“Now, Wainwright, nothing stupid.”
Bosoon ran up the stairs and was at the door in a minute. “Yes, boss?”
“The horses. I’ve just told Mr. Robertson that he will have to kill somebody. He will have to find me a pair of boots.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Wainwright.”
“Next time you call me, Robertson, I want to hear that you have a pair of boots for me and I don’t want to know who the dead man is.”
In the yard at Malgrétoute Bosoon said, “You get him, boss, you get him. He didn’t know what hit him. Is what I told you this morning. He going to have to kill somebody.”
That evening Mr. Wainwright noticed that his wife didn’t speak and she didn’t ask how he had got on. He felt that he couldn’t really tell her what he had said. It now seemed too extravagant and quite crazy and out of character what he had said to Robertson. What had got into him?
The next morning, early, when he was still enjoying the smell of the lilies and Bosoon and himself were having their cup of tea on the back steps, the telephone rang and his wife answered it. It was Robertson. He said, “Wainwright, I’ve got you a pair of boots.” Mr. Wainwright put down the receiver and looked at his wife. She started to cry and he said, “Don’t worry, it’s the Holy Ghost.”
“No,” she said, laughing behind her tears. “It’s us, we’re going to have another child.”
Assam’s Iron Chest
by Willi Chen
Mayaro
(Originally published in 1988)
A dull moon glowed in the country-night darkness. They came out of hiding from behind the caimette tree, avoiding the crackle of dead leaves underfoot. Into the pale light stepped big, loudmouthed Mathias, Boyo with his matted dreadlocks wrapped up in a “Marvingay” hat, and laglee-chewing Sagamouth, so nicknamed because of his grotesque lips and the smattering noises they made.
In the little clearing overlooking Assam’s shopyard, they waited patiently behind large tannia leaves that shielded them from the light of passing motorists. They waited for the last bus to rattle by on its return journey to town and for the soft glow of Assam’s Coleman lamp, whirring moths and beetles striking against the lampshade, to go out.
Boyo puffed at the carmine-tipped stick of ganja that brightened his face as he slapped at mosquitoes. Sagamouth’s lips continued slurping noisily.
“Keep quiet, man. Christ! You goh wake up the whole damn village,” Mathias hissed between clenched teeth.
“Look, the light out,” Sagamouth whispered excitedly.
“Yea, but keep your flapping mouth shut. I could see. Who in charge here? Boyo, put out that weed. Whole place stink ah grass,” Mathias warned.
At the galvanized paling surrounding the shopyard, a flimsy steel sheet suddenly loosened in the moonlight and fell aside, allowing three figures to squeeze through the narrow space into the shopyard. They were confronted by stacks of empty soft drink crates, discarded cartons, pitch oil tins and, against the shed, bundles of stacked crocus bags.
Remembering the action in the motion picture Bataan, and with the dramatic invasion in Desert Fox still fresh in his mind, Mathias crouched on all fours, leading his platoon across the yard.
“Sssh,” he cautioned them as he sat on his buttocks before the big door. They paused in the darkness. Mathias’s hands felt for the door frame. He inserted a pig foot into the crevice. With both feet against the wall he pried the door, throwing his whole weight on it. A slow cracking noise erupted as the nails lifted off the hinges and the door came up. A dank odour of wet oilmeal, soap and stale mackerel greeted them. They crawled in, feeling their way between the stacks of packaged goods. Further inside, they saw a table with a lighted lamp and a red spot of mosquito coil under it. A big square mosquito net hung over a four-poster bed out of which floated Assam’s snores in grating spasms.
Convinced that Assam was sound asleep, Mathias struck a match and immediately shadows jumped across the walls, on the shelves of bottles and over tinned stuffs. On the floor, crowding the aisles, was the paraphernalia of jumbled haberdashery, pots and pans, and bags of peas and beans. Moving in the crowded interior, Mathias came to the room where, over a small table, bills hung pinned to the wall, next to a Chinese calendar. Cupping the lighted match in his hand, Mathias tiptoed farther inside. More bags, packed in rows, and bales of macaroni and cornmeal. Flagons of cider and an old rum cask stood on the floor. In the corner, the square block of metal stood on a rough framework of local timber; a squat, dull hunk of iron with a circular dial of brass. It was the iron chest. Mathias came up to it and tested its weight. Boyo braced himself in readiness.
