in front of her desk. She was busy writing something and did not look at them, as if she had better things to do. Her glasses were perched near the tip of her nose, so that she looked like a wise old owl. There were stacks of paper all over her desk. Some looked like end-of-term reports, giving Michael a sinking feeling. He tried to read the titles of the books in the glass-fronted cabinet behind her: Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance, Luther’s Catechism, Selected Sermons of George Whitfield, Summa Theologica. Auntie Beryl was very brainy.