Within two days he was back in Australia on the farm, warding off the entreaties of his mates – phone call after phone call, Why are you ’ome so early, ’arry? Cat got ya tongue? Run amok over there, did ya? Threw the ol’ convict out? Sent him back home …
It had been a long and intensely hot summer. The avocadoes were so established they didn’t require reticulation, instead tapping water from somewhere deep. Avocadoes, he’d told Val, don’t have deep root systems – the heat knocks them around. They lose all their moisture. They’ve no future here, it’s too dry and what water is down there is salty. But these trees did grow, and when all else was parched and even the native species so suited to dry spells were dying, the avocadoes remained green and strong.
It’d been a good harvest of fruit, to top it all off. Harry had a ritual. The first fruit he picked, he ate and the last fruit he picked, he ate. That’s what Val had asked him to do. Harry, these trees will bear more fruit than you can imagine. I want you to eat the first and the last of the crop. He thought she might add ‘in remembrance of me’, as she had that kind of twisted sense of humour that so attracted him in the first place. His mates had loved that about her, and they always asked if he’d eaten the first and last fruits, and looked as if all the world was right when he confirmed he had done so, even though they’d add, Val wouldn’t mind if you moved on, ’arry.
*
So he ate the first fruit in the dry and the heat, and he did think of her. The flesh of the fruit was crisp and ripe at once. He tasted her and touched her with his mouth. Getting the harvest in was hard work. He always felt he deserved the last fruit. But this year he didn’t eat it. He took it from the heat inside the house, and placed it in the deep freeze. There were just some things he couldn’t explain to his mates. Some things that would always remain art.
FEEDING THE DOGS
In a designer evening dress, the young Saint-Gilles Zoreille woman bent down and fed the street dogs. As she crouched behind the Mercedes four-wheel drive, her well-dressed and bejewelled mother handed her cans of dog food already neatly opened. Many would call these women beautiful, whatever cultural space they connected with, and few would doubt they were rich. But squatting and beseeching the sickly, fightweary street dogs to eat (they needed little encouragement, especially the old bitch likely on her last litter with her udders sucked dry and desperate for nourishment), the daughter had that aura of the unstable, the possessed. A local might wonder if she had once picked up a plastic bag left at a crossroads – a bag filled with the pain, fear and anguish someone wished to pass on to another, ridding themselves of their own private hell. Had she lost something money couldn’t buy? Or was she borne by a quiet desperation, her mother watching steadfastly over, protecting her from the lust directed at her by so many men driving past into the supermarket car park, men with wives beside them and children jumping about on back seats? Was the mother committed to a life of this … care?
The car park was milling with dogs. The entire island milled with dogs. The literature of the island has a special spot for stories about dogs, the way the human inhabitants relate to them. Cherish them or destroy them. There is a network of dog packs and individual dogs that circles the island, following the rugged coast, dipping into the beaches and lagoons where tourists and resident metropolitans expect to be able to swim with great white sharks yet not be consumed, to go unbothered by dogs up through the passes and into the mountain villages. The dogs have a long history on the young island, a long history that goes back to shipwreck, marooning, plantations and slavery. They have an intense collective memory; they call to each other constantly. Their talk is full of gossip and food and territory and anger and progeny.
A couple of middle-aged men, climbing into a small Peugeot, mutter under their breaths: Now, that’s erotic. What? That weird young lady in the black evening dress, the humidity condensing on her skin, her fine underwear showing through. Squatting. They are educated men, maybe schoolteachers. They are embarrassed, but watch out of the corner of their eyes. They have each seen her before, of course, but not together. She always wears evening dress. Most locals smile. They think well of her. They regret the feeding of the dogs and yet approve of it. A dilemma. Tourists scurry into their hired cars, worried the dogs might finish eating and wander their way, rubbing sores onto bare human legs, giving them tropical diseases. Tropical dog diseases. The point of transference from animal to human: potential vectors for a new plague.
