by Peter Benson
‘This is better than Roche Bois,’ said Leonard. He pointed to the few concrete buildings growing up amongst the corrugated. ‘We’ll stay here.’
Odette nodded.
‘There’s more room.’
‘That’s because we’re on our own.’
‘There’s still more room.’
Their shack had no windows, but a few sheets of tin, bent and nailed to its front served as a veranda. Odette arranged some wire over a square of bricks and lit a fire.
‘How’d you like to give boys a good time?’
‘A good time?’ Odette didn’t know.
‘Sure.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well look. I’m Marie. You think about it. I’m always around. You’ll see me.’
The new shack was free of their mother’s spirit, but nothing else changed. Weeks of begging and scrounging became months; down by the bus station, outside airline offices, at the bottom of the museum and library steps, in the parks or around the docks. Some days were good, others not. One week in July, all they could manage was twenty cents and two ripe bananas and Leonard spent the weekend on the floor of the shack, holding his stomach. He couldn’t get up. His decisiveness following Maude’s death had gone.
Odette looked at him. For a while she’d thought he was changing and taking the pressure off, but then he didn’t care any more. She had to prop him up and make him comfortable.
‘Leonard?’ she said.
‘What?’ He wasn’t dying but his voice was weak.
‘Have some of this.’ She had a cup of water. He sipped. ‘I’m going out now,’ she said.
‘Out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘The docks. I’ll bring something back.’
Leonard nodded, but didn’t watch her leave.
Marie hung around the docks and waited for girls like Odette. She had said, ‘How you like to give boys a good time?’ so many times that the words had stained her teeth. A smart woman, eyeing dollars/pounds/rupees and poor girls with one thing to sell; she’d approached Odette before. But Ilois women were slow to understand their value. On Diego Garcia, sex had not been sold. ‘… a good time?’
‘Sure.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘For money…’ Marie looked Odette in the eye. She had a persuasive mouth and pursed it.
‘Money?’
‘Sure. Sometimes forty, fifty rupees.’
‘No!’
‘Some girls do.’
‘Who?’
Marie gave Odette the names of some girls she knew.
‘They don’t!’
‘They do. Ask them!’
The next day, with Leonard up but still weak, she asked around.
‘Don’t you?’
‘No…’
‘And with a face like that. And your body!’
She wondered what she was going to do, looked at her brother and wondered the same about him. He worried but never wondered. She wondered, worried, waited. Dogs barked, a sulky moon hung in the sky. She stared at it. They hadn’t eaten for two days. Every time they breathed they rattled.
‘Sure. Sometimes, forty, fifty rupees.’ Fifty rupees. Once. She might do it, forget it, not worry. A week later, she crept out to meet Marie. ‘Any time,’ the woman had said. ‘I’ll show you.’
‘Most of them are too excited. Some don’t even get as far as you. Half a minute…’ Marie cut the air with her hand, ‘and it’s over. No problem.’
‘So quick?’
‘Sure.’
‘Why?’
Marie laughed. ‘Because they’re men! Don’t you know anything?’
Odette nodded. ‘Yes, but…’
But hungry to nod again. Money was a big word. She was nervous and stopped walking.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I…’ she stuttered.
‘Look. Odette.’ Marie took the girl’s face in her hand and stared into her eyes. ‘Just stick by me.’
A long street. Single lights pricked the dark, shacks and houses were built close together. Puddles. Alleys. Shadowed women who knew what they were doing. Sailors and other men with money holding bottles, standing in groups, yelling at other groups. Loud music from dark buildings.
Marie stood Odette in a doorway. Iron grills covered the windows of the shop it served. A rat scuttled across the street with something in its mouth. The moon came out. A man approached.
‘You!’ He pointed at Odette. ‘How about it?’
‘How about what?’ said Marie.
‘I’m talking to her.’ The man’s face was shaded by a hat. He smelt of diesel oil. He rolled a cigarette.
‘And I’m her friend.’
