Forced to decide whom to trust ̶ Mambisi Colon and her Pyramid
enterprise, or Mrs. Caratini, friend and erstwhile savior, though nursing
surprisingly bitter resentment ̶ Judy Wiener sided with Mambisi Colon.
In fact, she allowed herself to be won over by the woman's soft-spoken
but intense manner. When she wasn't speaking, Mambisi Colon fingered
the chain with a cross that rested on her bosom. When she spoke she'd
lower her voice to levels of shared uncertainty; at the same time she
offered the assurance everything would be fine
She had wide, round hips and a double chin, but she moved down the
corridors at ease with her body weight distribution. To Judy Wiener this
suggested a woman of solid grounded trustworthiness who felt things,
who had good strong feelings about the Pyramid game. It seemed all
above board. If it was nothing but a scam, she felt sure Mambisi Colon
would have nothing to do with it.
The meetings for envelope exchange were held on Mondays. Mambisi
Colon came to her classroom with a hand-drawn map of directions to
the meeting place, so accurate, you couldn't possibly get lost.
And what an adventure it turned out to be; entering "strange"
neighborhoods, searching for parking space, sometimes blocks away
from the address; the walk back up a sloping sidewalk.
Judy Wiener walked as if she knew these streets. She was familiar with
the street names from addresses on home contact cards handed in by
students. She walked past brown and black faces, like the faces she
passed in hallways; and she braced herself half-expecting to be
recognized and hailed. She took little notice of groups of idlers outside
the fluorescent-lit Delis at street corners, or in doorways of buildings,
feeling certain they preferred to remain unnoticed.
She was surprised at her own courage; and even more surprised when
nothing unusual happened. No one leapt out of the dark to assault her.
No one vandalized her car. Her anxieties quickly drained away; things
seemed as normal as one would expect in any neighborhood; the sense
of danger, always exaggerated, quickly evaporated.
One night she stepped into the elevator of an apartment building; its
occupants, two elderly white women, short, bespectacled, like almost
dressed-alike sisters, remarked how odd it seemed: the elevators were
crowded with strangers, particularly at this hour; on Monday nights;
black men and women.
Something was going on; they didn't feel entirely safe as they were
used to. They looked at her, hoping she'd confirm their suspicions.
Judy Weiner smiled; she explained she was a visitor herself, and though
she couldn't comment on their suspicions, she didn't think there was
anything to be alarmed about. The two ladies got off on the second
floor, muttering, Well I don't know.
When she rang the bell a smiling face greeted and ushered her in.
There were people everywhere, sitting, standing; a television set
flickered in the living room.
She was surprised to discover white faces from John Wayne Cotter in
the crowd Carol Boardingham, Mrs. Fuqua and Amy Nirza from the
attendance office. They sat apart, too tense and anxious to speak; they
acknowledged her arrival with a smile, but didn't appear eager to come
over and form a huddle.
In the basement the newcomers to the game were receiving their
introduction, complete with charts and warm explanations. At some
point Mambisi Colon, moving around in a capacious robe and turban
hat, and enjoying her role as Pyramid matriarch, announced it was
time to form the "family" groups; time for the good news, the hand
over of envelopes. "We have to work a little harder stirring the pot,"
she chided amiably.
Judy Weiner had hoped to get Michael Radix interested in the game; he
was decidedly against the idea. To her surprise, Mr. Obanjemfuna, who
had initially turned down her invitation, came back to say he was
interested. He came in eventually, bringing with him a few of his
Nigerian friends.
For awhile it was comforting to be swept along in the undertow of
Mambisi Colon who'd been to the Pyramid top twice and was on her
third trip up. Suddenly one evening Judy Wiener learnt that her
"family" was about to be branched off; she was two steps from the top,
but she would be severed from the Mambisi Colon family; they would
form a separate group with arrangements to meet out in the Queens
borough.
This was alien territory to her. She had to pay a toll, cross the Throgs
Neck bridge. The directions to the house of meetings seemed less
precise, the street names unfamiliar. Mr. Obanjemfuna and his Nigerian
friends were with her, but sometimes they got lost on the way and
arrived late.
Things were beginning to stall; new players just weren't coming in; her
old fears that this was altogether a bad idea resurfaced. She could ask
for her initial investment back, but so close to the top it seemed
foolish to pull out; and in any case no one was quite ready to hand back
one thousand dollars.
She drove back over the Throgs Neck Bridge, the car windows misting
up, and she'd swear ugly words when the car hit a pothole. Her heart
was sick with worry she'd been wrong, wildly wrong, to get involved in
this. She hadn't heard of one teacher, apart from Mambisi Colon, who
had made it to the Pyramid top. Not one.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN : NEWS 