Night Calypso (10 page)

Afternoons! Afternoons and scratching palms! Hot afternoons and the smell of guavas! The pastures rolled away to where the khaki river chuckled under the cocoa. They ran down by the river to bathe and let Sybil catch them in her brown arms in the green light. The great shadows of the saman trees on the pasture moved like great clouds over the grass as the branches swayed in vast undulations in the breeze.

The following morning, Jonah arrived in a sombre mood. He was earlier than usual. ‘They need you quick, Doc,’ he shouted up from the jetty.

Vincent did not inquire why immediately. He shouted up to Theo. ‘Tell Beatrice I had to leave in a hurry. Take care of yourself.’

On the journey over, Jonah told him that a body had been washed ashore. ‘Two fishermen coming in early this morning, notice it. Nearly run it over in their pirogue. They think is one of them big
gommier
logs that does float out and get bring back in by the tide. When they get close they see is a man body. When I leave they still have the body on the beach. Fish start to feed on it. Must’ve be in the water since last night. Lucky them sharks and barracuda didn’t get to it. Tide low at the moment, current not running, so it not get take out into the gulf. Policeman come and ask question.’

‘Any idea who it is? Is it one of the patients?’

‘Must be, Doc. You know them young fellas. Is the same problem we talking about. Nothing go stop them trying to swim the bay at night to get to the women huts.’

‘They’ll be a lot of sadness today.’

‘Yes, Doc. For sure.’

Jonah kept his hand on the tiller, one eye ahead. He listened intently. He slackened his hold on the throttle.

When they pulled into the jetty, they could see a crowd collecting on the beach a little way off. ‘Jonah, I’m going down there right away.’

Already the recriminations had started. ‘See Doctor, see what they do the young fella!’ The body was that of Sonny Lal, a young man who lived up in Indian Valley. His girlfriend lived in the huts along the shore in Sanda’s Bay. The quarantine had kept them apart. But Sonny had found a way, like many of the other men in the past, to swim the length of the bay at night to see Leela.

It was Leela who knelt next to Vincent now, as he inspected the body. She cried quietly, moaning and repeating the name of her lover and the father of her child. ‘Oh God, Sonny, Sonny, Sonny, look what they make you do. Kill your self. For me, Sonny.’

Vincent put his arm around Leela’s shoulder. ‘Come girl. He’s not here anymore.’

‘Oh God, Doctor,’ the young girl cried.

‘Yes, come, we must see that this never happens again.’

Vincent accompanied the men who lifted Sonny Lal’s body to take it to the mortuary room. At the bottom of the steps, he met with Singh and Jonah. Vincent left the procession to talk to the two men.

‘This have to stop, Doctor.’ Singh could hardly suppress his anger.

‘I know the problem, Singh. But not now. Leela needs our comfort at this moment. Let us deal with it later.’

‘Later. When is later?’

‘He right, Doc,’ Jonah argued.

‘I have a job to do now.’

‘We know how he die, Doctor.’

‘There are procedures, Singh.’

‘Fock procedures!’

‘Come, Singh. Come man. We go deal with this later.’ Jonah put his arm around Singh’s shoulder and led him off.

Vincent felt himself torn between his duty as a doctor, as a comforter of Leela, and as one who wanted something done about
the reasons this tragedy had happened. As he left Leela, in the arms of other women who had accompanied her from the huts that morning, he went back to a moment at Versailles when he was a boy, when he and Odetta watched a young man taken down from a mango tree, who had hanged himself. ‘He hang himself for
tabanca
,’ he heard a man from the yard tell his father. ‘He hang himself because of the love of a woman.’ Sonny had not hung himself, had not taken his life in that kind of way, but had risked and lost, and proved to Leela that she meant all that he loved. Vincent had wondered, looking at the hanged man, whether he himself loved Odetta in that way.

As he turned on the steps to tell Leela that he would come and see her later, he saw Sister Thérèse crossing the yard towards the mortuary. She was coming to assist him. He waved. She waved back.

He remembered that they called that place near Versailles, with its avenue of mango trees, Hangman Alley.

