One Big Damn Puzzler

by John Harding

  She served his meal with a big mug of hot, sweet tea which she said would get his blood sugar up. William wasn’t sure that kassa actually put your blood-sugar levels down but he didn’t want to spoil Lucy’s housewifely fun by saying so. She sat opposite him with a much more modest portion of the same food.

  The idea of eating, when Lucy first mentioned it, had made William feel queasy but now the food was before him he found he was hungry. Moreover, this was the first repast he’d seen on the island that in any way resembled Western food and so he went at it with a will. He remembered how kassa was not unlike cannabis when smoked and recalled how the latter drug had always given him a voracious appetite. After alcohol, too, he often wanted a big breakfast next day. This increased appetite wasn’t the only way his post-kassa state resembled a normal hangover; he could not recall whole parts of the night before. As after an evening of heavy drinking, nightmarish images drifted in and out of his weary brain.

  ‘You know, I don’t remember getting here last night,’ he told Lucy. ‘I can recall talking to my dad – he was young this time – but everything after that is a blur—’ He stopped and shook his head as though trying to clear the fog from it.

  ‘What?’ said Lucy.

  He laughed, a little unconvincingly, he knew. ‘Well, it’s the strangest thing, but I had this dream that I was, well, flying.’

  ‘Perhaps you were thinking about leaving. The plane’s due at the end of the week.’ She appeared to be too busy mopping her egg yolk with a piece of minoa bread to look up and meet his eyes as she said this.

  ‘No, no. You don’t understand. I wasn’t in a plane. I was just up in the air, above the island. I was flying.’

  She looked worried. ‘You’re going to have to keep away from the kassa.’

  He shrugged and took another bite of egg. The yolk dribbled down his chin and he paused to wipe it with the heavy white napkin that Lucy had provided. He was staring right through her.

  ‘What?’ she said again.

  ‘I – I saw something, when I was flying. Something significant.’

  ‘Yes . . .?’

  There was a long pause. His forehead pleated with the effort of trying to recall. Finally he shook his head and bent it to his breakfast once more. ‘It’s no good, it’s gone. I can’t remember what it was at all.’

  ‘You need more sugar, that’ll do the trick.’ She took his empty mug and he admired the lines of her buttocks through the clinging silk as she disappeared into the house. Presumably they had made love last night, but he couldn’t remember that, either, and it would be insensitive to ask. He closed his eyes and imagined Lucy’s naked body below his, then above and then beside him. Were any of these memories? And if so were they from last night or from other occasions? He sighed. He guessed he would never know. He tried to cast his mind further back to where this thing that was nagging at him lay, somehow just beyond his grasp. But it was no good. The constant pounding of the waves, the roar of the surf that, now he opened his eyes to look at it, was even whiter than the tablecloth obliterated all. His eye caught a movement in the distance, a figure walking this way. He watched it as it grew closer and long before he could make out the features recognized the limping gait.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ He swivelled to see Lucy in the doorway, mug in hand, looking at the figure too. ‘It’s Managua, he’s found us in flagrante!’

  William leaped from his seat, causing a stab of pain to his temples. ‘I’ll make the bed and get my clothes on!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter about your clothes, stupid!’ snapped Lucy. ‘He mustn’t see we’ve been eating together.’

  She rushed back inside with the mug. Managua had already turned from the sea and was walking towards the house. He was maybe fifty steps away.

  ‘The plates!’ Lucy beckoned through the window. William picked up one and frisbeed it through to her. She caught it deftly. He began to pick up the other one. ‘Leave it!’ she called. He could see her scrubbing furiously at the other plate in the pot of water she used as a sink. ‘He’ll smell the food. He’ll know someone has been eating breakfast. It’s OK as long as he doesn’t think it’s you. Sit down and try not to act suspiciously.’

  William lowered himself into his chair. Managua was ascending the steps to the veranda. William realized that his plate was still in front of him. Waving cheerily with one hand to Managua he surreptitiously pushed the plate across the table to the place in front of Lucy’s empty chair.

