At twenty-five he had a master’s degree from the University of Texas at Austin and headed north to work for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. He took early retirement from his position as a senior engineer in the bridges and tunnels division, sold his house on Long Island, bought a two-bedroom fixer-upper condo in Harlem—”because it’s wise to own a piece of real estate in America”—fixed it up, and rented it out for a handsome amount that was deposited directly into his Carver Federal Savings Bank account. He moved back to Guyana with his American wife and took up residence in the house they had built in the exclusive Prashad Nagar community six years ago, and which had been rented to the Japanese Embassy for those six years.
In the States, Goodings had seen his three children through college and helped each one buy a house. After they were all married and had started families of their own, he began to think of going back to Guyana. The children and grandchildren could visit. It would be good for them to get closer to his half of their roots, he thought. The winter cold was beginning to eat into his bones. He wanted to be buried in Guyana, he told his friends in New York. His wife said she loved him enough to follow him wherever he went.
At a private farewell party his closest friends threw for him at Henry House in Brooklyn, he stood straight-backed at the microphone and recited the words of M.A. Coussou’s “My Native Land,” one of Guyana’s most moving patriotic songs. When he came to the final verse his voice rumbled with passion. His bottom lip trembled. With his right hand splayed over his heart, his left arm flung toward the heavens, he squeezed his eyes shut and sang out the words in a rich bass:
And though I rove o’er hill and dale And brave old Neptune’s foam
O’er crags and rocks and mossy dells I still will turn me home
For when at length I come to die I want no gilded tomb
Just let me rest within thy breast Where thy sweet flowers bloom.
Where thyyy sweeeet floowwuurs blooooooom!
The Guyanese among the gathering stood and joined him when he got to “Just let me rest.”
As soon as Goodings arrived in Guyana, Macky MacPherson put him on the payroll as a senior adviser to the transportation ministry. No one—not in the ruling party, not in the opposition, the civic watch groups, nor the press—uttered a word against that decision.
Macky looked at his friend now with mischievous eyes. He liked to play the devil’s advocate with Livuh.
“But Livuh, we built roads when we did away with the train lines, man. Gave the people cars, modern buses. All kinds of high-powered lorries. I don’t hear anybody grumbling about that,” he said slyly.
MacPherson had been named transportation minister even though he was a member of the opposition party. It was a brilliant move by the ruling party, proof positive that the president had risen above the political bloodletting, had taken the high road in the interest of the country, as he had promised to do during his inaugural speech.
A graduate of the University of the West Indies, MacPherson had worked his way up in the transportation industry from his days as a clerk with the municipal bus company in Georgetown. Everybody agreed he was by far the most competent man for the job.
“Macky knows the topography of Guyana like the back of his hand,” The Chronicle had said in its editorial. And, indeed, he knew where and how to build roads that would not be flooded out by the rains, where to bridge the rivers, the best location for an airstrip in the hinterland. Most of all, he knew the commuting patterns of the people in the villages, towns, and cities.
Macky sipped his drink and arranged his huge bulk more comfortably in the Berbice chair. He sighed contentedly. It was a relief to be talking to his friend.
“Are you listening to me, Macky?” Livuh demanded impatiently, his voice rising. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t have built new roads and brought in vehicles that people could afford to buy. All I’m saying is that we should have kept the train lines. What was wrong with having both?”
“But you know as well as I do that was not the way the deal went down,” said Macky, his eyes piercing Livuh’s.
Macky was a fan of black-American sitcoms and movies that starred black Americans, which he pirated with a state-of-the-art satellite dish on his roof. Every so often he liked to test his knowledge of the lingo.
Livuh sucked his teeth. “Man, Macky man, don’t talk to me ‘bout no deals. All o’ you betray we country. Bunch o’ damn fools,” he said, switching to Creole to emphasize his frustration.
Macky studied his glass. He shook it to let the water from the melted ice cubes mix with the rum and Pepsi. After a while he looked up and nodded at Goodings. “Is true. When you come to think of it, is really true. We sell out.”