‘And her pimp? How about two of you,’ the man licked his lips, ‘together?’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
Marie stroked her chin. Odette tried to look small but when Marie said, ‘Come on then,’ to the man and took her arm, she didn’t worry or wonder.
A minute. Another woman and a sailor called Jack. One night in a first-floor room, dirty windows and a single light bulb. Other people in other rooms pounded away as a fight started in the street outside. The sound of a siren and a ship’s hooter. The wink of traffic lights, the clank of two people riding one bicycle. Odette kept her eyes closed and her body rigid, ground her teeth together but couldn’t stifle a single scream. A sharp one in the night and then he finished and gave Marie thirty rupees.
‘Thirty?’ Odette said. They were back on the street.
‘There’s ten for you,’ said Marie. She held one nostril and shot a gob of snot from the other.
‘Ten! But you said fifty and…’
‘Fifty!’ Marie shook her head. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn.’
‘But…’ Odette bled. She held herself. She started to cry. ‘I thought…’ She sniffed. ‘Fifty. I could have bought enough food and…’ Her voice broke. Her heart fainted.
‘You’ve got ten.’
The note was in her hand. She looked at it. It was wet. There was a picture of the Queen on it. ‘But…’ she said again.
‘Odette!’ Marie gave her one hard look. ‘If you want that sort of money you work the hotels. You can’t earn that down here.’
‘What hotels?’
‘On the coast. But you need more than just a body for that.’
‘But fifty rupees…’
‘Forget it, Odette.’
That sort of money. When Odette got home, she stripped and stood behind the shack in a basin of water. She had a rag and washed herself for an hour. She didn’t get to bed until four, but couldn’t sleep. Leonard was snoring, a bad moon sank.
Ten rupees. In the morning, he stood up and asked where she’d got it.
‘I begged it.’
‘Where?’
‘At market. It was busy.’
‘It’s always busy!’
‘Busier then,’ she whispered.
He believed her. It was lots of money but her eyes could plead. She always collected more than him. He didn’t have the touch or look. He would sit on his wall. If Odette could beg enough to live on, why should he do anything? There was nothing to do anyway; the wall was comfortable.
He didn’t notice when the money ran out and Odette begun to stay out late once in every three nights. But Marie had shown her all she needed to know. She had to pray that an image of her mother’s face didn’t appear but if she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, held her arms against the side of her body and waited it was over. She earned fifteen rupees a time, washed herself carefully and bought a hairbrush with a blue back. It was hers. She hid it from her brother in a gutter and used it when he was asleep.
An American called Dan picked her up. He’d come from San Francisco on a supply ship out of Subic Bay. He spoke quietly. ‘It’s a helluva way from the States. God; I feel it.’ He scratched his face.
‘What?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Homesick?
I guess that’s it. Sick, anyway.’
‘You want to do something with me?’
‘Sure. Let’s talk for a while, then…’
‘Talk?’
‘Sure.’
‘I haven’t got anything to say.’
‘Listen then honey, okay?’
‘Okay.’
Dan was a thin man and he rolled his eyes as he talked about home. He talked about his wife. He had a poetic streak. He called her a ‘cat in a fish’. He talked about his job. His ship was in dock for ten days.
‘You’ve seen many countries?’
‘Lots,’ he said. He had a bottle of rum and poured some. ‘You name it, I’ve been there.’ He drank.
He talked about Europe and America, and impressed her with stories about shops and buildings. Australia, the Philippines, Hawaii, Japan. ‘You ever been to Japan?’ he said, then, ‘No, of course not.’
She shook her head.
‘It’s beautiful there, strange though,’ he said. He lit a cigarette. ‘But the goddam strangest place I ever saw you won’t have heard of. Weird.’
‘What is it?’
‘The Rock…’
‘The Rock?’
‘That’s it. It’s why I’m here.’ He pointed at the floor. ‘We were carrying supplies for the guys there.’ He coughed and said, ‘Hell, but I was sorry to see it like that.’
