Tag: Guyana Fiction

       

        < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

         Locket #50:

        
         So now I’m thinking: if my mother had a problem, it was waiting for the right
         man to come along. Looking out at the possibilities in Georgetown, few
         seemed qualified. There were men blessed with more muscle than mind. She
         associated ‘muscle’ with required labour, like fortune hunting in the forest;
         and ‘mind’ with talent and city hopes.

         Her husband, my father, was a labour type. He laboured in the civil service
         and in the bedroom. He died of a stroke which she blamed on his compulsive
         labouring, and the quantities of food and drink he consumed.

         She worked at our public library. Books and quiet and minds growing. She
         shushed loud visitors and rowdy students. She was gracious with men who
         came up to her desk and made enquiries in soft voices. Who noticed how
         attractive she still was, but said nothing

         She shelved, she took returns at the desk; she liked reading new fiction and
         making suggestions to the Head Librarian, about what was suitable or not
         suitable for young readers.

         But her focus was raising her only daughter. In the eyes of others she was
         a quiet, generous soul. I did not let her down.

         Like her I valued people who liked reading and for a long time I was friendly
         with boys who spent energy on books and had impressive grades. This meant
         we spent our time together talking.

         I abstained and abstained which required much labour. Going from school
         straight to her library some afternoons, doing my homework there. Going
         home together where we ate and I did house chores. I might dip into a new
         book for the shelves.

         You would think by now I know exactly how and what to do in intimate
         situations, but I haven’t opened up myself yet, and I haven’t found what
         best suits me.

         About my father, we talked only once. I mean, talked seriously. My mother 
         confessed ‘love’ had little to do with her decision to marry. At the time
         he had dreams he’d be sent abroad one day to work at an Embassy. She
         came home from her job and dreamt of moving away with him. Means to an
         end, if you want to think that way.

         When she calls me here in New York asking, What’s happening, she’s itching
         to know if I’ve fallen in with the wrong labour company.

         I told her I wasn’t ‘dating’ anyone. The word ‘dating’ has little meaning for
         her. She didn’t have to remind me to focus, not to ‘stray’.

         I told her I had settled in the basement of her sister’s home. I could find my
         way around now. I signed up for classes. Classes cost money and ‘studying’
         here could take longer than we’d imagined. I had to take a job, but I knew
         my boundaries, and I was managing okay.

         Then the other day I got this letter from her.

         Normally between us it’s email; or a weekend phone call with questions and
         news. A Georgetown envelope with Georgetown stamps was unusual. It was
         followed quickly by email telling me not to leave the letter lying around;
         someone might read it.

         There had been a development back home.

         She'd met someone. A man from Martinique. He had wandered into the
         library during a book donation event. There were no empty chairs when he
         arrived. She found one for him. He seemed curious, at the same time a little
         lost. 

         I could see her standing there, wondering if more chairs might be needed for
         more late comers; curious about this late-comer, and drawn to his accent.
         When it was over he seemed to know no one in the room.

         She said she'd had dinner with this man. In our house.

         She didn’t explain how this happened, just that it happened. One minute he
         was a stranger at the back of a room at her library; the next he was sitting
         at our dining table.

         How could this be? How could the person I’d known all my life, a person of
         quiet authority, allow this to happen?

         There was more: this man had insisted on preparing the dinner. Something
         special. Like nothing my mother had eaten before. It required a trip to the
         nearest market.

         My mother didn’t care much for our public markets. She preferred the super-
         market. Things were neatly arranged on shelves; she had her list. He wanted
         to see our public market.

         I was left to imagine the dining event: the table set, glasses, the wine (We
         can’t have dinner without a glass of wine, she said he said) the napkins.

        They must have talked and smiled and listened to each other; a little fuss
        now and then, wondering if everything met each other’s liking. His ease and
        familiarity, telling her ‒ he must have noticed ‒ how very well she’d kept
        herself over the years.

        Everything in the house must have taken on a new glow. Pictures on the wall,
        the furniture. Her tone of voice. We had no dogs or cats, nothing to breeze in
        with sniffing interest.

        At around eight, maybe nine o’clock, they might have moved to chairs in the
        living room. No, he couldn’t just shake hands and be on his way; though at
        this stage what more could he offer to do?

        I could see him making himself comfortable (in my chair), waving away a
        stray mosquito. I could hear her speaking with pride about her daughter,
        away in America ‘studying’.

        In the presence of someone with dinner-cooking skills and a stranger's accent,
        she might have pulled back the covers, hoping again to be admired and taken
        away. Oversharing. Not listening to what she's saying. Glad someone is there.
        in our home listening to her.

       All those years with her, in our home, swept aside by some late-arriving thrill.

        The last time she called our conversation was brief. Along the lines of, So
        how is your new sonic toothbrush? I listened for signs of continuing
        developments. I didn’t want to appear too concerned or curious so I didn’t
        ask about the “Pierre” from Martinique; about his age and occupation, for
        instance.

        Some change had taken place, oui! From the moment of ‘let me help you’ in
        the library, to that evening, ‘let me cook for you’ in our home. I combed
        through the letter for clues.

        So why the fuss here? which sounds like I’m overreacting? over imaginings.
        Well, some things might sound like imaginings to other people.

        Something is slowly sinking in: the beloved only daughter is no longer all
        that matters in her mother’s world. She’s far away, she's out of range. She’s
        still expected not to ‘stray’.

        I can’t stop wondering if the letter was meant to set me free to act in ways
        I’d never acted before. No longer bound by home rules or expectations. And
        if so, what happens now? how should I move on? I mean, what would happen
        if some stranger with dinner-cooking skills were suddenly to cross my path?

        This is where I am at the moment. I just felt like talking about it.

         Desiree D.
         Georgetown, Guyana
         New York City

           

 

 

            < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

            Locket #49:

            Waiting to hear from my friend, Simon. I think he’s dying; for all I know he’s
            already moved on.

            He lives in the Northwest District. As fate would have it we met by pure
            accident in Georgetown. He was here “seeking justice”, only to discover
            that without money or friends with ‘connections’ an Amerindian with
            only 'innocence' is lost. I wish we had known each other earlier.

            We in our early sixties. Among the lucky ones, not physically
            “handicapped”, having to rely on family and relatives. Nowadays you
            can’t afford to even look old and feeble. Helter skelter don’t always see
            in time slower limbs crossing the road.

            I have a son who has grown and moved away. Simon as far as I know has
            sons and daughters.

            His eldest son, Matthew, came to town one day, and was stopped in the
            market square; punched and forced to hand over his phone, his gold chain
            and sunglasses. Poor fellow, he didn’t know where to turn.

            He found his way to the police station in Brickdam, where they asked    
            jokey questions and told him to wait. He waited. When waiting felt like
            humiliation he left.

            From that day I swore whenever Simon came to Georgetown he wouldn’t
            have a problem not knowing where to turn.

            I went with him to the Georgetown hospital. He was in a battle with his
            body. A quiet, private battle. Internal problems, let's leave it at that. I
            didn't press him to talk about it, and I don’t want to make it everybody's
            business.

            He invited me to come visit him in the Northwest. From the sound of it he
            has a nice little farm.

            When he came by me he looked around and I could see questions in his
            eyes.

            I can bolt my doors and rest in reasonable comfort. I have a dog and
            friendly neighbours; to date no real problem living by myself. He seemed
            concerned. What might happen if, for instance, fire break out and hip hop
            from building to building. Or if flood waters creep in the yard and start
            rising.