He sipped his drink slowly and continued in a sober voice. “But the Americans and Europeans put a hell of a lot of pressure on us, Livuh. All kinds of people—World Bank people, IMF people, Paris Club people, aid people, everybody who lend development money—all o’ dem was coming in here telling us that road was the way to go. I tell you, money was flowing for roads, man. The money people said that they wouldn’t give us anything for railroads. Not a red cent! You don’t think we knew it was better for us to keep the railroad? But what were we supposed to do? The trains were old and decrepit anyway. We had no money of our own to replace them. And as for getting help from our socialist friends, hmph! They had other priorities—Africa, Latin America. Guyana was small peas to them.”
Macky paused and took a big swallow of his rum and Pepsi. Livuh swirled the liquor in his glass and waited for Macky to continue.
“That was the time when we wanted to get closer to the Americans. The Americans knew it, too. I tell you, they had us by the balls, Livuh. They had that big-shot consulting firm tightening the screws behind the scenes all the time. You know which one: Pilgrim Boone. The same one that is now trying to get us to buy airplanes from Savoy Aerospace. Slick outfit. Roped in Nelson Roopnaraine and Compton Dalrymple to work over the people closest to the president. Those two made out like bandits. Pilgrim Boone paid them a hundred thousand dollars U.S. each. A hundred thousand dollars! You know what money like that can do in Guyana? Especially back then?”
MacPherson sucked his teeth and cut his eyes away from Livuh. Goodings said, “Didn’t anybody call Pilgrim Boone to task for violating its own country’s Foreign Corrupt Practices Act? It’s against U.S. law for American companies operating overseas to pay bribes.”
“No case. Pilgrim Boone formally contracted Roopnaraine and Dalrymple as local consultants. Had them write up some stupid feasibility study that probably ended up in the rubbish, and paid them for it. The payments were legitimate consulting fees. Besides, who wanted to take on Pilgrim Boone? They say old man Pilgrim is one vindictive son of a bitch when he gets ready.”
“But Dalrymple was permanent secretary at the time. How did he get away with being a consultant?”
“The money was passed through his brother’s consulting firm. For all intents and purposes, it was the brother’s firm that Pilgrim Boone hired. of course, Roopnaraine was in the clear. He was a private individual.”
“Mmm! Mmm! Mmm! Greed is a hell of a thing,” Goodings said, shaking his head. “So right after that, Dalrymple resigned from the ministry and went into business with Roopnaraine, right?”
“Right. That’s when Roopnaraine Scrap Metal Co., Ltd. became Roopnaraine and Dalrymple, Traders & Consultants Ltd. And guess who got the contract from the government to dig up the railroad and dispose of the iron? Man, I can’t even begin to imagine how much they made selling the scrap alone!”
“A triple killing. No wonder they’re multimillionaires.”
“Big fancy office on Brickdam. Yuh been deh yet? Hanh! Man, you should see inside!”
“Traders I can understand. But consultants in what? What’s their specialty?”
“Nothing and everything. It’s a clever way for them to attract all kinds of business, especially from foreigners. But you know, when you come
to think of it, Livuh, is it really greed? Dem boys jus’ got business smarts. Plastic was kicking the shit out of Roopnaraine’s scrap metal business, and the party wasn’t putting Dalrymple no higher than permanent secretary. Nah! It wasn’t greed. Wuz nutten more dan dey tekkin advantage o’ de opportunity. Dey ain’ kill nobody. And in the end, the Kabaka coulda said no, right?”
Goodings closed his eyes and leaned back until his head rested on the chair back. He took a deep breath. “So I suppose Pilgrim Boone is going back to them again on this airplane business,” he said.
Restless, he opened his eyes and leaned forward again, dragging his hands down his face.
