Authors: Natasha Soobramanien
After the man had left him, Paul walked to the end of the peninsula, to the hotel there. Approaching the concierge
behind the desk, he asked how he might go about making a reverse-charge phone call to London.
My brother has died, he said.
They had spent every night so far drinking and talking, but neither of them had told the other much about his life. But Paul did tell Gaetan that he’d always planned to come back. Running back to London had been a mistake, he admitted, and he’d soon realised it. His sadness about Jean-Marie had been just as acute in London. Moreover, Paul had returned to a London which felt different. His own fault: things between him and Mam and Genie had changed because of his leaving them in the first place. Paul told Gaetan how, to fund his return to Mauritius, he’d registered to be a subject on a paid medical trial. That he’d been given a bed next to the man who would become his best friend. He did not tell Gaetan that the eleven-year friendship had been cemented by drugs the weekend after they’d left the clinic. Paul’s first rave and his first Ecstasy.
To say goodbye before you leave for Mauritius, Sol had said.
But as ‘You Got The Love’ came on, the drug had kicked in and Paul had raised his eyes to the lights which pulsed like speeded up time-lapse footage of hot-house flowers opening and closing, and what he’d thought was, Hello. And a few days later, on a visit to Genie at her new school, he’d thought the same when she’d introduced him to Eloise. So Paul had lost the urge to leave London.
I’ll get it out of you eventually. Gaetan smiled. They were drinking again, sitting in front of the television. Paul noticed
it was still covered in doilies. What was it with Mauritian guys and doilies?
I told you, said Paul. I’m here on holiday.
But why come back now? Yes, you tell me you have some money now. But forgive me, he said, looking Paul up and down, you don’t look very well off to me. You’ve got holes in your jeans…
That’s the fashion in London. Paul explained how, in London, the richer you were, the poorer you dressed.
That’s crazy! exclaimed Gaetan. What’s the point of having money and dressing like a bum? You must be rolling in it, in that case… but how did you make your money?
Paul was spared the awkwardness of replying: disturbing images filled the TV screen and both were momentarily distracted. It was footage from a local news report in India, being replayed on the Mauritian news. Some kind of python had swallowed a calf too large to digest and was now, to its apparent shock, slowly starting to regurgitate it, its jaws unhinged in a terrible grin; the calf, limp, a raw pink, slick with the snake’s gastric juices which had dissolved its skin. Paul remarked, fascinated, that it looked as if the snake were giving birth to the calf.
This was interrupted by a newsflash: scenes of mass looting in Baghdad, and the storming of Saddam Hussein’s palace. A man carrying a vase and fake flowers half the size of himself ran into shot, looking delirious.
Paul laughed. What’s he going to do with those?
Then on the local news there was an update on the progress of a young Muslim girl who had taken poison, insect repellent, for some hazy romantic reason. She had burnt her insides with the stuff but was lingering on.
Sometimes, said Gaetan, we get news about London. Do you get news about Mauritius in London?
Sometimes, said Paul feeling guilty.
Gaetan mentioned the riots in Port Louis. You must have heard about
those
.
I think so. Remind me.
Four years previously, Gaetan told him, there had been a pro-
ganja
rally in the capital, calling for decriminalisation of the drug. Creoles who followed Rastafarianism were chief among those demonstrating, led by Kaya, the famous
seggae
star. He had been arrested for smoking
ganja
. Three days later, he had died in police custody. Head injuries. He’d fallen, apparently. Weeks of rioting followed. A state of emergency was called.
Did you get involved? asked Paul.
No. I wasn’t around. I didn’t even make it to the demonstration. Gaetan looked troubled by this. But the old gang – London, Chauffeur, Tilamain, everyone – they were all there. They even went looting. Tilamain grabbed this massive box. It was heavy and hard to carry, what with his hand, you know. There were some
gard
on his ass so he had to hide it in some bushes and go back for it the next day. He didn’t even know what he’d nicked until he opened the box.
And what did he get?
A box of taps.
Paul laughed. Gaetan looked annoyed.
Taps cost money. He managed to sell the lot for two hundred rupees.
Gaetan shook his head and threw back his drink, and as he did so Paul could see his eyes flickering the way they did whenever he was rummaging through his memory for a story. But this time it was not a story. It was an accusation.
