I said, “Yes.”
He stood up and straightened his back.
Then he squatted again and drew the outline of a massive L and filled that in slowly and lovingly.
When it was finished, he stood up and said, “You finish your work. I finish mine.”
Or it was like this. If you told Man-man you were going to the cricket, he would write CRICK and then concentrate on the E’s until he saw you again.
One day Man-man went to the big café at the top of Miguel Street and began barking and growling at the customers on the stools as though he were a dog. The owner, a big Portuguese man with hairy hands, said, “Man-man, get out of this shop before I tangle with you.”
Man-man just laughed.
They threw Man-man out.
Next day, the owner found that someone entered his café during the night, and had left all the doors open. But nothing was missing.
Hat said, “One thing you must never do is trouble Man-man. He remember everything.”
That night the café was entered again and the doors again left open.
The following night the café was entered and this time little blobs of excrement were left on the centre of every stool and on top of every table and at regular intervals along the counter.
The owner of the café was the laughing-stock of the street for several weeks, and it was only after a long time that people began going to the café again.
Hat said, “Is just like I say. Boy, I don’t like meddling with that man. These people really bad-mind, you know. God make them that way.”
It was things like this that made people leave Man-man alone. The only friend he had was a little mongrel dog, white with black spots on the ears. The dog was like Man-man in a way, too. It was a curious dog. It never barked, never looked at you, and if you looked at it, it looked away. It never made friends with any other dog, and if some dog tried either to get friendly or aggressive, Man-man’s dog gave it a brief look of disdain and ambled away, without looking back.
Man-man loved his dog, and the dog loved Man-man. They were made for each other, and Man-man couldn’t have made a living without his dog.
Man-man appeared to exercise a great control over the movements of his dog’s bowels.
Hat said, “That does really beat me. I can’t make that one out.”
It all began in Miguel Street.
One morning, several women got up to find that the clothes they had left to bleach overnight had been sullied by the droppings of a dog. No one wanted to use the sheets and the shirts after that, and when Man-man called, everyone was willing to give him the dirty clothes.
Man-man used to sell these clothes.
Hat said, “Is things like this that make me wonder whether the man really mad.”
From Miguel Street Man-man’s activities spread, and all the people who had suffered from Man-man’s dog were anxious to get other people to suffer the same thing.
We in Miguel Street became a little proud of him.
* * *
I don’t know what it was that caused Man-man to turn good. Perhaps the death of his dog had something to do with it. The dog was run over by a car, and it gave, Hat said, just one short squeak, and then it was silent.
Man-man wandered about for days, looking dazed and lost.
He no longer wrote words on the pavement; no longer spoke to me or to any of the other boys in the street. He began talking to himself, clasping his hands and shaking as though he had ague.
Then one day he said he had seen God after having a bath.
This didn’t surprise many of us. Seeing God was quite common in Port of Spain, and, indeed, in Trinidad at that time. Ganesh Pundit, the mystic masseur from Fuente Grove, had started it. He had seen God, too, and had published a little booklet called What God Told Me. Many rival mystics and not a few masseurs had announced the same thing, and I suppose it was natural that since God was in the area Man-man should see Him.
Man-man began preaching at the corner of Miguel Street, under the awning of Mary’s shop. He did this every Saturday night. He let his beard grow and he dressed in a long white robe. He got a Bible and other holy things and stood in the white light of an acetylene lamp and preached. He was an impressive preacher, and he preached in an odd way. He made women cry, and he made people like Hat really worried.
He used to hold the Bible in his right hand and slap it with his left and say in his perfect English accent, “I have been talking to God these few days, and what he tell me about you people wasn’t really nice to hear. These days you hear all the politicians and them talking about making the island self-sufficient. You know what God tell me last night? Last night self, just after I finish eating? God say, ‘Man-man, come and have a look at these people.’ He show me husband eating wife and wife eating husband. He show me father eating son and mother eating daughter. He show me brother eating sister and sister eating brother. That is what these politicians and them mean by saying that the island going to become self-sufficient. But, brethren, it not too late now to turn to God.”
* * *
I used to get nightmares every Saturday night after hearing Man-man preach. But the odd thing was that the more he frightened people the more they came to hear him preach. And when the collection was made they gave him more than ever.
In the week-days he just walked about, in his white robe, and he begged for food. He said he had done what Jesus ordered and he had given away all his goods. With his long black beard and his bright deep eyes, you couldn’t refuse him anything. He noticed me no longer, and never asked me, “So you goes to school?”
The people in Miguel Street didn’t know what to make of the change. They tried to comfort themselves by saying that Man-man was really mad, but, like me, I think they weren’t sure that Man-man wasn’t really right.
What happened afterwards wasn’t really unexpected.
Man-man announced that he was a new Messiah.
Hat said one day, “You ain’t hear the latest?”
We said, “What?”
“Is about Man-man. He say he going to be crucified one of these days.”
“Nobody go touch him,” Edward said. “Everybody fraid of him now.”
Hat explained. “Not, it ain’t that. He going to crucify hisself. One of these Fridays he going to Blue Basin and tie hisself to a cross and let people stone him.”