            Well, it’s the best I can right now, I muttered, answering his thoughts.

            This last visit to the Hospital, he thanked me for the hours I waited with
             him.

            The lady at the desk in her tight bossy clothes told us, “Kindly have a seat
            over there,” the doctor would see us eventually.

            Eventually stretched on and on. Now and then her cheekbones tossed
            unkindly looks our way. Playing her little dominance game. Just waiting
            for anger and frustration to break out on Simon’s face.

            I wanted to jump up and raise hell. Other people turned to each other
            grumbling, You see what this country coming to? Dog house. Collar and
            bone in the dog house. It wouldn’t have helped. Besides, I didn’t want
            to make Simon an object of pity, unable to fend for himself. I put aside
            my irritation and joined him in patience.

            After a stop at a pharmacy I suggested we go to Chinese restaurant.

            Two elderly gentlemen having lunch in a fancy restaurant. An odd pair,
            yes, in a room of table linen and chairs. Not the regular snake charmers
            taking lunch break from public office.

            Simon was wearing blue denim jeans; they didn't look tight at the waist
            and droopy. Where you get those pants? I poked at him. Who you think
            you are? dress up like that? “They feel comfortable”. They should dress
            you that way when you die. “You know, that is not a bad idea.”

            For dinner I’m sure Simon kill and cook plenty snakes, birds, all kinds of
            fish, iguanas, duck. My letter-sorting fingers couldn’t even wring a
            chicken’s neck. But here we were, menu and dishes waiting for our
            decisions.

            I think he liked the idea of the soup served first (which he spooned with
            slow hand movement) and somebody watching, deciding when it’s right
            to approach and clear away bowls for the next course. Everything Ok?
            they kept asking, and he always looked up surprised.

            I told him about my post office work, how I started with house deliveries,
            moving up over the years to Postmaster (Act.) till they asked me to retire.

            He was curious about people I met.  Anticipation and gratitude, rain or
            shine, I said, even before I dug into my mail bag. They’d read their names
            on the envelopes, check the stamps, examine the handwriting. Someone
            had addressed them with dignity. In those days we were formal adults,
            thinking adults.

            In the post office I searched and searched for parcels that hadn’t arrived.
            They might show up tomorrow, or the day after, I’d say. Back then
             nobody accused my post office of theft or opening mail.

            I asked him if it was true people in the forest gave names to birds based
            on the sounds they made. Like the Qu’est ce que dit? And were there
            water spirits that grabbed hold of canoes and pulled them to the bottom
            of the river? He laughed. But that’s what they told us in school, I said. I
            never knew what his laughing meant.

            He let slip he was schooled by nuns at a Catholic school in the interior.
            He still paddles his canoe along the river late afternoons, passing little
            stellings, waving to people. As times changed he had to contend with
            power boats churning up and down the river.

            After lunch I arranged for us to do things. He wanted to see the big rivers.

            I’d hire a car and we took trips up the coast, or cross the Demerara. I
            paid the driver to stop and wait as long as we wanted, take us wherever
            we directed. We stood side by side, ignoring the baking heat, and looked
            out with new astonishment at our big rivers; intent on flow, not caring
            about our shaky bridge builders.

                                                            +

           So one day his son showed up at my house. Short, strapping fellow, with
           gold-rimmed sunglasses. Following the fashion. He hadn’t been to
           Georgetown since the incident in the market square.

           What you doing here? His father sent him to work on my roof. My roof?
           True, it needed work, but I didn’t know who to trust with the job. The
           “estimates” I got sounded like knives sharpening on stone.

           All he needed was the materials, he said. He had a friend, they could do
           the repairs. Where’s your father? How is he? Not doing too well. In fact,
           he didn’t have long to live.

           They say if out of the blue something happen to you, you start aging
           really fast. You add three to every one year. Medicine don’t help. Simon
           might have been dying all this time, but like he decide to say nothing.
           Not a grimace, not a wrinkle, not a twinge. And though I could never be
           sure what he was feeling, it seemed he didn’t want any sadness to
           spoil his afternoons in town.

           I used to be a thrifty person. Somehow thrift found its way from my
           parents’ bible to my habits. Well, that was then.

           I’ve arranged so that everything I own, the house, whatever is left in my
           Savings ('cause since meeting Simon I’ve been wondering if there's any
           point saving?) it will pass to my son. Wherever he is when he hears I’m
           approaching the pearly gates, he’s bound to hurry back here.

           Simon said there were places along the river he was told as a child not to
           go. Voices fell silent as they paddled past; people thought they heard faint
           cries, spirits calling.

           I told him about places in Georgetown I prefer not to go. As a postman my
           job was to deliver to homes with addresses. I looked out for dangerous
           dogs, idle watchers. I didn’t know enough about ‘spirits in the forest’ to
           disregard what he said.

           But I keep having this one dream, over and over, every Monday morning.
           I'm out delivering mail; find myself trapped in a yard; the residents
           refusing to let me leave, accusing me of opening mail; demanding I hand
           over packages they expecting, otherwise they won’t let me go.

           I don’t know much about Simon day to day, but if you ask me, he’s not the
           type to wake up one morning, tired of everyone and everything, and just
           float away. The Northwest is where he’ll live and die; come back and live
           there again.

           I could see him in his corial, paddling past one of the Don’t Go There
           places his parents warned him about; thinking, with not too long on this 
           earth, might as well find out what's really going on back there.

           When I stop getting message he’s coming to Georgetown, mark my word
           that’s where he is; that’s where he’s gone. In blue jeans with cutlass
           and crocus bag. Hailing and waving from the bush. That could be Simon.
          

           F.M. John
           Georgetown, Guyana

 

 

 

 

 

        < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

            Locket #48:

        So somebody comes up behind you and grabs your phone. You’d be shocked
        and angry, right? Make a big scene, run after the man, shouting for somebody
        to stop him.

        I was at the mall with Nadira, my best friend. Our imitation mall. Nadira has
        been to New York and she says our “Mall” is pure imitation; and people stop
        going to malls in New York.

        Then why we coming here? Well, we still catching up with the world.

        Besides, her family like buying expensive things. And imitation or not, our 
        Mall is a not a bad place to wander about and feel safe.

        We attend one of the best schools in Georgetown. I would say ‘the best’, but
        our standards are so all over the swamp, unless you getting a private
        education you can’t be sure what you getting.

        I told Nadira someone grabbed my phone. The look on her face should have
        been the look on my face. When she gets panicky, even a mouse would stop
        and laugh at her.

        I told her I thought I recognized the man who grabbed my phone. He was
        wearing bad boy dark glasses, Nike shoes. There was a tattoo on his wrist.
        The face was narrower. It had lost some of his good looks, but it was Ranji.
        Ranji G. A student from our school. A former student.

        He was two years ahead of us. Nadira and I used to give him long distance
        looks but all we got back was cold shoulder.

        Her Mom phoned, she was outside waiting in the car. So what should I do?

        Nadira thought I should report it to the police. The Police?

        Well, the Security people in the Mall. They must have cameras with the
        whole incident on tape or something. But we’d have to go looking for the
        Manager, and her mother was waiting in the car.

        Just as we stepped outside two fellows on motorbikes appeared. Out of
        nowhere. Shiny helmets, dark glasses. They just rode up and the fellow on
        the second bike sort of threw a phone at me. My cell phone. And they rode
        off.

        I checked to see if it was damaged. Was that the guy who snatched your
        phone? Nadira.

