by Peter Benson
11
Raphael was happy on Grand Baie. He lived in a hut on the Perybere road, cooked fish and vegetables over an open fire, enjoyed the company of children from shacks in the field behind him and worked hard for Maurice. He became a fisherman again, and for a few months of summer felt an old self returning. He began to walk upright again, and wore a shirt he bought and new trousers someone gave him.
He thought about Maude and the children. He pictured them outside their hut on Diego, sitting on the veranda with bananas in their hands. Rose petals blew in a breeze as a pig rooted through the jungle. Georges appeared, told a joke, sat down and opened a bottle. Other Ilois walked along the beaches and lanes, half a dozen boats dotted the lagoon.
The sea rustled piles of coral. The sound of men splitting coconuts and knotting fresh nets. Heat swallowed the scene, spat it out and did the same again. Raphael spooled some line and went to bed.
In the morning, Maurice took him beyond the reef that enclosed Grand Baie and steered north east, towards the tiny islands of Coin de Mire, Ile Plate and Ilot Gabriel. The boat was powered by outboard motor, but Raphael ignored the noise and watched birds follow them, rising, drifting and tumbling out of thermals, waiting for tossed guts or heads. Maurice whistled, smoked a cigarette and held the tiller between his knees. He knew his way, what the weather was going to do, where the best fishing grounds would be, and how to open a bottle of beer with his teeth. He had stowed a box of bottles in the bows, and eyed it as he steered past Coin de Mire.
‘Pass us one of those,’ he said. ‘And have one yourself.’
‘Not me,’ said Raphael. ‘Not out here.’ He pointed at the sea.
‘You’ll be alright. Here.’ Maurice held his hand out.
‘I’ll be nothing if I do.’
Maurice nodded. He appreciated a sober crew. ‘Okay,’ he said, and he pointed towards Ile Plate and Ilot Gabriel.
These islands are connected by reefs. When he was close enough to hear the ocean breaking over them he turned the outboard off, cast lines and drifted for a while. He knew the waters but kept his eyes on all the signs – swell, tide, current, sky, wind, light. A lighthouse on lie Plate warns Port-Louis-bound ships to KEEP CLEAR. Dangerous seas.
The men sat back and watched their lines. The sun was hot but a cool breeze whipped the sea into little waves. They smoked cigarettes.
‘You’ve lived here all your life?’ said Raphael. He coughed. ‘Grand Baie?’
‘Every day. I was born in the Post Office.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. My mother was buying a stamp. She had a letter about medicines for the pain, but I solved that!’
‘I was born on a beach,’ said Raphael.
They caught enough fish for a meal. Maurice started the outboard and headed for Ilot Gabriel. ‘We’ll eat ashore,’ he said, ‘and drink.’ He pointed to the bottles. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’ Raphael nodded. ‘Just one.’
The run to the beach was rough but Maurice had a steady hand and waited for the right waves. The two men jumped ashore, secured the boat and walked across a short stretch of sand to where grass and low scrub met the shore.
‘Peaceful?’ said Maurice, and Raphael nodded again.
They lit a fire, cooked the fish, drank beer and talked about boats. Ones with sails, ones with inboard motors, tourist yachts, pirogues. Later, Maurice lay back, closed his eyes and said he wanted a nap. Raphael stood up and went for a walk.
Ilot Gabriel is round, uninhabited, about a third of a mile across in any direction, and when Raphael stood at its highest point he felt it was his. All he’d ever wanted. Clean air blown from the Chagos, a boat on the beach, a friend to work for. All it needed was a hut and Maude and the children. A pig, a duck, a donkey and sixteen chickens. He could smell them. He closed his eyes. He could see them. There were no palms on the island, no trees at all, but he could plant some. They would be his, and for a few moments he became himself again – all he’d ever wanted to be.
Maurice’s brother lost his job on the glass-bottom. Maurice was sorry, but he had to give him Raphael’s job. He liked the Ilois, and sympathised, but loyalty to family had to come before friendship. Raphael understood. He would have done the same.