Somebody—Errol, I think—laughed, but finding that no one laughed with him, fell silent again.
But on top of our wonder and worry, we had this great pride in knowing that Man-man came from Miguel Street.
Little hand-written notices began appearing in the shops and cafés and on the gates of some houses, announcing Man-man’s forthcoming crucifixion.
“They going to have a big crowd in Blue Basin,” Hat announced, and added with pride, “and I hear they sending some police too.”
* * *
That day, early in the morning, before the shops opened and the trolley-buses began running in Ariapita Avenue, the big crowd assembled at the corner of Miguel Street. There were lots of men dressed in black and even more women dressed in white. They were singing hymns. There were also about twenty policemen, but they were not singing hymns.
When Man-man appeared, looking very thin and very holy, women cried and rushed to touch his gown. The police stood by, prepared to handle anything.
A van came with a great wooden cross.
Hat, looking unhappy in his serge suit, said, “They tell me it make from match-wood. It ain’t heavy. It light light.”
Edward said, in a snapping sort of way, “That matter? Is the heart and the spirit that matter.”
Hat said, “I ain’t saying nothing.”
Some men began taking the cross from the van to give it to Man-man, but he stopped them. His English accent sounded impressive in the early morning. “Not here. Leave it for Blue Basin.”
Hat was disappointed.
We walked to Blue Basin, the waterfall in the mountains to the no
rth-west of Port of Spain, and we got there in two hours. Man-man began carrying the cross from the road, up the rocky path and then down to the Basin.
Some men put up the cross, and tied Man-man to it.
Man-man said, “Stone me, brethren.”
The women wept and flung bits of sand and gravel at his feet.
Man-man groaned and said, “Father, forgive them. They ain’t know what they doing.” Then he screamed out, “Stone me, brethren!”
A pebble the size of an egg struck him on the chest.
Man-man cried “Stone, stone, stone me, brethren! I forgive you.”
Edward said, “The man really brave.”
People began flinging really big stones at Man-man, aiming at his face and chest.
Man-man looked hurt and surprised. He shouted, “What the hell is this? What the hell you people think you doing? Look, get me down from this thing quick, let me down quick, and I go settle with that son of a bitch who pelt a stone at me.”
From where Edward and Hat and the rest of us stood, it sounded like a cry of agony.
A bigger stone struck Man-man; the women flung the sand and gravel at him.
We heard Man-man’s shout, clear and loud, “Cut this stupidness out. Cut it out, I tell you. I finish with this arseness, you hear.” And then he began cursing so loudly and so coarsely that the people stopped in surprise.
The police took away Man-man.
The authorities kept him for observation. Then for good.
The Valley of Cocoa
by Michael Anthony
Mayaro
(Originally published in 1961)
There was not much in the valley of cocoa. Just the estate and our drying-houses, and our living-house. And the wriggling little river that passed through.
And, of course, the labourers. But they didn’t ever seem to speak to anyone. Always they worked silently from sunrise to evening. Only Wills was different. He was friendly, and he knew lots of other things besides things about cocoa and drying-houses.
And he knew Port of Spain. He knew it inside out, he said. Every day after work he would sit down on the log with me and would tell of the wonderful place.
As he spoke his eyes would glow with longing. The longing to be in that world which he said was part of him. And sometimes I knew pain. For Wills had made the city grow in me, and I knew longing, too.
Never had I been out of the valley of cocoa. Father was only concerned about his plantation, and nothing else. He was dedicated to wealth and prosperity, and every year the cocoa yielded more and more. So he grew busier and busier, building, experimenting, planning for record returns. Everything needed out of the valley was handled by Wills—for people who knew Port of Spain could handle anything. Business progressed. The valley grew greener with cocoa, and the drying-houses were so full that the woodmen were always felling timber to build more.
Wills, who one day had just returned from ordering new machinery in Port of Spain, sat talking with me. The sun had not long gone down but already it was dusk. Wills said it was never so in Port of Spain. Port of Spain was always bright. He said as soon as the sun went down the whole city was lit by electric lamps, and you could hardly tell the difference between night and day. And he explained all about those lamps which he said hung from poles, and from the houses that lined the million streets.
It was thick night when we stopped talking and got up. In the darkness Wills walked straight on to a tree, and he swore, and said, By Jove—if that it could have happened to him in Port of Spain! He said one of those days I’d go there, when I got big, and I’d see for myself, and I’d never want to come back to the valley again.
* * *
The machinery arrived soon afterwards. It came in a shining new van, and the name of the company was spelt in large letters on the sides of the van. The driver was a bright-looking man and when the van stopped he jumped out and laughed and called, “Hey, there!”
Wills and Father went down to meet him and I eased up behind them. I was thrilled. It was not every day that strangers came to the valley.
Father looked worried as he spoke to the man about payments. He complained that business wasn’t doing well and the machinery was so expensive. But the man was laughing all the time, and said who cared about payments when Father had all the time in the world to pay. Father was puzzled, and the man said, yes, Father could pay instalments. Wills said it was true, that’s what they did in Port of Spain. The man made Father sign up for instalments and while Father signed, the man pulled at my chin and said, “Hi!”
