“Don’t call me vhite voman!” Inga snapped.
She turned to Aloysius. He clambered unsteadily to his feet and followed after her. He did not feel like grappling with pum-pum or wriggling in the dirt under Inga but he could see that the thing was hard and fast upon her and that her heart was burning so he agreed to follow her because of pity and love.
“Aloysius!” the tree begged. “Come back! How much pum-pum you goin’ get in one day? Pum-pum goin’ kill you before de sun set tonight! Come back, you brute!”
“Is all right,” Aloysius said wearily over his shoulder. “Me drink a bottle of Guinness stout yesterday.”
“Stout, you bumbo! Stout can’t help you now! Pum-pum goin’ drain out you brain. Nothing goin’ left inside but one empty shell. Come back, Aloysius, before pum-pum kill you stone dead!”
Aloysius wobbled after Inga into the bush, leaving the tree shrieking behind him like a disobeyed mother.
They were watching Busha’s house now that the thing was upon them, watching it morning, noon, and night. Whenever they heard a noise from the house—whether motorcar engine or dog bark or maid cough or door slam—one or all of them would turn and stare like inquisitive fish at the hill on which Busha lived.
In the mornings they watched Busha and Sarah drive away from the house. They watched as an old gardener spilled out into the front yard and maids drifted onto the veranda trailing laughter and gossip behind them.
In the evenings they watched Busha come back from the fields, his pickup smeared red with the rich dirt of his pastures, watched Sarah’s car bump slowly up the driveway in a whining first gear.
They watched late into the night as the lights went out one by one in Busha’s windows and two dogs romped on the lawn in a tangled skein of shadows cast by the harsh glare of a naked outdoor bulb.
For a whole week they watched Busha’s house intently, without admitting what they were doing, without talking to each other about what they had seen.
One night as they sat around a fire stealing glances at Busha’s house, the tree spoke out against this constant watching.
“De three of you watch Busha’s house like mongoose watch fat chicken.”
“Me not watching anything,” Aloysius mumbled.
“Vhat? Vhat you talking about?” Inga asked.
“De tree say we watch Busha house too much.”
“Tell him to mind his own business!” Inga grated.
“How tree can mind anybody else’s business, eh? Him talk to tree. You talk to tree. Him talk to bush. You talk to bush. Stone, you bumbo,” Service kicked savagely at a stone, “you chat too much! Moon, you rass, stop you singing! Sky, you blood, hush up you mouth! De two o’ you drive me mad, too. Now, de three of us is ready for de madhouse!”
Inga chuckled.
Aloysius heaved a labored sigh.
“Now see dis crosses on me head, now,” the kicked stone wailed in the ensuing silence. “Missah Aloysius, you hear me say anything, sah? Me sit down on the dirty ground minding me own business when dis damn man kick me in me neckback and nearly burn me up in de fire. What me to him? Who me trouble? Dis is Jamaica for you! Where man treat man like dirt! God strike me down dead if I don’t migrate to America next year!”
“Hush up you mouth!” Aloysius hissed, glancing uneasily at Service.
“Now who him hear chatting?” Service bellowed.
Aloysius shrugged lamely. “Nobody.”
“Me chatting!” the stone shrieked. “Me is somebody! Me is no nobody! Who you calling nobody, you mad rass?”
A light went out in Busha’s bedroom window.
They turned and stared at the darkened house on the hill. They would break Busha’s house and thief money Busha thiefed from everyone around him. Busha hoarded this thiefed money in a safe somewhere in his drawing room because Busha hated bank worse than Pope hate pum-pum. So the money had to be in the house, hidden someplace where Busha could get it to pay his field workers, his maid, his headman who occupied a cottage on the edge of Busha’s vast property. It would be worn-out money, creased and grimy like an old laborer’s hand, perfect money for thiefing.
That was what they would do. Break open Busha’s house and thief his money.
Aloysius moaned: He could not thief from Busha.
Why not? What had Busha done for him except roar past in his big car and splatter him on a rainy day? What kindness had Busha ever shown Aloysius? If he was starving on the roadside, would Busha give him an old fish to eat or a crust of breadback? What did Busha ever do for any man except use him?
