As Nelson studied the wreck, a man rode by on a bicycle and called out with a mocking laugh, “Lookin’ fo’ de murmaid, Roopnaraine?”
The man’s laughter trailed behind him as he pedaled away, speeding up in case Nelson decided to chase him, or throw a stone at him. Nelson ignored the taunt.
Five minutes later, a donkey cart came along. The donkey clip-clopped smartly. The iron chains around its belly jangled loudly. The loose boards of the cart clattered. The combined effect was part of the hum and rhythm unique to Georgetown.
The driver of the cart was no more than fourteen. “HOH! HOH! HOH!” he commanded the donkey, pulling hard on the reins to bring the cart to a halt near Nelson. “Mornin’, Uncle Nelson,” he said with a grin. His white teeth gleamed against his dark skin.
Nelson returned the greeting. “Mornin’, Solomon. How come de kyart empty?”
He had known Solomon since he was born. Solomon’s family were his neighbors. Patrick Ogle, Solomon’s father, operated a transportation service comprising one donkey cart and one dray cart. Solomon, a first-class dunce in school, had been put in charge of the donkey cart. Nelson always thought it was the best thing Patrick could have done. Solomon was a born salesman. He talked his way into such lucrative seasonal and long-term contracts, hauling this and that for the businesses on Water Street, that his father was now contemplating buying a lorry to expand the business.
“Ah jus’ going fo’ pick up a load o’ plantain now. Yuh drap somet’ing in de Lamaha?”
“Nah! Ah jus’ tryin’ fo’ see how ah kyan pull out de ol’ kyar.”
“Oh-oh!” The second “oh” was almost an octave higher. “ ‘Cause when I see dis person standin’ up so, starin’ in de trench, I seh to meself, ‘Eh-eh! Dis person like ‘e lookin’ fo’ de murmaid.’ Den I see it was you an’ I seh, ‘Ah hope Uncle Nelson ain’ lookin’ fo’ no murmaid.’ Den I seh yuh must be drap somet’ing in de trench. But is only de kyar yuh studyin’.” He sounded relieved.
Nelson sighed.”No, Solomon. I ain’ lookin’ fo’ no murmaid. Yuh bettuz guh lang before yuh fahdda seh I got yuh idlin’ in de street.” Solomon’s father was notorious for the close eye he kept on his business. Word of the slightest aberration seemed to reach him by magic.
“Awright, Uncle Nelson.” He made a hissing sound out of the side of his mouth and tugged on the reins. The donkey responded instantly, setting off at a trot.
Nelson sighed again and turned his attention back to the rotting vehicle. “Guyanese people! Is only we does believe in stupidness like murmaid,” he grumbled.
The Lamaha trench, named after the street, is one of the main arteries in Georgetown’s grid-iron canal system built by the Dutch in the eighteenth century to drain floodwater from the city. Guyana’s coastal plain is seven feet below sea level and Georgetown, sitting smack on the Atlantic Coast, floods easily during the torrential rainy season. The canal system, a network of trenches and gutters, collects most of this water and empties it into the Demerara River, which in turn flows into the Atlantic Ocean.
A shiny blue Ford Cortina slowed and rolled to a stop in front of Nelson’s pickup. A man in a white shirt jacket and black, knife-seamed trousers emerged from the driver’s side. He approached Nelson with a loud, jocular greeting.
“Wha’ happenin’, Nello boy? Lookin’ fo’ de murmaid?”
Nelson recognized the voice. He sucked his teeth without bothering to turn around. “Yuh know, I sick o’ hearin’ ‘bout dis blastid murmaid! Do I look like a damn fool to you, Compton?” he snarled.
Compton Dalrymple was permanent secretary in the Ministry of Transportation. He and Nelson had been friends since elementary school. He laughed at Nelson’s irritation. “Well, wuh de hell you expect people fo’ t’ink wid you stan’in’ up like duh, starin’ in de trench?”
The mythical mermaid had style. According to the lore, she made a surprise appearance once every few years. All of a sudden, rumors would spread through Georgetown about mermaid sightings. Sometimes she appeared in the Botanical Gardens on Vlissingen Road, sitting on a huge, round, water-lily frond in one of the ponds. Other times she was sighted on the bank of the Lamaha, her tail dipping in the water.
