Night Calypso (11 page)

Jonah continued, ‘I will not cease from mental strain, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand till we have built Jerusalem in Empire’s broad, fair and pleasant lands. Brothers and sisters!’

It was like a litany in the church, with the congregation repeating Jonah’s words. A hot wind took hold of the branches of the almond tree and the red banner with its words, Bread and Justice.

‘O Lord, Our God, arise, scatter our enemies, and make them fall. Confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks. On thee our hope we fix.’ Vincent listened to the familiar words that Uriah Butler had used over and over again at meetings. Butler had come back from the First War, as did Cipriani with an education in liberty. He had seen the British working people fighting for their rights and he wanted the same for his people. He did not see why they should be second class citizens here on this island colony. Jonah relished the words and repeated them once again. The crowd were fired. He was not giving them facts like Singh. He was giving them passion, a vision. ‘I will have built Jerusalem in Empire’s broad, fair and pleasant land.’ He declaimed the poetry out beyond the almond tree.

While Singh’s voice was a shrill whistle, a flute, Jonah’s was a bass drum. He was speaking not only to the crowd below the almond tree, but also to the sisters on the verandahs, to Mother Superior locked in her office refusing to come out, but hearing each and every word that was spoken at the meeting. Jonah was speaking to be heard in Porta España, to be heard by the Governor, to be heard across the ocean in the very British parliament itself. He was speaking to the world.

He was Moses, as Vincent watched him, his head almost touching the branches of the almond tree. But he was also Jonah, hungry for conversion, but doubting his efforts. And for this, he had had to endure three days and three nights in the body of the whale. Vincent watched the dilemma in the boatman, between the Moses who wanted to lead his people into the Promised Land, flowing with milk and honey, and Jonah who doubted he could have an effect on the people of Niniveh. He had grown fond of this man who brought him across the bay each morning.

The strong winds had freshened the stale, pervasive smell of the Chaulmoogra Oil and the smell of rotting flesh. There was a feeling of resurrection in the air, of the coming Easter in the breeze, after this Lenten heat and fast. Jonah was indeed the son of a
Shango
woman from down in Moruga.

Those orange lilies which burst straight out of the parched earth in the dry season, sprouting in clumps in the yard, seemed now, as the hot sun caught their petals, brought forth by the words of Jonah. The place could suddenly seem miraculous: yellow pouis and flaming
immortelle
in the hills.

This was Vincent’s awe. He culled from the remnants of his Roman Catholic liturgy the sense of the sacramentality in things. Things represented some other reality. It seemed so now, at this heightened moment, with the up-turned, hopeful faces of the congregation. It did seem like a church under the spreading almond tree. Vincent let it happen. He did not resist it with his reason, not altogether, at least, not emotionally.

While the policemen watched Jonah rousing the crowd, they also knew that this was Jonah the boatman who they
blagged
with on the jetty, Jonah, their
pardner
who they played cards with. Now, he was speaking as the leader of the people. They were taught to take note of that on behalf of the Colonial Constabulary.

‘Brothers in arms. Brother Singh give you the facts of the case. Is left to me to say one thing. Is not a question of dermatology. You know what I talking about. Is no big word for big word sake that I get up here to speak to you today. You know what I talking about. Is not the disease of the skin. Is the disease of the mind that
I worry about. Is a matter of philosophy, is the politics of the matter. Tell me, if it was a bunch of white people down here, practically in Venezuela, you think they would treat us so? No brothers and sisters! Is because of the dermatology business, but is also because of the colour of this skin. I going to let the doctor talk to you about these things, because he is a white man. But you know he is your doctor who has your best interests at heart. We are citizens, brothers and sisters of the Empire. We demand the right of citizens of this Empire. We might be at the farthest reaches, on the periphery, as they tell us. We deserve the same treatment as if we at the centre, in London town. We must organise ourselves. Those of you who work in the laundry and kitchen, in the gardens, growing food for the benefit of all of we, going to have to down tools until they listen to us about the matters that Brother Singh speak to us about.’

Everyone cheered this suggestion with, ‘Strike.’