With Sagamouth holding the light, Mathias and Boyo heaved at the heavy hulk of iron. They pushed until the wooden stand inched along the floor.
“Damn thing must be full,” Boyo said.
“Cane farmer pay, choopid,” Sagamouth replied, spraying them with his spittle.
“All you keep quiet,” Mathias entreated.
Pitting themselves against the heavy load, they worked with caution. Twice they heard Assam cough. Their hands glided, slipped over the smooth surface of the chest. After some strenuous efforts, they managed to push the chest to the doorway. Finally the whole bulk of metal was heaved outside, catapulting, digging into the yard with a dull thud.
The cool night breeze invigorated their bodies. The sight of the chest inspired their minds with the promise of new things in life. Sagamouth disappeared into the bushes and returned with a crocus bag containing a crowbar, a sledgehammer and a flambeau. Behind him he dragged a large piece of board, the underside of which was lined with plain galvanized sheeting. At one end was tied a long piece of rope. They eased their cargo onto the wooden contraption. Mathias again directed the operations. Standing before the metal chest, he tied the end of the rope around his waist and leant forward. Boyo and Sagamouth were pushing at the rear.
They hauled the makeshift sledge along the grassy side tracks. With the heavy iron chest strapped to it, it skidded and scuttled across the bare ground. Their backs shone like their faces, which steamed with perspiration. Boyo puffed like a mule. Sagamouth’s mouth continued its feeble movements. They halted behind a silk cotton tree. Mathias swung the axe in long, measured strokes against the chest. The sounds echoed deep into the woods. The heavy blows ricocheted over the door. Now and then he stopped to inspect the shallow indentations. The brass handle had fallen off, the dial long warped under the punishing blows. Yet the door remained sealed. They persevered, taking turns with the sledgehammer and crowbar, until Mathias, bringing the heavy hammer from high overhead, struck the chest with such force that they heard a loud cracking noise.
Instantly they sprang forward, their eager hands reached out for the door. Three pairs of hands churned inside the chest, as their eyes opened wide in anticipation. Then Sagamouth withdrew, exclaiming, “Empty.”
“Christ, you mean the damn thing en’t have a cent, boy?”
“All dis damn trouble,” Boyo said.
Mathias stood up wearily and looked at the others, his arms sore and wet, as he whispered, “Dat damn Chinese smart like hell! Ah never cud believe it. You mean he move out all de damn money, boy?”
Sagamouth’s dribbling stopped. Boyo looked up at the sky.
* * *
One day, some three months afterwards, when the notorious episode was almost forgotten in the little village and the blue police van had long completed its trips to Assam’s on investigation, Sagamouth came into Assam’s shop. He stood at the counter and called for a pound of saltbeef. There was no one in the shop except for a well-dressed man. A briefcase was on the counter and he was busily scribbling on a pad.
“Yes, please sign on this, Mr. Assam,” the man said in his mellow voice. Assam, spectacles tied to his ear with a piece of flour-bag string, leant over the counter and scrawled on the pad.
“Have everything dong, Mr. Blong?”
“Yes, all that you have told me,” Mr. Brown replie
d. “$1,000 in US, $15,000 in Canadian and $2,100 in TT cash. $89 in silver and that solid gold chain from China. But as I said, I’m not sure that the company will pay the foreign money.”
Assam placed a large brown paper bag containing two bottles of rum on the counter before Mr. Brown.
“Well, check all in TT dollars then,” Assam said, taking out another brown bag from below the counter.
Mr. Brown smiled and pointed to the last item on the list. “Ah—that is the iron chest, Mr. Assam. The company will pay you the $8,000 you have claimed.”
