Sorry. I am stuck in Bamberg. Is there any chance you could come here?
As I held up my phone to read the message the bells of the cathedral suddenly boomed out behind me, over fifty-six tons of bronze metal ringing out an industrial warning with no melody. Overwhelmed by the noise I stayed pinioned to the stone seat. The famous free-swinging bronze bell that weighs twenty-four tons resonated in my ears. It was a deafening, ominous sound designed to raise the beast. The deep clanging unnerved me. It seemed to come from the bowels of the church rather than the bell tower. Eventually, the bells stopped. Then, from inside, came the long low animal growl of the church organ followed by a spray of peals like mad laughter. I scurried out of the square, messaging my friend as I went: On my way.
At the station I bought a ticket to Bamberg even though it was not on my schedule. I felt exhausted. My shirt was damp with sweat. I was re-tracing my steps, going back in the wrong direction from what should have been my homeward bound journey. After what seemed like a short time, I stepped off the train in the small southern town of Bamberg.
I texted my friend: Where are you?
A few minutes later I received a text from him: I’m in Cologne, waiting for you. I’ve been here for hours. What happened?
There is no doubt that I was unwell and in a state of confusion but how could I have made such a mistake? Tears came into my eyes. I felt bewildered and sick. There was a five-hour wait for the next train back to Cologne. I left the station and wandered aimlessly around town. After half an hour I found myself in a neat, prosperous, well-proportioned square. I remember the name. It was Schillerplatz. The house fronts were painted in pastel colours and, perhaps because I was hungry, I imagined that behind those doors were parlours and pantries stocked with sausages, sauerkraut, cream buns and pastries. It reminded me of the town of Hamelin, staid and conservative, populated with stolid citizens who slept well at night, unaware of the stars or a comet moving overhead.
In the middle of the square stood a statue, a figure, all in black, like some unspoken secret. It was neither large nor imposing, less than life-size and standing on a small plinth. Sight of the figure caused systolic and diastolic thumps of my heart to pound in my ears. My mouth went dry. I recognised him immediately. As well as the familiar long black coat, he now wore an enormous top hat, the sort of hat fashionable in the eighteenth century, wider at the top than the bottom. His clothes seemed to dwarf him. The collar rising up around his neck and the hat pulled down over his forehead almost obscured his tiny face. But when I approached I stared directly into the frozen unmistakeable features of Ernie, the man I had mistaken for the janitor at the foundry. His eyes stared back at me from a face both innocent and sinister but with an element of fury. On his right shoulder was a cat, held there by a rigid hand. In the other hand he held a manuscript.
On the plinth his name was engraved. E.T.A. Hoffmann. It was Ernst Hoffmann.
I have no memory of what happened to me immediately afterwards. I was discovered that night wandering nearby. The small private clinic that admitted me overlooked the very same square where the statue stood. At night I kept my hands over my ears to block out the sound of groans outside and the screeching of metal as he wrenched himself off the plinth and I shut my eyes. I knew he would be at my window mouthing the words let me out.
I was no longer able to speak. It was as if there was a metal horse’s bit gagging my tongue. At night I imagined that whenever I opened my mouth metal would come clattering out: tongs, forks, those brass pans kept in the hearth for sweeping ash and embers. Gongs and cymbals. Pins, nails, metal hoops. The tangy taste of metal filled my mouth day and night.
The staff were kind and helpful. I told them over and over again to get rid of the statue outside and then I would be well. They called for my mother to come over from England and collect me.
‘She will be here on Tuesday,’ they said.
MORNE JALOUX
The plane tilted to make its landing approach. I watched as the brown island slanted into view and the dark blue of the Caribbean Sea shaded into the familiar pale turquoise waves breaking on the shoreline. A prickle of anxiety ran along my arms and up the nape of my neck. The nervousness had nothing to do with the landing. It had to do with the visit. I reassured myself that in twenty-four hours I would be leaving again.
I had not set foot on the island for twenty-five years. There was a blast of hot air as I stepped out onto the plane steps. This airport was new to me. When I was last on the island it had been under construction in the blazing sun with Cuban engineers consulting their plans and Cuban guest-workers struggling to shift blocks of cement, their bare backs gleaming in the sun. In those days I had flown into the old airport to be greeted by two smiling members of the new revolutionary government.
Now I shuffled along the slow line towards the passport desk. Two customs officials leant against the wall. They looked relaxed but for me there was the sense of a bad dream, as if, behind the wall, dogs were waiting to be released or the sudden sound of gunfire and screams might be heard and bloodstains appear on the floor.
The woman at passport control fingered my passport.
‘How long are you staying?’
‘One day.’
Her face expressed surprise and disapproval as if the brevity of my stay was a personal insult.
‘Purpose of visit?’
‘Er . . . visiting friends’.
I had no clear idea myself why I was there or what had compelled me to return.
The taxi took me through a terrain of bare brown hills dotted with wooden shacks. The island felt dead and sullen as if it had never recovered from those brutal internecine events. Eventually the capital came into view elegantly draped over the cliff side and along the bay.