        I was relieved I didn’t have to report anything. I was thinking, our lives can
        grind to a standstill just like that. Somebody grabs your phone, rides away
        away in the wind and your life is at a standstill.

        I told Nadira not to say anything. I got my phone back, and that was the end
        of that.

        Knowing Nadira, it couldn’t be the end of that. The moment her mother
        dropped me off, her mouth opens, the story pops out. Some man on a motor
        cycle snatched Annette’s phone!

        And her mother would say something back, something stupid and frightened,
        about certain people in this country (whom she identifies by the pigtails
        sticking out under the helmets); the way they treating this place, scaring
        her to death with their road behavior.

        She is like so many people, they see and hear things they vaguely under-
        stand. 

        There are pictures in our papers. Gross pictures so we could feed like  
        passing crows. Dead bodies, battered bodies, people arrested, people
        released, homes burnt down in vexation. All we could do is hope and pray,
        if we avoid trouble, it will leave us alone.

                                                     +

        Of course, the matter didn’t end there. I started getting messages. On the
        phone. From Ranji. The phone he snatched and handed back.

        Unreal, I said the same thing. I couldn’t believe somebody would do anything
        like this.

        At first he signed his text ‘Bombay Boomboy’. Then he changed it to BB.
        Then still not happy with the tag he signed it B2 and he stayed with that.

        From what he says, he has joined some motorcycle gang. And he’s involved
        with the Narcotic Trade people you hear about in our country. I’m not
        joking.

        To give you an idea, here are samples of what he wrote.

        Showed Miss T. how her profits would improve if she did business with us.
        Her market stall perfect for drop off/pick up. Told Ras man to change
        balance – 350 (bought) 400 (sold). It's not a waste of pineapples.

        N’jeeryan causing problems. Made it clear he's responsible for any loss of
        product. He’s a courier. Told him, do his job. Deliver. Don’t open package.
        Bikes a better transport investment. Maintenance the courier’s problem.

        Next month code change. Old: Do you want to see my Amerindian girlfriend
        tonight?  New: The children need dresses. Buy me four dresses. Birthday
        preparations moving okay.

        Complaint about last delivery from P’roon. Ordered to send it back. Top
        layer good. Bottom layer look like sawdust. Told them use coffee beans to
        cover scent. Strict rules of business and accounting.

        BoomBoss threaten to discipline people riding about on bikes and drawing
        attention to themselves. Bikes bought with Company profits to be used like
        Company vehicles. Punishment for disobedience they will not like.
 
        Package from P‘ribo turned out to be a woman. Picked up at Beach 63.
        Don’t know what she carried that was so precious. Language problem. Did
        what we were told. Middle of the night, transport to GT. No questions.

        Like postcards from another world. And for my eyes only.

        When all is said and done, he could only end up one place, in the half-
        naked punishment of our jails. But he’s out of school now, and he doesn’t
        care who approves or disapproves what he's doing. 

                                                           +

        I still wonder, why me? Snatching my phone, the toss and ride drama outside
        the Mall. Is he looking for a friend?

        Someone like Ranji with his motorcycle style and fast flow shouldn’t have
        problems. His headlight bulbs glow day and night; he's revved and ready to
        go. Maybe the girls he meets aren’t his type.

        I mentioned his name to my English Teacher the other day. Told her I’d seen
        him. Where? How is he? I think she enjoys “following” her students after
        they graduate.

        I can’t imagine what he’s going through. It’s her favourite line. She uses it to
        display “empathy”; and with that word she’s helping us develop, she says,
        our 'underdeveloped capabilities'.

        She talks like she needs to hear “news” about all of us, like it feeds some  
        hunger or unhappiness she holds inside. Her eyes light up; but I cut her off
        that time. I wasn’t going to give her any pleasure, tracking Ranji’s
        ‘development’ outside.

        Besides, I suspect she’s quietly plotting her ‘move away’ moves. She gets
        agitated, shouting at us over little things. At times we catch her staring out
        the window. The creatures and vegetation in the swamp. I can do better
        than this. It doesn’t take much to push her off topic, off her windowsill into
        the wind.

        Maybe Ranji sensed I couldn’t find the courage to approach him. And now,
        like he’s blaming me. See what happen? If you had stepped up and declared
        your feelings, this wouldn’t have happened. Our lives might have been
        different. Yes, think about that.

        Like he’s trying to implicate me. I wouldn't let him pull me in.

        It could be a pride thing. From Canal District (about his family we knew
        nothing) worrying what people thought about him. All his friends moving on,
        doing something in shirt and tie, while he’s there riding motorcycles and
        doing clearly psychiatric things. Proving at least he has spine for something.

        Could be fantasy thing. Like Nadira. She likes to pretend she is ready for
        the sex she hasn’t started having.

        She has this tattoo on her hip line, in a little harbour just above her buttocks.
        I don’t know when or where she had it done. She’s still alive so obviously
        her mother hasn’t seen it.

        She showed it to me one day; shaking her behind to demonstrate how she
        expects to be humped; like I’m her secret mirror. Wait till she finds out
        what else it involves.

        I have my problems, but to her they’re not as important. But I’m generally
        a cautious person. And to be honest we want different things out of life,
        out of the swamp.

                                                            +

        I ask myself, when his riding eventually stops, and his picture gets in the
        newspapers (with nothing to smile about) and people find out everything,
        what am I suppose to do? speak up for him? take his side? I can't just do
        nothing, watch him stare out then disappear in the day's swamp news.

        His messages come late at night. The short bursts. He probably hopes I read
        them rightaway and go to bed thinking about him.

        I wait until early next morning. Pull back the blinds, let the sun wash over
        my night clothes. I check the phone, a new message is there! it's like, Since
        you were always interested in who I am, here. grip on this. and this.

        I take in every word. Sometimes I stay in bed imagining the drama, letting it
        float around inside; until my mother bangs on the door and tells me to move
        my lazy behind.

        I should maybe throw the phone away, get a new number; though when he
        realizes his messages aren’t getting through, who knows what might happen
        next?

        He might get angry. He might start “stalking” me. Out of the blue showing
        up again, taking off his dark glasses, wanting to talk now; hoping I’ll see him
        in a better light. I swear if that happens, I’ll tell him straight: stay away
        from me.

        Anyway, I have to focus. Exams! Final exams! only months away.

        I don’t hang outside too long now. In the house; spending solid, scholarship-
        hungry hours; making notes in the margins. Studying.

        You wouldn’t find anyone more motivated to get past these final exams.
        I just had to move this Ranji stuff out the way first. No, I’m not letting go
        of my phone.

        Annette B.
        Georgetown, Guyana

 

 

 

       < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

          Locket #47:

          Well, I have made a big decision. About my father and me. It has been
          forming for years. I am only telling it here because I think it’s unhealthy to
          keep certain things locked away in your vault. You can read it like a
          confession, if you’re Catholic.

          I used to think I'd inherited my mother’s genes, her anxieties. She grew up
          in Canal District; poor, one of seven children. She decided at some point
          she didn’t want to be like her mother and go through seven pregnancies.
          She met my father, they married and they had only one child. That’s me.

          So my decision? Well, my grandmother bore seven; my mother brought
          one child into the world. I will not have any. We’ve reached the end of
          this line.

          I always thought my father was content in the marriage. He was a quiet
          man, he read a lot. He encouraged me to leave the District, to study and
          work abroad.

          He has framed pictures of me, his only daughter. Tells everyone how I’m
          doing. I have never felt closer to anyone else in my life.

