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          < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

              Locket # 32: 

              My wife and I were coasting through retirement. As safe as anyone can coast
          in Georgetown. Actually she still working, but we are on a good track, heading
          to the golden bridge, three score and ten. So I thought.

          At age sixty-five, I would say your habits and expectations are set. My wife and
          I know each other very well.

          Last month she took a trip to New Jersey, USA. Staying with our oldest
          daughter. I didn’t go with her. America is a rich country. Why should I leave
          our poor country to spend precious pension dollars on vacation in New Jersey?

          I would have gone with her to Antigua. Our second daughter lives there. She
          wrote saying the place getting raggedy with immigrants.

          Since her return, my wife is a different person. Our conversation has changed.
          Now she asks, “So what you have planned for today?”

          I rarely have things planned for the day. Coasting through retirement, you
          develop routines. All of a sudden she is this “what we doing today” planner.
          She continues, “Nothing as usual? Okay, that’s alright, if you’re comfortable
          with that.”

          That part, “if you’re comfortable with that.” Where did she find those words?
          Then she steps out the house. Even when it rains.

          She came back with rain boots and a raincoat. Puts them on and steps out.
          Doesn’t say where the hell she’s going. Just, “I’m out.” You hear that? Who
          talks like that in this country?

          I can’t put up with rain and water running in our streets. Can barely tolerate
          umbrellas. I have enough to occupy my mind until the next rain-free day. Like
          reading a book. Conferring with like minds. I comfortable with that.

          Besides, stepping out on these Georgetown roads can be perilous business.

          I was raised by a stern father, with a firm hand; in a time of bicycle traffic
          and one or two bicycle thieves. Age has slowed and shortened my gait. Now I
          have to be careful crossing the road. Vehicles galore, and vehicle man 
          slaughter. There are days I wish we had a train service.

          I changed the louvre windows from our house and installed window bars. Late
          some nights my wife says she hears visitors outside. Rascals after the fruits
          in our backyard. Mangoes and guavas hanging low on the trees.

          Nothing wakes me once I put my head down. But she hears these intruders.
          She hears them and does nothing. Lets them take what they want as long as
          they remember to latch the front gate on the way out.

          Who lets people break and enter their property just like that?

          But you see, she came back from New Jersey, a new constitution written
          in her head. I ask myself every blessed day, where was this person hiding all
          this time?

          Take her clothes. I have never seen my wife completely naked. I don’t know
          why that would surprise anybody. I am not the type to grab her buttocks,
          playful like, in the bathroom.

          A little chubby from childbearing, she wears nice dresses, pulled over her
          head, zipped up. Modest and appropriate for the occasion.

          But she came back from New Jersey in skirt and blouse. Same person, but two
          sections of clothing, divided at the waist. To me it was a worrying sight.
          Something had changed.

          In and round the house in a blue denim skirt, and blue denim shorts. Her
          “casual wear”. That is how she dressing now. She changed her glasses frame,
          and puts on her "sneakers" when she stepping out. Clearly something is
          developing.

          “In life you have flavours and variations. I like variations,” she says. Really?
          Since when?

          Since New Jersey. I blame my daughter in New Jersey. I can imagine their trip
          to the malls, the mother-daughter conversations. It explains her new bedroom
          expectations, wanting a new intimacy now. Something closer than what was
          required after we got married.

          For instance, this thing about “hugging”.

          In the old days, 10 o’clock, lights off; was important to get your eight hours
          rest.

          Now this goodly lady wants hugging. Accuses me of not understanding the
          importance of hugging. Tells me I probably didn’t receive hugs as a boy. Men
          like me, with fathers like my father, didn’t get hugged enough in the old days,
          she says.

          How many times did you hug your daughters? My jaw dropped, then just close
          up.

          Who keeps count of huggings? I never heard our daughters complain once about
          hugging. They slept in safety every night. What does hugging have to do with
          anything in this country?

          Suddenly she is this fountain of wisdom on hugging. Making out like there was
          some kind of deprivation in our family, and she kept count and the hugging
          receipts all these years.

          I will say this: our daughters can play musical instruments, thanks to me
          insisting on music theory lessons. Salaries were low; we had to find ways to
          move ahead in this country. I knew the things that mattered, that pushed you
          beyond Satisfactory.

          My wife and I are nine learning years apart. Gaps sometimes make a difference,
          I know, but we have been equals all these years. Now I am beginning to sense,
          call it a little tilting of the balance.

          All these comments, this moving around in denim skirt, the shirt with the top
          button not buttoned. Clearly something has developed.

          Trying one morning, not too long ago, to get me interested in the “blue pill.”
          Shouting through the half-closed bathroom door, “When last did we, you know,
          do something?” (At least she didn’t bring back the “F” word.) Trying to sound
          like she not complaining. I didn’t flinch a muscle.