The trench itself had claimed the lives of nine adults and five children over the years and, as a result, the population had endowed it with a spirit of its own, a spirit that was as alluring as it was treacherous. The beautiful mermaid who tended her long black tresses with a tortoiseshell comb as she lured her victims into the water with her soft eyes was the embodiment of that spirit. After an absence of five years, she had been spotted recently on the bank of the Lamaha, near Irving Street. “Well? What are you doing?” Compton asked, switching to crisply articulated English in that easy manner common to the well educated and the socially privileged.
Nelson responded by indicating the wreck with his chin. Compton looked at the rusty skeleton and burst out laughing again. “Nelson, don’t tell me you want to pull out de ol’ kyar!”
“That is exactly what I want to do,” Nelson said wearily. “Stop laughing, man, and give me some ideas!” He emphasized “ideas” so that it came out “iDAZE.”
Compton shook his head slowly. “Boy, I can’t help you there at all. You know the Lamaha. Once she brackle somet’ing she ain’ loosin’ it at all. Why do you think the Mini Minor is still sitting there? Because the Lamaha holding it tight tight!”
“It is still there because nobody has tried to pull it out since it went in,” Nelson replied heatedly. “When is the last time you saw somebody trying to get it out? Eh? Tell me! I bet if I get a powerful enough winch I can take it out.”
“Awright, awright, man. Tek it easy. Don’t go on so, man. Look, lemme see. The only people I know with that kind of winch—one that is working—is that Venezuelan outfit that’s building the road to Linden. And I doubt they will lend it to you, not even if you ask to rent it.”
“Well that’s a start. I didn’t even think of them. Bet if I pay one of their workers a small piece I can borrow it for a night.”
“You mean the scrap business is so bad, man?”
“If? It squeezin’ we balls. And it supposed to get worse. Plastic is king. They’re making everything out of it these days.”
“Hah! I think you’re right about that, boy. Last time I was in Japan with the Kabaka, I saw with my own eyes. Cars in factories made out of plastic. Real (he pronounced it “rayle”) kyars that drive on the road! Out of plastic!” Kabaka was one of those African words that flavored the patois spoken in Guyana. It is of Luganda origin, the language spoken by the Baganda people of Uganda, and is the title used for a chief or king. In Guyana, it was ascribed to Linden Forbes Sampson Burnham, the country’s first prime minister, now deceased, who took on the persona of a traditional African chief and began to appear in public dressed accordingly, in flowing white robes.
A long moment passed as Nelson and Compton looked at each other, contemplating the insidiousness of the plastic invasion. As usual, each knew what the other was thinking. Invariably, their thoughts were the same on most issues and this time was no exception. If cars could be made of plastic, then nothing was sacred anymore. Plastic was the genius of cheapness gone mad, for what other logic could explain it but the desire to cut costs? You don’t have to mine plastic. It’s a chemical produced in a lab.
Compton tapped the side of his Cortina as if to reassure himself that the car he was driving was made of metal. “Boy, I tell you. At this rate, the only iron we will see in Guyana will be de train line,” he said, pointing with his bottom lip to the rails that ran along the far side of the Lamaha canal. He sounded dejected, commiserating with his friend and contemplating the dubious future of Roopnaraine Scrap Metal.
Nelson turned his head listlessly in the direction indicated by Compton’s bottom lip. His eyes settled with disinterest on the railway. He started to turn his attention back to the Mini Minor when his head snapped back to the railway. He stared more intently at the rails. T
hey seemed to wink back at him as the broiling sun glinted off their back.
Nelson’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, as if a puzzle was beginning to make sense.
Compton watched him closely. His eyebrows angled down in suspicion as Nelson became more preoccupied with the train line.
“Nelson!” he said sharply. He could read his friend like a book.
“What?” Nelson said, turning to him a face that was a mask of innocence. “If I were you, I would get that thought out of my head!”
“What thought?”
“Dat one about tearin’ up de train line.”