          Mom died of cancer when I was seventeen. We buried her on a Sunday. My
          father insisted I go out to school the next day, ignore what people might
          say. I came home early that afternoon and found him with the woman
          who helped in our house.

          Mom was not energetic at house cleaning. Too tired, or not inclined. She
          hired helpers; Dad made sure they were well paid. She kept changing them,
          or maybe they left on account of her “attitude”.

           This woman was in her thirties. She'd been with us longer than the rest, and
          there he was that afternoon doing it with her.

           She was bracing herself on my mother’s dresser, her dress was up and he
           was behind her, his buttocks (recently bereaved) jabbing away. I had
           never before witnessed a display of energy like that from him.

           My heart was screaming and racing up my throat. Why was he having her
           like that, with her hands bracing Mom’s dresser?

           I’m sure he heard something outside. It might have caused some
           hesitation, the helper panicking a little, turning her head. He might have
           said something to her, keeping her focused, hurrying now.
            
          I slipped away. I walked to the end of the road. When I came back I
          slammed the front door; a loud “Hi, dad”, my eyes locked on my phone.
          And straight to my room.

          I blamed my mother. This would not have happened if things were ‘normal’;
          if somehow she’d had more children; if she had come home earlier from
          work in Georgetown.
 
          Dad and I never spoke about it. Since it "never happened”, there was
          nothing to talk about. But my attitude to the helper changed. I could barely
          speak or look at her.
 
          At the dinner table we ate mostly in silence. He'd ask if something was
          bothering me. It must have weighed on him, Mom not being there;
          wondering if I knew about his carrying on with the house helper.

         He believed there is a “context”, a set of circumstances for everything. He
         wasn’t quick to accuse or judge anyone. He let the whole house helper thing
         hang in the air like a puzzle. Now and again he’d drop clues for me to piece
         together our context.

         “Women aren’t all 100 percent faithful," he said one evening, opening casual
          conversation with his only daughter, soon to be a woman. “Some drift into
          odd behaviors as a way to escape”. Okay, like wanting to escape the house,
          the village, the overgrown grass; insects and roadside stalls. Canal is Canal.

          There are men in the District able and willing. Out of the goodness (or
          lurking idleness) of heart, they offer to help in any way they can, behind
          closed doors, out of sight somewhere. Friends and neighbours suspecting
          something going on usually lower their suspicions to whispers. It’s easier
          to get away with this, easier than hiding theft or prejudice. Anything was
          possible.

          Mom had always longed for style and security in her life. She had a sister
          in Canada; she talked of moving there one day. Dad wasn’t eager to
          emigrate. Longings can pile up.

           Her afternoons late at work in Georgetown became excuses for coming
           home late. She probably hung out with a few men, friends and
           acquaintances; people in Real Estate, men who traveled, with business
           to take care of in the world.

           I imagined her laughing, talking excitedly, with men who gave her little
           bows of admiration. Maybe having too much to drink once in a while,
           and next thing you know she is taking off her clothes, and for the wildest,
           brief moment a different life was passing through her body, outside the
           Canal.

             Her cancer swept in out of nowhere, like through a window left open. It
           brought its own unimaginable pain. She had firm, beautiful breasts, and
           never tired of shifting her blouse, checking her profile.

           Dad wanted her to go abroad for treatment. She made excuses.This was
           not how she imagined travelling to see the world. Besides, they told her 
           she was too far gone.

           I think we were close to each other then, our sadness a quiet, tightlipped
           denying thing.

                                                             +

           So why didn’t Dad confront her? That would have been the normal thing
           to do; saying something, on even a whiff of suspicion.

           He probably did say something to her. I used to hear low-droning
           conversations coming from their bedroom.

           She might have said over and over, Nothing is happening in Georgetown.
           Nothing. And he would be like, Okay, nothing happening. After all. what
           purpose would it serve? scratching the surface, on the flimsiest suspicion?
           starting fires that could consume their lives?

           Still, I know! you wonder, how could any person react like that, calm
           and even-tempered?

           Men in the District are known for forcing issues. They don’t have time
           for explanations. Instruments of pain are lying around, within hands reach.
           The angriest I ever heard Dad was when he said once, You really shouldn’t
           talk to people like that.

           Here’s something else, another piece of the puzzle. The day I came into
           this world. He remembers that day very well.

           “They told me, Go home! She wasn’t ready to deliver; there was no point
            waiting around the hospital." 

            The next day he saw the look on her face, a lingering grimace, tired from
            all the pushing and pain. He saw the way she held me and breast fed me.
            Totally relieved it was over.

             It was clear to him, her mind was made up: she would not go through
             the pain of child bearing again.

             I think for Dad this must have been the heart-changing moment of his life.
             I think it directed relations between them from there on.

             Intimacy was now accompanied by her fear of pregnancy again (to put
             her body through abortion was completely out of the question) so they
             did it less and less, until eventually they didn’t do much at all.

             Raising me (I would say she wanted me to grow up quickly, stop
             demanding so much of her time) was her fussy, ‘good parent’ doing; but
             the feeling of belonging to our family (I would say) was Dad’s work. He
             was our house hold together.

             I’ve had boyfriends. I’ve had sex. Certain acts I refuse to perform. I’m
             not into helping anyone. They might ask, How was it for you? I just smile.
             Can’t wait for our temperatures to cool; get back into clothes.

             I don’t like people talking about me behind my back. I can tell, just the
             look on the face, they’ve been talking; like I’m some weird person. I
             find myself abruptly shutting down when the conversation slows, and
             they ask, So where you from? Eventually we drift apart.

             Sometimes I let them know, plain and straight, I have things to do,
             important matters to think about that don’t involve them.

             I could never return to our house, with Dad and the house helper; not
             knowing if they continued helping each other.

             Dad is getting older. I don’t think he’ll survive on his own back there. He
             might become the target of another woman, fluttering round his head,
             wanting to take care of him. She might tempt him to tell her everything ‒
             about me, Mom, the house helper (maybe not the house helper).

             At his stage he deserves days of quiet leisure. We must always be moving
             forward, he told me once. So I’m working to bring him out the country.

             Last I heard from him, his days were moving faster, the years slower.
             He’d taken up meditation. He has friends but I won’t describe them as
             men of ‘power and influence’. And for what it’s worth he never had my
             mother’s hidden, sideways moves.

             One morning he’ll wake up and realize, I’m too old for this. Meaning, by
             ‘this’, what’s taking place around him, for which there seems no rational
             explanation.

             He might start forgetting who he is. That ‘forgetting’ thing is popping up
             in the District.

             I’ve tried to say everything here within limits, leaving out details and
             stuff. Not asking for sympathy. And please, don’t start some search in
             the District, trying to find out about our family.

             Anyone who thinks nothing like this could ever happen in that place ‒ she
             must be holding back or making up stuff! ‒ well, looks like somehow I’ve
             escaped your expectations. Sorry.

             Anyway, this is where I draw the line.

             Radeesha M.
             Canal District, Guyana
             Toronto, Canada

       

 

 

      < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

        Locket #46:

         The other day I met the oldest man in my life. Mr. Goldfields. 90 years old.
        More than 70 years older than me. I couldn’t believe it. Born way back in
        the 1920s or something.

        He didn’t look that old. He carried a stick, maybe to fend off stray dogs or
        idle young men with hurtful intentions. And he walked with a limp, his thighs
        stringy in short pants; pushing himself, step by step, to show everyone age
        didn’t matter.