          At this stage in my life, I have no intention of going to the drugstore, like a
          schoolboy long ago wanting prophylactics, and enquiring about “the blue pill”,
          which I hear is very expensive.

          On this earth nature has put me on a healthy, regulated course. I wouldn’t
          be where I am today without my regular morning bowel movement. And now to
          be forced into an indulgence requiring the cost and colour of certain pills! (I
          will swear, though, by Cod Liver Oil tablets from the old days.)

          Let me say this: there was serenity in the old days. There was room for self-
          improvement and forward thinking back then. Everything required maintenance.
          As time moved on, we threw away the shackles, but we couldn’t find ways to
          maintain serenity. We can’t maintain anything these days; buildings, bridges,
          nothing.

         “For the rest of your life your face will stay like that. Serious as a church. You
          don’t have a face for having fun.” You hear that? High court in session. I don’t
          have a face for having fun.

          I came into the world with this face. It was my father’s face. It stood for rules,
          no excuses.

          I wore this face on fields of athletics. Athletic competition bred character,
          encouraged focus, honest endeavour. There were rules you followed, track
          markers and qualification times and disqualifications; and everybody could see
          who won fair and square.

          But thanks to people elected to high office, with small cupboards for minds,
          athletics have declined in this country. Gone to pasture, and so many false
          positives.

          I better stop here, cause the more I think about this, the more I get worked
          up. You won’t catch me dropping dead from blood clot or pressure, no sir.

          So Mrs. Home from New Jersey can carry on with the stepping out. In sneakers
          and blue denim skirt. Could be unhappy? Beyond the usual worries about this
          country, I can assure you my wife has no reason to be unhappy.

          Besides, I rest my case already. I’m not going to let one round trip ticket to New
          Jersey ‒ was not even New York. New Jersey! ‒ turn me into a grumpy old man
          who don’t understand “fun”.

          I will advance through these last years, steady as she goes. I see a long home-
          stretch avenue in front of me. Morning bowel movement, nature in thoughtful
          flow, no pill purchase necessary ‒ I comfortable with that.

          Brentford Rose
          Georgetown, Guyana

          

 

 

                                                                                                                                      
                                                                               
                                                                              "Originally,
                                                 we weren't going to leave home"
                                               – John Ashbery, "Token Resistance"

 

          Off cross market shores swapped gold : text the last chair
         EO decked on his coast swatting away fireflies curious about
         close one eye merchant glasses . bet now he'd wink. 

         Flying was whose eagle wing idea first . turn to quick
         share with someone considered a friend who woke . Ah!
                                                                                              hacking
         off hard to be heard from again.

         Panners keep dusting : man the ground pride the stand take
         the leg dog lick . tokens to where undulating cities fugle you
         know though you can’t swim . dying to raft riff the fear
         the stare of others.

         Certain something’s out there . who can wait as crinkled
         throats crow caution . what’s faith for if not to race . face
                                                                                                 slab
         nots supposed to happen | fighting chance, submit night
         sand snow day . why flavor this? last will this?
                            
                                                                                                More
         like how clocks watch . memory hands pick plucking world
         feathers; the climate of angel and tyrant vagility . seed beads
         or balls finger fondled as familiars would have you . crave
         pray Get to work! web shop sweet songs | get you some
         rest.
                                                                 – W.W.

 

              

             

                                                                                                                      
                                                                

             THIS NUDE

          of living stone, lava delayed in time,
          utters the scars of its sculptor who thinks
          what he has shaped is a figure of the world's
          pain and love of pain and worship of blood.

          But is there either world or pain except
          a man and his faith in a world outside
          the orbit of his own dreaming blood, a world
          he wants to shape with his nude’s flame, coming

          always too close not to set both ablaze?
          In terror of his own fire, the one fear,
          he locks away his nude or he smashes it,
          no matter: his nude has altered our blood.

          The sculptor minds, thinks he has kept or lost
          something but his nude’s only another
          cloud of brick shelved or scattered just as he is
          only one more dream of an avid ghost.

          Other dreams read of the nude what they will:
          how much can they ignore blood, recall ghosts?
          Dreams locked in a focus of blood can only
          breathe like frozen stone longing for new fire.

               (from “Fabula Rasa” by Brian Chan)

 

 

 

           < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

              Locket # 31:

           Friends since secondary school, Rishi and me. He was good at passing exams.
           He studied in England, and now he lives and works in Canal District. I won’t
           mention his profession, and I won’t use his real name. He has enough problems
           of his own; he doesn’t need people finding out more only to harass him.

           Few people really understand the man.

           Rishi likes fine living. He likes driving a car that purrs along on a smooth road
           surface; and dressing for dinner in a fine restaurant. These tastes he might
           have acquired in England.

           I use to tell him, if that was what matters he shouldn’t have come home. That
           style of life was impossible in the city, much less Canal District.