I had booked into a luxury hotel on the beach. A professionally smiling porter carried my bag along a brick pathway flanked with blue petrea shrubs. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and there was one vital phone call I had to make before the end of the working day.
Inside the ground-floor room I flung my bag on the chintz-covered bed and flicked through the telephone book until I found the number I wanted. Richmond Hill Prison. I picked up the receiver and put it down again. It would be better to think through exactly what I was going to say. But I could not take too long or the administration office would shut for the day and the staff leave for home. Twice more I picked up the phone and replaced it. If the Commissioner was not there, well that would be fate. I would leave the next day.
It was even possible that the prisoner would not remember me after all this time. Why had I come back? No-one had ever pieced together exactly what happened in those days of bloodshed and confusion. Would I be able to find out anything more? Probably not. The victims of the first massacre were never found. It was rumoured that the Americans had spirited the bodies away rather than let a shrine build up around a known burial place. Certainly the truth never came out in the trial. The name of the prisoner I wanted to visit was Alleyne Devon. I had not been in touch with him since he was sentenced, originally to death, later to life in prison.
The air-conditioning made me shiver. I opened the doors onto the beach to let in some warm air. A huge mahogany tree shaded my room. I fumbled with the handset again for a few seconds then dialled the number. I was put through to the Commissioner.
‘Oh, good afternoon.’ I made my voice sound as polite and deferential as possible. ‘I’ve just arrived on the island. I’m leaving again tomorrow afternoon and I wondered if there was any possibility of my visiting Mr Alleyne Devon. I was a friend of his many years ago. I do apologise for asking you at such short notice . . . I just thought I would take the opportunity while I was here.’
His voice was only a little wary. ‘I think that should be all right. What is your name?’
‘Eva Maybank.’
‘Please be here at eleven o’clock in the morning. I will leave your name at the gate and I will inform Mr Devon.’
It was t
hat easy. No security check. No forms needed. No fuss.
That evening I went out to the beach just before sunset. The sands were still hot underfoot. I walked along the silver scalloped outline of the incoming tide. On one side of the harbour, a huge square-fronted American cruise liner rested at anchor. It seemed huge compared with the clusters of tiny houses on land. Light from the setting sun made its whiteness spectrally brilliant. I remembered the American president’s TV broadcast around the time of their invasion. He addressed the world in close-up like a monstrous uncle, speaking in a paternalistic tone:
‘And we thought that it was just a pretty little tourist island, but no it wasn’t. We were wrong. It was a hot-bed of communists and spies. And the Cubans were not building an airport. No sir. No sirree. They were constructing a missile base which could have threatened the shores of America. That’s why we invaded. And we needed to rescue some of our American students from there too.’
There was no missile base. The half-built civilian airport was manned by local workers and the Cuban workers who had come to help.
Suddenly I was made fearful by footsteps at my back. I looked round. A honey-coloured cow with white muzzle and sad black eyes was plodding along behind me towards the sea-grape bushes.
Of course, there was always the possibility that Alleyne might refuse the visit. When I had first arrived on the island to take up a teaching post, I had stayed with him and his wife Zenia for two days before I moved to a guest house. In fact, I met Zenia first. She came to greet me at the airport, a tall smiling woman with a baby of about eighteen months slung across her hip, a welcoming warmth spilling from her as we walked to the waiting vehicle.
‘What a lovely child.’ I nodded towards the baby girl straddled on her hip.
‘Yes. Mummy’s only baby. Mummy’s only darling.’ She lifted the baby right up in the air where she kicked as if swimming in the blue sky. I remarked on how enthusiastic and friendly everyone seemed. Her proud smile held a touch of surprise.
‘Of course. We’re full of revolutionary spirit.’
My most vivid memory of Alleyne Devon was when he came to the guest house one evening a short while after I had moved there. Two agronomists from Tanzania were also staying there and he wanted to talk to them. We sat with the Africans out on the verandah. Alleyne was twenty-six years old and a major in the People’s Revolutionary Army. He looked handsome in his officer’s uniform, black trousers with a red stripe and a khaki shirt. The evening sun touched his ebony cheeks with gold. His spotless military jacket hung over the back of his chair. Even in conversation there was a tremendous sense of purpose about him. He rocked his chair back and put his feet on the rail. One of the Africans, a small man with a twisted face, was talking about the necessity of discipline in any party that came to power after a successful revolution. Alleyne listened intently then wagged his finger.
‘We must learn from you people. That’s why it’s so good that socialists come from other countries to visit us. I agree with you about party discipline but perhaps that is because I am in the army. You have to train yourself to do things you don’t want to do for the sake of others.’ He leaned forward and spoke with enthusiasm: ‘I do believe that if you want to serve the people in the best possible way you must submit yourself and your own needs to the requirements of your political party. You must give yourself up to the greater good. It’s your duty as a revolutionary.’
He leaned back again in his chair and lapsed into silence. The guest house was situated on a steep hillside and the scene he beheld was one of poverty, a narrow ravine with clumps of rock, speckled with poor wooden shacks and tiny allotments. I remember his gaze as he looked out over the gorge. It was as though all his hopes were fixed on some distant citadel that he and he alone could see on the far side of the valley.
