by Shenaz Patel
Even if someone had blindfolded him and put him on the boat without telling him where it was headed, he would have recognized the fragrance of the Chagos. Mauritius, in turn, had a particular smell: sweet like its sugarcane fields stretching, almost monotonously, to the water’s edge. And Diego had its own aroma: toasted bark and fresh water, sand and sweat.
From the farthest point he could see that small black dot caught within his telescope’s gaze, he had the ineffable feeling of reaching a port he couldn’t possibly love more for how provisional it was. A temporariness that could only arise from a belief in its unshakable permanence. A certainty that wasn’t quite so resolute today. As he watched the archipelago come into view, he felt a strange twinge in his stomach.
All the same, the ship’s arrival always aroused excitement: it foretold celebrations. This morning, the administrator’s deputy had chosen the men who would handle the unloading, and they milled around in smaller groups, ready to shoulder the crates and bundles that would comprise the bulk of their provisions for the next three months. The sun pounded down, oiling their bare torsos with gleaming sweat that outlined the firm muscles beneath their dark skin. For two hours they moved like ants in a three-hundred-yard file between the boat’s hold and the warehouse, all while joking around and bursting out in laughter.
After he and the administrator had overseen the unloading, the captain waved to a few familiar faces, and climbed back aboard to take care of the usual formalities. The sun was close to the horizon when he came ashore again and headed to the administrator’s house. It was custom for him to stay there until the next morning, when he’d make his way onward to Peros Banhos, then Salomon several cable lengths off. With its sloping roof, which covered the attic that boasted two windows with green shutters, the administrator’s house stood out among the tiny scrap-metal huts scattered throughout the flat, palm-shaded land. The administrator’s wife stood at the front door ready to welcome the captain warmly.
In the year since she had arrived, the blonde woman’s skin had tanned from the paleness of a candle. Each time he came, the captain took great joy in talking to this woman who had been aloof and haughty at first before growing friendlier. It was a world of difference from the previous administrator’s wife, who he’d considered hopelessly stupid.
The administrator welcomed him with his deep, merry voice, urging him to try his fermented kalou. The first time his men had made him drink that coconut-palm wine, he’d been convinced his tongue and palate were ruined forever. Suspecting it was some sort of test, he’d ignored the aversion he had felt toward the metal cup’s overpowering smell of fermented sap in order to drink the whole thing straight up, in one go, as the men laughed and clapped his shoulders. As he tilted his head back, he felt the fire setting his throat ablaze, wondering for half a second if he shouldn’t at least try to spit it out straightaway, before the flames reached into his stomach and destroyed his guts. God only knows what could happen. As he gasped, unable to breathe, the others had guffawed as they came to his rescue with some strong slaps on his back. He had been sure he wouldn’t survive. As a sign of their respect, so they said, they’d poured him one of their oldest kalous, one that had steeped for more than three months. When he finally caught his breath again, he immediately noticed how his taste buds had awakened, as if they were blossoming within his mouth to better convey the powerful sensations of this unrefined yet ferocious brew. And the heat that lulled his limbs wasn’t unpleasant.
Ever since, anytime he searched through the green coconut palms and happened upon an inflorescence of promising proportions, he would order some kalou to be brewed and thereafter his men would make a habit of bringing him a healthy dose. Before it was mature enough to bud and release some smaller coconuts, the men would cut through the lower end of the inflorescence with a special knife, tie a rope to its top, and pull it down to trim it a bit each day, until it began to drip some of the expected sap. They hung tinplate cups to collect the juice and swapped them out three times a day. The women liked to drink it when it had just been harvested, praising its sweetish flavor. The men preferred to wait three or four days for it to ferment into a bitterer, far stronger drink that they enjoyed on Saturday nights.
For the captain, the administrator pulled out a bottle that he’d kept for two months. The two men sat on the porch and sipped a glass of this drink they had to enjoy in moderation. They talked about all manner of things, what had happened on the island, the cyclone that was gathering steam further south in the Indian Ocean and making navigation harder, the price of copra, the latest news from Mauritius.
The captain ran the tip of his finger around the rim of his glass, which emitted an insistent whistle. The news he had brought wasn’t good. The conversations around independence had split the population. There had been several reports of violence in the days before he’d left. He’d heard that a rioting crowd had chased a man into a churchyard and killed him. The Muslims and the Creoles were at loggerheads. This time, all signs pointed to an unavoidable clash.
They could hear the administrator’s three children giggling; they had come back from the beach a bit earlier, and their freckled faces were thoroughly tanned. They, too, were enjoying their stint here. The outdoors suited them, they were filling up and filling out. Their father listened to them distractedly. He hadn’t realized that matters had deteriorated so badly already. He himself was torn. He wondered whether Mauritius wouldn’t have done better to remain a British colony rather than hurtling haphazardly toward independence. He contemplated how much credence to grant those naysayers insisting that Mauritius would just end up a part of India.