        We had a conversation. A one-sided conversation, since he did most of the
        talking. With some old men, patience and politeness is required. Like my
        grandfather. He was a civil servant, an imperious man ‒ his favorite words,
        “May I remind you.” ‒ who expected you to follow his example. And my
        grandmother who stayed close to the church of her childhood.

        The last thing you want is some old man gassing you to death with  
        memories and judgment. They do this in the newspapers, on our television,
        sounding mournful or excited. How hard or how better everything was in
        their day and age. And how much they love their country. What a blessed
        place to scatter last thoughts and ashes; their loving thoughts, everybody’s
        ashes.

        I like the ones waiting with dignity to pass on. Content with a smile and a
        pleasant “Good Morning.” If you sit with them, they might not say much,
        but every word speaks truth.

        This oldster was out for his “morning constitution”, walking, from his home
        in Kitty Village, outside Georgetown, to the seawall, then back home. Long
        past three score and ten, he said, sounding bible-ish. Taking in the morning
        air before the heat and the work traffic took over, by which time he was
        back in his yard.

        He said he used to walk the length of the sea wall before they raised it to
        hold back the ocean. “That seawall is about two miles long. You know how
        long it took to build it?” he asked, slowing down for the first time. “Over
        thirty years. 30 years hard labour.” Where you hear that? In the gold fields?
        “I knew you’d say that. The head on these shoulders holds knowledge.”

        After 20 years in the gold fields using your hands, if you walk a lot you live
        to be 90; you lose body mass, but your head holds knowledge. Okay.

        He said he did a lot of thinking when he walked. Like he was plucking
        thoughts from the air, left and right, discarding the ones he didn’t want. He
        was far from finished with life.

        In his day there was brightness over the land, he said. Brightness? Most of
        the buildings were painted white, and the sun fell and spread bright light
        everywhere. Everybody, rich or poor, was touched with brightness. You felt
        alive. There was space for bicycles, bright light and surprise.

        “Now they putting up these stone structures. Sometimes I does stop and
        wonder, Who are these prisoners up there in the sky?”

        New buildings blocking out the sun, casting shadows. I could see that. And
        hot days, burning hot days. I don’t know if the city is more bright or less
        bright.

        Back home from his walk, a cup of tea was waiting, he said, and two soft
        boiled eggs. I could see him at his breakfast table, sipping and munching;
        and sorting out new thoughts like pocket change. Night time he poured a
        shot of Eldorado rum in a cup of tea, and he listened to the village night
        noise.

        I wondered if he had a birdcage with a bird. My father won't allow a birds in
        our house. Too rural, like hanging sheets outside on a line.

        He’d spent his young years, by which he meant 20 to 40, in the gold fields.
        In his day without a Go Forward school education (bad exam results), what
        else could a young fellow do? Those 20 years were the best years of his life.
        He saw everything, did everything, good and bad.

        While he spoke I was wondering: did he have family or relatives who worried
        about him? And if he came out the gold fields after 40 years, and was now
        past six score and ten, what happened to the years in between? what did he
        do? did he ever have reason to dress up once in awhile?

                                                      +

       The very next morning, it was Saturday, and burning with curiosity I got up
       meaning to cross paths with him. I'd pretend it was by chance we were
       meeting again.

       It was raining. I hate having to be out in the rain. I have a bicycle for errands.

       He was out there. Soaking wet. Coming back from his walk. Master of the sun
       and rain, our old man of the universe. I had to admire his persistence.

       He didn’t act surprised to see me. Maybe he thought after the conversation
       the day before I had been thinking about what he said; and here I was again
       ready for more enlightenment.

       When you pass my house you always talking to yourself, I said, joking with
       him. “I don’t talk to myself.” I see your lips moving. “I’m thinking aloud.
       It only sound like I talking ‘cause now you hearing the words.” Okay.

       You don’t live on my street. “This village used to have narrow streets, horse
       drawn carts, bicycles. Now the cars and vans, they knocking down cows and
       anybody in the way. People starved for the future. They’d run over anything
       to get there. Crash into trees, take fast corners, spin and tumble over.
       Tyres getting old, they run them to the ground, they keep running on rims
       to the future.”

       Well, goals and aspirations, usually that’s what drive us forward, I said,
       getting off my wheels, matching his steps. “Yes, forward to the fields of
       gold and death.” I don’t understand. “The fields you dig, the waste you rinse
       and wait to see which serves you first, gold or death.” Okay.

       "Then you start to wonder where to end your life.” Where? “I came back
        here at age 40. The streets hadn’t changed. Houses the same.” Where to
        end your life? “Yes, where. How and when are instruments out your hands.”

        “Most people ask the same question – where? – all their life. They wake up
         to ordinariness, every day the same ordinariness. The present refusing to
         fulfill, refusing go past. Everybody waiting for the future to start. Ignition,
         gobble gobble, nothing. Ignition, giggle giggle, nothing.”

         His voice was rising and fuming with irritation. Eventually I stopped. I told
         him I was really going the other way, I would see him around.

         He raised a hand, like he was signing me off; like it wasn’t his fault, he
         didn’t interrupt wherever I was going. And it didn’t matter whether or
         not I understood what he was saying.

         That same night after our conversation I had this dream. I’d taken off for
         Bartica, the mining town. I didn’t tell anyone. I traveled until I found what
         looked like a mining quarry.

         It wasn't how I imagined it. There was a camp and an office and a manager
         type fellow outside having a smoke; a place selling liquor; two women,
         their brassiere straps dangling, who smiled and asked my name. I didn’t
         know where to turn, who to trust.

         Then this Amerindian showed up. Tall man in a plaid shirt who smiled and
         tried to sell me a bow and arrow kit. He said I had to be careful, this was
         a dangerous place. No, not just tigers and snakes. I could get stabbed,
         arguing over nothing or nonsense.

         He squeezed my shoulders. I had to have tough skin, he said, and a hard
         stomach. Maybe this wasn’t the right place for me. He tried again to sell
         me the bow and arrow kit.

         I told him I liked birds. He identified the bird sounds I was hearing – That’s
         the Piha, same three note every time. It set me thinking, maybe I could
         become a bird expert one day.

         The first night in the hammock, my father showed up, shouting so loud he
         woke up everybody. 

         What are you doing here? I told him it was time to start my 20 to 40. I
         wasn’t trying to be rebellious. He went on and on, loud and embarrassing.
         We didn’t raise you to come here then return. Your life isn’t circular.

         It became clear he hadn’t come all this way to save me, to take me back.
         He and his public gassing are now part of a series of dreams I’ve been
         having.

         Who knows what this place will be like in forty years. If Mr. Goldfields is right,
         not much will change. Higher roofs blocking the sun. The ocean pounding the
         seawall to get in. Street by street, people and buildings, new and
         dilapidated, jostling for brightness and space.

         Lots of fellows my age find themselves in the swamps for their lives. All they
         can think of is survival, gold and death like gun twins stuck in their pants
         belt, if you know what I mean. Lucky if they reach forty and not in jail.

         I’d intended to ask the old man about the years after he came out the gold
         fields. The fifty or so years? between then and now? That’s a big gap. What
         happened? what did he do besides walking? Completely forgot to ask.

         Anyway, that is it for me. Not getting up again early in the morning to walk
         anywhere with anyone rain or shine. I have things to do. Things!

         Mark Duncan Cadogan,
         Georgetown, Guyana

 

 

 

  

         < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice In Guyana >

           Locket # 27:

           My uncle wears neat khaki at his job in our Police Force. He likes to tell people
           he worked his way up through the ranks to his office desk and quiet zone. He
           has this wooden plaque with the words, Ex nihilo nil fit. It rests on his desk
           like a correcting rod.

