The Lunatic
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Akashic Books
©1987, 2006, 2007 Anthony C. Winkler
Cover design by Daniel Sinker/Pirate Signal International
Author photograph on back cover by Collin E. Reid
First published in 1987 by LMH Publishing Ltd., Jamaica. First published in the United Kingdom by Macmillan Caribbean, an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Ltd. Akashic Books edition published under license from Macmillan Publishers Ltd.
ISBN-13: 978-1-933354-29-3
eISBN-13: 978-1-617750-54-0
ISBN-10: 1-933354-29-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2006936539
All rights reserved
First printing
Akashic Books
PO Box 1456
New York, NY 10009
[email protected]
www.akashicbooks.com
For Katharine Tilley
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Book I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Book II
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Book III
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
BOOK I
Chapter One
There was a road in the mountainous countryside and there was a ragged black madman dancing on it. On both sides of the road the land unfolded in waves of pastures dotted with groves and marked by the dips and hollows of dried-up gullies and streams. The surrounding fields were green and lovely to look at, but it was to the antics of the solitary madman that the eye was involuntarily drawn. Sometimes he would leap up and down in one spot until he was too tired to jump anymore. Then he would start off down the road on an erratic course, weaving from side to side like a drunken pedestrian. And sometimes he would shriek like a child at play, and in the very next breath he would moan like an old man under a heavy load.
Exhausted with his antics and dancing, the madman rested beside a cut-stone wall. He was panting and blowing hard for breath when suddenly he heard a noise. Since talking cows sometimes sneaked up on him, and giant birds, and beasts that defied description, the lunatic quickly ducked behind the wall to see what or who now stalked him.
He heard a scratching sound first, which made him draw a sharp breath and hold it. Then he saw a woman coming out of the bush.
She was a woman from the village on the brow of the mountain, and she was taking the shortcut through the bushland on her way to market, a heavy basket of yams swaying on her head. But now that she had come to the cut-stone wall marking the path of the road, she placed the heavy basket on the ground and blew with exertion like a winded donkey.
Glancing furtively about her, she lifted up her dress, peeled off her panties with one deft motion, and began pissing from an upright position.
The madman bounded from behind the wall with a howl of outrage.
“Jesus God Almighty!” the woman screamed.
“No wee-wee before me eye!” the madman bawled, covering his eyes and turning his head.
Recognizing the village lunatic, the woman shrieked, “Aloysius! You make me wet up me shoe, you damn brute! What you hide behind de wall for? Look what you make me do to me shoe!”
“Me no want see no pum-pum loosen water before me eye!” the madman sobbed.
She spread her legs implacably wider and continued her pissing while the lunatic turned his head away and screamed at her to stop.
When she was done she tore off a branch from a bush and wiped her legs. Then she hoisted the basket on her head, climbed over the wall, and set off down the road.
“Damn nasty negar woman!” the madman shrieked after her. “Why you come wee-wee in de bush. Woman supposed to wee-wee in a toilet, damn nasty negar woman!”
“Go ’way, you mad brute!” the woman yelled scornfully, without turning her head to look back at him.
The madman walked over to the puddle the woman had made on the ground and he took some cut stones off the wall and threw them on it. He scuffed dirt over the stones with his calloused bare feet until he had covered the dark patch her water had made in the earth.
“No come show me no pum-pum dat loosen water before me eye!” he screamed one more time.
“Hush up, mad brute!” came the faint derisive reply from far down the road.
Down the asphalt road that flowed through the green fields and between the undulating banks of two cut-stone walls, the woman trudged under the heavy basket of yams, and she cursed this damn country, this blasted Jamaica, a country where a decent woman could not even stop in the bush to catch a piss in peace without being terrified into wetting her own legs by some raving lunatic jumping out from behind a wall and carrying on like a Minister Without Portfolio. “Go ’way,” she screeched crossly at the top of her lungs, for her feet were bawling about the hot sun on the hard road, and her belly crying for a cold drink, and her aching shoulders wondering why they had ever been born, just like an American teenager.
Yet she had not understood the ravings of this lunatic Aloysius, who now clambered through the thicket and who from a distance she might have mistaken for a grotesque and enormous black bird, his hair being matted and dirty, his appearance woefully shredded by life in the bushland.
For all his unkempt and wild looks he was still a man, and to a man a pum-pum is like a bone to a hungry dog. It is a thing a man will dream about even if he is hungry and sick. He cannot help himself, for Almighty God put pum-pum between the legs of women and then he put dreams about it into the heads of men, even into the head of a lunatic.