The captain was still twirling his glass. He was skeptical, but he had to concede that the argument was convincing. A handful of his acquaintances were readying themselves to leave Mauritius and put down roots in Australia. One of his cousins had asked him, almost laughingly, if he would agree to take them on his boat, just in case. He suspected they were overstating the risks. He would rather believe that all would end well. That it was high time to decolonize. That Mauritius was well-established enough to be able to take charge, to be the master of its own destiny. But of course it would be wise for them to have some sort of fallback should matters worsen. A way out. The administrator kept thinking about it. He and his wife had family in France and South Africa. That shouldn’t be a problem. But he’d rather not raise any alarms, he’d prefer not to discuss that prospect just now.
On the horizon, the sun was slowly melting into the ocean, momentarily rekindling the light clouds suspended above. One early star had already appeared to the west. Several men went by in silence, their heads beneath an overturned boat they were portaging. The floorboards creaked. A woman brought out a plate of fried fish and set it on the low table between the two men. The administrator held his hand over the crispy skin that was still too hot to be touched.
“Have you told them yet?” the captain asked.
A lizard’s squeak filtered through the corner of the roof releasing the day’s heat. The administrator brought his glass to his lips, emptied it briskly as he tilted his neck back.
Tell them? What could he tell them? He didn’t have any clear information. He was under the impression that the company would cease its operations, and as a result he’d need to plan for this closure by sending them to Mauritius surreptitiously. Explain to them? He’d still need to understand first. In any case, his contract was set to end in a few months. He’d really rather not be the one who had to deliver the bad news.
The captain nodded. In the distance, the sky had clouded over and was mottled like tissue paper. The air was as light as a daydream. The shape of a woman holding a child on her hip moved across his field of vision. She was walking unhurriedly to the back of the administrator’s house.
“Rita! Ritaaa? To la?”
The two men heard her voice rising as she neared the house. The child on her hip let out a high-pitched babble. From inside the house came a reply from another woman, w
ho rushed out of the kitchen where she was cooking.
“Wi, Charlesia, mo la mem. Ki to le?”
The captain and the administrator could hear every word of the conversation in the still air. Charlesia had come to see if Rita could watch little Rico tomorrow morning while she went to stock up at the store. Rita replied that normally she would be happy to, but her husband, Selmour, had already planned on going fishing, and since she had to host the sega that evening, she’d have too much on her plate. But she ought to ask Léonce, since she loved Rico and could go pick up her own weekly rations after Charlesia had come back from the store.
The two women kissed each other’s cheeks quickly and said goodbye.
Silence had settled in the veranda. The administrator leaned over the small table and poured himself another generous glass of kalou.
“They’re having their big sega tomorrow night,” he said to the captain. “You should go. It might be your last chance to see it.”
In the dusk, a gecko chattered, its chirp like a skeptical click of the tongue.
Seven thirty. Little Rico was lying in his mattress, intently watching a bird bustling in the roof’s straw, which was getting hot under the already-risen sun. Charlesia was saved the trouble of looking for Léonce: she was standing at the door. The day before, Rita had passed the message along to Léonce, who didn’t need to be asked twice. She never missed a chance to play with Rico, tickling him so she could hear him laugh and kissing his round cheeks with loud smacks.
“Monn fini donn li bwar. Li pa pou soif aster la,” Charlesia told Léonce.
Yes, the baby had just finished suckling at her breast, and he probably wouldn’t be hungry again for a while. At eighteen months old, he still drank his fill of his mother’s milk, but she knew she needed to wean him off soon; his teeth were starting to hurt her.
Charlesia put on her straw hat, took her big woven coconut-leaf bag, and left for the store. As on every Saturday, there was a crowd at the island’s only shop. Today’s excitement was increased by the prospect of freshly delivered foodstuffs. The shopkeeper was helping Daisy and Éliane up front. Charlesia waited and made small talk with Laurencine, who told her that she was getting ready to move. She and her husband had decided to settle on the end of the eastern arm, where Méa and Augustin used to live. She didn’t know where the couple had moved to. Maybe Salomon. Or even Mauritius, apparently they had some family down there. In any case the administrator had said that their shack was available.
The shopkeeper called Charlesia’s name and she came to the counter. She held out her bag, which he filled with her rations for the week: ten pounds of rice, five and a half pounds of flour, one pound of lentils, one pound of dal, one pound of salt, two bottles of oil.
“Ou bizin lezot zafer, madam Charlesia?”
She thought for a second. She needed a bar of soap as well. They still had some milk. Definitely tea. And a bit of coffee, she had used up last month’s ration for old Wiyem’s wake. Cigarettes and matches. The shopkeeper served her, tallied up these last things and recorded it in his ledger. Then he moved to the next in line.
“E missie, ou pa finn blie narien?” Charlesia cut in.
The shopkeeper always teased her, pretending to forget until she reminded him about what she had asked for. She held the bag open again and this time he put in, between the rice and flour, the two liters of wine allotted for her and her husband on Saturdays. It cost one and a half rupees per liter and she knew Serge considered it an extravagance when he only made thirty-five cents for each full day of work. But she’d rather drink it than the baka or kalou, which burned her throat too much. Tonight, she would savor her Mompo wine, so sweet and invigorating on her tongue.
Some men were helping the women carry their bags of provisions. Serge wasn’t with them. Charlesia talked to Rosemond.