Aloysius squirmed. He couldn’t thief from Busha.
Why not? Was Busha his family? His brother? Was Busha his uncle or cousin? Busha was only a nasty white man with a red face and a big belly who owned all the land in the district. Busha thiefed from every man in the parish. Busha thiefed the butchers who bought scrawny goats and cattle from him. Busha thiefed the toothless old higglers who bought fruit from him to peddle in ratty roadside stands. How else except by thiefing did Busha get a big house on a hill, a chromed motorcar, a plump wife, and all the land in the valley from the main road to the foot of the mountains? Through thiefing, that’s how Busha got rich.
Aloysius stood his ground. Busha was a thief. But he, Aloysius, was not a thief. He would not thief from Busha.
Then I must go home, Inga said. For I have no money.
Inga, Aloysius cried. Inga, don’t leave me.
You and your damn tree can keep company in de dark night from now on, Service gloated.
Aloysius, the tree cried, is all right. We can talk just like me and you used to talk before. Make dem go. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Inga, don’t leave me alone!
Vhat you vant me to do? Eat grass like one of Busha’s goats? Is that vhat you vant me to do?
No more pum-pum, madman. Grind de tree next time you hood stand up.
Who you talking to, you nasty ole negar? the tree screamed. You think me is a battyman? You think me sleep wid odder man? You nasty ole negar, you! Is only bee dat me give grind to and dat’s because dat is de plan of de Almighty.
Inga, me can’t thief Busha.
Nobody is saying that you must do it. I vill go home. I said I vill go home. That is the end of it. There.
Inga.
Hush up you mouth, madman.
Inga, is a sin.
Don’t do it, then, you fool. I already said I vill go home.
Sin, you bumbo! What you talking ’bout? Sin what? When mud thief from mud, who mud sin against? Hush up wid you damn foolishness ’bout sin!
Inga, Busha and me play ’pon de same cricket side!
Vill you shut up! I told you, I vill go home! I vill not do anything you don’t vant to do. I vill go home tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Inga?
You pum-pum goin’ a foreign, madman. From now on you goin’ grind bush.
Grind bush! a horrified bush screeched. Him not goin’ grind no bush! Dere is no bush in Jamaica dat have pum-pum for madman to grind!
Grind bush! another echoed. Kiss me neck! Now dem want grind bush!
Grind bush! Grind bush! Grind bush! the refrain echoed across the land. See what Jamaica come to now! Now dem grinding bush! No madman goin’ breed dis bush!
Me is only a poor bush! Me don’t have no pum-pum!
Help! Police! Dem goin’ grind bush now!
Me is a decent bush! Me not giving no madman a grind.
Inga!
Stop calling my name! It’s settled. Tomorrow I go home.
Inga, don’t go. Vhatever you say, me do. Stay wid me, dat’s all me ask.
No. You say you don’t vant to do it. So ve von’t do it.
Inga. Hear me. Vhatever you say. Vhatever. I do vhat you say.
Busha dog know you, madman? Me don’t love dog bite.
Vait. Before ve go on vith our planning, Aloysius and I vill valk into the bush.
Why? Because de rass madman say him goin’ do it right away you must give him pum-pum? Why?
Give him de rass pum-pum if you want to! Me don’t give a rass! Go ’way wid de two of you!
Aloysius! Listen to advice from your best friend. Don’t go, Aloysius! Don’t go, Aloysius!
Inga, me love you.
Shhh. You wriggle too much. Hold still.
Inga! You is me only family. You is de one person in de whole vorld dat love me.
Vill you stop it! I can’t feel the hood with all your wriggling!
Me not wriggling. Me trying to tell you dat me love you.
You said that already, damnit! I don’t like talking and wriggling vhen I’m in the middle of a fuck.
Me not wriggling.
Shut up, damnit!
Me not saying nothing.
O-Isopropoxyphenyl! O-Isopropoxyphenyl! O-Isopropoxyphenyl!
Inga, wid all me heart me love you.
Chapter Nineteen
Planning. Planning. Planning. That is the answer. Everything must be planned. They must plan who vill vatch vhat and who will do vhat. They must take everything into the plan. They must know who vill be in the house vhen and vhere. They must decide vhen they vill do it, vhere they vill enter the house, vhere they vill go vhen they are finish, vhere they vill hide the money. They must think like the police and get ready an alibi.