  ‘Moning, gwanga,’ said Managua. Lucy appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel and looking flustered.

  ‘Hello Managua,’ she said. ‘What a pleasant surprise. To see you so early.’

  ‘You is sleep here?’ said the older man to William. William glanced at Lucy. He had only a split second to decide on the right reply. If he said yes, would Managua know from the evidence of the breakfast table that he had eaten here as well?

  To his horror William looked down at the tablecloth and noticed there were still two forks and two knives upon it. But how could he deny he’d spent the night when he was sitting here in just his shorts?

  ‘I is not find you at Captain Cook,’ Managua said, luckily revealing the question to have been either rhetorical or a trap before William had chance to make a disastrous wrong choice of answer. He noticed the old man was looking at him rather than the table, slowly winking first one eye and then the other and he realized that his own eyes were going frenetically right-left-left-right. William made a superhuman effort to stop and Managua’s eyes ceased doing it too.

  ‘You is not have shit with me for some time now,’ the old man continued, his tone regretful. He looked down at the table, examining the plate on which the egg yolk had already hardened to a golden crust. ‘Of course, if you is eat too many turtle egg, you is not can shit at all.’ He brought his gaze up again, staring William straight in the eye.

  ‘That, er, that is not his plate,’ said Lucy walking from the doorway and picking it up. ‘I’ve just been having my breakfast while William was getting ready to go to the village for his.’

  Managua looked down at the table again. He began fiddling with one of the knives. Behind his back Lucy performed a frantic mime of scrubbing her mouth with her hand. William copied her and realized he had egg yolk on his chin. He reflected ruefully that while being caught with his trousers down didn’t matter, ending up with egg on his face did. He licked his fingers and hastily removed it, a fraction of a second before Managua looked up. The old man had picked up the knife and was weighing it in his hand.

  ‘Is be big knife,’ he said. ‘Is use for hunt?’

  William looked at Lucy, who shrugged behind Managua’s back. No help there, then. ‘Er, yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a um hunting knife.’

  ‘What you is hunt?’ asked Managua, holding the handle in his fist and practising a downward stabbing motion.

  William couldn’t think. What did people hunt, for God’s sake? Bears? If Managua knew what a bear was then he was hardly likely to believe you killed them with knives in hand-to-hand combat. Deer? By throwing knives at them as they ran away? What else was there?

  ‘Foxes,’ said William desperately, then seeing Managua did not understand, added, ‘it’s an animal we have in America. It’s a kind of wild dog.’ The old man’s expression didn’t change and William remembered Purnu and Cuh-A-Tuh. He gave up trying to explain.

  ‘I is not understand what for you is have knife here, on table, for hunt foxes.’ Managua shot him a challenging look. ‘We is have no foxes here.’

  ‘I was thinking maybe it might be useful for killing a -um – a—’ stammered William. Behind Managua’s back, Lucy pointed at the egg on the plate she was holding.

  ‘An egg!’ William said triumphantly.

  ‘An egg? What for you is need kill egg?’ The old man looked at William as if he were worried he might be crazy. He looked like he was glad he was the one holding the knife.

  Behind him Lucy rolled her eyes in exasperation
and then began making swimming strokes with her hands.

  ‘A turtle!’ exclaimed William.

  Managua examined the blade of the knife. He ran his thumb along its edge. He looked again at William. ‘Is not be much good for kill turtle. Is not be sharp enough. As matter of fact is not be sharp at all. Turtle is have very thick skin.’

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ said William. ‘That’s just the conclusion I reached.’

  ‘What for you is have two knives on table? You is plan attack turtle from both sides in case he is try for run away?’ He was laughing openly now. ‘I is can tell you is not be necessary. Turtle is move even more slow than me.’

  ‘I er took one knife out to see if it would be any good for turtles and saw it was – as you so rightly point out – not sharp enough, so I had a look at another one,’ William improvised. Managua nodded and before the old man could ask anything else, William said, ‘Why were you looking for me?’