Father was paying the first instalment. The man stretched his hands for the money and without counting it he put it into his pocket. Every time my eyes caught his he winked.
“Hi!” he said softly.
I twined round Father’s legs.
“Bashful,” he said, “bashful,” and he tugged at the seat of my pants. I couldn’t help laughing.
He opened the door of the van and the next moment he was beside me. He was smiling and dangling a bright coloured packet. I held on to Father’s legs. Then I felt something slide into my pocket. I looked up. “Like sweets?” the man said. I turned away and grinned.
From about my father’s legs I watched him. He pulled out a red packet of cigarettes. He passed the cigarettes to Father, then to Wills, and as he lit theirs and lit himself one, he seemed to be taken up with the estate below.
“All yours?” he asked after a while.
Father nodded.
He shook his head approvingly. “Nice—nice, old man!”
The evening was beginning to darken and the man looked at his watch and said it was getting late and he’d better start burning the gas. Father said true, because Port of Spain was so far, and the country roads were bad enough. The man claimed there were worse roads in some parts of Port of Spain. He laughed and said, “What’s a van anyway, only a lot of old iron.” Father and Wills laughed heartily at this, while the man turned a silver key and started the van. Then he said, well cheerio, cheerio, and if anything went wrong with the machine he’d hear from us.
The days that followed were filled with dream. I continually saw the grand city, and the bright, laughing man. Port of Spain, I kept thinking. Port of Spain! I imagined myself among the tall, red houses, the maze of streets, the bright cars and the vans darting to and fro; the trams, the trains, the buses; the thousands of people everywhere. And always I heard the voice. “Hi!”—it kept sailing back to me. And every time I heard it I smiled.
Months passed, and more and more I grew fed up with the valley. I felt a certain resentment growing inside me. Resentment for everything around. For Father, for the silly labourers; even for Wills. For the cocoa trees. For the hills that imprisoned me night and day. I grew sullen and sick and miserable, tired of it all. I even wished for Father’s fears to come true. Witchbroom! I wished witchbroom would come and destroy the cocoa and so chase Father from this dreary place.
* * *
As expected, the machinery soon went wrong. It wouldn’t work. Wills had to rush to Port of Spain to get the man.
I waited anxiously towards the end of that evening, and when in the dusk I saw the van speeding between the trees I nearly jumped from sheer gladness.
From the hill Father shouted saying he didn’t know what was wrong but the machine wouldn’t start. The man said all right and he boyishly ran up to the hill to the house. He stopped and tugged at me and I twined round Father’s legs. The man tickled me and we both laughed aloud. Then he gave me sweets in a blue and white packet, and he said he’d better go and see to the machine because the machine was lazy and didn’t want to work.
He tried to tickle me again. I jumped away and we laughed, and Father and Wills and he went to the shed. They had not been there five minutes when I heard the machine start again.
* * *
The labourers had changed a little. They had become somewhat fascinated by the new machine. It seemed they sometimes stole chances to operate it, for the machine
went wrong quite a number of times afterwards. And so, happily, the man often came to us.
In time Father and he became great friends. He gave Father all the hints about cocoa prices in the city and about when to sell and who to sell to. He knew all the good dealers and all the scamps, he said.
He knew all the latest measures taken to fight cocoa diseases and he told Father what they did in West Africa, and what they did here and what they did there, to fight this, that, and the other disease.
With his help Father did better than ever. And he was so pleased that he asked the man to spend a Sunday with us.
“Sure!” the man agreed. And I ran out then, and made two happy somersaults on the grass.
* * *
That Sunday, when the man arrived, I was down the other side of the hill grazing the goats. The voice had boomed down towards me.
“Kenneth!”
I turned and looked round. Then I dropped the ropes and ran excitedly up the hill. “Coming!” I kept saying. “Coming!” When I got there the big arms swept me up and threw me up in the air and caught me.
Directly Father called us in to breakfast and afterwards the man put shorts on and we went out into the fresh air. The whole valley of cocoa nestled in the distance below us. The man watched like one under a spell.
“Beautiful!” he whispered, shaking his head. “Beautiful!”
“And the river,” I said. Strange! I had hardly noticed how pretty the river was.
“Yes,” the man answered. “Yellow, eh?”
I grinned.
“The water good?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Sure, sure?”
“Sure, sure,” I said.
“Well, come on!” He took me by the hand and we hastened into the house.
The next moment we were running down the hill towards the river, the man in bathing trunks and me with my pants in my hand and sun all over me. We reached the banks and I showed where the water was shallow and where it was deep, and the man plunged into the deep part. He came to the surface again, laughing and saying how nice the water was. He said there was no such river in Port of Spain. He told me to get on his back, and he swam upstream and down with me and then he put me down in the shallow part. Then he soaped my body and bathed me, and when I was rinsed we went and sat a little on the bank.
Trinidad Noir_The Classics Page 3