           He came back and he married Kavita who must have been the loveliest girl in
           Canal District at the time. Beauty Queen contestant lovely. About 5ft-6, a shy
           homemaking person, you might think at first. It’s harder now to grasp what
           else about her he appreciated.

           On occasion, like for birthdays or anniversaries, they came to Georgetown,
           and doubled up with me and my wife. We dined at a restaurant in town. It
           It gave us a chance to observe Rishi (the man in charge, expert in the finer
           things) and Kavi (her eyes and smile like diamond earrings) as a couple. 

           There’s not a wide choice of fine restaurants. I used to drive past this one
           place never thinking I might want to dine there. It had a nice paved entrance.
           I heard the prime minister dropped in sometimes and I told Rishi, thinking he
           would be impressed.

           First time we went, he found fault with everything. The spacing of tables,
           how the lighting too bright; the waiters were efficient, but didn’t know to
           respond to nods and signals. The other diners were mannerly at first, until the
           first burst of loud laughing. We discouraged our wives from looking round and
           asking, Who’s that?

           We followed Rishi; we didn’t order large portions. My wife seemed to enjoy
           spooning her dessert. Nearly embarrass me one time by declaring as we
           stepped back outside, “We should do this every weekend.”

                                                                  +

           The last time, while our wives leaned heads and whispered, Rishi told me
            about this roommate from Hong Kong he shared an apartment with when he
            was in England. The man was a book beater. Monday to Friday, nothing
            mattered but his books, the reading lamp, head bowed, scribbling notes.

           But on Saturday night he ordered in two English prostitutes. Paid them for four
           hours “work”. Had a  friend come over with beer. They watched videos on the
           television, and went off to the bedroom for intermissions of sex.

           They asked Rishi if he wanted “a piece of the action”. He would have had to
           chip in. At that time he couldn’t afford to chip in.

           He arranged to be out on Saturday nights. He said when he returned the house
           was spic and span quiet, as if nothing had happened the night before.

           “I had to admire these fellows. The discipline. How they organize the 24 hr
           day, the 7 day week. Knowing what's important for the long haul,” he said.

           We returned to our wives who asked, What you all talking about? We offered
           them the smiles of gentlemen, whose conversation, trailing off, was about
           the likelihood of some bony face bandit sticking a gun in your face; the dog
           and dog food raggedyness everywhere.

           With friends like Rishi sometimes you never sure where you stand. They go
           away, they come back; they seem to want friendship to pick up from where
           they left it off.                                   

           I must admit, years of living here has left me a little envious of fellows like
           Rishi. I know, I have to stop this comparing.

                                                              +

           We were at the cricket stadium one day. Big Test match. In the main pavilion
           alongside people with important day jobs, men with titles and impoverised
           political beliefs. Even a visiting rock musician from England was expected to
           show his face.

           I am not a huge cricket fan, but I pulled strings to get tickets. Rishi was not
           a huge cricket fan either, but this was an occasion he wouldn’t pass up.
           People must have heard about his professional work in Canal District. He was
           wondering how Georgetown respectables would greet a respectable member
           of Canal District.

           So we’re there in our seats, looking out on the grounds, Rishi not yet
           recognized. He gets up, says he's off to get something to drink. Acting like he
           knows his way around.

           When he came back I sensed a problem.

           What happened to the drinks? “They not serving anything I like.” He was grim
           faced. He checked his watch often. He took little interest in the eruption of
           cheers or groans around the ground.

           He leaned to me; he said, “There’s a man in this pavilion who is fucking my
           wife?” I asked him to repeat that. It sounded ridiculous, out of the blue
           ridiculous.

           He was standing at the bar, he said, when a fellow looked at him, looked
           away; then started talking loud enough for Rishi to hear ‒ how he know this
           woman from Canal District; how when she came to Georgetown they got
           intimate; she would grip him and scream and cry.

           How could he be sure it was Kavi? Because of certain things the man said.
           Details only her husband would know. “Besides, in the bedroom Kavi doesn’t
           scream. Muffled sounds, but she don’t scream.”

           He was staring with sullen disinterest at the playing field.

           I’d never seen him in this state. And so absolutely certain, that was the part
           that worried me. So some International Test cricket fan had found access
           ‒ was given access? ‒ to Kavi’s lips, her breast, her cave for “grip and scream”.
           Rishi didn’t know anything for a fact, but he was absolutely sure. I couldn't
           risk asking even one harmless question. Like who was this fellow doing the
           talking? what did he look like?

           It was an awkward moment, and I began to feel partly responsible. All this
           only happened because I had secured the tickets. I was only trying to impress
           him I had “connections” in the city. The man was managing his life just fine,
           and now look what happen.

           We left the cricket ground before play stopped for the day. Suspicion and
           anger, not there when we arrived, like terriers in his head.

                                                           +

           Months went by. Not a word from him. 