‘Brothers and sisters. I go introduce your docta to you. Docta Metivier.’ Vincent had been carried along by the rhetoric. Swept along, his anger with Singh was subdued.

The nuns were still on the verandah having a grandstand view of the proceedings.

Vincent waited for the cheering to die down. He smiled at Theo whose eyes were as big as saucers. He had been looking onto the crowd for almost an hour now. Vincent was so accustomed to dealing with his patients individually, that looking at all of them in a crowd, right there in front of him, was shocking. While he had grown accustomed to their individual ailments, no matter how advanced the illness in some, he did not always see them as a whole, as a community of sick. He was shocked now to look at them. Now he saw the stumps and the claw hands, the shortened fingers and the lion faces, the collapsed noses, joints jutting at awkward angles, faces disfigured with nodules. They were close to him on the stage, so he could see all these details as they hung onto crutches and each other, a ravaged group of people, decimated by an illness which instilled fear in others. Vincent rose to his feet.

‘Friends, I speak to you as your doctor. I speak to you as one who wants the best for your health and happiness. That means I
want the best for you physically, but also, psychologically; for your peace of mind, for the comfort of your hearts. I don’t want you to be afraid. I don’t want you to be sad. You need to keep your spirits up to fight this disease in its many guises. You know that I have spoken to you about that. You must have confidence in yourself to live with your illness. You must not be allowed to live in isolation from each other, in your exclusion, in the prejudice which, centuries old, have made you do.’

The crowd listened quietly. They were accustomed to being soothed by the doctor and his words. Vincent looked across to where the nuns were on the verandah, including Mother Superior now. They were listening more intently than ever, because they would be most concerned as to where Vincent would place himself in the discussion.

‘Friends, we must look together at what is the best understanding of your disease, what it tells us about infection, contagion. We all want to be responsible about that, as you know. You know that’s what I tell you about everyday. Look after your habits of cleaning, personal hygiene. I know you do your best. We must help with that. These things touch on all that Singh and Jonah have been saying. Together we’re going to sort these things out.’ He wanted to display a united front despite his difference with Singh.

‘You talking positive, Doctor. But what if it don’t happen?’ This was young Christian la Borde.

‘Strike, strike.’ Some of the fellas began to shout. The language of the Labour riots on Sancta Trinidad in the recent past, led by Butler, Rienzi and Cipriani in their different ways, had not been lost on the patients of El Caracol. Those events had inspired them then. Now they saw their own black man, Indian and French Creole up on the stage giving them a vision of how things might change for them.

‘Burn the place down,’ some the other fellas shouted.

Vincent ignored the shouts for strike and fire and spoke directly to Christian. ‘Christian, I tell you, I’m going to do all that is possible to make things better. Let us try. Let us come back to you after we have spoken to Mother Superior. Then, you can judge.’

Vincent spoke these last words with his head held high, so that
his voice could carry beyond the shade of the almond tree, as far as the verandah where the Mother Superior was standing with her nuns. So, now, everyone would know where everyone stood.

The crowd applauded and shouted warmly. But, after Singh and Jonah’s rousing speeches, things had subsided with Vincent’s carefully chosen words. Vincent noticed that Singh looked as if he wanted some more fire in his words.

But Jonah patted him on the shoulder with, ‘Wise words, Doc.’ Vincent was glad for the warm approval from Jonah. Singh avoided him and lost himself in the crowd.

Then he realised that Theo was no longer where he had been at the front under the stage. He could not see him anywhere in the crowd.

Sister Thérèse was on her own on the verandah. He walked towards her. Before he reached the verandah, she had disappeared into the children’s ward.

He did not know where to turn. Why had she moved away? He wanted her to help him search for Theo. He stood for a moment looking at the crowd get into a march, the cries of, ‘Burn, Burn, Burn’ alternating with the chant, ‘Strike, strike.’

The police were manhandling some of the more exuberant, young, able-bodied fellas.

Singh and then Jonah took up positions at the head of the crowd. Vincent wondered if he should join them. Where were they going? Where was there to go? He had to find Theo. He was sure the rhetoric would simmer down. He decided that this was a demonstration of force to gear up the people, but then everyone would return to their usual tasks. Then he and Singh could meet up with Mother Superior. He turned to go inside to look for Sister Thérèse. Maybe Theo had gone to the school.