‘Like?’
Dan thought. Orders forbidding talk about the Rock had been issued to all sailors visiting Mauritius, but he didn’t care. ‘It’s an island… goddam crazy.’ He wiped his brow and took a shot of rum. It went to his head. ‘I saw it first at night and I thought “A space of darkness”. The words just came to me, like the place was glowing with lights all night but they didn’t make it light.’ He dropped his cigarette and trod it out. ‘You know what I mean?’
Odette shook her head. Dan widened his eyes. The look scared her. She wished he’d leave her. Nothing he said made sense. He took another drink and offered her the bottle. She shook her head.
He said, ‘Most of it’s jungle, but they’ve built a fence where the sites stop; keeps people like me away from the rest of the island. The rest’s like they’re building another Subic. Hundreds of goddam Seabees stoned out of their minds. The lagoon’s full of trash.’ He unbuttoned a shirt button. ‘And nowhere. It’s nowhere. Thousands of miles in any direction…’ he spread his arms, ‘there’s just nothing. Okay. So it’s a B52 from the Mid-East, okay! So what?’
He talked about weapons dumps and nuclear submarines riding in anchored pairs as bombers and reconnaissance aeroplanes taxied along the aprons that surrounded the new runways. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘they built a television station there. It had its moments… but nowhere. Diego Garcia they…’
‘Diego…’ Odette stuttered, and put a hand to her face.
‘Honey?’ Dan put his bottle on the floor and put an arm around her shoulders. She stiffened. Tears were pouring down her face. ‘What’s the matter?’ She shook her head.
‘I don’t want to hear,’ she said.
‘Hear what?’
She swallowed. ‘Diego Garcia.’
‘What do you know about it?’
‘I…’ she said, and couldn’t finish.
‘Okay,’ said Dan. ‘We’ll party instead,’ and he tipped her back on the bed.
19
‘Get off the wall! Do something!’
‘We’ve got food, haven’t we?’
‘Not enough.’
‘Why not?’
‘I couldn’t get enough money!’
Leonard shrugged. ‘You’ll get it,’ he said.
‘But why’s it always me?’ Odette shouted. ‘You never go!’
‘It wouldn’t make any difference if I did. You know that! What did I get last time? Ten cents?’
‘Ten cents buys something. And it meant I didn’t have to beg so much. Anything – you know, Leonard?’
He shrugged again. Sullen, bad-tempered boy. People were used to seeing him on the wall. When he wasn’t there, people asked where he was. When he was there, they didn’t notice him. The wall was made of large stones, was crumbling at one end and going nowhere.
‘Leonard?’
‘What?’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes!’
(Yes. He had no idea where his sister went at night. Once, she’d decided to tell him where she got her rupees from, but didn’t know how he’d react. He’d grown unpredictable.)
‘Then why don’t you do something? Anything…’
‘Look!’ He flared his nostrils and bent down to put his face next to hers. He breathed over her. He had foul breath. ‘I am sitting here, doing no one any harm! No trouble! I can’t do anything! If I beg I get nothing, I can’t fish here, I can’t work anywhere else.’
‘You’ve never tried.’
‘I have!’ (This was true. Once, he’d been to the docks and watched the ships unloading. The sea was flat, stained with oil slicks and plastic bags. Men worked cranes and loaded trucks. Others filled warehouses with boxes and bales. I can do that, he thought, and asked a man in overalls. This person pointed to an office.
‘Ask for Mr Rene.’
Mr Rene had no vacancies for Ilois. ‘Maybe next summer,’ he said, and showed Leonard the door.)
‘So you went to the docks once! I go to town every day!’ Odette spat. Other people, gathering around to listen to the argument, agreed with her. ‘She does.’
‘I’ll go back in the summer. That’s what he said, and he was important! Have you met any important people?’
(Odette wondered if she’d ever had an important man inside her. She played back voices she remembered.)
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ve met any important people.’