Alibi? Service wondered. What name alibi?
That is an explanation of vhere ve vere vhen the burglary occurred. So if the police ask us vhere ve vere, ve all have the same answer.
Why white people love so much plan, eh? You can’t do nothing else but plan, plan, plan. You plan so much is wonder you do anything.
Don’t call me vhite. I don’t like that name.
All me know is dat me carrying me knife and machete with me. Dat’s all me know.
Knife? Machete? Inga, vhy him need knife and machete?
Me don’t break no house without me knife and machete.
Inga, ve not goin’ hurt nobody, right? Ve only goin’ get de money, eh?
I say that already. I don’t like to repeat myself over and over again.
Aloysius, the tree said sadly, I can’t believe you turn thief. See how you make pum-pum drag you down! I can’t believe you turn thief right before me eyes.
Mind your own business. I not talking to you.
Tell dis rass madman to stop chatting to tree or I goin’ get vex and chop it down!
Chop me down? You rass you, you can’t chop me down wid no machete! Bigger man dan you can’t chop me down!
Sunday evening is the best time. The maids are gone, and so is the garden boy. Busha and his vife go for their Sunday drive. The house is empty.
Thief on Sunday! No, Inga! Sunday is de Sabbath day!
Hush you rass mouth! Man can thief any day him want thief. Murder on Sunday. Thief on Sunday. Grind on Sunday. Tell lie on Sunday. Anything to rass you want do on Sunday.
Stop this idiotic arguing, both of you!
Me don’t thief on Sunday, Inga.
Aloysius, you mean to tell me dat you really goin’ thief on Sunday?
Mind you own business.
Him talking to de rass tree again! Where me machete?
I goin’ cut down the blood tree right now. Where me rass machete?
Shut up and sit down. Ve have a lot of planning to do between now and Sunday.
Dis Sunday, Inga? Dis Saturday is de cricket match!
Now him can’t thief de day after cricket. Where you learn all dem rule from, eh? De madhouse?
I have a lot of planning to do. But I love to plan. Planning is vhat I do best. It puts me in a very good frame of mind to make a good plan. It makes me draw deep breaths and feel strong. I feel very strong now.
Don’t bother look at me. Me not grinding no more white woman again today.
Vhite woman? You call me that name again? You vant to see I hold you down and take it out?
Hold who? Take what? You mad rass!
I show you who’s mad.
Don’t come near me! You think me is a rass country pickney you can hold down in de bush…
Inga, him don’t want do nothing!
Lemme go, you rass white voman! Lemme go! Blood! Take you rass hand outta me pants! Lemme go!
Inga!
I goin’ kill you bumbo if you do dis to me!
Inga, you goin’ cause worries!
BUMBO! LEMME GO, WHITE BITCH! BUMBO! PUM-PUM BITE ME!
The plan went this way: Pretending to be going for a Sunday afternoon stroll, Inga would take the bush path that skirted the roadside and head toward Busha’s house. Service would take the road.
Aloysius, meanwhile, would go ahead of Service. He would make sure that no one was watching, then walk boldly up Busha’s driveway. He would holler at the house as though he were begging money or work and calm the dogs. If anybody was in the house, a maid or garden boy, Aloysius would ask for Busha, be told that he wasn’t home, and return quickly to the road to warn Service. Then they would both signal Inga who would be watching from the bush and go back to their own house to make another plan.
But if the house was empty, Aloysius would lure the dogs into the garage and lock them inside. He would wait for Service and Inga to join him outside the house. They would then break into the house, find the money, put it in a bag, and leave separately and quickly.
Good timing would make this plan work. Service would have Inga’s vristvatch. He would use it to time how long Aloysius had been in Busha’s house. After five minutes he would assume that no one was at home and that Aloysius had locked the dogs in the garage.
Listen me, lunatic. You better can do dis in five minutes. If dog bite me, I goin’ chop you rass. You hear me, sah?
Me can do it in five minutes. It not hard. De dog dem know me. Vhen me work for Busha, de dog dem used to sleep vid me.