Nelson looked at him and said nothing. Then he turned again to look at the iron rails.
Compton followed his gaze.
Both were silent as they stared at the shiny iron rails. The train line ran the entire width of Georgetown and continued sixty-five miles along the coast to Rosignol in Berbice County. On the other side of the Demerara River, it picked up at Vreed-en-Hoop stelling and ran eighteen or so miles to Parika, in Essequibo County.
Someone had planted beds of callaloo, the local spinach, in the rich black soil between the Lamaha and the railway. The callaloo ran free and luscious. Its dark-green leaves, thick and round, were almost ready for picking. Compton said, “De train really ol’ an’ rickety, Nello.”
“I know,” Nelson replied.
“An’ nobody talkin’’bout gettin’ new ones.”
“Is true.”
“So is only a matta o’ time before—” Compton’s voice faded away.
Nelson finished the sentence in his mind and made a sound that seemed to blow out of his nostrils. “Hhmm!”
“Hhmm!” Compton echoed.
Silence filled the space between them.
Compton spoke first. “The Kabaka will never agree to it.” His voice was soft and whispery.
“He could be convinced.” Nelson’s voice came back soft and whispery. Compton said nothing.
Nelson’s lips eased into a shadow of a smile. He didn’t have to look at Compton. He could read him like a book.
4
On the platform at Gare Saint-Charles, Dru shook hands with Theron St. Cyr. She thanked him for the tour of Marseille and for keeping her safe from the city’s lowlifes.
“Let me take you to your seat,” St. Cyr offered, picking up her bags before she could protest.
He boarded the train and walked along the corridor ahead of her, peering through the glass door of every compartment until he found one that was almost empty. The only occupants were a young Asian couple who looked like student tourists. They sat very close to each other near the window, their heads buried in a French-language newspaper that the man was holding. Two backpacks were stored in the rack above their seats. There was no luggage in the rack above the seats facing them.
“This one looks comfortable enough for you, Dru,” St. Cyr said.
The couple looked up as he opened the door and entered. He greeted them with a friendly bonjour and proceeded to place Dru’s bags on the empty rack.
The couple returned the greeting and went back to reading the newspaper.
Dru squeezed past St. Cyr and flopped down on the seat with a loud sigh. After all the walking she had done with St. Cyr, she was ready to put her feet up.
She looked at the couple sharing the compartment. Now what in the world is a fine-looking man like him doing with a mouse like that?
She masked the thought with a warm smile and greeted them, deliberately speaking English. They looked up and returned the greeting with vigorous head nods and smiles that outdid hers.
“Going all the way to Paris?” Dru asked, continuing in English. The man answered, bowing his head and smiling. “Yes. Paris.”
“Me, too. Paris,” Dru said.
The man spoke again. “American?”
“Yes. And you?”
“We’re Japanese.”
She sighed contentedly. Looks like I’ve got decent company again. This could be interesting.
She said good-bye to St. Cyr again, sticking out her hand in a preemptive strike against any move he might make to subject her to that idiotic European two-cheek kiss.
St. Cyr made no such move. He grasped her hand in a tight thumb-wrap, the way men do when they really like each other. He gave her that intent look again.
Dru was just beginning to feel uncomfortable when he broke into a smile. It was a smile that she could not read.
“Good-bye, Dru. Perhaps we will meet again.” He turned abruptly and left the train.
He stood on the platform outside her compartment and she stood at the window, listening incredulously to his advice about being careful and not trusting strangers on the train no matter how genuine they seemed. “You’ve got to be joking,” she laughed when he paused for a reaction from her.
“Am I laughing, Drucilla?”
He wasn’t. Then suddenly he was.
“But you’ve got good instincts. And, of course, you’ve got that…that…how shall I say it? That fighter look you gave me.” He made a pitiful attempt to slide his head and cross his eyes.
Dru burst out laughing.
“Oh, please! Don’t even try. You just don’t have it in you. You’ve got to be East Flatbush–born and bred. Besides, only women do it,” she said. “Show me.”
“Why should I put myself on display for you?”