Sometimes, like now, he wondered why he cared. Why he’d come back to spend his last days in a country that seemed not to care about its own well-being. He might as well have stayed in the United States with his memories of the Guyana he knew as a child, the old Guyana he bragged about to Americans. The warmth and beauty of its people and walking without fear at night. Its greater than 80 percent literacy and the brilliance of its scholars and cricketers. The majestic St. George’s Cathedral—tallest wooden building in the world. The magnificent hardwoods coveted by nations far and wide, including America itself. Didn’t Americans know it was
Guyana’s greenheart that buttressed the Brooklyn Bridge, he would say with his chest high. The longer greenheart stayed in the water the harder it became. Yes, he could have stayed in America and bragged about the Guyana of which he was proud.
But home was home and it had called him back.
He was sure he heard envy in Macky’s voice when he responded to his question. “Of course, Pilgrim Boone is going back to them. Wouldn’t you? They delivered for them before.”
Goodings sighed again. Neither man spoke for a long while.
Goodings broke the silence.”So, if I understand it correctly, Pilgrim Boone is trying to sell Guyana on the idea of establishing an air transport system for travel into the interior, right? But the opposition, and quite a few people in the president’s own party, want the railroad back. Am I right?”
“Right.”
“Pilgrim Boone, of course, is operating on behalf of Savoy Aerospace, which says it would give Guyana excellent—their word—terms on a fleet of small planes if we opt for air transport over rebuilding the railroad.”
“Yes. Same kind of deal as before, only a different mode of transportation and a different client. Last time Pilgrim Boone was working for the U.S. auto industry. This time it’s the aerospace industry. Savoy has been kicking ass in the last five years, clawed its way to number two with all kinds of merger deals.”
All of a sudden Goodings chuckled. “Would serve them right if the president started talking to Embraer in Brazil and Airbus in France. They make good planes.” He burst out laughing, throwing himself back in his chair. “Maybe they should even be talking to the Chinese.”
MacPherson roared. “That’s a good one, Livuh. I could see it now. Big splash in the papers and on TV. Mek Pilgrim Boone suck salt!”
They laughed until tears rolled out of their eyes. Still laughing, Macky got up, picked up the two empty glasses, and walked over to the liquor cabinet. He broke open a new bottle of El Dorado Gold, splashed some on the floor and muttered a toast to the souls of his ancestors, then refilled the glasses. He poured some Pepsi into both drinks, added fresh cubes of ice, handed Goodings his glass, and raised his own. “To Guyana!” he said, still chuckling.
“To Guyana!” Goodings echoed.
They were pensive as they savored the liquor. For a while, the only noises in the otherwise still night were the distant bark of a dog and the sound of ice tinkling against glass. Unaware they were doing so, the two men shook their glasses in unison, making circular motions. Each man’s eyes were fixed on the play of light on the ice and the golden liquid in his glass.
Again it was Goodings who broke the silence. “Seriously, though, Macky. Where does the president really stand? What’s his thinking?”
Macky’s reply was matter-of-fact. “You know how it is with Quartapint. The consummate politician. Wants it both ways. Likes the attention from America. The air transport proposal is sweet. It makes sense. Would be a boon to our fledgling tourism industry. But he knows the train line is more practical for now, and would be more popular with the people.”
He paused, sipped his drink, and continued in a mellow voice. “Deep down, he knows we got the shorter end of the stick on the railroad deal. Sure we got something out of it, but we lost much more. Set us back on the bigger transportation picture, not to mention our plans for agro-industry. Farmers just couldn’t move their goods fast enough. Quartapint doesn’t want his government to make the same mistake. All these years he’s still getting away with blaming the Kabaka for our stagnant economic growth.”
“So what does he want you to do?”
“Just what I am doing. He told me to talk it over with you. See what you had to say. He trusts your judgment.”
“I don’t know, Macky. Something about it doesn’t sit right with me. How come all of a sudden Savoy Aerospace is interested in little Guyana? Who is really pushing this deal? It’s easy to assume that Savoy Aerospace just wants to sell planes. And nothing’s wrong with their wanting to do that. That’s how they make their money. But we need to find out what those guys really want from Guyana beyond selling us a few planes. And what will happen to us if we decide not to buy them? What if we decide to rebuild the train line instead? These corporate giants have long arms.” Goodings sounded grim. He and Macky had never gotten this far before. The railroad lament had always ended with each of them taking turns at berating the “treachery” of people like Roopnaraine and Dalrymple. Too many Roopnaraines and Dalrymples were cropping up in Guyana. There were too many people who cared more about getting rich than seeing the country progress. Corruption had spiraled way out of control. It was sucking the blood out of Guyana. Something had to be done. And soon! But tonight they had moved into new territory. The two men silently acknowledged this as they held each other’s eyes.