           My wife got a phone call one Sunday morning, we were still in bed. She kept
           breaking off to relay bits of the conversation, then continuing, O my God.

           Kavi gone back to her mother. Took her child.

           I sat up. I checked the hour. Sunday morning lust suspended; shock and sadness
           taking over the mattress, the pillows, twisting the sheets under her legs.

           Rishi beat Kavi real bad; face all puff up, real bad. Her parents threatening to
           go to the police, but Kavi telling them she didn’t want to bring Canal District
           police into their family business.

           Did Rishi use his bare hands? I wondered. He wouldn’t risk injury to his hands.

           My wife was leaning on her elbow, holding the sheet over her breasts, her eyes
           enlarged and flashing disbelief. I was supposed to respond to her eyes. Like I
           was an accomplice or something.

           “But why he do that to her?” she asked. I shook my head. Sounds terrible.
           “Wait, that’s all you have to say? Sounds terrible?”

            I wanted to shout back, Don’t start with me now. And ask back if she knew
            anything, like Kavi making private trips to Georgetown. Knew something but
            but kept quiet all this time.

            Some people here seize on situations like this to bring up their own problems. 
            I’m telling you. One thing lead to the next and before you know it, the room
            burst into flames. You hear yourself accusing certain people of having no
            conversation worth coming home for. No conversation. Just the same waist
            fattening, house budgeting, family inviting over and over; sucking the blood
            rush out of you. And at night, powder on the chest, “I told you I don’t like
            doing that!”

            Alright, I admit, Rishi beat up the wrong person. That didn’t mean she had to
            turn on me.

            I know what really going on. You see, this situation marked the end of our
            restaurant dinner outings. She feeling more, I would say, deprived, ever
            since. Keeps stalling and poking at the camoudie. That’s what I have to put
            up with now, this steady stalling and poking.

            J.Singh
            Georgetown, Guyana

 

           

          Sharp as wet shark pain starts . brakes a path pull
          over on left shoulder, nausea colluding > chill tight
          chest in time you call an ambulance, your mother.    

          Say folding you fall 'n' can’t recall : wait long thirst
          responders might scrub for the credits nesting deep
          in plaque pockets.
                           Okay! I will learn to trust strangers taking
          risks everyone else lavenders.

          Pain snaps shouldn’t bubble the body . you're expected 
          to halfcock valley through. Contouring matters ‒ the cast
          on prove point : ink tag the torso but get there even
          if thigh riders like spirits in the dark haven’t a full beam
          clue.
                       Crowd spent . route signs fade like nightmares
          of inbrowning border herds.

          Plot luck fifty faces show up under black umbrellas
          assuming it rains for the will turn dust release; rush
          come to shovel . your down stare renters may have pushier
          plans | such priceless subparting . no no lower.

          In bed goings gone side stay . stones with you head
          lay; make sure to register how earth wipes its steel
          on sleeve tears, particles redeeming.

                                                         Pedestrians might jump
          rail we have an agreement . highwire up, horn brass 
          ziggedy net you back on line next day.

                                                                 – W.W.

 

                 

                

 

                 
    

              CERTAINTY 

              A shadow on a ceiling might be a stain
                of leaked rain, or a gouge or gnarl. To know
                  which one it is, you must touch the spot.

             A tiny fly on a windowpane can seem
               a distant bird in the sky, or the bird
                 a mite in the corner of your eye.

             (Those are logic’s old-wives’ tale-brakes) But the perched
               bird becoming one with my blood’s pulse is
                 beyond all either-or-boths, within

             no dent-or-bump, far-or-near, wild-or-tame game,
               no watchful-or-blind, nervous-or-calm cage.
                 When our one bloodstream again divides,

             he flies off, his unity-work done, and three
               of his brothers propose a trinity
                 of pointed perch in a tree of Spring.

            These witnesses, once witnessed, also move on,
               leaving a quartet of guardians to watch
                 over their bird-man attending to

            his closest gods. (But that’s a real true story.)

                (from “Nor Like An Addict Would” © by Brian Chan)  

                       

 

         < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

            Locket # 30:

            Stay with me with this.

            They sent me to Canal District to interview an old lady, said to be the oldest
            living person in the District. Mrs. DeGroot.

            At first, she wasn’t very cooperative. She didn’t read our newspaper. She
            heard standards had fallen from back in her days. They published stories
            about our villages making them look like nice “havens”, with pictures of
            half-naked children “who should be in school”, instead they fishing in streams
            or swinging in old tree tyres.

            I had to be patient with her.

            She told me she was born in Essequibo, not Canal District. She spent most of
            her life there before moving eventually to be close to her daughter. If I
            wanted a good story I should go to Essequibo, to the village of Vlaaderen.