Ve must rehearse it.
Rehearse? What name so?
Ve act it out. Ve rehearse. Ve pretend that this is Busha’s house and Aloysius is coming up to it and doing vhat he has to do. Rehearse. That is vhat ve must do. Rehearse.
They rehearsed, but it went badly. Aloysius was not at ease. The first time he practiced how he would approach Busha’s house, he darted from bush to bush the way he’d seen a thief do in a movie.
“Busha! Hullo, de house!” he cried, as he scurried between the bushes. “Is Busha home, please? Busha!”
Inga burst out of the house and screamed at him.
“You must valk normal up the driveway,” she bellowed. “Valk like a postman.”
The tree chimed in. “Honest man can’t thief without acting like thief.”
“Is true, you know,” a bush agreed. “Me used to know a man who did thief one chicken, and from dat day to dis him walk sideways like crab.”
Another bush agreed. “If you thief you goin’ walk like thief.”
“Lawd God,” another bellowed, “dey practicing how to thief Busha. Who Busha trouble?”
“Hood fall off de fornicator,” another bush screeched. “Thief walk like mongoose. De liar drown in him own spit. For thus saith de Lord, ‘I put me mark o’ iniquity on de body o’ de sinner.’”
Aloysius listened nervously to all the clamor around him. “Inga,” he pleaded, “vhy ve must thief on Sunday?”
“Vill you shut up about it and get on vith the rehearsal?”
Aloysius retreated from the house until he was some distance away. Service hid behind a bush and began the timing.
This time Aloysius walked normally.
“Oyyyeaaah!” he called. “Busha! Please! Busha!”
“Thief, you bumbo!” a bush shrieked at him.
“Oyeaaaaah!” Aloysius called, huffing and puffing like one climbing Busha’s steep marled driveway. “Busha, please!”
“Busha not home! Go ’way, you damn thief!” the tree hollered.
“Me not thief!” Aloysius cried with shame. “Me love Inga.”
With a hideous snarl, Service sprang out from behind the bush.<
br />
“Him talking to tree again! Him goin’ land every one of us in de workhouse! How anybody can broke house wid a madman?”
“Rehearse more,” Inga said gloomily.
So they rehearsed some more. Tramping up to Busha’s imaginary driveway, timing Aloysius as he acted out calming down the imaginary dogs and penning them in the imaginary garage.
Over and over again they went through the motions of what had to be done to thief Busha’s money.
When Inga was satisfied she instructed them in fingerprints and footprints. She explained what fingerprints were and said she would go into Ocho Rios and buy them all three pairs of cloth gloves and that once they were on Busha’s veranda they would put on the gloves and touch nothing in the house with their bare hands.
“Fingerprints,” Aloysius said, looking with wonder at his finger. “Me never know me have fingerprints.”
“No two fingerprints are alike. Vhen the police come, they vill fingerprint Busha’s house. But they vill not find our fingerprints there because ve vill be vearing gloves.”
“Me fingerprints not like nobody else fingerprints?” Aloysius asked wonderingly.
“No,” Inga said. “So ve must vear gloves.”
“Dat a good name for a man, you know,” Aloysius marvelled, looking at his fingers. “Fingerprint. Aloysius Fingerprint Gossamer Longshoreman Technocracy Predominate Involuted Enraptured…”
“Shut up, you bombo!” Service screeched.
But Aloysius could not shut up. Once he had started to say his thousand names he could not stop.
“Parliamentarian Patriarch Vendure Emulative Perihelion…”
“I goin’ cut you rass open!” Service roared, grabbing for his machete.
Aloysius ran away into the bush screeching his names. He came to a quiet spot where he sat down mumbling beside a bush.
“Dichotomy Intellectual Chaste Iron-Curtain…”
“Lawd Jesus,” the bush moaned, “why you send dis madman to mad up me brain wid all dem name?”
“Linkage Colonialistic Dilapidated…” Aloysius droned.
“You rass you,” the bush hissed, “you think you is de only one wid long name? Well, listen to de name of dis bush.”
“Impracticable Loquacious Predilection Abomination…” Aloysius roared angrily.
The bush roared back.
The Lunatic Page 15