He found her in the pharmacy. She was alone. He shut the door quietly behind him. She continued with her work. He stood at the door. She turned. ‘Doctor?’

‘Good morning, Sister.’

‘
Non, non
, not a good morning.’ She looked weary and worried.

‘Have you seen Theo?

‘No. It’s a worrying morning.’

‘Yes, yes, it is as I…’

‘I understand. But is this the way?’ She was earnest.

‘Who knows?’

‘You were on the stage with Singh and Jonah. I saw you.’

‘You saw me? Yes, I was asked by the patients, to join them on the platform.’

‘Patients? I don’t see patients when I see them like that.’

‘Yes, mine and yours. They’re our patients,’ Vincent insisted.

‘You’re their doctor, not a politician. Look at them. What can they do? When they are like this they frighten me.’

‘They have an illness. But they have rights. They’ve entitlements, even more so because of their disadvantages. We must not forget that.’

They both stood and stared out of the window at the sea, as if there was an answer there.

The noise was coming from the yard in bursts. The marching and demonstration had not ceased as Vincent had expected. In fact, the chanting had got louder. ‘Burn, Burn, Burn,’ was accompanied by the drums, the percussion created out of the debris of the yard. Sister Thérèse turned towards the noise.

Vincent tried to change the subject by getting onto their work. ‘What are the results of your investigations? What’ve you seen below that microscope of yours?’ He tried to lighten things.

‘I think it’s as you’ve been suspecting. The paralysis is caused by damage to the nerves. This accounts for the anaesthesia. Why they forget their pain.’ She was impassioned.

‘It does not register,’ he added. He needed to find Theo.

‘So we can conclude our observations as to why they keep opening their wounds without knowing, or, why they can hurt themselves, and each other,’ she continued.

‘Yes. This should encourage us to work on the orthopaedic aspects. Not dermatology. That’s secondary, in this case. The real problem is beneath the skin,’ he argued.

‘We must continue work on the hands,’ she said intensely.

‘We need to do an autopsy. We need more than the cultures.’

The noise outside could not be ignored. Vincent and Sister Thérèse went to the window which gave onto the yard where the
demonstrators’ chants were coming from. Suddenly, there were screams, screams that signalled danger.

‘Theo! You know I’ve lost Theo. I must go and see where he is. Come and help me,’ Vincent pleaded.

They were stunned by the sunlight as they came out into the yard from the pharmacy. There was still a crowd under the almond tree, Singh and Jonah might be in there, but Vincent could not see them anywhere.

They noticed another part of the crowd who were circling an even smaller group, from where the chant of ‘Burn, Burn, Burn,’ sounded, infectious in its repetition. Even the children, the small children hanging over the bannisters of their verandah, were chanting the rhythmic, ‘Burn, Burn, Burn.’ Something else was going on here.

‘Come with me.’ Vincent took hold of Sister Thérèse’s hand. ‘Fire. We can’t have fire, otherwise we’re going to have multiple injuries in no time at all.’

It was then that the first whiff of gasoline came on the breeze from where the smaller crowd was gathered between the stores and the Anglican church. People started screaming and scattering to reveal the group performing a ritual with fire.

Two of the policemen were trying to disperse the crowd. Their presence was enraging them more.

Vincent and Sister Thérèse were terrified, seeing not only some of the able bodied patients, but some of the more infirm, screaming and scattering as they threw the fuel over their shoulders. Gasoline flames flayed out of the cans they carried. The fuel had fallen on their shoulders and their backs, catching fire. They were unaware. They could not feel the pain.

Sister Thérèse and Vincent ran towards the flame-throwers, trying to beat the fire down with palm branches which they tore from nearby trees.

This was when Vincent saw Theo. He was standing, staring at a flaming crumpled heap, which was revealed as the dancing crowd scattered. What was it?

Some other children were screaming the chant, ‘Burn, Burn, Burn!’ Then they ran off with flaming cans of gasoline. Vincent
hoped that Ti-Jean was not among them. He could not see him anywhere. He ran towards Theo, who was still standing, transfixed.