            There used to be a plantation there, Plantation Vlaaderen. I should look for
            a Silk Cotton tree. It should still be standing. Ask for Pastor Gravesande’s
            church. It was built years back by Pastor Gravesande. It might still be there.

            The newspaper editor was annoyed I came back with nothing. Almost fired
            me. I told him I wasn't a fairy tale teller. Maybe we could do something
            different and better, like a research article. About an old Dutch plantation,
            an old church, a pastor named Gravesande. The old lady was the longest living
            church member. He dismissed the idea.

            That weekend I went to the library, read as much as I could find about old
            Dutch plantations. The following weekend I traveled to Essequibo. It was my
            first journey so far outside Georgetown.

            Nobody on the ferry stelling knew about the church, but I found the silk
            cotton tree. I reasoned the church was somewhere nearby, so I wandered
            around until I came across a crumbling structure that might have been a
            church.

            Weeds and overgrown grass everywhere, and what looked like a narrow stony
            path to the church door.

            I took pictures of the cotton tree and the old building.

            The next time I was in Canal District ‒ they sent me there to find another
            village named Fairfield, waiting for fairy tale; with more coconut trees than
            the dozen or so families living there ‒ I stopped by the old lady. “Eh eh, you
            again.”

            I whipped out the phone and showed her the pictures. She got very excited
            and really opened up. One long story, a little family drama. I saved it all in
            my head.

            So here’s a short version of what Mrs. DeGroot now residing in Canal District
            told me about Pastor Gravesande and his church.

                                                              *

            Starting with this fellow from Holland ‒ the old lady doesn’t remember his
            name ‒ who shows up on the Essequibo coast, this is some time back in the
            70s, asking the whereabouts of a Gravesande family. The only Gravesande in
            the area lived with his wife just past the silk cotton tree.

            He finds the man, informs him he had come all this way with wonderful news

            His great great grandfather died long ago, he said, and left a small fortune
            and a Bible, with instructions that some of it should go to the Gravesandes in
            Guiana. It seemed an eccentric request. It was ignored for generations. But
            he was here now to fulfill the request.

            Mr. Gravesande should use the first installment of money to build a church
            and establish the word of God, through faith and good deeds among the
            villagers.

            This is how, with no further questions, Mr. Gravesande accepted his
            “inheritance”, built his church and became Pastor Gravesande. He called it
            the paradise on earth.

            People were mystified at first. The bush clearing, then out of nowhere a 
            simple timber structure going up; a roof, three concrete front steps, a side
            entrance, windows; inside benches like pews.

            The church had no choir. Pastor Gravesande led the gathering in clapping
            happy songs. He hired a man, Mr. Josiah, to put up a fence, keep the grass
            trimmed, do building repairs.

            The doors were open during the week in case anyone wanted to come in and
            “talk”, in silence to the Lord or to the pastor, about anything. Mostly mothers
            dropped by, now and then young people sent by their parents.

            He read a great deal, mainly the Bible. He used it like a prescription book. He
            listened to you, then he opened the Bible and found a passage which he
            applied like answers to your worries. No beardman prophecy pointing at the
            world. He became their day to day life fortifier.

            “He showed me answers in the Book of Psalms,” Mrs. DeGroot said. “The
              mischief they cause shall return on their heads. Psalms 7-16.”

             He had these gatherings for celebration, like birthdays or holidays. If the
             weather was fine they’d set up a table outside. People brought cakes, home-
             made drinks, fruits. It was a picnic atmosphere, the children running around,
             called after and given warnings. The men who came played dominos and
             wanted the pastor to send for a little alcohol.

             The Dutchman came back and was surprised at what he saw. The building,
             the front lawn; but no Lutheran Church name, no steeple. He was impressed
             with the open door consultation, and the Pastor Gravesande’s knowledge
             of the Bible.

             And though he couldn’t stay to observe a Sunday service, he released the
             second half of the Gravesande inheritance, and encouraged the pastor to
             keep spreading God’s word.

             And for the next twenty years the pastor did exactly that.

             "I used to admire his children,” Mrs. DeGroot said. “When they were young,
             he had them sitting in the front row, well-dressed, quiet and obedient. Their
             mother always close by, smiling and greeting everyone."

             Pastor G was not bad father, she said. A hard man to please, yes, but he kept
             them in line, the three boys and the girl.

             Bound to the paradise, they came straight home from school, didn’t wander
             around the village. He made them feel different from other children. He
             taught them how to measure a day’s work

             And by way of grounding their minds he made them pay attention to
             everything in the paradise, every plant, insect, fruit; every illness and cure;
             every tree leaf and natural occurrence. If there was no name for it, he 
             identified the behavior and made a label for it.

             Where are they now? “They all moved away. The girl went to Surinam, met
             some fellow who took her to Holland. She’s doing okay. The boys in the
             United States. They came back to take their mother away.”

             She was disappointed, she said, how the children cast aside their father.

