The Ventriloquist's Tale

by Pauline Melville

  It seemed to her that the staff, including Anita and Indira, whom she had borrowed from Mynheer Nicklaus Lodge for the evening, did not appreciate the urgency of the situation. They had hardly bothered to peel the sweet potatoes before tossing them into the pot in a lackadaisical, crosspatch sort of way. One of the three extra helpers employed for the occasion had put out fresh toilet rolls and then had to lie down in the spare room with a headache.

  Monica Bevan fussed over the placements. The guests were the American Ambassador, Richard Evergreen, and his elegant wife June; Oily Sampson, Minister of Finance, and his wife Suzette; Eric Chang, the Chinese restaurateur, an oddball joker whom she suspected wore rouge, but on whom she could rely for lighthearted banter should conversation dry up; three Hawk Oil executives who had recently arrived, one of whom was bringing his wife – the others she had matched up with her bridge-playing lady friends; two of the other Hawk Oil men had had to cancel, having already left for the Rupununi; Rosa Mendelson and her escort and finally, of course, her own husband, Bill.

  Half an hour later all the guests were seated.

  To his alarm, Chofy found himself separated from Rosa and placed next to an enormous woman, denizen of bridge-playing haunts. She was dressed in stiff shot-silk that rustled like dry savannah grasses in the wind. He found that he could not stop sneaking looks over at Rosa. She had never seemed more beautiful. A low-necked, short-sleeved black dress showed off her creamy breasts and rounded arms. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. She appeared completely relaxed with a radiance and animation that came from feeling no need to impress. It took his breath away to think that he was involved with her, that he had seen her naked, made love to her. With some trepidation he looked across at the burly figure of the Canadian High Commissioner, Bill Bevan. The man spent time in the Rupununi. He might know some of the McKinnons. Chofy was as haunted as ever by the fear that somehow his marriage would be revealed.

  Rosa, for her part, was listening courteously to her neighbour, Mr Eric Chang, and passing him a plate of bread rolls. She caught Chofy’s eye and smiled. He struck her as being by far the most handsome man at the table. Then and there she made up her mind to tell him, at the first reasonable opportunity, that she had fallen head over heels in love with him.

  Chofy remained alert and on tenterhooks, watching and copying the other guests. Nothing escaped his notice. He observed carefully which knives, forks or spoons were used for which course and immediately, almost simultaneously, followed suit. He observed how the other guests placed their napkins on their knees and ingeniously did the same. He skilfully anticipated the needs of those around him and passed the salt, pepper-sauce or water jug to anyone who required it. He made small talk to his neighbour as he saw the others doing. But all the time, he felt like a mysterious servant who, for some reason or other, had been allowed to sit amongst the guests. He was astounded at being there. Suddenly, he reminded himself of how he was used to spending his days, up to his waist in water, scraping deer-hides in the creek. If he and Rosa were to share a future together, his nerves would not be able to tolerate this sort of occasion too often. It was an ordeal, as taxing as his first hunt, to be endured as seldom as possible and overcome.

  As far as the nervous equilibrium of the hostess was concerned, the dinner got off to a bad start. The same East Indian houseboy who had skipped so nimbly back and forth across the threshold on Rosa’s first visit now appeared in his evening manifestation. He shouldered his way through the door with a plate of crab soup in each hand, his arms bent and raised, the top half of his body wavering to and fro in contradistinction to his head, as if performing an exquisite traditional Hindu dance.

  Mrs Bevan held her breath. Not until all the guests were served with the bright pink soup did she turn her attention to the conversation. Eric Chang was holding forth on the subject of elections.

  ‘At the last election, I spotted my dead father on the electoral roll and two people had already cast their vote in his name.’ He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and gave a high-pitched laugh.

  The American Ambassador, a dark rather hunched man full of professional resentment at having ended up with his last diplomatic posting in such a politically insignificant place, turned to Oily Sampson, the finance minister.

  ‘I think the IMF will probably refuse you any loan unless elections are supervised and a certain level of productivity guaranteed.’

  In his own way, gentle Oily Sampson loved his country. Every day he went to his office at the Ministry of Finance and despaired. The figures for the foreign debt made him feel ill. It was like struggling in a quicksand. He always sat through these dinners in smiling misery, hoping against all the odds that someone would say, ‘Look old chap, or buddy, or mein Freund, we think we’ll just cancel the debt.’

  ‘How did the colonists manage to build roads and courts and churches and even railway systems?’ he once groaned to a colleague.

  ‘Slavery,’ his colleague had replied tartly.

  ‘Oh yes.’ No good thinking of reintroducing that. Once, although he had never mentioned it to a soul, Olly had the idea of turning the whole country into an enormous theme park for tourists. They would re-create their history as a spectacle. People could act being slaves. Ships full of indentured labourers would arrive in the docks. Visitors would stare at Amerindian villages where the villagers would be obliged to return to traditional dress and customs. Hollywood films could be made and package dramas created for the American and European education industries.

  Recently, however, an irrepressible fantasy kept surfacing in his mind. It had first occurred to him when he was fretting, late at night, over budget figures. He imagined himself getting to his feet at the United Nations in New York or Geneva and making a solemn announcement that went something like this:

  Ladies and Gentlemen, I should like to inform you, on behalf of the nation state of Guyana, that we are going to resign from being a country. We can’t make it work. We have tried. We have done our best. It is not possible. The problems are insoluble. From midnight tonight, we shall cease trading. The country is now disbanded. We will voluntarily liquidate ourselves. The nation will disperse quietly, a little shamefaced but so what. We had a go.