Every day Aloysius saw women in the village and smelled their rich black and brown bodies and stared as they wriggled past him, their pum-pums hidden under calico frocks and pink panties, guarded by watchful constables, suspicious boyfriends, and bad dogs. But all he had done for years was look at women and dream. Because he was known by everyone in the village to be a homeless lunatic, all the pum-pum in the parish was closed to him. No woman would permit him to put to her the feverish arguments that man is born to put to woman. And now this impertinent pum-pum, the first he’d seen in years, had the nerve to callously wee-wee right under his nose and then saunter away with a basket of yams on its head as though he were a stone or a bush and not a man starving for a woman.
What he had just witnessed, this lunatic was telling himself sorrowfully, was just such a sight as could shock a man into madness, and as he walked through the bush he fought to control his emotions.
“De woman was rude and out of order!” the lunatic screamed suddenly and fiercely to a lignum vitae tree.
Out of order: a parliamentary phrase that Milud and Milady of the fallen British Empire might use to scold one another at Whitehall. Yet after three hundred years of colonialism by the ancestors of Milud and Milady, it is a phrase that Jamaicans of all walks of life use to signify outrage, indecency, impro
priety— even a woeful madman such as this Aloysius.
Chapter Two
Aloysius Hobson was the proper name of this madman. But when the madness was raging inside him, he claimed to have a thousand names that he bellowed out on the street corners for all the world to hear. Around him the villagers thought it unsafe to even whisper the word “name” for fear he would overhear and begin ranting and raving his bogus names in the voice of the madhouse.
Last year one of the villagers had had an elderly aunt from America staying with her, and this relative fell into conversation with Aloysius on the street and asked him his name, and the lunatic immediately began to spout: “Aloysius Gossamer Longshoreman Technocracy Predominate Involuted Enraptured Parliamentarian Patriarch Verdure Emulative Perihelion Dichotomy Intellectual Chaste Iron-Curtain Linkage Colonialistic Dilapidated . . .”
Believing this to be some bizarre form of village humor, the woman interrupted with a hollow laugh and the harmless remark, “How can anybody name ‘Longshoreman’?” which drew an indignant cry from the lunatic and a ferocious onslaught of, “Impracticable Loquacious Predilection Abomination Vichyssoise Pyrrhic Mountebank Unconscionable Altercation Lookalike Partition Bosky Pigeon-toed Dentition . . .”
A crowd gathered quickly in the village street to witness the antics of the ranting madman, who had pinned the aunt by the wrists to prevent her from running away before he could recite his entire name.
The aunt was struggling in the grip of the raving Aloysius, the crowd was swirling restlessly at its edges, poised between taunting the madman and fleeing from him, when the village constable hurried over to quell the disturbance.
“He won’t let go!” the aunt screamed, wriggling in the grip of the lunatic.
“Aloysius!” the constable barked. “Aloysius, what you name?”
The lunatic turned his fierce glare on the constable.
“Me say,” he croaked, “me name Aloysius Gossamer Longshoreman Technocracy Predominate Involuted Enraptured . . .”
“How dat go again?” the constable asked, prying the lunatic’s fingers off the wrists of the struggling, terrified aunt. “Start from the beginning, I think I miss one.”
“Listen! Clean out your ears!” Aloysius shrieked.
“My fault,” the constable said gently, freeing the aunt. “I hard o’ hearing. Start from de beginning.”
Pried free, the terrified aunt ran sobbing toward her niece’s house while the lunatic began his chant once again, “Me say, me name is Aloysius Gossamer Longshoreman Technocracy Predominate . . .” to the delight of the gleeful crowd.
“Too much blasted noise in de street,” the constable interrupted again, “too many inquisitive people. Start from de beginning and come wid me down to de station house where me can hear you whole name.”
The madman paused in mid-recital, a glowering look of suspicion clouding his black face.
“Station house? You say station house?”
“Yes, so me can hear you whole name,” the constable explained, putting on a most reasonable air.
“All right,” Aloysius assented. “Make we go.”
But as soon as the constable started to elbow his way through the surrounding throng, Aloysius bolted in the other direction and ran through the village street shrieking, “Aloysius Gossamer Longshoreman Technocracy Predominate Involuted Enraptured Parliamentarian Patriarch Verdure . . .”
All stood in their tracks and watched the madman streak past the market and disappear into the bush.
“Boy, me could never catch him,” the constable said, making a sucking sound of finality through his teeth. “Me belly too full wid de mackerel and green banana me eat fe breakfast.”
How did this lunatic who could not read learn so many words? Some he had learned in the streets of Ocho Rios from the Rastafarians, the men of the beard who smoked the ganja weed and dreamed of going back to Africa.
These Rastafarians, who called themselves the brethren, were a good source of words, even if they disapproved of pork eating, for they were avid Bible-readers and had learned many words to describe Africa. On the street corners of Ocho Rios, while a sleek white tourist ship sat contentedly in the harbor preening itself like a fat swan, Aloysius would sit among the brethren, smoking the weed with them and listening to the words they used for Africa.