The mother emptied the cans, scraped them out with a spoon, and placed them in a bag in the back of the Mercedes. There were a dozen dogs around the young woman, many licking her hands, none fighting. Fights in the car park weren’t uncommon, and the dogs divided up the turf. But when the young lady fed them, they all gathered and a truce was declared. The old bitch rubbed her itchy skin against the fabric of the evening dress, and felt good. It was all relief.
A cyclone was expected to brush the island in a few days. A late cyclone. Maybe the last of the season, though it was getting harder to predict these things. The island felt unstable, vulnerable, that great volcanic peak of stone rising out of deep seas, looking across to Madagascar, or, so far away, Australia. The air was agitated. Sweat gleamed on the young woman’s bare back. The middle-aged men, the teachers, wanted to lick the sweat off her. They talked about a maloya performance they were going to that night, and drove slowly out of the car park.
The dogs left suddenly, and the young woman began to shake violently. A premonition. Or learned behaviour. They trotted away and didn’t look back. Her mother leant down and gently but firmly held her daughter’s arm before trying to coax her into the passenger’s seat. The daughter began to cry, and screamed, It’s inside me! It’s inside me!
Tourists bolted for their hire-cars. Some larger males put their hands on their hips and smiled. They weren’t shocked. They all turned away when the young woman lifted her dress, pulled down her fancy underwear, squatted and pissed. Her mother let her finish, watching the direction of the puddle as it became a stream, almost cajoling it into a shallow gutter. Finished, the young woman sorted her clothing and climbed into the car. The mother drove quickly but expertly out of the car park, avoiding everything.
*
Three boys taunt the old bitch by offering her a piece of food, then withdrawing it when she lifts her mouth to receive it. They do this a half-dozen times; the bitch persists, waiting for the pay-off that won’t come. They laugh. Earlier in the day they struck a chameleon with sticks. Visiting cousins a week ago, school holidays wearing on, visiting way up on La Plaine, they killed a tang with stones. Their uncle was in trouble for clearing vegetation to make pasture for his cows. He was making his living. He was helping the island be independent of the Metropole. The whole family hates France but one or two of them will go to there when they finish school. They will come back angry. They will spend less time up in the cirques and more time at the nightclubs of Saint-Gilles and Saint-Leu. On Sundays they will drive up to La Plaine for a picnic, sometimes even to the volcano itself. They will have less independence but know that in the face of the volcano, beneath its vapours and clouds, aside its lava flows, independence is neither here nor there. Their island is still being made, and they are still being made. They cannot forget their past, the enslavement of their ancestors. Someone has to pay. Should pay. Island time. Easy to say. They will one day tell their own children to leave the chameleons alone, but to drive the stray dogs off with sticks. The security guard, who detests the dogs but disapproves of cruelty, is in a bind. Halfheartedly, he tells the boys off. The dogs go nowhere near him and when the bitch hears his voice she backs off whimpering. The boys laugh and yell out in Creole, That old bitch’s tits are dragging on the ground! The security guard gives them a threatening look but on the inside he is laughing too.
*
Antoine’s wife had said to walk down because he’d been drinking all day, but he drove down anyway. He had a bad tooth – it’s from the rum, she’d said – an
d was irritable. He wasn’t going to waste money on a dentist; he was also afraid of the tooth-pullers, though wouldn’t admit it to himself, never mind anyone else. Antoine was a big bloke. A fighter. Didn’t hit women, though. Had never hit his wife, though he had given her father and brother a hiding for interfering in their business. He hated the Zoreilles – hated them. Drunk, he’d given more than one a kicking over the years. They’d been up for it, but he was the one who’d picked the fights. He loathed their slack morals, their money, their dilutions of island culture. A religious man, he placed red articles at the shrines of St Expédit, where he only crossed the paths of old men and women, and secretive younger women who never looked him in the face. For that, Antoine respected them. He tried to leave his bad feelings at the shrines so they would go elsewhere, into someone else.