Later that evening a military vehicle drew up in front of the guest house and to my astonishment the prime minister himself jumped out. I am always surprised at the informality of Caribbean leaders who turn up unannounced and mix easily with the populace, happy to be addressed by their first name. He was plump, bearded and wore an unbuttoned khaki shirt-jack and jeans. He greeted us all with carefree geniality. Then he shook hands with the Africans and thanked them for coming. Everywhere there was a spirit of camaraderie and optimism. Islanders were even up early and out jogging in the mornings. The prime minister left after a while and the rest of us stayed up talking politics way into the night.
Since then I have tried to recall anything that would help me to understand how Alleyne, my friend, might have been involved in the murder of that popular, much-loved prime minister, unless it was because he considered it in some way to be his duty . . . unless the clue lay in that imaginary citadel . . . unless he believed that the distant gleaming citadel demanded those bloody sacrifices.
*
In fact, not everyone proved to be so friendly. My first literacy class took place upstairs in a wooden schoolroom bare of everything but chairs. One unshaded electric light bulb hung from the centre of the ceiling. About thirty adults attended. A small, anxious-to-please man called Jarvis had been appointed to help me. One of his cheeks sported a huge carbuncle.
‘I am a policeman,’ he informed me. ‘A revolutionary policeman,’ he added proudly while re-arranging the cheap metal chairs into a semi-circle facing me. The students were mainly poor farmers, gaunt, toothless and badly dressed, and housewives, some massively overweight and some scrawny. They wandered in and took their places, looking askance at each other and avoiding my eyes.
As I was about to start the class, a heavily-set young woman with her hair in corn-row plaits stalked in, took a chair, turned it round and banged it down deliberately with her back to me. Disregarding her I began the class by introducing myself. Then I asked everyone to tell me their name. Some mumbled. Some spoke clearly but the young woman with her back to me stared morosely out of the window and refused to speak. I continued teaching. The policeman began to show signs of agitation. He cast anxious glances first at the young woman and then at me. He began to make clucking sounds and shake his head. Eventually, he got up and addressed her.
‘This won’t do, Cyrene. Have some manners, please,’ he began to plead. ‘We have a guest here. A visitor. What will she think of our community? What will she think of our revolution?’
The young woman did not budge. She sat there, an immoveable rock.
‘Wha’ she doin?’ whispered one of the students.
‘Me na know. She jus’ deh,’ replied her neighbour.
This was not good enough for the policeman, who felt personally responsible for the success of the class, good international relations and possibly the success of the entire revolution. He muttered and cast disappointed glances at the immobile hulk who by now had become the focus of the whole class. When I finished teaching he jumped to his feet and made an effusive speech of thanks. Then he attempted to make amends.
‘To make up for the rudeness of one of our community, I am now going to sing a song.’
He gave a coy smile and began to sing ‘Michael Row the Boat Ashore, Hallelujah’. In the middle of the song, the sulker rose to her feet and stomped out of the room. The singing policeman finished his tuneful performance with regret shining in his eyes.
The next day a small bomb went off at precisely 7pm under a podium in a school hall where the prime minister was due to speak. The prime minister was saved by the Caribbean habit of arriving late for events. No-one was injured but the floorboards by the podium were badly damaged. It was commonly accepted that American CIA agents had planted the bomb. Anxious rumours started to sweep the island. Out at sea the United States navy was conducting a manoeuvre involving a mock attack on a small socialist island. Alleyne, who was part of the government’s Central Committee, took me and some other comrades to inspect the damage. He looked distressed as he pushed away the damaged boards with his foot:
‘Ordinary people could have been hurt here. We are not used to this sort of thi
ng on our island. We must be vigilant.’
He took off his scarlet cap with its black laminated peak and passed a worried hand over his forehead as he spoke:
‘It is important that we keep our revolution safe.’
I continued with my work which took me all over the island. I travelled in the baking heat to rural communities and taught literacy classes in wooden halls, zinc-roofed sheds and sometimes on scorching ground in the open air.
Back in the capital rifts had begun to occur in the government. There had been a schism. The deputy prime minister had suggested joint leadership with the prime minister. He was suspicious of the prime minister’s easy-going manner and enormous popularity. He believed it bordered on a personality cult. His burly figure could often be seen walking in front of the prime minister to remind everyone that the people’s revolutionary government was a collective enterprise. He thought that the political structures of the revolution should be cast in iron and had unshakeable confidence in the rigour of his political analysis. The prime minister had a different approach. He was relaxed and joked with people. He turned up late for meetings. His girlfriend was pregnant. There were rumours of other women. He delayed attending a military parade because he was visiting a friend in hospital. The opposition cabal who supported the deputy prime minister held special meetings to censure the prime minister for lack of discipline. Alleyne Devon was one of them. In the background was the threat of the United States and its naval manoeuvres. Before anyone knew quite how or why, the prime minister, the most popular politician in the country, had been put under house arrest by the opposing faction.
The Master of Chaos Page 13