Maurice gave him twenty rupees for the trouble but there were no more jobs in Grand Baie, so he walked back to Port Louis. He had been planning to any way. He wanted to visit Alain and see if there was any news from Diego Garcia.
There was some – nothing about Maude or the children. Plenty about Americans moving in. Nothing about his boat. This depressed him. Time on Grand Baie had given him ideas, but money ran out and then he couldn’t find any more work. Too many Ilois were chasing no jobs; it took less than a month for his walk to collapse. He stooped again, didn’t tidy his hair and didn’t mend the holes that appeared in his shirt.
‘Go back to Grand Baie,’ Alain urged him.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘There’s no more work there. Besides, I’m waiting for Maude. She’ll be here soon.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I feel it.’
‘You don’t.’
‘She taught me how she knew,’ he said.
‘Raphael!’ Alain put his hands on the man’s shoulders and made him look him in the eye. ‘Go back to Grand Baie. There’s no room here, and if you haven’t got any money you can’t stay.’
‘Then I’ll sleep in the street!’
Alain shook his head. ‘No. I don’t want that. People’ll think I’m throwing you out. Then there’ll be trouble.’
‘Don’t worry!’ Raphael smiled. ‘I’ll go to the docks. You won’t see me.’
Raphael met every boat that called at Port Louis, bothered loaders with questions and begged cigarettes. He shouted ‘Maude!’ over the heads of every group of disembarking passengers, but she never came. He let his hair grow and had days when he forgot where he was. Things he’d done blurred into each other so he wasn’t sure if he was still on Grand Baie or if Alain was Maurice or Georges. The smell of roasting cummin drifted across the wharf; his stomach rumbled, he sat down, spat, and curled strings of dirt from under his fingernails with a piece of glass.
12
Maude steamed away from Diego Garcia (and Mauritius) as Raphael waited. The Nordvaer negotiated the treacherous shoals and currents around the Great Chagos Bank and dumped her passengers in Peros Banhos, the most southerly of the Chagos islands, 125 miles from Diego Garcia.
Peros Banhos is made up of over 30 different islands, arranged in an oblique circle to enclose 120 square miles of ocean. The transported Ilois, surprised that their destination wasn’t Mauritius, looked at their new home while the Ilois whose home it was already looked back. A separate breed – Diego Garcia was a foreign country to them – but they showed the newcomers to vacant huts and gave them food and beds, knowing as much about what was going on as anyone.
Nothing; confusion spun invisible webs in the air, blocked out sense and frightened people. Children cried for no reason, bananas refused to ripen and dogs ate their puppies in frenzies with cats helping.
Peros Banhos was similar to Diego Garcia in many ways. Coconuts, fishermen, coral beaches. Its jungles weren’t so tangled, though, and hid illegal dens. Toddy was brewed from fermented coconut milk in these and sold to the islanders cheap. Georges settled Maude on some sacks and went to meet a man who’d said, ‘You want to taste?’
‘Yes.’
‘Meet me here, later?’
‘I’ll be here.’
He walked. He had been on the island long enough to know one’s way around. Women in donkey carts nodded, others hung washing from trees. They didn’t have the brooding look of Diego Garcian Ilois. No people had told them they had no right to stay. Their islands didn’t enclose a perfect harbour. There was no room for an airstrip. They had heard stories from Diego Garcia and Mauritius but had plantations to tend, doormats to make and gardens to dig. The days
grew shorter, stacks of firewood appeared against the walls and on the verandas of every home.
The toddy-makers were Seychellois. They kept apart from the other islanders and weren’t interested in vegetable gardens, livestock, fishing or making doormats. ‘Come,’ one said, and took Georges’ arm. ‘You want to taste?’
‘Yes.’
‘I could tell.’ He pointed. ‘There’s somewhere we’ll go’
‘Here?’
‘No. Come with me.’
The Seychellois led him to a hut in a grove as a gang of mynahs screamed in breadfruit trees, took off and flew over the bay. Waves hit outcrops of rock, sprayed and fell. ‘There,’ said the brewer. He drained a bottle and passed a mug.