Thoughts of Pilgrim Boone filled MacPherson’s head. The firm was back on the scene in full force, again at the behest of one of the world’s most powerful corporations, not that it had been totally absent since its success with the railroad-auto business. Pilgrim Boone executives breezed into Georgetown every so often to conduct one feasibility study or another for various U.S., European, and Asian mining and lumber interests. As far as MacPherson knew, they had never approached the government itself with a mega-infrastructure proposal, as they had done in other parts of the developing world. He often wondered why, but he would dismiss the question almost as soon as it came into his head. Why should he waste his time trying to second-guess Pilgrim Boone?
“You sure you’re not being paranoid, Livuh? I find a lot of people who lived in the States see a plot in everything,” he said carefully, wanting to draw out his friend’s thinking.
“And with good reason. Listen to me, Macky. I spent forty years over there, more than half of them working for one of the biggest contract-peddling organizations in the country. I was an insider, privy to a lot of deals. Believe me, 95 percent of the time things were not as black and white as they seemed. There was always a subdeal, always somebody deep in the background whose special interests were being catered to. If there’s a plan for Guyana, if there’s someone’s special interest deep in the background, we need to know what it is.”
“So what should we do?”
“I know someone who can scope out this whole thing for us. A guy named Theron St. Cyr. French-American. Black guy. He’s got a small firm that does excellent work. Behind-the-big-picture work—”
MacPherson cut him off with a groan. “Not another consultant.”
“St. Cyr is good. Damned good. The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey used him once to take a second look at a dredging contract awarded to a big-name contractor. The waste disposal component didn’t ring right with one of the top Port Authority g
uys, who had political aspirations and was avoiding anything that smelled the least bit rank. It was a hush-hush deal when they brought in St. Cyr. Seems a few of the port’s board members also were uneasy about the contractor’s connections, but they didn’t want word of their uneasiness to get out.
“Anyway, St. Cyr came in and did the job quietly. He told them that the waste was being recycled too close to a reservoir. The contractor was livid when he heard what went down, why the port held up their first payment. He even threatened to sue St. Cyr, whose name had been leaked by one of the board members. But the Port Authority stuck by St. Cyr. They didn’t write off the contractor. That would have created all kinds of hell. You know, interested parties and all that. They only made the contractor redo the proposal with better provision for the waste. A few months later, state environment officials found a tiny runoff into the reservoir from an old paper mill in the area. Nothing toxic was going in, at least not yet. But if the dredging waste had been disposed of in the same area, God knows what would have happened.
“After that, St. Cyr was signed on as a regular. Good man. Solid balls. Integrity.” Goodings pounded a fist on the side table to emphasize “balls” and “integrity.”
MacPherson suddenly felt tired. He had reached his limit of rum and Pepsi. Livuh was making things too complicated with all this Port Authority business. Still, he had to admit, he’d been asking himself the same questions that Livuh had raised. Why this lust for Guyana all the time? Somebody always had a grand plan for his country. The British, the French, the Dutch, the Jews, crazy Jim Jones and his suicide cult. Avaricious Venezuela claiming a third of the country as part of its territory for no other reason than the oil that was yet to be exploited. Christ! When would it end?
MacPherson was a man who studied the history of nations, and the relationships between nations, and the part each of those individual histories and relationships played in shaping the current state of the world. He harbored dreams of one day writing a book on the subject. From all his readings, and from the news reports he captured via his satellite dish, he had tucked away in his memory all sorts of little dots that he knew he would connect when the day came to write the book.
The Guyana Contract Page 10