You think that’s
funny
? A box of taps? What the fuck do you know? I wish I had been there. You know London got beaten up by the
gard
? I should have been there. But you want to know why I wasn’t there?
Tell me, said Paul.
I can see it on your face. Ever since you arrived, this question, stuck like a fishbone in your throat:
What happened to you?
Well, I’ll tell you. It’s not a happy story, brother. I had a pretty nice life when you knew me before. I had my boat, my friends. We’d surf, we’d smoke
ganja
on the beach, meet with girls. And I had my music, my
seggae
. Playing at the hotels. But over the years it all changed. And then I went to prison. Did you know that? No, you wouldn’t. How would you? You never wrote to anyone. I sent you a letter once and you never wrote back. That London fog, fogging up your head. You forgot about us. Well, it all started to fall apart not long after you left here. In the end I lost my boat. Then came prison. After that I lost my job playing at the hotels. Oh, yes, I’m working at a hotel now, but I don’t play music there. I once did a favour for one of the managers, so when I lost the gigs he said he could get me other work. But only behind the scenes. I had a reputation. I couldn’t play for the guests any more. So now I clean their rooms. Sometimes, if people leave stuff behind, I keep it. Just stuff no one would ever notice. Yeah, like that calendar. I know it’s out of date. How you’re looking at me now, it’s different from how you used to look at me. Back when you came here. You were, what, sixteen? When I was that age, younger even, I used to surf. Tamarin. That’s where we were the first night we met, remember? Jacques who has the hostel there now – me and him and a bunch of friends, we used to surf that spot. Beautiful wave. A perfect curl. Seemed at the time that our wave would just
appear on demand. We’d grab our boards and paddle out. And it’s the west coast, so evenings were the best. Riding that endless glassy left as the sun was setting. Man, it was good for the soul! That was back when there were no tourists. There weren’t many of us. We had that wave to ourselves. Then one day a small group of foreigners appeared. American guys. They were surfers. They were making a film about surfing. A
blan
who’d gone back to France had written about Tamarin in some big American magazine so these guys had come to see it for themselves. We were suspicious at first. But we smoked
ganja
with them and they told us about the film. They wanted to show the spirit of surfing, how surfing was about being in tune with nature, and about the people you met on your search for waves. They’d travelled all over the world but had never found a wave like ours. They called our island
Santosha
. Peace. For them, Mauritius, our wave, was mythical. Mystical.
Santosha is not a place but a state of mind,
they said, and we agreed. You know Le Morne, how it gives off this dark feeling? Back then Tamarin gave us just as strong a feeling, but a good one. Yeah,
peace
. And these guys felt it. They were cool. Real surfers. So they hung out with us there for half a year and we shared our wave, our
ganja
, with them. Those were good times. And then the film came out. Gradually, more surfers came to see Tamarin for themselves. Australians, South Africans. A few Americans. Even then, it was still cool. They had that spirit. That surfer’s spirit. We never had a problem with them. To come all the way out here, just to ride our wave – well, we were honoured. And they knew to share it, to show some respect. But something changed. We started getting more tourists to Mauritius. And some of them wanted to surf. They weren’t the kind of surfer we’d known before. They turned up in all the latest gear – gear! There was never gear before! We just rode on boards we’d made ourselves. These arseholes dropped in on your wave; they didn’t know
how to behave. And then the
blan
moved in. The kind who’d never been interested in surfing before. But suddenly they started showing up on the beach, strutting about, pushing everyone around. Not so much us – the original crew – they would never have dared. Just all the tourists. We didn’t like that. But over the years, the strangest thing. The wave changed. It stopped showing up as often. Changes in the weather, the form of the ocean floor, I don’t know. The sands just shifted. Maybe the sea could sense all this bad feeling and was starting to retreat. Fewer waves. More surfers. Bad attitude. It started getting nasty. Do you remember that
blan
fuck you bought your weed off when we were in Tamarin the night we met? The rich boy? Well, his brother thought he was a big surfer. Those two had some nasty friends. These were the nastiest of the
blan