At three o’clock that afternoon, a crowd descended from the hills to collect under the almond tree. They began to shuffle on quietly, everyone in their own thoughts, along the paths, down to the beach where the Hindu Pandit and his assistants were performing their
pujahs
and reciting their mantras, as the body of Sonny Lal was laid on top of the pyre which had been built earlier that day. Then, at the appointed moment, the wood was lit. Leela, the young pregnant girl, whom Sonny Lal had died in his efforts to reach by swimming across the bay, circled the burning body, feeding the flames with
ghee
butter. All stood quietly and watched the fire consume the pyre with its load.

White egrets settled on the nearby mangrove. Then suddenly, unsettled, they ascended in their flight across the bay. ‘Watch he soul, fly away,’ one of the old women cried quietly, confirming the belief of many.

The sun rose raw and burning into a vault of blue emptiness. The dry season had the island in its tight grip this morning. The bush near the house ticked. The
cigales
’ screaming decibels reached out into the blue nothing. The sea in the bay lay flat and blistered. Vincent shut his eyes against the burning glare. His fear this morning was bush fires, that they might leap the yard’s perimeter and attack the house.

Jonah had not yet arrived. The bay was deserted. There was no Beatrice with breakfast.

The news on the BBC was that Germany had invaded the rest of Czechoslovakia. ‘Where this going to end, Theo?’ Vincent asked, trying to engage the boy. There was no answer. Theo pressed his ear close to the radio to receive the news through the crackles and humming. He was getting an education in geography and contemporary history. He had found an old atlas under the stairs and had been busy drawing and tracing maps. This absorbed him more than anything else now.

Without Jonah, Vincent decided that he would get to Saint Damian’s along the track which ran behind the house into the hills. In the dry season it would be clear of bush. ‘Come Theo, hurry boy.’ Vincent had packed some bread and cheese to eat on the way.

The pouis and
immortelle
ignited the hills, the yellow and orange petals covered the paths with flame.

As they neared Saint Damian’s, they could see the old people on crutches leaning on each others’ shoulders, descending from the huts below them. There were far more people up and about than usual. Vincent wondered what was afoot.

When his patients saw him, they called out, ‘Good morning, Docta. God bless you, Docta.’

Others put out their hands to touch Theo. ‘The boy nice, eh?’ Theo pulled away and walked ahead.

The warmth of his patients always moved Vincent. He admired their endurance. ‘It’s okay, Theo. They’re just being friendly.’

‘What happening? So many people out so early?’ Vincent inquired of one of the women.

‘Young fellas knock us up, moving about quick, quick. They telling people to come. I myself, not get some green tea to drink this morning.’

‘Thank you, Mistress Maude.’

‘You remember my name, then, Docta?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘The other docta don’t remember my name, you know? I could be anyone. With my face changing so, who could blame people.’

‘We’ll fix that soon. How is the burn on your leg?’

‘I taking good care of it, Docta. This morning self I going by the surgery to get the dressing change.’

‘You do that, Mistress Maude. Excuse me now.’

‘God bless you, Docta.’

Would Sister Thérèse have got the news about the invasion of Czechoslovakia? Probably not, Vincent thought.

He was late for his clinic.

Seeing his patients like this, as they were this morning, in their masses, he almost despaired. There were over two hundred in the leprosarium now. They were always there to meet him, at the opening of the surgery; more in need of a kind word than a remedy. What real remedies were there anyway?

But today, it was different. He could not figure out what had happened to create all of this confusion. ‘Theo, wait for me.’

There was a noise like rain coming down from the hills, like a river flowing over rocks, pelting down. The noise was like gargling drains in the wet season. But this was not rain in the hills.

The sky was a tight blue drum.

Vincent could see people coming down from Indian Valley, the place they called Fyzabad.

They had reached the lower huts on their descent. Here as well, everybody seemed to be out at the same time, and marching with the same intent. From out of the other valley, beneath Cabresse Hill, more patients were emerging out of the crowded huts; one room barrack rooms, housing at least twenty patients each. This had to change; the discussion with Singh and Jonah on Old Year’s Night was going through Vincent’s mind.

Young boys dragged each other along on pieces of rusty galvanise. Some pulled the aged and infirm in box carts. Their grating on the dirt tracks added to the great noise of their arrival at the meeting place under the large, shady almond tree outside the stores, where people were protecting themselves from the hot sun.

Already the boys and girls were hanging out on the verandahs in front of the children’s wards, mimicking the marching cries of their elders, ‘Justice and Bread!’ Their singing soared in their high, shrill, children’s voices.