             Cast aside? I was wondering at what stage the children would realize there
             were horizons beyond the paradise. Was there a point the lids started rattling
             on the pots?

             So they came back for the mother. Did she ask them to take her away?

             It seems the pastor had a stroke. Then he announced the stroke was over.
             He tried to carry on but he was not the same man.

             Gaunt and irritable he refused to accept what was happening to him,
             insisting he could manage on his own. And spreading word now that the
             Dutchman who came to him years ago was sent by God.

             Bit by bit church activity faltered, then fell away. The bush and vegetation
             held at bay all these years crept forward. People claiming they knew the
             parson before the church business denounced him as a smartman, who only
             there robbing people of precious time.

             The children came back to bury him, all grown up, with children of their own.
             “If you search at the back of the old building you might find his gravestone,”
             Mrs. DeGroot said.

             I had no intention of going back to Vlaaderen.

             I know we can’t choose the paradise we’re born into. I keep wondering what
             it felt like growing up there; what path the children followed out of the
             paradise; what knowledge they took with them on their flight; how it feels
             being elsewhere.

             Paul Peters
             Georgetown, Guyana

  

  

  

  

         
       < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

         Locket # 29:

 

         Confession is good but not for much at the police station. You still spend time
         in a cell. If they think you might be “involved”, confessing will only make
         somebody’s job easier. You still in trouble. This is Georgetown.

         I had nothing to confess, and my mother couldn’t afford a lawyer. Carlos, my
         boyfriend, still in custody “awaiting” whatever comes next. Which is the hard
         part. He could be incarcerated for years “awaiting”, even though he swear he
         wasn’t involved.

         His only hope is, when the trial call the police still have no confession. Only
         one suspect and their stupid suspicion. And the family of the victim get fed
         up and decide not to “pursue” any more. Which could happen in this case.

         Dr. Davidson wife already left the country, gone back to the States. (His two
         grown children from his first marriage going to college there.) She buried him
         and left a lawyer friend to watch over the court proceedings. He told her the
         situation could drag on for years.

         Besides she felt so embarrassed. There was talk her husband was having sex
         with the house help when she was away on vacation.

         They found his body in their Queenstown home. It looked like a robbery, cash
         and valuables taken. No sign of forced entry, but somebody entered, give him
         one blow in his head with a “blunt instrument”, a piece of wood. They couldn’t
         find the piece of wood.

         One neighbour told the police she noticed “young people” coming and going,
         which is how they arrest me, “the house helper”; and Carlos who came to pick
         me up after work.

         Is not like we were loitering with bad intent. Sometimes Carlos worked on his 
         car. Dr. Davidson called him “my mechanic man” cause he knew spare parts
         people, and how to fix cars.

         Getting arrested for “questioning” is not funny. I still spend time in the
         bathroom washing off being in a cell in the same clothes for two days. And
         sitting in the court room while the court lawyer using words that had nothing to
         do with how I live.

         In accordance with regulation 5 (section 34)…conduct not recognizable by the
         court with the other sub-regulations…pending a guidance enquiry…the
         commanding officer had not exceeded his jurisdiction.

         In the end they kept Carlos; they told me I was free go. “But don’t go anywhere
         far outside the city”.

         They seemed more concerned with how I met Carlos, how long we together. I
         told them it was none of their business. Is he your boyfriend? You having sex
         with him? That’s how they “interrogate”, digging into your personal life. Trying
         to get you into some quick “confession” box, so they can say the case solved.

         That’s how they “investigate”. Pictures in their head. What they think happen.
         What they could do for you. And with you.  

         So you did domestic work for the man?

         Monday, Wednesday, Friday. The wife used to leave the sink full of dishes in the
         morning. Doing certain things was not her style. I never heard them argue, but
         her husband didn’t like the idea of having a “servant” girl cleaning the house.

         Any other kind of work? He pay you extra for extras?

         Dr. Davidson behaved as though everything here remained the same as when he
         was growing up. Living abroad and his university degree made no difference. He
         wanted a simple life, wearing ordinary clothes, blending in with ordinary people.
         He had pictures in his head, too. Morning neighbour! out of date pictures.

         Once while his wife was away (actually it was the day before they found his
         body) Dr. Davidson and I were alone in the house. We drove to a Chinese
         restaurant. He told me to run inside for the order. People see me getting in and
         out the front seat, they start assuming.

         He invited me sit with him at the dining table; he’s left-handed. He was telling
         me about his life, how he grew up in a village like mine. That’s how I found out
         about the farm.

         He came home to do farming. He was finished with teaching, with students,
         books, travel to conferences. His grandmother spent her life farming in her
         village. Farming was in his bones. He was aiming to build a house on a plot of
         land there, rest his bones. Mr. Educated farmer.