Though he didn’t like the dogs, he saw them as part of the island. He would never intentionally run a dog over. So when he hit one in the car park of the supermarket, he swore but felt bad. He had picked up someone else’s negativity and carried it in the car with him. That had struck the dog. Looking at the beast, people gathering round, he could barely believe he’d done it. Not a mark on the corpse. Lifting it tenderly, he examined it and let out a brief wail. Those around were angry and pleased, loving and hating in turns, but they all saw his discomfort, and walked away. He lifted the corpse and put it in bushes just off the asphalt. Staring at it, he grew angry with his wife. Antoine had never hit her; he never would. But he had a raging thirst, and she’d only given him enough money for bread and a few groceries. He desperately wanted rum, he desperately wanted to pray, he desperately wanted to leave the island he had never left and never would.
*
Honeymooners. The supermarket near their beach hotel doesn’t have a dog problem. Dogs are kept out of the compound, driven from the beach by uniformed attendants. But the honeymooners are off to the capital, Saint-Denis, for the day, and passing through the roundabout just outside Saint-Gilles, they spot another supermarket. Thinking it might be a little larger and better stocked than their local, they quickly say, Do you think they’d have …? They might, let’s try … So, looping twice round, they branch off, almost collide with another car (people drive on a different side here!), and slalom into the car park. Watch out for the mangy damned dogs! Give you the creeps, they do. Park as close to the supermarket as you can; look! there’s a space down there; quickly, before that beat-up old van pulls in. Let them rant; ignore them; we saw it first. Keep away from these dogs, they look rabid. I really miss Lulu. Don’t worry, your mum will be pampering her rotten. You can’t say ‘pampering rotten’. You know what I mean. I do. These dogs are a disgrace. Almost ruin a beautiful place. They should get control. Yes, the dogs, and people walking down the middle of the road. Yes, what’s that about? Look, over there, among that pack of dogs. That dude with the dreadlocks we see in the nightclubs and wandering about town. Looks like he’s never washed. When I went to buy that bikini yesterday, I had to step over him asleep in his own piss in a doorway. You didn’t mention that, darling. Sorry, you just swept me up with the food and champagne and bed when I came in. I told you how hot you’d look in that: you have such glorious breasts … I worship them; I worship all of you. Aren’t you glad I told you about it? Let’s get inside. That dude – Holy Man, they call him in the clubs – is coming over, and bringing the dogs with him. Hold on, do you want me to ask if he can score for us? That bag we bought on the beach is almost finished. Oh, I don’t know – the whole town smells high, we should be able to get it anywhere. Yeah, but I bet he can get the best, I’ve seen him smoking in the street, walking right past the gendarmes blowing huge spliffs. I love the music here – the séga, the reggae, all that stuff. Okay, I’ll ask him when he comes into the supermarket, and the dogs are gone. I wonder if he speaks English? Probably. He should. Mind you, not many English-speaking tourists around. But you can use your French, darling. Well, I can say ‘zamal’ anyway – that’s what the bloke on the beach called it. I think that’s Creole. The people are so friendly, don’t you love how multicultural it is? Yes, I do, darling. And Saint-Denis has such a mix of religions and peoples. It’s really exotic. Yes, it’s colourful! Here he comes. Shit, the dogs are following him in! Quick, move back. The security guard will drive them out. Fuck, the security guard is driving the Holy Man out too. Oh well, I’ll try at the beach instead. So … Should we go to Saint-Denis or keep driving all the way round to that temple-church place? Where do you mean? You know, that mixed-up place? Animist or something? Let’s just get what we need and get out of here. It’s just a supermarket. Those dogs are a blight. I remember now, the church of St Anne’s. I’ll read to you about it from the guidebook while you’re driving. I so love you darling. So, so love you. I so want to fuck you. Shhh, someone will hear you! I don’t care, we’re allowed to. It’s our honeymoon!