A group of fellas called out to Vincent as they passed him. ‘You with us, Docta?’

‘Look, the Docta boy,’ some of the girls called out who had met Theo in school.

Patients from the hills who had not seen Theo before asked, ‘Is your son, Docta?’ He drew close to Vincent, away from the outstretched claw hands trying to touch him on his arm, take his hand.

When they arrived at the almond tree they saw Singh, standing on a box. ‘We demanding Justice and Bread, brothers and sisters,’ he proclaimed.

It seemed that nearly all two hundred patients were shouting, ‘Give us justice and bread.’

Others shouted, ‘Give us fair wages.’

Vincent, with Theo holding his hand tightly, could see that Jonah was on a box as well. What was going on? Why had they not told him about this? Questions boiled up in him.

Singh and Jonah were both leading this grand meeting. But Vincent could see that it was Jonah who was the real leader of this
crowd, towering above everyone else.

Singh lit the fires with his persistent and unrelenting argument. He had the contacts with the young fellas who had rallied everyone this morning. He had the detail. Jonah had the vision.

It was then that Vincent saw and heard Ti-Jean hanging over the banister of the boys’ verandah and crying out, ‘Docta, Docta, you see Jonah! You see Jonah!’

Behind Ti-Jean were the small community of nursing sisters as if they were standing for a formal photograph, or before a firing squad. They were unrecognisable from each other. Sister Thérèse was lost in the anonymity of her community.

Then, like the sound of Hosay, a Muslim group had started up the beating of the
tassa
drums. Suddenly, the place was electrified as people picked up anything that they could find. They beat anything: wood on galvanise, stones on dustbin covers, old pans filled with gravel. They made an orchestra out of the refuse and decay strewn around the yard. They made a music of protest, a symphony of demand.

Vincent did not know where to stand, where to take up his position. This crowd on the move was like wildfire in the cane fields, like bush fire in the hills, this dry season. ‘Theo, stay close to me. Eat this bread and cheese.’

Suddenly, a hot wind swirled through the yard tearing into the roofs, almost ripping them off. The sea pounded the shore. ‘This is a sign,’ an old woman standing by Vincent keened. ‘Docta,’ she pulled on Vincent’s sleeve, from where she was crouching, brought low by one of her amputated legs.

Vincent stooped down to her height. ‘This is something, yes,’ he agreed. A few had parasols, protecting them from the relentless sun. The hot wind tugged at the fragile frills. The drumming and the chanting came from the crowd collecting under the almond tree. Theo held onto Vincent.

This whole scheme of Singh’s had jumped ahead without Vincent realising. His head was buried in his research, his responsibility for Theo and, he had to admit, with Sister Thérèse. But now, he had to talk to Singh and Jonah. How could they be encouraging this without consulting him?

The wind was tearing into the crown of the coconut palms. It was twisting them and then letting them go in a furious flurry. The wind ripped the palms to tatters.

The crowd under the almond tree were attentive to the speeches. Singh was talking to small groups now, going around from one to the other. They were mostly men, but there were some women. They were a mixed group of negro and Indian. Vincent could see that Jonah was also working the crowd.

He joined them and was greeted warmly. He was their doctor. He was the one who could help them. He would cure them. This would not cure them, Vincent thought. Their hope overwhelmed him. He could see that they knew that there was something that Singh was telling them. He could tell from the talk, that they wanted him to join them in their demands.

‘You can see what we saying, eh, Docta?’ they chorused.

‘I know what you saying.’

‘So, you with us, Docta?’

‘I with you, of course, I with you,’ Vincent said easily, moving further into the crowd, careful to pull Theo along into a clearing within. Then he felt scared by what he had just said, so easily, shaking hands, touching heads. ‘I with you.’

He lost Theo for a moment. Then the boy grabbed his hand again.

‘The Docta with us,’ Anetta Pleasant shouted to those around her, as Vincent made his way through the crowd.

He noticed that a small dais from the schoolroom had been set up near the trunk of the almond tree. Some of the women were hanging ragged bits of red cloth to the low branches. A table with three chairs had been placed on the small dais. Above it, hanging between the branches, was a banner. The words bled the red of sorrel. BREAD and JUSTICE, it proclaimed. Singh mounted the dais. ‘Comrades!’