         He had his farm up and running, rows and rows of green crop, lettuce,
         boulanger, pumpkin. And cassava; he believed in cassava. He hired fellows in
         the area to do the mud work. He had long rubber boots, so some days (Thurs,
         Fri) he down in the mud with them. Had to be spending and making money.

         I think he hoped I would turn to him for advice and words of rescue. At least
         he didn’t go on and on with stupid warnings. Anyway, farming is definitely not
         in my bones.

         Most of the time he was in his room at his computer. He has a lot of books. He
         didn’t read our newspapers. Said he didn’t want to get “infected”. He asked
         me if I knew what “ethics” was, if I had ever heard the word used in any
         classroom I sat in.

         At that moment I should have answered like a good student; should have told
         him, if you live in this country, you bound to notice at some point a dividing
         line ‒ yes, good and evil. Everybody cross that line at least once in their life.

         A man of words, yes. Dark-brown complexion, about seventy, I would say.
         Usually outside in the front yard barefoot ‒ feeling the good earth. Hairy legs
         in slipslops and short pants. On his phone, under the mango tree at the back,
         he switches tone and language, talks like a university man.

         His wife organised the washing and ironing. I wasn’t allowed to touch her
         delicates. Bath towels, sheets, other stuff, okay. And not Dr. Davidson’s room
         with all his books. Always asking him, How much they charging to do that?

         I try not to pass through Queenstown where they lived. My mother never liked
         Carlos. Too wild and wayward. She and my aunt kept telling me I should go out,
         find a regular job.

         Me in some fast food restaurant? or in the shopping plaza behind a perfume
         counter. Shitty salary from some big belly supervisor wanting his regularity?

        These manager men selfish, especially the shirt and tie ones. They have tricks.
        Some don’t look you in the face when they interviewing. Like school masters
        they ready to punish you for messing up your exams.

        They frown and offer to employ you cause it give them a chance to correct your
        mistakes. Yes, come to the office for “sub regulations”. Slap slap! they slapping
        on your behind. And afterwards is, hurry! pull up your pants, act like nothing
        happen.

        Dr. Davidson was different from most old men in Georgetown. And nicer. But he
        didn’t tell his wife everything. You can assume what you like.

        I felt sorry about what happened. Something like that I never expected. I stayed
        inside my house for a good while, angry and embarrassed, until my mother got
        tired shouting, I hope you learn your lesson.

        It has been over seven months. Most people done forget what happen. My
        ordinary life is now a precarious life. Far from heaven, not yet in hell. I have
        to work my way out and start over.

        Last time I saw him, Carlos wasn’t the same person. He sounded agitated; his
        face looked scrawny, like they not feeding them in there. I felt he wanted to
        confide something to me. Instead he asked me to find a way to smuggle a cell
        phone to him.

        I told him I would do no such thing. That was a step too far. He gave me this
        look worth a thousand goose bumps. Was the strangest moment between us.
        Now I wondering what kind of person he will be when he comes out.

        He liked being seen as he drove by, the car exhaust roaring, me up front
        beside him. I miss that moment when he slam the door, start the car, and we
        ready to go.

        Anyway, I told him I might not see him for awhile. He’ll just have to manage on
        his own and hope for the best.

        Evadne Chance
        Georgetown, Guyana

 

  

 

         < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice In Guyana >

            Locket # 28:

            I will keep this short.   

            Which country in the world have so many doctors to spare, they send a whole
            batch of them to our country to help our people? True, our compound far
            from perfect. Some buildings could do with repairs, and our equipment need
            improvement, but we not that desperate for “help”.

            Out of the blue one day this Dr Castanuevo shows up in our region. In his
            thirties, I thought. Everybody notice how he so nice, so good-looking.

            As he started to blend in, shirt and tie, stethoscope and white coat, I had
            this feeling something out of the ordinary was bound to happen. I went about
            my work as per usual. I didn’t see the need to be extra welcoming.

            Other nurses, desperate to escape the same old nothing doing in our region,
            just handed themselves over to his foreign highness.

            He used to join our table during lunch, going, How you say this in English? and
            Your earrings look pretty. His soft voice politeness, his funny interest in our
            local ways, made an impression; everybody ready and eager to extend District
            hospitality.

            When he looked at me ‒ too dark skin for a start, I felt nothing for him anyway
            ‒  he probably wondered why I wasn’t smiling along. I didn’t ignore him as
            such. My arms and legs went stiff, pulling away from his prince charming
            friendliness.

            So he settled in, our Dr. Castanuevo. We called him Dr. Casanova cause we
            didn’t have time to pick through the name to get the pronunciation correct.

            The first one to say Okay was Leena (frilly hair down her shoulders, always
            neat and ready to get back to work.)

            She would be the last to admit she slipped out her panties, or kneeled to
            unbuckle this doctor. You could tell, though, from the way she went quiet the
            next day, she was happy to be the one he liked; and now she guarding
            some big big secret.

