How to Escape From a Leper Colony

by Tiphanie Yanique

  His mother did not interject. She did not wail or disagree. Simon Peter understood this all to be a blessing. Even a privilege of sorts. He was going away for school. He would be educated by the whites. But he was going away really for waking up in the wrong bed with his pants down. He was being sent out of the village. This was a veiled punishment.

  And he did not see his parents again for many years. At the boarding school the other African boys sometimes held hands as they talked. They sat close and whispered. This was done. This was how young boys conversed. It was pure. It was so because no one could expect it otherwise. But Simon Peter would not hold hands with any boy or girl. He would not allow them to sit close. Because Simon Peter did not trust himself. He never knew what became of Kebba.

  But what became of Simon Peter is that he set himself aside and being aside looks very much like standing out and standing out can look very much like standing above. And so the priests noticed him. On holidays he did not go home. His parents did not come to pick him up and so one priest or another would let him stay in the refractory on a big sofa for his bed. And they came to see him as theirs, as one who could become like them. And he became the senior prefect and the other boys called him Senior Jatta. And eventually he was given his own room, which was good because it was hard, very hard to be in the same room with other boys. He was afraid they would see him in his sleep, his face slack, and know. And in his own room he could lie and think of Kebba and invent fantastical lives for them. Maybe he didn’t scream that morning. Maybe he should have understood. Maybe it could have been their secret. Maybe together they would have inherited the shop and they would have slept on the same big fluffy bed. And they could have had wives and children who slept in a different house. And he would have let Kebba push up against him all he wanted because Kebba sold the figurine of the two embracing wrestlers for so much money. And though Simon did not see a cent of that money it still felt as though Kebba knew he was valued. Something he made had been valued.

  Simon Peter studied to wash away these thoughts. Like so many studious children, he studied to keep from doing other things. He wore black shoes and a black suit, the only one he had. And he carried a small black suitcase, the only one he had. All given by the priest and nuns at his school. He knew he had become what he always dreamed. And before he left on the plane, the priests delivered his parents to him and his mother kissed him and his father stood aside and nodded. When he walked up to the seminary in Surrey there was a big wooden door. He walked down the halls and his feet clapped in their grown-up shoes. He looked at the walls with the distinguished men. He knew he had not left Kebba behind.

  And now he sends his parents money. And now his father can brag that his son is a real man. And now when he visits he takes back gifts—soaps, creams, and T-shirts. And no one speaks of what happened.

  And now he was in a coffin shop again. The two young girls have left. They left with laughter and talk of what to wear. He knows they don’t have a project. He knows they are just in Corban’s shop to look. He doesn’t mind this. It is the same reason he is here. While the girls were there and giggling, he watched them. He watched how they stood so close and didn’t seem shy about pinching each other or pulling on each other’s hair. As though they are lovers, he had thought. But he knows they most likely are not. But he envies this closeness all the same. In fact, this relationship he has with Corban is the closest friendship he has had since he was sixteen and living in the shop. He had to come clear across the world. To the Caribbean. A place so distant and different from Gambia. But every week he is here. To talk to Corban about things. Sometimes about Africa. Avoiding Gambia and talking about the conflict in Liberia. Corban loves to talk about Liberia. He is fascinated that its capital is called Monrovia. He comments often that naming an African city after an American president is enough reason for a civil war.

  After the girls have left, a woman comes in. She is middle aged and has papers in her arms. She stands in the center of the room as though waiting for someone. Perhaps for her dead person to come wafting in. So Simon walks about the gallery quietly, his shoes clanking respectfully. This is a kind of penance. This is a kind of chapel. He runs his hands along the coffin in the show window. It’s not wood. It’s made of marble. It must cost ten thousand dollars, he thinks. It might cost more. He wonders if it is the kind of coffin he could be buried in. If he is worth this kind of thing or if he can simply afford this kind of thing—which is sometimes the same and sometimes different depending on whom you are talking to. He feels the thing in his chest. He has felt it again and again over the years. The thing that is like tears. He thinks of Kebba saying, “It means you will be a big man. You will travel.”