“Yes sah,” Assam said smiling, “velly goot,” his eyes two narrow slits behind thick lenses.
Sagamouth stood dumb, rooted in front of the counter, unmoving, as he listened to the conversation. His lips had suddenly lost all sense of movement. They hung droopily over the counter, nearly falling into the shop-scale pan.
Joebell and America
by Earl Lovelace
Cunaripo
(Originally published in 1988)
One
Joebell find that he seeing too much hell in Trinidad so he make up his mind to leave and go away. The place he find he should go is America, where everybody have a motorcar and you could ski on snow and where it have seventy-five channels of colour television that never sign off and you could sit down and watch for days, all the boxing and wrestling and basketball, right there as it happening. Money is the one problem that keeping him in Cunaripo; but that year as Christmas was coming, luck hit Joebell in the gamble, and for three days straight he win out the wappie. After he give two good pardners a stake and hand his mother a raise and buy a watch for his girl, he still have nineteen hundred and seventy-five Trinidad and Tobago dollars that is his own. That was the time. If Joebell don’t go to America now, he will never go again.
But a couple years earlier, Joebell make prison for a wounding, and before that they had him up for resisting arrest and using obscene language. Joebell have a record; and for him to get a passport he must first get a letter from the police to say that he is of good character. All the bribe Joebell try to bribe, he can’t get this letter from the police. He prepare to pay a thousand dollars for the letter; but the police pardner who he had working on the matter keep telling him to come back and come back and come back. But another pardner tell him that with the same thousand dollars he could get a whole new American passport, with new name and everything. The only thing a little ticklish is Joebell will have to talk Yankee.
Joebell smile, because if is one gift he have it is to talk languages, not Spanish and French and Italian and such, but he could talk English and American and Grenadian and Jamaican; and of all of them the one he love best is American. If that is the only problem, well, Joebell in America already.
But it have another problem. The fellar who fixing up the passport business for him tell him straight, if he try to go direct from Trinidad to America with the US passport, he could get arrest at the Trinidad airport, so the pardner advise that the best thing to do is for Joebell to try to get in through Puerto Rico where they have all those Spanish people and where the immigration don’t be so fussy. Matter fix. Joebell write another pardner who he went to school with and who in the States seven years, and tell him he coming over, to look out for him, he will ring him from Puerto Rico.
Up in Independence Recreation Club where we gamble, since Joebell win this big money, he is a hero. All the fellars is suddenly his friend, everybody calling out, “Joebell! Joebell!” some asking his opinion and some giving him advice on how to gamble his money. But Joebell not in no hurry. He know just as how you could win fast playing wappie, so you could lose fast too; and although he want to stay in the wappie room and hear how we talk up his gambling ability, he decide that the safer thing to do is to go and play poker where if he have to lose he could lose more slow and where if he lucky he could win a good raise too. Joebell don’t really have to be in the gambling club at all. His money is his own; but Joebell have himself down as a hero, and to win and run away is not classy. Joebell have himself down as classy.
Fellars’ eyes open big big that night when they see Joebell heading for the poker room, because in there it have Japan and Fisherman from Mayaro and Captain and Papoye and a fellar named Morgan who every Thursday does come up from Tunapuna with a paper bag full with money and a knife in his shoe. Every man in there could really play poker.
In wappie, luck is the master; but in poker, skill is what make luck work for you. When day break that Friday morning, Joebell stagger out the poker room with his whole body wash down with perspiration, out five hundred of his good dollars. Friday night he come back with the money he had give his girl to keep. By eleven he was down three. Fellars get silent and all of us vex to see how money he wait so long to get he giving away so easy. But Joebell was really to go America in truth. In the middle of the poker, he leave the game to pee. On his way back, he walk into the wappie room. If you see Joebell: the whole front of his shirt open and he wiping sweat from all behind his head. “Heat!” somebody laugh and say. On the table that time is two card: jack and trey. Albon and Ram was winning everybody. The both of them like trey. They gobbling up all bets. Was a Friday night. Waterworks get pay, County Council get pay. It had men from Forestry. It had fellars from the housing project. Money high high on the table. Joebell favourite card is Jack.