  ‘Looking for you? I is not look for you.’

  ‘You said you were at the Captain Cook. Why else would you go except to see me?’

  Was it his imagination or was it Managua who now looked flustered? ‘Ah yes, of course. I is just be friendly, is go see if you is come for have shit with me. We is go now?’

  William didn’t answer. Whatever it was he had been trying to remember had just crept a little bit closer. He sensed it was almost within reach. He knew it was something to do with the Captain Cook.

  ‘Come, we is go now, get good place for shit.’

  ‘What? Oh, OK. Just wait a minute while I put my trousers on.’ William disappeared inside. Managua gave Lucy a shrug. ‘I is never understand Americans. What for is put trousers on for take off again for have shit?’

  William appeared fully dressed, gave Lucy a quick kiss and set off down the steps after the already retreating Managua. As Lucy watched the two of them heading along the beach towards the sunrise she heard the older man say, not without irony, she thought, ‘After shitting I is give you breakfast. After kassa you is be plenty hungry. Yes, I is give you one plenty big damn breakfast.’

  Managua proved as good as his word and gave William a magnificent breakfast. As well as the inevitable revolting stew that seemed to make up most of the old man’s diet he gave him fried turtle eggs, slices of minoa and red fungi. Thrusting a huge wooden platter full of this at William as he was trying to force down the last of a bowl of stew, he smiled and said, ‘Here is be what you is not have at Miss Lucy’s. Is smell so tasty I is be sure you is must long for that.’

  It was all William could do not to groan as he took the platter. ‘Is be plenty more turtle eggs if you desire they,’ said Managua. ‘But I is counsel you you is stick at two. Otherwise you is mebbe not be able for make shit tomorrow.’

  Wouldn’t want that, would we? thought William. Wouldn’t do to disappoint my fans.

  When breakfast was over, that is to say when Managua finally ceased to press food upon William and allowed him to stop eating, the old man was in a mood to chat.

  ‘Is you ever think ’bout end of Hamlet?’ he asked. William wasn’t able to say that he had.

  ‘Well, here is be extraordinary thing. Everybody is be dead. They is all be kill at end. Hamlet, Laertes, Claudius, Gertrude. And of course all they others is be dead already, Ophelia, Polonius, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Everybody is be dead ’cept Horatio and this Fortinbras and he is not really be part of play anyway, is only just get there in time for end.’

  ‘So?’ said William. He didn’t know much about Shakespeare but he didn’t want to offend Managua by appearing uninterested.

  ‘So, what is happen next?’ Managua folded his arms and sat back with an air of triumph.

  ‘Well, what can happen next? Horatio and Fortinbras can talk to one another and that’s about it, isn’t it, if everyone else is dead.’

  Managua gave him a puzzled look. ‘Excuse me, but you is go in kassa house, I is think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, you is know that just because Hamlet and all rest of they is be dead is be no reason for they is stop talk.’ He leaned forward for emphasis. ‘Is not be necessary for play is stop there. Is can carry on.’

  William considered this for a moment. ‘Well, I see where you’re coming from but you have to remember the scene of the action is Denmark. They don’t have kassa there, so far as I’m aware. How would anyone be able to communicate with the dead without it?’

  Managua sighed. ‘I is not wish for offend you, gwanga, but sometimes I is wish they is send American who is know more ’bout Hamlet. You is not remember how play is start?’

  William tried to recall. It was years since he’d read it and almost as long since he’d seen it, if indeed he had.

  ‘OK, I is help you out. Is start with ghost of Hamlet father. He is be dead but is walk on battlement – whatever that is be but we is not worry ’bout that now – and is talk with Hamlet. Is not be mention Hamlet is visit kassa house.’

  ‘Well, OK. But then, Hamlet’s father is an unhappy ghost who’s come back for a purpose.’

  ‘You is go tell me Hamlet is be happy for be kill in unfair fight? You is say Gertrude is be happy for drink poison by mistake?’

  ‘Well, no . . .’