  II. Anexus Corban

  Just last night Anexus Corban had glass installed in the window holes and now he can keep the big wooden shutters open. He can see outside and still keep the air conditioner on and still keep the noise and mosquitoes out. And this morning he also realizes that the sun shines right in, casting lovely shadows about the room. This is an additional bonus. So now Corban cannot help but smile too broadly.

  When the door opens with a jingle it is okay that Corban is smiling big. It is Father Simon. He is not a customer. He is a visitor. He comes to look at the coffins. It is the place on the island where the priest feels most comfortable.

  The store is never crowded, so often when Corban and Simon are there together they talk to each other. Today Corban is proud of his windows. “Do you have anything new in, Anexus?” Simon speaks with a British accent, even though he is from West Africa and only spent a few years in Britain as a young seminarian. This cover-up suits Corban fine. Even endears Simon to him. Corban, who is pure French-Trinidadian, has trained his own voice to give the inflections of an island man rooted in the St. Thomas soil.

  Corban wants to tell Simon to look at the new windows but he knows that his friend is less interested in light and the effect of the light. The priest wants only to know about the coffins. Corban doesn’t let this dampen his mood. Today is a good day and such days must be savored. Before he can mention the new windows, two girls in school uniforms walk in. “School project,” the blond one says as she waves her notebook at Corban. He knows they are lying. He knows that though he is running an honest and important business, for some his shop is just a curiosity. They are both attracted to the children’s coffins, but the darker one slinks away shyly to the Mexican coffins that are closer to the counter, where there is less light. He looks at her and his chest tightens. There is something about her. Her face there in the shadow. The resemblance is only slight, but today, with his new windows, Corban is vulnerable to the past’s intrusion. The girl reminds him of Usha.

  Corban forces himself to come from behind the counter, where he displays small things like keepsake urns and cloth handkerchiefs, to ask the girls if they need some help.

  “We’re picking our coffins,” says the brown-skinned girl with a sureness that is unexpected, and yet all Usha. “Your sign says custom made.”

  “For a history project,” the other one quickly interjects and opens her eyes at her friend.

  The girls wear ties. They are seniors in high school. Private school, by the colors they’re wearing, but Corban can’t tell which one. He knows they will ignore the plain pine coffin held together with wooden nails. That one is for the Muslims; they most often request its strength and simplicity. He wonders if the one with the dark hair is Muslim.

  Father Simon looks the girls over. He does not know them. They do not go to the Catholic school. “What is the topic of the assignment?”

  “Death,” the blond one says.

  “The history of death?” asks Simon with what sounds like disbelief but is really intrigue.

  “The history of mourning,” the Indian one says, and again seems to be gaining a kind of temerity simply from her own voice. Father Simon nods. He knows they are lying but the history of mourning would indeed make a decent field of study.

  “Wel
l,” says Anexus Corban, looking askance at Simon. “This is a place that celebrates life.”

  And Anexus knows about life. He knows about an entire life. Because he has lived an entire one already. In a way, this is his third.

  The brown girl buys a box of marigold petals and pays for it with a fifty. She must come from money, Anexus thinks. He enjoys seeing it. He enjoys being the victim of it. As she waits for her change, the white friend flirts with Simon—the way young girls like to flirt with priests. Thinking maybe they’ll get them to recant their vows, though really young girls wouldn’t know what to do if a priest did recant and go to them looking for love. The girl is looking at Father Simon and smiling only a little. When she walks away she makes her hips swing sharply. It looks as though she’s testing the priest but really she is just testing out her own power. It’s the thing young people do. Anexus knows about this. He too came from money. A girl once flirted with him and then he rejected his family and devoted himself to her … well, that is a story. And though he’s lived many lives, in all of those lives he has loved her—Usha. In all of those lives it has been her and only her.