“Serge kot ete?”
“Li paret inpe fatige. Linn res laba mem.”
She hadn’t noticed just how exhausted he had looked lately. She had told him not to have too much baka last weekend, but she really should have kept an eye on him. Charlesia hoisted her bag up on her shoulder and made her way back to the shack. Léonce and Rico weren’t there anymore; they were on the beach with the children. Serge, however, was lying in bed, curled up on the left side. His loud snoring left no room for doubt. He was deep asleep. Charlesia cursed. The administrator had killed and portioned out a pig this morning, and Serge had left the quarter he was given outside. Now she had to clean it and cut it up herself. He knew she didn’t like that. Although he didn’t, either. But it had to be done.
She tried to wake him but he groaned that he didn’t feel well, and turned over to go back to sleep. Just like that. But of course. She had planned on cooking one of the chickens, along with some leafy étouffée de brèdes, but it would be a shame to let the pig go to waste.
Right now, though, she needed to put away the groceries. And darn her underskirt for tonight. Sometime during the last sega at Méa’s, it had caught on a nail sticking through a doorframe and torn. She spread the mass of white cotton ticking flat on the children’s bed, a good three yards of wispy cloth, found the snag, threaded the needle. She could hear Serge tossing and turning in his bed in the other room. A minute later he got up, walked out to splash his face with water in the yard, and came back. She watched his movements through the window. It was true that he looked somewhat haggard. She needed to make sure he was drinking plenty of fresh coconut water; nothing better for restoring one’s innards.
She called out to him: “Ki to gagne?”
“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” he mumbled as he made his way toward the kitchen and picked up a big knife. He sat on a flat rock next to the portion of pig and began carving it. But Charlesia saw him rubbing the right side of his stomach with the back of his hand every so often. Well, if it didn’t get better she’d take him to have the nurse look at it. He was stubborn enough that she’d have to nag, but in the end he would do as she said.
For now, she took the knife from his hands. “Go on, get some rest,” she said, “I’ll take care of the pig.” No, absolutely not, I’m going to finish what I started. Charlesia stopped and went into the rear courtyard to pluck a few sprigs of thyme and some greens for a nice bouillon to accompany the pork and vegetable fricassee. That should make for a nice dinner before they go to the sega.
The first drumbeats resounded at eight o’clock, as Charlesia and Serge were getting ready to head over to Rita’s shack. Swinging lanterns revealed several dozen people all chattering as they made their way to the festivities they would be celebrating until sunrise.
In the yard, several men had lit a straw fire that crackled as it threw off sparks. The whole night, they’d take turns keeping the flames going strong so they could heat their drum skins. In a corner Rita’s young son Tonio proudly showed off his instrument. He’d stretched the skin of a beautiful manta ray that he’d caught two weeks earlier. As Oreste had told him to, he’d carefully scrubbed the raie banda clean of all salt, let it dry, then he’d moistened it with cold water before wrapping it around the wooden hoop shaped from a thick banyan branch and pulling it taut.
Oreste had learned all the tricks to making the best instruments that resounded and made the air tremble at the lightest touch. Upon coming back from Mauritius, he told them about how, down there, they made something similar called a ravanne, but they used goatskin, which vibrated far less when he tapped it. In his eyes, nothing compared to the skate’s supple membrane. Tonio had to agree: the last drum he had made, with a donkey hide, was nothing like the one he’d just finished. This one seemed to actually respond to his fingers the minute he’d nailed the skin to the wooden hoop. It reverberated with an odd impatience as he cut the edges at evenly spaced intervals in order to slip the weighty five-cent pieces over the four short iron rods and give the dull sound of every drumbeat a pealing resonance.
“Fer tambour la koze!”
With her strong, carrying voice, Rita de
clared the night begun. Yes, it was time to make the drums that had been heated over the straw fire speak at last. The drummers gathered in a half circle, the first hand rose up and came down to strike five quick, measured beats on the stretched hide. A brief silence as the vibration rippled outward until it met another invisible membrane under the belly’s skin. Then, with a unified and synchronized momentum, the beats surged forth, an outright stampede, the beating took up the whole space, insistently syncopating heartbeats, precipitating a primordial wave within the body’s most profound depths. The drums, suddenly, fell silent. Charlesia’s voice, ashen and salty, burst from her throat in sharps that soared before dissolving over the listeners’ heads.
Bat ou tambour, Nézim bat ou tambour
Ah Nézim bat ou tambour
Nézim dime Wiyem aleéééé…
Tann mo la mor pa bizin ki to sagrin
Pa bizin ki to ploré
To a met enn dey pou mo tambour
Tonight they were singing anew this song they had composed weeks ago, for one of their greatest drummers felled by old age. Wiyem didn’t want grief or tears. He made them promise to pay the grandest homage they could to his drum, which had been his life. Throughout the wake, between the card games and the rounds of dominoes, they had talked. They had hummed little tunes, a few words. But they had to wait until the period of mourning was done. And so, tonight, at last, they could make good on that promise. They were singing: for Wiyem, for his drum, for their drums seizing their limbs with irrepressible vibrations.