           My father had this idea, after graduation I should spend June through August at
           my uncle’s station house, before moving on with my life. Get a taste of police
           work, see if you like it, they need smart young women in the force.

           Well, I did my time there, and I can tell you, a police station among the boys
           and men in serge and khaki is a place of drama, the worse kind of drama.
           Sorry, no role for me.

           I have one man to thank for this. Mahendra Mahadeo.

           The day shift fellows at the station called him Mad Mahadeo. From Canal
           District. I should tell you, he died weeks back. He was driving a tractor and
           the tractor tip over and fall on him.

           I know, I asked myself the same question. In this flat country, how could a
           tractor tip over and crush you, just like that?

           He came in one afternoon, announcing he just got robbed. Came straight up
           to the front desk where he probably expected everyone to drop everything
           and listen to him. The corporal in serge told him calm down, go sit on the
           bench; someone would be with him shortly.

           And poor Mahadeo sat on the bench, perspiring, hunched over a little, his shirt
           straining to contain the baby whale in his belly. I notice he had a fresh haircut.

           His mouth must have felt dry, he had no bottled water. He looked over at me
           answering the phone whenever it rang, like the errand girl or message person
           in the building.

           I offered to take his information. Attacked and robbed in public, he needed
           proper understanding. How hard could that be?

           He wasn’t keen on the idea at first. I wasn’t dressed like I was employed there.
           The corporal stood over my shoulder like he was the Officer in Charge, and
           Mahendra stared hard in my face, making sure I put down all the pain in all his
           words.

           Get robbed in broad daylight, he said. Just come out the bank, about half a
           million dollars (our million) in a bag, when “two black chaps” ride up behind
           him on motorbike. One twist his head ‒ “he had a snaky tattoo on his neck” ‒
           pointed a gun at him, and grabbed the bag.

           (You probably heard, we have roaming bandits, like roaming horses, ownerless,
           grazing day or night, any and everywhere. Some carry knives and guns, and
           they don’t care. It still nice to live here, though.)

           And it all happened so fast, was just after 11 o’clock, outside a school building.
           Students looking out a top floor window might have seen the whole thing.

           His heart never pound so hard, he said, it didn’t even let him shout. (I left
           out the part where he was sure somebody in the bank tipped them off. Was 
           an inside job.)

           He thought first of taking a minibus and just going home. He started walking
           back to the bank, Then he decided to walk all the way to our station to report
           the matter.

           In the end, an officer in khaki came outside with the statement his hand,
           giving the impression he had read it. He told Mahendra Mahadeo he would
           “address the matter urgently”. And when Mahendra Mahadeo seemed not
           convinced, he told him, “a thorough investigation will be ongoing. The
           scoundrels will be found if we have to shake every coconut tree”.

           I can’t imagine the state he was in when he got home that day.

           I told my mother, it was really terrible the way they treated him. And the
           conversation afterwards in the station house was really stupid. What he
           expect? we should call in FBI people to solve his case? like he more
           important than anybody. And, He lucky he didn’t get hurt. That money gone.

           He kept coming back for any news, asking to speak to “the same khaki chap"
           who was in charge the first day, nobody else. I couldn’t tell what was more
           important, getting his money back, or redeeming the time he spent on the 
           bench.

           The desk serge told him they still working on the case. They had identified a
           “person of interest”.

           He was accompanied by a woman, well dressed, sunglasses, strands of grey
           hair, who said not a word until they were leaving. Then: “You think we don’t
           know what going on here? This is damn nonsense. But don’t worry, we will get
           justice.” The same outburst, spraying the walls of the station house.

           She didn’t sound like a lawyer, insisting on his rights; more like Mahadeo’s
           guardian angel now, sharing his burden; and probably fighting some hurtful
           issue of her own.

           As they were leaving she glanced over at me, probably wondering what the
           world was coming to, now they have schoolgirls in the station house taking
           statements when they not checking their phone. I didn’t take that personally.

                                                                *

           I read in the newspapers, page 4, how Mahendra Mahadeo died. It really upset
           me. I don’t think anybody in the station house even blink an eye. It probably
           didn’t occur to them it was our Mahadeo, the victim of that broad daylight
           robbery.

           These boys in serge, I bet you, if ever something was to come over our
           Pakaraima mountains, something that needed to be stopped in its tracks,
           these boys would run, swim, vanish in the bush.

           I made enquiries. I phoned from the station house, pretending I was following
           up on the investigation. I asked if it was the same Mahadeo. A sad voice
           confirmed it was. From the same home address in Canal District. I left my
           condolences.

           And would you believe, the next day somebody called back.

           I answered the phone and I recognized the voice right away ‒ the woman who
           accompanied him whenever Mahendra Mahadeo showed up at the station for
           any news.

           Her call was not to thank me for the condolences. I didn’t hear any grieving in
           her voice. She asked me to convey a message.

           I should tell “the fellow in khaki” who spoke to them, if he really want to find
           “persons of interest” in Mahendra’s case, look for people hanging round the
           city roadsides on crutches. “With bruk knee”. He should haul these people into
           the station house for questioning. “Some two-leg creatures need harness; some
           stray dogs should be put away.”

           I didn’t understand what she meant, but the next day I arrived at the station
           house the boys in serge were loud and excited. “We had company last night.”
           I thought at first they had arrested prostitutes here illegally.  

           Some lady in head wrap and gold bangles burst in to make a report, creating
           one big scene; how some “crazy coolie man” jump out a car, pull her son off
           his bike, and give him three blows on his left knee.

           With a cricket bat. Bruk up his left knee. Leave him on the road in worthless
           pain. He in hospital. They say he might not walk normal again. Some crazy
           coolie man do this to him. Worthless pain.

           On my way home that same afternoon, passing the Georgetown Hospital,
           something tell me why not check with the hospital staff, find out how many
           patients they admitted recently with knee injuries. It would only take 10 
           minutes, what was so difficult about that?

           And would you believe, there were three cases over the past six weeks! Three
           fellows admitted and treated for serious knee injury. They stayed for awhile.
           Left on crutches. Made no complaint. Gave no explanation of what happened.

           I had a theory, but the moment I opened my mouth my uncle might have sent
           me to the station “detectives”. I don’t know what clothes they wear, maybe
           they go around detecting in plain clothes.

           Anyhow, I had seen enough, heard enough ‒ report after report of robbery,
           house break in, car stolen, girl child missing. Enough to give you skin bumps
           and nightmares.

           On my last day I went in to Uncle’s office to say goodbye. He was in his comfort
           chair reading the newspapers, trying hard to ignore what people say about him,
           how he's old and not really qualified for the job despite coming through the
           ranks.

           I chose the same hour of day when Mahendra Mahadeo returned to the station
           asking for news. Please don’t make too much of that.

           Uncle said he hoped I had a good experience. I could use it on a scholarship
           application. He hoped I understood now how hard his job was keeping law and
           order in the city. As he hugged and rubbed my back (for good while, I had to
           pull away), I said, “Some things happen here you can’t find the right language
           to explain.”

           And he said, That is true, so true; as if that was what his shiny grey head had
           been trying to tell the young generation all along. He wished me luck and
           urged me to do nothing I would regret later in life.

           One day I will call that woman who came with Mahendra; find out what really
           happened; how a tractor could tip over and fall on you like that. A girl my age,
           lucky so far, has other things to worry about, like the true life that is coming; 
           clear sky, road closed, allergies; all certain to find me.