  Once the girls are gone Corban and Simon talk. Simon must put his hand up to his face to block sun coming in and that is when he notices that there are new windows that allow much more light. “It’s bright in here now,” he says and then immediately wonders why he doesn’t like the brightness. He decides he is being selfish. This is not his shop after all. He lowers his hand and allows the sun to stream into his face. “It’s bright,” he says again with forced optimism. Corban smiles his big smile. Yes, Simon is his friend. A friend pretends for you. A friend bends and changes. Corban offers to make some coffee and when he goes to the back of the store to perk it he hears the jingle of the door’s bell. He leaves the coffee and comes to the front.

  He doesn’t say “May I help you?” because he knows that kind of thing is so much what his customers want to hear. In the early days he would say things like that and the customer would say yes, yes, yes, and then not be able to stop saying it. Yes, please help me. For God’s sake, help me.

  Now when he comes out to the front he looks out his big clear windows at the people walking by and says, “Good afternoon.” The woman responds with an echo. Simon begins his slow walk around the shop. Corban doesn’t watch him, he watches the woman.

  She is over sixty. Around the age that Usha would be. She stands in the middle of the shop and turns one way then the other. Anexus waits for her and thinks: I am waiting. His chest tightens again at the large truth of this. The woman looks at him finally then walks toward the counter. “My husband …” she begins. Anexus prepares his face. “… is coming.” As she says this a man walks in.

  The man doesn’t say anything but he seems to be making a lot of noise. He is big. His clothes are loose and rustling. He stamps his feet even though there is no welcome mat. He clears his throat and walks to his wife. “Do you see anything the old man would like?”

  “I can’t do this,” she says, though she seems stoic and prepared to do anything.

  The big man nods and approaches Corban. “Sir. Can we see your traditional caskets?”

  Now Corban would argue that all his caskets are traditional. But he knows what the couple means. He nods and takes them to the Western-style stainless steel selections and then to the oak. “This one has a drawer in the half couch, for letters and mementos.” He demonstrates how the drawer can remain open during the viewing and then close securely and for all eternity when the casket is shut. “This one has a glass cover to protect and preserve the deceased.” He can read this woman. She wants to make her dead person last.

  When they’ve left, Corban marks the date and house where he will deliver the casket. They chose a cherry wood with champagne-colored lining and a deluxe pillow like in the Virgen de Guadeloupe casket. On the inside of the lid they have asked for a photo display. They do not say why, but Corban knows it is so that if the dead old man should awake, the first thing he will see is images of himself with his loved ones. Corban has told the couple that he will install four oval frames of silver but that they must provide the pictures. Corban does not remind them that if the dead old man should awake he will be stuck under four to eight feet of St. Thomas dirt.

  Corban returns to the back and pours coffee into little matching teacups for himself and Simon. He pours the remaining coffee into a teapot that is part of the same set. He brings it all out on a tray. He and Simon sit on stools on opposite sides of the counter.

  The friends drink two cups of coffee each as the sun comes down.

  “The windows are very nice, my friend.”

  “Thanks, Simon. That’s good of you.”

  “I think they will bring you more customers.”

  “Come no, Simon. You are my best customer grabber. These windows are purely aesthetic. An old man shouldn’t miss a sunset if he doesn’t have to.”

  “Well, now I suppose you won’t ever have to. And me—I should be going now. I have to write my sermon for tomorrow.”

  “You should do those things on a whim. Like a politician.”

  “Ha!” Simon smiles and shakes his head. “I think politicians prepare.”

  “They pay people to do it for them. You’re a priest but don’t be gullible.”

  “Yes. I’m a poor gullible priest and I cannot afford to pay for a sermon writer. Sounds a bit unethical, my friend. But if you come across an honorable lad who offers his services cheaply you let me know.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “The sermon? Lazarus. You know the story, of course.”