He had gone beyond what they had talked about on Old Year’s Night. Vincent felt he had to see him before the meeting got out of control. He had to protect his patients. It would be so easy to rouse them. And he had wanted to take up Singh’s suggestion to leave Theo with him at his pharmacy. How could he do that now?

Vincent was struck by the use of the titles, Brother and Comrade. He remembered the meeting in London recruiting for the Civil War in Spain. He felt worried for his patients.

Voices from the crowd joined in with, ‘Speakers on the stage.’ Jonah clambered aboard. He towered over Singh.

‘Well, I think we can start comrades, friends, brothers and sisters,’ Singh continued.

Someone at the front near the dais shouted out, ‘And what about the Docta?’ It was then Singh and Jonah seemed to notice Vincent for the first time.

‘The dais not too big, you know, boy,’ Singh quickly rejoined.

Vincent heard the doubt in Singh’s voice. He saw him look at Jonah and raise his eyebrows in apprehension. But he also saw Jonah smile with encouragement at the suggestion. He knew that Singh wanted him as the doctor to be on his side, as he had repeatedly said. But he also knew that Singh had suspicions about him, because of his French Creole background.

Then a couple of fellas started to clap, and others picked it up with the chant of, ‘Docta, Docta, Docta.’ Singh looked uneasy. Jonah beamed. Vincent dismissed the idea at first, but was then pushed from behind and moved towards the dais. He tugged Theo along.

In the end, he went with the movement. By now, almost all the adult patients had collected. He turned as he left the edge of the crowd and looked across the yard to where he glimpsed the nuns on the verandah of the children’s ward. He looked for the face of Sister Thérèse. He needed to see her face. Once under the almond tree, he lost sight of her, her frozen apprehension.

He took his seat. Singh, Jonah and himself were crammed on the small stage. Theo was standing at the front just beneath him, next to Christiana. Singh began his speech.

‘Tell them Singh. You hit the nail on the head, boy. We asking to be recognised as human,’ Mr Lalbeharry shouted from the crowd.

The crowd began getting worked up and shouting, ‘Human, human, human.’ Singh looked relieved that he had managed to carry the crowd. Vincent began to look uneasy. Jonah beamed his approval. Some of the people had shifted, coming in closer, and
Vincent caught another glimpse of Sister Thérèse on the verandah. He could not see her face plainly, but something in the gesture, the way she moved, assured him that he had recognised her. He had to tell her the news about Czechoslovakia. How was she going to be included, he wondered. How would the nuns be included in this struggle?

Mother Superior was one thing, but the other sisters who worked day and night, giving their labour and sacrifice, had to be part of what it means to be human, part of this struggle. Even Mother Superior must be human too! Jonah would understand that, and when he could talk to Singh more privately, he would see that they had to carry everyone, to carry the best in people, to get what they wanted for their patients.

As Singh continued to outline the main demands for a minimum wage, better living conditions, improved working conditions, more effective distribution of drugs and other remedies, Vincent wanted to stop the big speech to the people as a crowd, and get Singh to look into the faces of the individuals at his feet. He preferred the Singh on the jetty talking on Old Year’s Night, someone who was becoming his friend.

Vincent noticed Beatrice at the back of the crowd. He waved. At first, she did not seem to see him. Then she smiled and waved. He now understood why she had not turned up this morning. Some of the women had rosaries entwined around their fingers and stumps. Beatrice joined in these prayers.

Singh was winding up, trying to be heard over the screams of the parrots. ‘Keep up your spirits. Comrades, we’ll meet here tomorrow at the same time. I’ll have seen the Mother Superior. By then, myself and Doctor Metivier will have talked to her.’ He sat down, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. He looked relieved. He turned towards Vincent.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Vincent blurted out. ‘Why whip up all this anger, this rage?’

‘I born angry. I born in a rage.’ Singh stared Vincent down. His discipline had snapped for a moment. Then they both controlled themselves up on the stage. Vincent looked down and smiled reassuringly at Theo.

Jonah stood up tall and broad. The crowd shouted and clapped. Vincent watched the stumps and clawed hands beating against each other. ‘Brothers and sisters. Brethren.’ He spoke now like a priest. ‘Let us join together. Let me teach you this, if you don’t know the words.’

Then Vincent noticed three of the policemen that were resident on the island standing at the edge of the crowd, looking in, surveying the meeting. Two were new officers, and one had been stationed on the island for many years.