It was a place of great beauty, the brethren said, this Africa, this motherland they yearned for like a foundling for its natural mother. The black man belonged to that gentle country—he had sprung from its soil; the waters of its rivers and streams ran through his veins. When the brethren spoke about Africa, they were the sons of a rich father longing for Christmas.
Listening to the men dreaming about their lost homeland taught Aloysius many new words that became a part of his name.
But most of the words he knew and took as his name Aloysius had learned from the new brown-skinned teacher at the village school. She was a young woman from the parish of Clarendon who walked through the village with her nose in the air saying nothing to the villagers except “Good morning,” or “Good afternoon,” or “Goodnight,” when she passed them in the streets.
This stuck-up teacher was also a great one for reading. Late at night the villagers would see the yellow stain of light from a kerosene lantern against her curtained window. During the daytime hours, she walked through the village streets with an unabridged dictionary between the crook of her arm like a fat chicken. At recess, when the children were playing boisterously in the school yard, she sat by herself under a tree and read.
Now the government admitted that the schools were overcrowded and classes were too large and facilities were bad, but in the very next breath the government always said that there was no money for improvement and that every teacher must try to do his best with what little was available.
In the case of this school teacher, her class of fifty-five students was held in a common room along with five other classes, with only a blackboard positioned between them. The old teachers knew that the only way to teach in such an overcrowded and noisy room was to have the students recite their lessons in unison. So when one class was learning geography, the students could be heard chanting, “The capital of St. James is Montego Bay; the capital of St. Catherine is Spanish Town; the capital of Westmoreland is Sav-La-Mar.” And in the arithmetic class only a thin blackboard away, another fifty students would also be chorusing, “Twice one is two, twice two is four, twice three is six, twice four is eight, twice five is ten,” and next to these, another fifty students might be reciting important dates in the life of a foreigner named Columbus.
The school was often so noisy from all this continuous reciting that even far way in the bush the children’s voices would carry to the ear of the laboring villager as a faintly cacophonous buzz of facts and multiplication and dates, and his heart would swell with pride to think that his child was among the learners bleating these fundamental truths.
But this vain new teacher taught her children little geography and only the occasional multiplication table. Mainly she taught them words, words, and more words. Nothing galled this teacher more than to reflect on the wicked unfairness of vocabulary. Why should a white Englishman be able to say about a dog that it was “docile” while the children of a poor black Jamaican could only mutter that it was “tame”? If he chose to be boastful about it, the Englishman could even add about the dog that it was “compliant, pliable, tractable, submissive, amenable,” and “yielding.” “Tame, tame, and more tame” was all the poor tormented black children could reply. What was fair about that? What was just about a white man having twenty names for a tame dog while a poor black child had only one? Which bank would be willing to entrust responsibility to a negar clerk who could call a tame dog by only one name?
But to her children the dog would be everything the Englishman could say plus another five or ten words more. Other children in the school might have a “pain,” but hers suffered “anguish, paroxysm, throe, distress, pang, twinge,” an
d “woe.” During daylight hours she caused her students to bawl out definitions of words with such authority that the learned chanteys of the neighboring children were drowned out under bellowings of: “Idiomatic—in accordance with the individual nature of a language” or “Nascent—coming into being; being born” or “Famulus—an assistant, especially of a medieval scholar.”
When Aloysius found out what this new teacher was doing, he began hiding under the window nearest to her class and would crouch there listening to and repeating the words chanted by the children. Here he picked up: “Gossamer—a filmy cobweb floating in the air or spread on bushes or grass” and “Technocracy—government by technicians, specifically, the theory or doctrine of a proposed system of government in which all economic resources, and hence the entire social system, would be controlled by scientists and engineers.” Here he learned most of his thousand names.
But one day the teacher spotted him outside the window and marched immediately to the principal.
“What is this?” she asked indignantly. “Now I must teach lunatics too?”
Alarmed, the principal jumped up from his chair.
“One of your children has gone mad!” he cried in anguish. “I knew it! Too much blessed vocabulary! I told you you can’t come in here and teach the whole blessed Oxford dictionary to country children.”
“I’m talking about a genuine lunatic,” the teacher said frostily, “who is lurking under my windowsill. He hides there every day.”
The principle ducked out the door and returned in a moment looking vastly relieved.
“Oh,” he shrugged. “That’s only Aloysius. He doesn’t trouble anybody.”
“I refuse to teach vocabulary to a lunatic. He must move from under my window.”
“Listen, Miss Williams,” the principal said earnestly, “you’re new here. Believe me, I know the ways of these people. One harmless madman under a window doesn’t trouble anybody. Why make a fuss?”
“I don’t care if is one madman or fifty. It’s the principle of the thing. I am not going to teach vocabulary to a lunatic, sir.”
The Lunatic Page 1