           Valentina Sharpe
           Georgetown, Guyana

         

 

 

         < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

         Locket # 25:

         When I took this job as the Building Super Mr. Cato was the sole occupant of
         Apt. #5E. From Guyana. I had no trouble with him. He was a man of strange
         habits, but a straight arrow. Ironed the shirts he wore. Spoke his educated
         English, even though his education apparently didn’t get past High school.

         He gave me a heads-up about when he would die. September was not a good
         month for him. If something happens, it will happen in September/October.

         The turn of the weather was what troubled him. He found it hard adapting to
         changes, hot for a few days, cold the next day. Nothing in his life went right
         at that time, he said. He liked it when the season firmed up and stayed on
         course.

         And would you believe, he died first week in October.

         One morning I didn’t see him. I was up and about at the front of the building.
         Usually round about 9.00 a.m. he’d emerge through the basement entrance,
         cross the road to the Deli; get his Daily News, play his lottery numbers.
         Sometimes he stopped to chat.

         When I didn’t see him I refused to think grave thoughts. It was only after a
         package for him remained uncollected in the lobby. He was prompt picking
         them up. Along with the mail. That got my attention.

         I went up to his floor, pressed the doorbell. No response. Something was not
         right. And that’s how we found him the next day; slumped over his numbers
         at the dining table; gone.

                                                          *

         After they took his body away ‒ natural causes, no sign of foul play ‒ my
         concern was getting the apartment fixed and ready for new occupancy.

             His daughter arrived. His neighbor in 5#D ‒ an elderly lady from his country
         who’d been asked to keep an eye on him ‒ contacted her. She lived in Florida,
         his only child. She claimed she visited him at least twice every year, but I
         never saw her around.

             I caught her lugging big black plastic bags through the hallway out to the
         sidewalk.

         Looks like he left a lot of stuff for you, I said. “You can’t imagine. Books,
         old records? You know anyone interested in old LPs? And lottery tickets.
         Piles and piles of old tickets.” I know he played his numbers at the Deli.
         “This was beyond playing.”

         Mr. Cato had kept all his losing tickets. Small piles of them in rubber bands.
         Something to do filing with the IRS to recover his losses.

         He kept records of the winning Lottery numbers. Not in a ledger. Multiple
         school composition books, with years and years of numbers. With circles
         and linking lines.

         Did he win anything big? “If he did, he didn’t tell me.” He told me September
        /October was an unlucky time for him. “That’s another thing,” his daughter
         said.

         He had composition books filled with what looked like health charts; with
         numbers for every week, every month of the year; indicating good days and
         bad days, good weeks, months, years. This closed-in guy keeping strict
         medical records was his own physician.

         Not that he had nothing else to do with his life.

             He liked baseball. Followed Yankee baseball on his radio. I know because we
         talked about a Yankee/Mets subway series. And how ever since Mr. October
         (the Yankee baseball great) retired, they hadn’t been able to find another
         like him. That was the closest he came to arguing about something.

         On national holidays he went down to Chinatown. That was his gig, eating
         Chinese food on July 4th, Labor Day. Weird. Unusual, to say the least. I can
         only tell you what I saw and what I was told.

                                                       *

          Mr. Cato’s daughter wanted help disposing of the furniture. I told her I
          couldn’t “give her something” for tables, chairs, stuff with little resale
          value. I wanted the apartment cleared.

              Short of leaving everything on the sidewalk as garbage, she didn’t have
          many options. People this side of Brooklyn might be struggling, but salvaging
          stuff on the sidewalk (usually a sign someone had passed) wasn’t likely to
          happen.

          Did he really work on Wall Street? I asked. “That’s what he said, that’s what
          he did.” Struck me as kind of weird.

          He didn’t fit my picture of the Wall Street type. Except for the London style
          trench coat, with the lapels and the belt? Long after they went out of fashion
          he wore his trench coat.

          “Did he ever tell you his Wall Street job story?” I had no idea there was a
           Wall Street story. “About how he got hired, all because his boss considered
           him a math wizard. He could do math calculations in his head. Fast and
           accurate. Just give him the numbers.”

           You mean, like one of those freaky people on TV? doing amazing tricks with
           numbers? “He wasn’t freaky. Maybe he didn’t go to college, but you saw all
           the books in his apartment? He knew everything about Accounting.”

           As the story goes, Mr. Cato made an instant first impression on his boss.

               Came off the subway one day, wondering why the Wall Street stop looked
           cleaner, more prosperous than the rest. Came up to the streets. The
           financial district.

           It was lunchtime. The man who would later become his boss was at a hotdog
           stand. He never got over that, his boss buying hotdogs for lunch, then sitting
           on a bench nearby munching and chatting.

           He sidles up to him. Tells him he has this talent with numbers. The boss is
           curious; takes a bite of his hotdog; decides to test him. Gets blown away by
           Mr. Cato’s performance. It was like a job interview in the streets.

           And that's how he got hired. On the spot. Got his cubicle with a glass partition,
           his name on the payroll. And since he seemed not too ambitious, not anxious
           for promotion, his boss kept him, under his wing, all those years. Gave him
           a bunch of printouts with numbers in the morning, which Mr. Cato checked
           for accuracy, and returned “in a jiffy”, Verified/Okay. 

           Sometimes he completed his day’s task during his lunch hour; went out for
           his hotdog break. Some days he left the office early, he said, to avoid the
           rush hour.

           It sounded like the kind of story that comes up in conversation at Thanksgiving.
           Hard to believe; raising smiles and eyebrows. But how to explain leaving the
           apartment every working day, the London trench coat, his just-in-case
           umbrella. The man had to be baking and making somewhere.

           After he retired his daughter said she worried he would fall and break a bone,
           jostling through the crowds on the subway platform at his age. He was subject
           to aches and pains and dissatisfactions like everybody, but I never heard him
           complain. Hardly noticed the energy that kept his legs moving ‒ past sixty,
           seventy, eighty years old.

           His death was sudden, as if he just stopped in mid-stride and kind of slumped
           over, eyes half-open.

                                                       *

               After Mr. Cato’s departed Apt. # 5E had two sets of occupants. The first guy
          (and his girlfriend) attracted the interest of the police precinct. One day they
          took him away for questioning. The girlfriend eventually moved out.

          Now a family from Nigeria occupies the apartment. The man is bulky and
          serious; leaves the building at four in the morning. I think he drives Airport
          Taxi. The mother is at home raising the kids. Three so far. They stay close to
          her when she emerges in her robes on her way to the supermarket.

          There have been rent problems, heating complaints. I am expected to fix
          everything rightaway. Mr. Cato’s neighbor complained about the children
          playing ball outside her door.

          What was wrong with the new tenants? She missed Mr. Cato’s quiet manner,
          his day to day self-certainty.

          The man came to this city with his schoolboy talent for numbers. Must have
          seen what was going on around him, the coarseness and hustle. Must have
          heard the sirens responding to the worst levels of depravity in the streets.
          Somehow he found an overpass, tightened his trench coat belt, went his
          own way.

              I don't think he had a plan. Most of us have dreams, or some tired excuse for
          a life; he had his Wall Street gig to get to every morning. We all got to live,
          in and outside the shadows. The grass is for grazing too.

          Mr. Cato’s daughter left his body with a Brooklyn funeral home. For the fee
          they promised to dispose of his ashes.