The train’s departure whistle raked the air. Dru jumped. “Jeez!” she exclaimed.
“Show me,” St. Cyr insisted. “Come on, Theron, be serious.”
“Like this?” He tried again.
“Stop it,” Dru laughed. “You look ridiculous. It’s like this.” She showed him a black face and rolled her neck. “Satisfied?”
Before he could respond, the whistle blasted again and the train began to pull away, slowly gathering speed. Dru leaned farther out of the window and waved.
“I had a great time. Thanks again,” she called. “So did I. It was my pleasure,” he called back. “Good luck!”
“And the same to you!” He stood there, grinning and waving.
No running beside the train like in the movies, thank God, Dru thought with relief. But it would have been nice, she added wistfully, then laughed at herself.
She sat back in her seat and sighed. Well, that didn’t turn out too bad after all. Interesting man, Theron St. Cyr. Clearly well educated. He hadn’t lied about that. Blasé, as in sophisticated. Worldly. Warm. Witty. And she had felt safe with him, especially when they had run into that weirdo on La Canebière. Now that she thought of it, she liked the way he had put his arm around her waist and drawn her close without even getting fresh. His body had felt so lean and hard. She could still smell his cologne.
Dru closed her eyes and moistened her lips. No doubt about it, Theron St. Cyr was an exciting man. The kind of man she wouldn’t mind spending time with. Getting to know. Perhaps learning to love. He certainly had the right ingredients.
But not now. He was too deep and she wasn’t ready for that kind of depth. She had picked up on the sadness in him almost immediately, though he had said or done nothing in particular to show it. In the hours they had been together, not once had Theron St. Cyr tried to bare his soul to her. Even if he wanted to, she knew he would have sensed her disinterest. He was the perceptive type.
The sadness was in the words he used sometimes, the pictures he drew with his words when he was describing places, and the way life is in those places. She had not pried into it. Her being with him was not about that. She was in Marseille for a few hours and she intended to make the most of her tour, not knowing if or when she would ever come this way again. There was no need to complicate things by getting personal with a total stranger whom she would never see again anyway, nice as he was.
So they had talked about Marseille and its history and Le Quartier Noir. About the rest of France. Paris, especially, and how it was for black people there. They even compared notes about Italy and Spain and Portugal.
Dru sighe
d again and yawned. The Japanese couple were hidden behind their newspaper. It made her recall her first encounter with St. Cyr.
She smiled and closed her eyes again. She couldn’t help thinking about him. Theron St. Cyr was an unexpected surprise on the wind she was riding.
She sighed. Bye, Theron. This is my time.
After Europe there was graduate school, and after that a career, whatever it was going to be. Her heart wasn’t set on any one thing. She’d just see where the wind took her. Maybe she’d work at the United Nations, or teach at a university in Latin America or Africa until she found her true calling. She didn’t see herself as a college professor. Too ivory towerish. She’d be writing scholarly books and papers that the real world couldn’t read. There’d be no in-the-trenches action.
At least not enough for me. And certainly not the kind that would thrill me. Maybe I could work for one of those big consulting firms that are beginning to represent the interests of developing countries. Like Pilgrim Boone. They must have been shocked when I turned down their internship. It was flattering. It would have led to a real job with them, I’m sure. For a fleeting moment she wondered if turning them down was the smartest thing to do. She had told only her brother about the offer and he had told her to follow her heart. If they really wanted her, they’d be there with another offer down the road, he’d told her. So she had followed her heart.
One thing she was sure of: Whatever career she ended up in, it would be something international. The name Drucilla Durane was going to be known, and not necessarily for a notoriety that brought out the TV cameras. No, she didn’t really care about that kind of fame or glitz or glamour. She just cared about making a big difference in whatever field she chose, to be known in an industry as someone who shook things up.
For the better, of course.
So she had not given St. Cyr her phone number or address in the States, even though he said he visited New York pretty often and probably would end up living there one day. It was the right decision. She had things to do. And in the final analysis, you just never knew what lurked behind the charm veneer of strangers. Marseille was still a port city that all sorts of con artists drifted in and out of.
The Guyana Contract Page 5