  “Of course. What position will you be taking?”

  “Faith. The importance of faith in life.”

  “That’s hard, Father. That’s hard. Women cry and then their brother gets raised from the dead. What kind of message does that send?”

  “That faith can raise the dead.”

  They were both silent for a second before they allowed themselves to laugh. Then they looked around the empty room cautiously.

  “Well, you know,” began the priest again and more seriously. “It is possible that Lazarus was not quite dead. He may have been in some kind of low coma. The loud screaming and prayers might have brought him around. Or his heart might have slowed or even stopped. It is possible that Jesus thumped on his chest. This might be our first recorded CPR.”

  “Are you going to tell the congregation that?”

  “Of course not. No. I plan to talk about faith over demanding. You know those women did not ask Jesus to bring Lazarus back to life. Everybody has got to die sometime. They were just good and faithful and so good came to them. That is what I’m going to talk about.”

  “Maybe I’ll come.”

  “It would be nice to have you, friend.” Father Simon swirled his empty teacup with a twirl of his wrist. Corban moved to pour him some more. Simon shook his head. “It would be nice to have you, my friend.” He started to walk out.

  “We’ll see, Father,” Corban called out to him. “I won’t come up for Communion, though. I won’t be in a state of grace.”

  “Your coffee will do.” They laughed.

  Corban would not go. He did not have anything against the Church; he had been raised Catholic himself in Trinidad. He just did not want to see his friend dressed in elaborate vestments. Layers of cloth—each fold steeped with symbolism. Each color signifying something that no layman could ever really know. Corban didn’t want to see Simon Peter wearing a little hat with cloth bells ringing or a big pointed hat with a bit of gold that shimmered. He would go if Simon was a Franciscan. He would go if there was a guarantee that Simon would wear a plain cassock and sandals. Wealth had betrayed Corban once already.

  When Simon left, Corban began to close up the shop. He went outside and fastened the shutters. Back inside, the shop felt comfortable and old. He replaced the mothballs in all the caskets. He wiped down all the wood caskets with Pledge and the marble and glass ones with his own purple s
olution. He ran the handheld vacuum over the baby coffin that was covered with pink fleece. He dusted the urns and lowered his special silver one down from the highest shelf to take home and polish with toothpaste. This one was shaped like an island. An island he had loved and lived on. It was the urn he planned for his own ashes.

  Then he did the windows and the display case. Then he walked around. He went to the Virgin casket. It was the flashiest of the caskets—with its golden sheen on the outside. It was solid wood, like all his wood caskets. But it was really the lid with its Virgin surrounded by her own bright blue body halo that made it Corban’s favorite. He thought of the Indian girl who had paid it attention and smiled at the memory.

  It was a full couch casket and the Virgin took up the entire lid. The length of the dead body that would rest in it. Corban didn’t think this design was for the deceased. This design was for the mourners, a beautiful thing for them to reflect on as they said their last goodbyes. He imagined waking up dead in that casket to the Virgin lying on top of him, her face on his face. He had always thought it was a woman’s casket but now he wondered.

  He felt inside and squeezed the cushioning. It took some effort to heave himself in. It was made for someone slender. Someone younger perhaps. Anexus had been young and slim but that was so long ago. He was pressed tight in the casket, as if it was less of a bed and more of a cradle. He reached up his hand to make sure the lid was securely up. He crossed his arms over his chest. “So this is what it feels like to be dead,” he said out loud. Then Anexus closed his eyes and thought of Usha and Jean.

  Usha Persaud and Jean Monroe had met on an island called Gasparee, off the coast of Trinidad. It was a small island. He had to jog five or so laps on the developed half just to get a workout. Rich white Trinidadians had vacation houses here that they visited during long weekends. He and his brothers had brought over the sailboat. They were there for the weekend because his brother was getting married and the bachelor party was that night at Gasparee in the Monroe family bungalow.