          He loved Brooklyn. He didn’t talk much to me about Guyana, or about
          returning there. People back home were sloppy and slippery with numbers.
          Six for nines run rings around suspicious minds, I think those were his
          words. Like something he might have said at the Thanksgiving table, along
          with the Wall Street job story. Company probably started him up until he got
          boring.

          Only thing he missed from home was riding a bike.

          You have to know the man well enough to trust the story. I can’t say I knew
          Mr. Cato that well. I came to respect the man, though; out there on his own,
          cooling his brain cells with a numbers game.

          Calvin Lookman,
          Brooklyn, USA

 

 

 

         

      < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

         Locket # 24:

         When Pathoo left our NorthWest District he was a still young; thirtyyish, not
         married, a man of strong moral character, I would say. Sister Miriam would
         bear me out on that. She wanted to travel to Georgetown to testify on his
         behalf, but she too old to travel.

         She knew him as a boy at the school run by the nuns. She treated him like a
         son, watched him push off and paddle back home every day. Pathoo was shy,
         she said, but when he raised his head you only had to look in his eyes to find
         honesty in his character.

         She inspired him to start up the river taxi business, ferrying old people and
         children, morning and afternoon. People in our District had only good things
         to say about Pathoo, the boat operator. How he helped with running errands,
         doing favours, in sickness or in need. All you had to do was leave a bandanna
         or a white cloth on a pole to alert him. And I will say this, Pathoo is a man of
         courage.

         One morning he decided to move to Georgetown. I couldn’t understand this
         decision; he was doing fine right here.

         A big businessman ‒ Mr. Sawh, they called him ‒ somehow put it in his head
         he could make more money if he moved to Georgetown and worked for him.
         Running river taxi was small time work for small people. 

         Who was this Mr. Sawh? And what business he starting, “recruiting” people
         from our District? Nobody knew.

         Pathoo left instructions I should take over his river boat operation. Didn’t even
         stop by to give me a chance to discourage him.

         He was away in the city for about nine months. We heard he was doing alright.
         First time in his life outside our river ways.

         Imagine the shock when the steamer arrived at Morawhanna with newspapers,
         with Pathoo’s face splash on the front page, accused of kidnap and sexual
         assault. 

         Our Pathoo. Never had a river boat accident. No problems with women,
         watering the lettuce, as far as I know.

         His job was to drive Mr. Sawh around. Dress up in shirtjac, wait for instructions
         calm and polite.

         From Boat operator to Mr. Sawh’s chauffeur ‒ hard to believe. And don’t ask
         me how he got a driver’s license, how he turn chauffeur so fast.

         They said Mr. Sawh liked boasting to his friends how he was the first to employ 
         a “Toshao” in that capacity; showing off, look how generous he was, how
         trusting of our indigenous people.

         It was more complicated. Mr. Sawh valued Pathoo’s silence. Drive, see nothing,
         hear nothing. Sometimes he asked Pathoo to step beyond the call of duty.

         People in Georgetown always running some overtime business, or doing some
         behind the screen business. Mr. Sawh had an outside woman. After their
         rendezvous at a certain hotel Pathoo would ferry the woman away discreetly,
         then come back for his boss.

         But you can’t organize something like that in Georgetown without somebody,
         at some point, noticing what going on and connecting the dots. And adding
         their own dots.

         Mr. Sawh’s hotel rendezvous lady was suddenly reported missing. She turned
         up days later, “rescued”, battered, straggly haired and “sexually assaulted”,
         according to police investigators. I could see how Pathoo got caught in the
         middle of all the mystery and suspicion.

         They kept him in jail over thirty days. The case was always still under 
         investigation. Sister Miriam kept asking, but we had nothing to tell her. She
         urged us to speak to our District representative. Pathoo had no one to defend
         him. Travel to Georgetown, do something.

         Then one morning he was back. Wanted me to pick him up at the Morawhanna
         stelling.

         It was good to see him. It was raining that day; he was standing alone, two
         bags close to his ankles; watching the corials glide to shore; maybe wondering,
         what possessed him? to leave this place? his home all these years?

         Every man and his woman claimed they knew what happened in Georgetown
         with the case.

         The matter got “dissolved”, victim declined to proceed with the charges. No,
         no, the case was “dismissed”, victim left the country. Nah, nah, all parties
         get paid to just forget the whole thing, that’s how they do it in Georgetown.
        
         Pathoo didn’t have anything to say. It was as if he had developed a new skill,
         erasing any unpleasant experience rightaway.

         In the following days I helped him transport tools, utensils, materials for
         building, other stuff.

         I offered to help him build whatever he was building. He said he didn’t need
         any help. He didn’t want back his boat business. He didn’t want to see Sister
         Miriam. The parakeets he would take back, and his dog.

         I decided to just leave him alone.

                                                              **

         During our last conversation he was in the same mood, the same bottle with
         the cork tight. I had crossed the river meaning to talk about his boat. I was
         feeling a little guilty.

         The boat was still his property. I didn’t want him to think since I operating
         the transport I had taken over his business. If he wanted, he could take it
         back. 

         I wondered if maybe we should upgrade the transport, put in a new horse
         power motor. People were happy how we chugged along the river, but other
         boat operators were moving faster. Maybe we should move with the times.

         In the middle of explaining this, he shouted, “You know what? They have evil
         people in Georgetown. Just one life we have.” Okay. Evil people in
         Georgetown. Just one life.

         He continued as though all this time he was waiting for the words to assemble
         in the right place.

         He was at a cricket ground, he said (now this was before his incarceration) in
         the stands, watching this Test match. Mr. Sawh, the businessman was there
         (accompanied by his bodyguard, a big black fellow).

         You? watching cricket? Since when? He gave me a fierce look. This was no
         joking matter.

         Somebody in the seats above him threw an object that hit him in the back of
         his head. An empty plastic water bottle.

         He looked around to make eye contact with the bottle thrower. Couldn’t tell
         who it was. People looked away, pretending they didn’t see what happened.

         He picked up the plastic bottle, and stood glaring at the crowd. Unless he
         had a target he knew he couldn’t toss it back. His face must have burned
         with rage.

         He made a show of crushing the bottle, so everybody could see what serious
         pain his hands could inflict, face to face with any bottle thrower. He sat down;
         he changed his mind. He left his seat and went back to the car to wait for
         his boss.

         This incident continuing in his head, running hot or cold! It was not right what 
         happened, I agreed. I was glad he talked about it, glad he trusted me to
         understand. But what did he expect? people didn’t know the kind of man he
         was. And working for Mr. Sawh couldn’t change how people saw him.

         I said, with new interest, The strangest thing happened couple mornings ago.

         A police party came looking for him. Gliding up quiet, mist over the river,
         like they planned to raid his home.

         I’m sure Pathoo heard them. Where we live, at that hour in the morning, you
         could hear a paddle dip in the river.

         They saw me getting ready to move. Asked if I’d seen Pathoo. Said people
         in Georgetown wanted to get in touch with him. The shirtjac fellow, looking
         like the person in charge, told me to contact “the authorities” immediately if
         I had any information about his whereabouts.

         His chest bare, his limbs relaxed, Pathoo had just finished his breakfast ‒ tea,
         fruit, soft-boiled eggs. He had things to take care of in the backlands. He can
         tug the tail of a jaguar in those backlands.

         He made a gesture with his hands (the hands done with driving car in the city)
         as if flicking the news away.

         Yes, he heard people were looking for him. Let them come, let them try 
         anything, he said. He waiting for them.

         J. Matthews
         Northwest District, Guyana