He'd moved in with Satin's family on a Sunday afternoon.
"My roommate said to me, Are you sure you want to do this? He's a really nice
chap. Offered to keep the apartment vacant just in case I had a change of heart.
But my mind was made up. I was never more certain about what I was doing.
"I packed all my stuff in my car, or as much as I could manage, and I drove across
the bridge into the Bronx. I got lost. The roadways sort of meander about.
Anyway, eventually I found the house. It's just off the El near Tremont Avenue.
It's not too bad. The trains keep rumbling by ever so often, but you get used to it."
"I didn't know you had a car," Radix interrupted.
"Oh, I've always had a car. It's just that I'd rather take the bus or the train to
school. It's much more intriguing. Actually I don't mind the subway. It's not as bad
as people make it out to be, all the terrible things they say might happen to you.
"Right now I don't have a fully functioning car. I parked it outside Satin's place one
night, woke up the following morning and someone had walked off with the
battery. Probably fellows around the block.
"We've got these Hispanic chaps, always hanging about, with lean and hungry
faces, I don't think they like the idea of a white man moving into their neighbour-
hood. I have to hear it from them every time I step outside, What you doing here
white boy? Checkin' out the Indian girls? White pussy not good enough for you?
One day I told them I was married to one of the Indian girls, and that I lived in he
neighborhood. That didn't stop them from vandalizing my car.
It was Satin's idea that I move in with her. They live in this one family dwelling.
Her parents and her brother live on the first floor; we're in the attic; and they've
rented out the basement to another Indian family. Bit of a squeeze, as you can
imagine. I haven't counted how many people actually occupy the house, but I'm
sure we're in violation of some occupation code or other. Sometimes at night I get
this feeling that there's someone right outside our door listening.
"As things stand, Satin is no longer keen on our present situation. I'm telling you
all this in the strictest confidence, right?"
"Of course, of course."
"Every morning she wakes up and she says to me, We have to move out of here,
we have to move out of here! Now I can't help but wonder, Why did I move here
in the first place? For her the situation has become, well, untenable. She thinks
we need more privacy, more space.
"So we've started looking around for a new place. We'll probably move back to
Manhattan; though, to be honest with you, I don't think where we are is all that
bad.
"I asked her one evening, Are your parents originally from India? Their curry
doesn't taste like curry cooked in India. She didn't answer. Rather odd. There's
some mystery surrounding her family. It's something she prefers not talk about.
At least not now. Sometimes they have these dreadful rows, the menfolk
screaming and swearing, the women answering back; then abruptly it all subsides
and the house goes dead quiet.
"Satin and I try go out as much as we can, but for the rest of the family, it's like a
siege mentality. They're truly afraid of the people around them. Those Hispanic
fellows I told you about? Always with something to say when you're stepping out.
"So we come and go, and mind our own business, but it's not an easy proposition.
It can get a little precarious in our neighborhood, if you know what I mean. All
those popping noises in the middle of the night. Pretty frightening stuff."
"So what is Satin doing now?"
"Well, she's at college, doing a course in Pharmacy. It's going to take many years of
study. Then she'll be a pharmacist and maybe we'll go off and find a place in the
world in need of pharmacists. In the meantime, we've got to survive somehow on
my measly salary. Which is how I found myself a little strapped for cash today,
you understand. But never you mind, I'll pay you back, just as soon as a few things
get sorted out."
Radix could think of nothing more to say. There was a sense Stanley had said
everything he wanted to say. His face was drained of intensity. He glanced at his
watch, then started eating.
He took a few mouthfuls, put down his fork, rubbed his knees and looked around
the room; then he picked up his fork again. Baring his soul, it seemed, had done
marvels for his appetite. His lunch, once cold and neglected, now swiftly, hand to
mouth, entered and disappeared.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 