Ram was a loser the night Joebell win big; now, Ram on top.
“Who against trey!” Ram say. He don’t look at Joebell, but everybody know is Joebell he talking to. Out of all Joebell money, one thousand gone to pay for the false passport, and already in the poker he lose eight. Joebell have himself down as a hero. A hero can’t turn away. Everybody waiting to see. They talking, but they waiting to see what Joebell will do. Joebell wipe his face, then wipe his chest, then he wring out the perspiration from the handkerchief, fold the kerchief and put it round his neck, and bam, just like that, like how you see in pictures when the star boy, quiet all the time, begin to make his move, Joebell crawl right up the wappie table, fellars clearing the way for him, and he empty out everything he had in his two pocket, and, lazy lazy, like he really is that star boy, he say, “Jack for this money!”
Ram was waiting. “Count it, Casa,” he say.
When they count the money, was two hundred and thirteen dollars and some change. Joebell throw the change for a broken hustler, Ram match him. Bam! Bam! Bam! In three card, jack play. “Double!” Joebell say. “For all,” which mean that Joebell betting that another jack play before any trey.
Ram put some, and Albon put the rest, they sure is robbery.
Whap! Whap! Whap! Jack play. “Divine!” Joebell say. That night Joebell leave the club with fifteen hundred dollars. Fellars calling him the Gambler of Natchez.
When we see Joebell next, his beard shave off, his head cut in a GI trim, and he walking with a fast kinda shuffle, his body leaned forward and his hands in his pockets and he talking Yankee: “How ya doin, Main! Hi-ya, baby!” And then we don’t see Joebell in Cunaripo.
“Joebell gone away,” his mother, Miss Myrtle, say. “Praise God!”
If they have to give a medal for patience in Cunaripo, Miss Myrtle believe that the medal is hers just from the trials and tribulations she undergo with Joebell. Since he leave school his best friend is Trouble, and wherever Trouble is, right there is Joebell.
“I shoulda mind my child myself,” she complain. “His grandmother spoil him too much, make him feel he is too much of a star, make him believe that the world too easy.”
“The world don’t owe you anything, boy,” she tell him. “Try to be decent, son,” she say. Is like a stick break in Joebell two ears, he don’t hear a word she have to say. She talk to him. She ask his uncle Floyd to talk to him. She go by the priest in Mount St. Benedict to say a novena for him. She say the ninety-first psalm for him. She go by a obeah woman in Moruga to see what really happening to him. The obeah woman tell her to bring him quick so she could give him a bath and a guard to keep off the ev
il spirit that somebody have lighting on him. Joebell fly up in one big vexation with his mother for enticing him to go to the obeah woman: “Ma, what stupidness you trying to get me in? You know I don’t believe in this negromancy business. What blight you want to fall on me now? That is why it so hard for me to win in gamble, you crossing up my luck.”
But Miss Myrtle pray and she pray and at last, praise God, the answer come, not as how she did want it—you can’t get everything the way you want it—but, praise God, Joebell gone away. And to those that close to her, she whisper, “America!” for that is the destination Joebell give her.
But Joebell ain’t reach America yet. His girl Alicia, who working at Last Chance snackette on the Cunaripo road, is the only one he tell that Puerto Rico is the place he trying to get to. Since she take up with Joebell, her mother quarrelling with her every day, “How a nice girl like you could get in with such a vagabond fellar? You don’t have eyes in your head to see that the boy is only trouble?” They talk to her, they tell her how he stab a man in the gambling club and went to jail. They tell her how he have this ugly beard and this ugly look in his face. They tell her how he don’t work nowhere regular. “Child, why you bringing this cross into your life?” they ask her. They get her uncle Matthew to talk to her. They carry her to Mount St. Benedict for the priest to say a novena for her. They give her the ninety-first psalm to say. They carry her to Moruga to a obeah woman who bathe her in a tub with bush, and smoke incense all over her to untangle her mind from Joebell.
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