*
The old man takes food to the supermarket dogs every morning, before the doors open. That’s his time. It’s when the delivery trucks wind their way in from Le Port and Saint-Denis, when the shelves are restocked. He wanders up from his case Créole near the beach, carrying a plastic bag full of scraps. He collects these scraps from neighbours the night before. In order to become part of the place, if you are an outsider looking for a foothold of belonging, it is essential to donate to the old man as the bats come out with the dusk and the catamarans sail into the lagoon and harbour. The old man’s small house is surrounded by beach dogs who shit on the volcanic black rocks and the white sand, tentatively sniffing the latest beaching of sea urchins. The dogs watch tourists watching locals; they watch tourists having sex where the sand meets the grass and the shaded areas of guesthouses. They watch tourists wade into the lagoon and get stung by stonefish, to collapse writhing in pain. They watch Creole families. They do all this without anthropology. The old man is there before the doors open, but this morning one of the Saint-Denis trucks doesn’t arrive, because there’s been a rockfall from the cape cliffs, over the Route du Littoral. The dogs are hungry and the old bitch is sick. Her teats have dried up and her puppies are fighting for food from the bag. They are snarling at the old man – the first time any of the dogs have ever done this. Their jaws snatch at the food. Even on this drier side of the island, rain is heavy and persistent. The old man and the dogs are soaked. Yesterday, on the windward side, there was record rainfall. The old man thinks of a life of cane-cutting, his ruined hands. Afterwards, he’d gone west and to the sandy beaches, away from the rocks and the heights. The dogs are angry with him. He empties the food into a heap and retreats out of the car park, back to his house, to wait out the rain. To wait until it stops entirely.
BINOCULARS
Kamu and Celine waited for years before the place became free for more than a few days in a row. It was a run-down but highly sought after holiday rental. All sandstone hewn out of the peninsula, massive feature window facing the sea, oak beams salvaged from shipwrecks, a slate roof sloping down to a narrow entry at the back where it almost blended with the furze and heather. But they wanted to work rather than holiday. They were architects. The house was what they called ‘a one-off’, designed by an eccentric genius who’d died before seeing his oddest achievement completed, and was now owned by someone who wanted to extract every last cent from it. It had been sold three-quarters finished, completed in the roughest way possible, and then rented out as a summer let; later, it was rented all year round. It had turned into something of a goldmine, a treasure chest for its owner.
Of course, Kamu and Celine had been inside before, but they really wanted a solid few months to appreciate its vibes. They had become a touch New Age in their middle years, they joked, believing of course that they weren’t in the slightest. Still, they thought the house – in fact, the whole area – was sexy, even if the ‘natives’ could be a little rebarbative and uncouth.
They were in! The best view anywhere of the ocean and the islands where wedge tombs, altars and even monkish bolthol
es spoke of an ancientness they wanted to channel into their designs. Wild coastline at the tip of a peninsula with only an automated lighthouse and various navigation lights as human-made accompaniment. The house had been built into the rock, a wedge against the elements. Sometimes waves reached up over the cliff and broke at the foundations – every now and again, very rarely, king waves that would take someone away silently. This had actually happened right there, just before the house was completed. The victim, the architect himself! He was consumed by the place he loved. It swallowed him whole and his body was never recovered.
The feature window was the house’s divinity. A pair of binoculars sat on the red sandstone ledge, drawing you to their insights. You just had to pick them up and take a look, in case there was something not being seen, hidden from normal viewing, and a sublimity would be revealed. The eyes, eating the scene, could never be fed enough.
Celine was the first to take them up, focusing on a small island across the bay. Hey, Kamu, you won’t believe it but there’s actually a tiny cottage snuggling into the rock of that island. I bet when the swell lifts, waves break across its roof. At least the spray would. It can’t be more than a couple of metres above sea level.
Probably a fisherman’s shack, Celine. Fishermen only stay in places like that in mildish weather, when the sea is calm or little more than choppy, he said with dubious authority. Give me a look. He adjusted the binoculars to suit his own peculiar eyesight and said, Uh-huh, uh-huh, on the leeward side … the waves would break a fair distance away. Maybe ten metres. They’d get a bit of spray but be pretty sheltered. It’s a shrewd design, really. Very in tune with its environment – a deft hand designed and made that. Don’t be deceived by the ramshackle exterior, that place would be fine in the roughest weather.
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