‘There!’ he said. Triumphant for a change. He lay back and gobbed at a passing dog.
‘So! You’ve met someone like that. He’s going to give you a job one day.’
‘Yes.’
‘And that means you don’t have to beg?’
‘Yes…’
‘Then why don’t you do some cooking?’
‘I don’t do cooking.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know how to…’
‘I’ll show you!’
‘You won’t!’
‘Then light a fire!’
‘No!’
Leonard and Odette had no proof that they had ever lived in the Chagos. They visited officials about the compensation, but these men shook their heads and said, ‘Look! There’re thousands of people claiming to be Ilois! If we give something to everyone who says they are, there’ll be none left for people who deserve it.’
‘We lived on Diego Garcia! Ask anyone!’
‘Where’re your birth certificates?’
‘We lost them.’
‘Where?’
‘I think on Peros Banhos.’
‘But you said you were from Diego Garcia? What were you doing on Peros Banhos?’
‘Coming here…’
‘Yes?’
‘We…’
‘NEXT!’
Odette vomited over the official floor. Leonard yelled at a policeman on the steps outside. He helped his sister home, propped her in the shack and told her he’d be back in the evening.
Since she’d told him she was pregnant and explained how, he’d been shaken out of his lethargy. As soon as he was needed he understood. ‘I’ll be back in two hours.’ He held up two fingers.
He learnt to plead and hassle around the bus stations and outside the tourist offices and airline offices. He held people’s eyes until they gave him something. He swore at them if they didn’t. He clenched collected coins until his knuckles turned white – he held Odette’s hand tight when she went into labour and screamed for hours before a boy was born, dropped onto the floor of the shack and suckled on an arrangement of sacks.
Odette called him Jimmie. The baby cried at night, and when Leonard
looked at him and his sister’s glazed expression he was forced into thinking that begging wasn’t enough. ‘I’m going to see Mr Rene again,’ he said.
‘You won’t be long…’
‘No. An hour. I’ll tell next door to call in.’
Mr Rene gave him a job. He was put with a gang of Mauritians who took no account of his feelings. Leonard confirmed everything they’d heard about the Ilois. He had nothing to say, couldn’t read newspapers, couldn’t drive a car, never watched television. He knew nothing about anything except Diego Garcia, and, ‘We can’t go home’. Trying to explain, he said this to his work-mates many times, ‘We can’t go home.’
‘Nor can I!’ said one. ‘My wife says “you put one foot inside that door and I’ll call my brother!” He’s a big man! I know what you mean! Don’t talk to me about going home!’
Leonard shook his head. Mr Rene told him to shift twenty bales of cotton from the Customs House to the store.
‘To what store?’
‘That one!’
Heaving on ropes and pulling carts. Cutting his hands and hurting his back. Dock work was hard work, but he was paid and by the ocean. Oily, but still ocean; his workmates began to give him a break, one day he even came home singing.
‘Don’t waste it on yourself,’ Odette said.
‘What?’
‘That song. Sing it to Jimmie.’ She cradled the baby and rocked him. ‘He likes music. Go on!’
Leonard sang a song he’d heard on a radio. Passing people stopped, listened and nodded in appreciation. The man had a good voice, the song was about love and sent the baby to sleep.
‘You do that every evening,’ she said, ‘and one day we’ll find somewhere better.’
‘Sure we can.’
Song. On Diego Garcia, song was an important diversion. Fishermen sang rowing songs in rhythm to their oar-strokes. Mothers sang ‘Segas zenfants’ to instruct their children. Others sang love songs to the accompaniment of coconut shell lyres and banana leaf and rice shakers. Leonard sang ‘Hey Jude’, all the way through, and then again when people applauded and yelled ‘MORE!’
20
Leonard sat on a wharf, ate bread and drank one bottle of beer. He had been working well, Mr Rene had said. Someone else told him about a shack on Tombeau Bay. A Jo had lived in it and watched for a hotel owner. Now he was dead, the place was empty and someone else would have it.