Georges drank to his people’s rarity, switched from year to year, flipped dreams from hand to hand, whistled a tune, picked his nose and waited for another mug. He let thoughts rush through his head, stop, turn and turn into other thoughts. Maude – life changing – sour toddy – holes in his shoes – Leonard and Odette shouting so loud they shook coconuts from trees as ships with outriding motor boats, helicopter escorts and sailors lining rails flipped by. Flags flying. Signals. Depth charges. Jet pilots throttling up, trailing across the sky and leaving ribbons of smoke. Submarines surfacing, guns blasting.
Another mug and his face collapsed, his eyes closed, waves hit the same rocks. The mynah birds flew back. He drank until the evening, thanked the Seychellois and walked back to the others.
Leonard and Odette were talking when he got back, sat down and fell asleep. ‘Georges?’ said Leonard, but he got no answer.
‘He’s drunk,’ said Odette.
‘Why’s he always drunk? Why doesn’t he do anything?’
‘He can’t.’
‘Father would have. He wouldn’t be like that if he was with us.’ Leonard pointed.
‘How do you know? If someone offered him something he’d take it. But who’s offering?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He does the best he can.’
‘The best he can?’ Leonard laughed but stopped when his sister shouted, ‘We all do the best we can! Don’t stop thinking that!’
On Peros Banhos, Odette did the best of any of them. She was eleven but older to look at and in her attitude. A straight back. Straight eyes.
‘Mother?’ she said.
No answer.
Maude’s morbid silences and lack of interest worried Odette. She still cooked, but burnt food regularly. She never burnt food on Diego Garcia but on Peros Banhos the wind seemed to blow stronger and fan the fire uncontrollably.
‘Mother? I’ll be digging…’
Odette’s maturity displayed itself in a vegetable garden – an old plot was attached to their hut so she borrowed a fork. She made Leonard stand with a sack to collect weeds and stones.
‘Why do I have to do this?’ he said.
‘So we can grow vegetables. Use your head!’ She pointed at her own. ‘Can’t you work anything out for yourself?’
‘Yes. But…’
‘No! One day you’re complaining that Georges doesn’t do anything, the next you’re complaining because you have to do something!’
‘I wasn’t!’
‘You were!’
‘But…’
‘Hold the sack open!’
‘Alright!’
‘And stop doing that!’
‘I wasn’t doing anything.’
Odette the boss. Leonard was older, stronger and thought he knew things but she had the mind to see beyond tomorrow, though she hadn’t learnt how to see months ahead. Maude sat and stared because she had seen months ahead. The sight had blinded her, though, so everything was fugged and she felt buried. ‘We’ll eat this tonight,’ her daughter would say, and she’d cook without thinking. Automatically, not noticing. Georges snoring off something he’d done earlier.
Odette, tired of Leonard’s whingeing, said, ‘Why don’t you go fishing! Make a rod, find some line! I’ll give you some bait. Someone’ll give you a hook.’
‘I haven’t got a boat.’
‘You don’t need a boat. Look!’ She pointed to someone who stood on a rock, casting into the lagoon, letting his line drift, waiting for a meal. A fish, distracted by the smell, saw the bait and took it. The fisherman struck, whipped the rod up and caught the fish as it swung out of the water towards him. ‘See!’ said Odette, and Leonard said, ‘I suppose so.’
‘Do more than that!’
‘Would he mind?’
‘You don’t know unless you ask. Go on!’
He asked Georges to help but the man shook his head and tipped a hat over his eyes. The sun had been strong all day. He didn’t want any bother. It was enough to find his way home. Children wanting to do things were a problem. ‘Ask someone else.’ he mumbled, and lit a cigarette. A dog strolled into the hut and out again with a piece of carrot in its mouth. Leonard said, ‘Alright.’
He asked a man he found fishing the pools on the seaward side of the island. The man said, ‘Why not?’ and, ‘I’m Paul.’
‘Leonard.’
‘You’re from Diego.’
‘You’ll show me what to do?’ said Leonard. He was shy, felt abroad and coughed. ‘My father used to fish at home. I know some things…’
‘Watch.’