  ‘And Ophelia? She is kill self. You is tell me is be act of happy person? She is smile as she is drown? And Polonius. He is think is be so great for stand behind this arras and somebody is stab he? I is not know what arras is be but I is be pretty damn sure is not be something you is stand behind for wait somebody is stab you.’

  ‘OK, they don’t all die happy—’

  ‘They is not any of they is die happy. You is think Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is be happy when they is give letter English king and he is execute they? Is not what they is expect at all. And Laertes is be victim of trick.’

  ‘Yes, but what I mean is you can’t compare sixteenth-century Denmark to here. They had different customs and beliefs, about death and so on.’

  ‘Not so very different, I is think,’ said Managua holding up a finger. ‘People is talk with family who is die, just like we is do here. You is tell me is not happen in America but is happen here and in Denmark.’ He paused to stuff some kassa leaves into his pipe and fire it up. He took a puff and offered it to William, who, feeling the nausea rise in him, waved it away. ‘And Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland? How did that get into this argument?’

  ‘Is be ghost of Banquo in Macbeth. You is not remember that one either I is suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And these Danes is have same burial customs as we is have.’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘You is know how we is bury dead person and then after we is dig up and is handle bones and then is bury again?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been reading about that in Lucy’s book, but I don’t see the connection with Hamlet.’

  ‘Yorick.’

  ‘Yorick?’

  ‘Even you is must remember he. He is be fellow of infinite jest. Is be dug up and Hamlet is play with he skull. Is be just like we is do. First time I is read play I is all time expect Yorick is go show up just like father of Hamlet.’

  William was silent for a moment. He supposed this was part of the universal appeal of Shakespeare. Each person coming to it found in it something different, depending on their cultural references. He recalled seeing a production of a Shakespeare play transposed to the Caribbean, and a Marxist interpretation of King Lear. It might not be all things to all men, but it was certainly something else to Managua.

  ‘I don’t quite understand where all this is leading you,’ he said, rising from his cross-legged position to indicate he wanted to leave.

  Seated on the ground as he was, Managua might have been looking up at William physically, but his expression was one of pure condescension. ‘Sequel.’

  ‘Sequel?’

  ‘Is mean another story that is come after one story is be over. You is never hear of Henry IV Part One? Well, is be se
quel, Henry IV Part Two.’

  ‘I – uh – know what a sequel is. But surely you’re not suggesting . . .’

  ‘Sequel for Hamlet. Is be necessary. Is be obvious all they unhappy dead people is go come back. If I is put play on here, everyone is ask what is happen next. Is must have sequel.’

  ‘Well, how are you going to get that?’

  ‘Is be obvious.’ Managua tapped his chest. ‘I is write.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  ON HIS WAY back to the Captain Cook, where he had plenty to do processing the information he’d gathered and checking what else was needful to be done before he left on the plane in a few days’ time, William couldn’t help chuckling at the idea of this crazy old guy, this literary man with an artificial leg, on a remote island in the South Pacific having the hubris to think he could write a follow-up to what was arguably the world’s greatest piece of literature. He tried to imagine what it would be like, a drama in which most of the characters were already dead at the start. Insane! But then again, perhaps not here, where the lines between living and dead were blurred, where, under the influence of a powerful hallucinogen, you could see and converse with your departed loved ones. Once again, William was troubled. He was always so confused the morning after kassa that he felt he must have hallucinated, but while he was in the hut, he was absolutely convinced his dead father stood before him. A thought struck him that had not occurred before. His hallucination had somehow peopled the kassa house with the relatives of all those other people present. He had presumed this to be because before he’d ever entered the place he’d heard suggestions of what he would see there. Until now he’d only thought about the reality or not of his vision of his father, but as he plodded along the beach, being careful where he stepped because he had to traverse the shitting beach and the tide was still out, he thought of the other people he had seen. And then he thought of Managua, who had sat next to him that first time, talking with an old man. Afterwards, when he’d asked who the man was, Managua had said his father. But how was it possible for William to share another person’s hallucination?