surfers down at Tamarin. They called themselves the White Shorts. They told everyone they owned the wave. How can you own a wave! They used to paddle out with knives taped to the undersides of their boards. Flash them in people’s faces. Some of my boys had run-ins with them but not me. I’d stopped surfing that spot. Before this all happened I had only ever surfed Le Morne and One Eye a couple of times but after the scene turned bad at Tamarin I started going out there more often. I was never really comfortable on reef breaks – you’ve been out with me on my
pirog
, you’ve seen what a wave can be; you know about the sharks. But eventually I started surfing those spots because there was nowhere else to go. It wasn’t the same. Then, after Jean-Marie died, something strange happened. I got the fear. I lost my nerve and got ground up on the reef a few times. I surfed less and less and eventually stopped altogether. I smoked more
ganja
. Started drinking. Over the years I got into the horses. Cards too. I lost the boat. And then one day something happened and I realised that this turf war over the Tamarin spot
was
my fight after all. Do you remember the
anniversary of Jean-Marie’s death? Do you mark it? Oh, of course you do – it’s your birthday. Well, every year in the weeks leading up to your birthday I get especially drunk. The day of Kaya’s pro-
ganja
rally, I had pretty much been drunk for three weeks straight. I told you I missed the rally – well, this is why. That morning, just before we were due to meet up with the others in Port Louis, I had gone up there with Tilamain. I was sitting in James Snack with him, eating
bulet
. The only thing to eat when you’re hungover. In fact, I was still drunk. That’s what my lawyer said in court, though how that was supposed to help me, I don’t know. Tilamain was complaining about women troubles as usual, and as usual I was ignoring him. I was looking around the place when I saw someone I thought I recognised from somewhere. I realised then that I must know him: the man looked away too quickly. He’d recognised me, but did not want me to recognise him. I’ll tell you who it was. Do you remember that time we were fishing on Grande Rivière and this new
gard
followed us down and gave us shit? He searched Jean-Marie then didn’t have the balls to search the rest of us? Well, it was him, that
gard
. I was sure of it. I asked Tilamain. Yes, he said, it’s him. Then he goes back to his boring story, can you believe it? I’m just wondering what I’m going to do about it, when someone comes in and joins this guy. You would not believe who it was. It was him. The fucking
blan
. The
marsan
. The wannabe White Short you bought your weed off. That did it. Hey, you, I say. Everyone looks up from their bowls, including the
gard
and his mate. Yeah, you. You’re the
gard
that was hassling us that time at Pointe aux Sables, aren’t you? And all of a sudden people stopped eating, their ears burning. Some of these guys were going to the rally themselves. That cunt wasn’t even in uniform but now everything about him screamed
gard
– his neatly trimmed hair, his well-scrubbed face, his ironed polo shirt, the way he got up from his stool in such a panic he
knocked it over as he ran out – followed by his mate the
marsan
. He might as well have thrown a match into a can of petrol. I ran out straight after them. I chased them both down the street but lost the
gard
. I caught up with the
blan
, though. I dragged him round the back of a garage. No one stopped me. What happened next – I don’t know how it happened. I must have still been drunk. I gave that
blan
the kicking of his life. I had never attacked anyone before, not even Maja who’d been begging for a slap many times before he did what he did. But I sure laid into this fuck. I was dancing about on him like fucking Fred Astaire. I was almost thrown off balance with each kick, I put so much of my weight into it. He must have been screaming, making some kind of noise, but I heard nothing. When I had finished I was panting with exhaustion, covered in sweat, like after you’ve just had a woman. Like I had just come, rolled off him, and was about to fall asleep, I was that calm. It looked like all the life had been kicked out of this
blan
because I had put all of myself into the kicking of him. My trainers were smeared with blood. Then I felt my arms being grabbed. Two
gard
. And their weaselly little colleague from James Snack. I missed the rally and I missed the riots because I was in prison. Oh, the
blan
paid me back threefold for what I did to him. He had
gard
friends, remember. And do you know who his dad is? The name was spelt out for me when I got my going-over. Do you see that my face is not the shape it was? I don’t recognise my own face in the mirror these days. I still don’t know if it was the
gard
I really wanted to kick in. But I missed my chance to get him. For Jean-Marie. Those
blan
fuckers think it’s their island. Whose sweat made their money? This island belongs to no one. And especially not to you. Everything went wrong when you came out here all those years ago, Paul. I don’t know why you’ve come back. What is there here for you? I think you should go.