Paul cut a rod from the jungle, spliced it and bound the tip, fetched some line and attached a hook. He talked about bait and taught Leonard to cast. ‘Here’ he said, ‘flip the rod like this… wait, tug back, wait again…’
A surgeon fish waited in the shallows. It moved its body to compensate for a strengthening current, sucked at nothing and watched the surface. This moved in unpredictable eddies and ripples. The fish flashed blue scales, rose through the water and waited at a different spot.
Leonard cast. His bait hit the water and floated for a second before sinking. The fish measured the disturbance, sucked at nothing, blew and moved forwards. Eighteen inches long and fat; it flipped its tail and looked at the surface before accelerating, lunging, taking Leonard’s bait, and the line screamed from the rod, picked the boy up and threw him in the water.
‘WHAA!’
‘Hang on!’ Paul dived in and grabbed Leonard’s legs. A wave smashed into them, the sea calmed, the fish pulled again.
‘Hang on!’ Paul shouted again.
‘I am! I am!’ Another wave, another tug. The man stood the boy upright and said, ‘Steady! Steady…’ The rod bent double. ‘Head for the beach!’
‘I can’t.’
‘You will! Come on!’
Paul helped Leonard hold the rod as they stumbled through the surf. They fell on a heap of seaweed as the fish twisted in the water and flipped out of a cloud of spindrift before breaking the line. Leonard fell on Paul, dropped his rod and yelled with laughter. He showed all his teeth. They were yellow, and brown stains traced their edges. His eyes watered. He wanted to do it again.
‘Let’s catch another!’ he said.
‘We didn’t catch that one!’
‘I know. But we nearly did.’
‘Nearly,’ said Paul, ‘isn’t worth anything. Nearly doesn’t feed anyone. You can’t go home to Mother and say, “I nearly caught a fish”.’
‘No, but…’
‘But you did well.’ Paul patted Leonard on the head. ‘Well enough. You want to come again tomorrow?’
‘Yes!’
‘Same time?’
‘I’ll be here. I’ll make my own rod.’
‘You can keep this.’ Paul handed him the one he’d made. ‘A proper one.’
‘A present?’
‘You can call it that, if you like.’
A single bird soared over their hut and spiralled down to the trees behind it. Maude decided it meant something. Leonard came back with a bag of fish. Odette yawned and boiled a pan of lentils. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she said.
‘Fishing.’
‘Catch anything?’
‘Yes.’ Leonard held up the bag. ‘Paul
’s good.’ Odette smiled. ‘Plenty,’ he said.
‘It was you that caught them, not Paul…’
He raised his voice. He could prove himself as easily as his sister. ‘Of course!’
‘Then we’ll have them with tomatoes. Have a look.’ She showed him a bowl.
‘They’re big.’ Leonard smiled. ‘Did you grow them?’
‘What?’ Odette looked at him. He winked. ‘Of course I did! There’s no one else!’
‘Odette?’
‘What?’
‘I was joking.’
‘Joking?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not?’ he said, and sat down with Maude and Georges and told them about fishing on Peros Banhos.
13
A box of clothes, a hairbrush, a bottle of aspirin. A blanket, a mirror. Odette looked at her possessions and did not believe it. She had begun to think of Peros Banhos as home. Maude wouldn’t talk and Georges had done nothing but drink, but her vegetable garden was blooming. Leonard was being a fisherman. Someone yelled, ‘All aboard! Move along quietly!’
They shouldered their mother up the gangplank. She was as light as a feather and unaware of what was happening. She rolled her eyes and listened to the sea lapping against the ship. She counted the number of times a wave broke. ‘One, one, one, one…’
‘Mother?’
‘You’ll earn more in a day in Mauritius than you got in a month there,’ someone told everyone. ‘And there’ll be houses. Proper ones, not like those.’ The person pointed at a row of thatched huts that nestled beneath breadfruit and coconut trees. An abandoned bicycle lay on the sand. The person cast a bow-line and went to stow some coconuts. The hold was full of them. ‘So don’t worry.’
‘She’s worried.’ Odette propped her mother against a hatch. ‘Look at her. She needs a doctor.’
‘She’ll have one in…’ the person coughed, ‘Mauritius.’