            I suspect it happened somewhere in the hospital compound, but I couldn’t
            imagine where ‒ in a corner somewhere?  behind some closed door, pushing
            things aside things to make room. Muffle muffle! no time for kisses Hurry
            hurry!

            A clothes closet was probably all the space this man need.

            Next was Meena, who for days looked so pleased with herself. I didn’t say a
            word, not a hmmmm! If people want to turn and brace for a little naughtiness
            with the new doctor, that’s their business. You see this district? you have to
            let Canal nature runs its course. Come, yes! Take, take me away.

            But mister clever man, working so hard, couldn’t keep his hide-and-feast
            games a hospital secret forever.

            We have this Security fellow, works downstairs at the Entrance. Coarse and
            jokey, a beer belly in uniform. Steps aside so visitors can pass, like he’s the 
            big alligator granting permissions to bare feet in the swamp.

            And always bringing up the day he came upon the body of a woman who was
            raped and killed in the cane fields. He brings it up, the time and place, and
            he waits for you to look shocked, open mouth and wanting detail. Then he
            stops it right there, shaking his head, the awfulness suddenly too much for
            him to continue.

            One morning I heard him say to another black fellow, as I was coming in, that
            the new doctor running through the women on the second floor. “One by one.
            He stirring the yogurt, that’s what he up to, stirring the yogurt.” I kept my
            head straight, didn’t look back at him.

            So now any and everybody know what was going on, and where and maybe who
            was involved.

            Then, as if he was finished with our company, Dr. Castanueva went out of
            service. He wasn’t hanging out that much. Leena and Meena became sulky and
            bitchy, mentioning his name only to Steeups! you got to watch yourself with
            he and he backtracking hands.

            You should hear them, acting like they “suffered” so much disappointment
            from him, it was their job now to warn off other people.

            The reason soon became clear. Dr. Castanueva had moved his ladder. He was
            aiming now at the hospital administrator, Miss Kumar. Our princess with her
            lonely responsibilities.

            Has her own parking spot, and comes to work after nine in the morning. Single,
            slender body, has a seven-year-old son. You’d find her glaring at the computer
            in her office.

            First, we noticed the ring. Then one afternoon I overheard her saying, in
            whispers to a visitor leaving her office, that she and Dr. Castanueva were
            going to “tie the knot”.

            Don’t ask me how Dr. Castanueva cornered her, what charms he introduced
            that drive her to that decision. She is an intelligent person. Okay, I know! I
            don’t really know.

            Miss Kumar’s father owns a timber business. Everybody knows the Kumars.

            A quiet wedding function followed in a Georgetown hotel. A one-week honey-
            moon at some resort in the Interior followed. Mr. Kumar was so proud, his
            daughter marrying one of the doctors sent to help the struggling people in the
            District, a man who brought a little “class” to our region.

            He gave them a house to live in. They were supposed to stay there for many
            happy years.

            Well, one year has passed since all of the above took place, and there have
            been major developments.

            The District royal marriage is over. Everything back to square one. Miss Kumar
            done chop the hyphen-Castanueva part off her name. She still with us, fresh
            wrinkles round the eyes. We think she might be pregnant. Leena and Meena
            following the belly bump.

            Dr. Castanueva has kind of disappeared. Said to be living and working in the
            Interior with the Amerindians. Said to be in the middle of legal proceedings,
            the divorce and property; apparently his name is on the property deed.

            So what really happen? Your guess as good as mine. Though if I was he, I
            would be very careful.

            The “Indians” living in Canal District not the same Indians in the Interior.
            Incidents and accidents happen. Mr. Kumar is definitely not happy with the
            way things turn out; and he’s one man who would do anything for his only
            daughter.

            It makes you stop and wonder, if people ever learn from their mistakes.
            They believe they have a bond; then they find out, So sorry! there is no
            bond.

            In our district we put fresh paste on the forehead, fresh gloss on the lip, and
            start over; but we repeat the mistakes. Is like living in a house with only one
            door in and out. Memories don’t help us discover new ways.

            I’m not a mean, jealous person. Not “full of myself”. I see how people slip
            into foolish expectation and get carried away. One slip ‒ jook, jook! ‒ done
            you done.

            Safety on my triggers taught me patience, how to handle expectation.

            I’m only 24 yrs old. When I reach twenty five, I will make a decision, a big
            wheel turn decision. Not saying any more and, sorry, I not returning here with
            more developments. I too young to be “writing” stuff about people.

            My bedroom has a ceiling fan. For now down below not much really happening,
            I hope not for too long.

            Come sleep time, I gather my pillows under the mosquito net. When rain
            showers sweep over the galvanize roof, and the night creature noise start up
            outside my window, I turn on my side, wriggle my toes, and swish! I’m on my
            way. Practicing for when I leave the District.

            Annie Sohan
            Canal District, Guyana