  Different people have suggested different solutions. Do it this way. Try that. Let me have a go. Nothing works. We are at the mercy of the rich countries. A team of management consultants from the United States could not find the answer, and for not finding the answer, we had to pay them an amount that substantially increased our national debt. We give in, gracefully, but we give in.

  And then he imagined himself, quietly and with dignity, putting his papers in his briefcase, bowing to the hushed assembly, returning to clear out his office and going for a walk with his wife along the sea wall.

  At that moment, Olly Sampson’s wife was nudging him and he came to with a start, realising that conversation had ceased and the American Ambassador was expecting an answer.

  ‘Oh, the IMF is designed to keep the rich rich and make the poor even poorer. Last time they insisted we cut the sugar workers’ wages. There were massive strikes. The whole economy deteriorated. What to do?’

  ‘I’ve been helping out in a soup kitchen since I arrived,’ drawled the born-again Christian wife of one of the oil men. She had a face as round as a radar dish and despairing blue eyes.

  ‘Ah. The poor are another country,’ giggled Mr Chang. He turned to Rosa. ‘Are you staying at the Pegasus?’

  ‘No,’ said Rosa. ‘At Mynheer Nicklaus.’

  ‘Just as well,’ sniggered Eric Chang, ‘we call the Pegasus the Pigasus. The rooms are damp with humidity and mildew. A different insect occupies each room and when the businessmen open the windows to let in some air, mosquitoes as big as helicopters fly in.’

  At that moment, Anita the cook marched through the door as though she were at a mass drill, bearing a dish of baked butter-fish in white creamed sauce. Indira followed with the cassava cakes and the East Indian boy, Rodney Singh,
brought up the rear with the steamed callaloo.

  Bill Bevan, the host, became aware of the most silent of the guests. He turned to Chofy.

  ‘I must say I like your part of the world. I like to go to the Rupununi for a little sport at weekends. Have you been hunting recently?’

  There was a slight hush as if everyone at the table was worried that Chofy would not be able to rise to the challenge. Chofy clenched his stomach muscles, cleared his throat and despite the stiffness of his borrowed shirt and the sweatiness of his palms, managed to speak.

  ‘Not for a while. The last thing I missed catching was a sloth. We weren’t fast enough. My cousin spotted one at the top of a kokerite tree. He raced to climb up. As he climbed, the sloth moved very slowly, edging its way along a branch to the very tip. As my cousin neared the top, the branch with the sloth on it bowed gradually under the animal’s weight and the sloth, very, very slowly, reached out and transferred itself to the branch of the neighbouring tree. My cousin scrambled down and began to climb up the next tree. Exactly the same thing happened. The sloth barely seemed to move. Yet somehow, without hurrying, it always just escaped his grasp as he shinned frantically up one tree after another. They are creatures with great timing.’

  Everybody had stopped eating and turned to listen to him, smiling at the story. It went down well. They all laughed and an immediate buzz of conversation started up round the table as he finished. A warmth had been generated amongst the guests. Rosa smiled affectionately at him. Chofy smoothed back his black hair and realised that the story had been some sort of social triumph. He relaxed and laughed with the others.

  The staff trio marched in again, this time bringing the dishes of salad with avocado, cucumber, tomato and shallot and the breadfruit chips.

  ‘These Hawk Oil boys aren’t giving you any problems?’ asked the Canadian High Commissioner jovially. Hawk Oil, having been granted a two-million-acre concession to look for oil in the Rupununi, had recently started their explorations.

  ‘No, not as far as I …’

  A wild cry interrupted Chofy.

  No one saw Eric Chang slide his hand down the inside of Rodney Singh’s left thigh. Everyone saw the avocado salad fly in the air and slide down the front of the American Ambassador’s wife.

  Monica Bevan’s face turned scarlet. Her husband rose clumsily to see if he could help.

  ‘No that’s OK, really. It’s all right.’ Mrs Evergreen dabbed at the front of her dress with her napkin and inspected her lap for damage. Her smile remained unchipped. Her stomach knotted with fury.

  Mrs Bevan left the room ostensibly to deal with the service problem. In fact, she went upstairs to her bedroom and opened her mouth in a wide and silent scream for two whole minutes. When she found the strength to return to the kitchen, she found that Rodney Singh had run home and the others were looking at her with reproach, talking about aunty-men. Or were they saying anti-men? She really could not tell.

  Quickly she organised for the chicken fricassee and the rice with black-eye peas to be served and went back into the dining-room with a damp cloth.

  Eric Chang remained unperturbed. He beamed around the table.

  ‘Only a minor disaster,’ he said. ‘In this country, a change of disaster is always refreshing. In Guyana it is always disaster that comes up trumps. What has happened to the young man? Perhaps I should go and see.’

  ‘He’s gone home,’ said Mrs Bevan. Which news put Eric Chang in a sulk for the rest of the evening.

  Anita walked in grimly, this time as though she were leading a murder hunt. She presented the cheese board and the fingers of fudge and little peppermints. Indira served coffee wearing an expression like Cassandra’s after another of her forecasts had been disbelieved.

  Rosa caught Chofy’s eye and had to look away quickly. They were both hardly able to contain their giggles.

  At the end of the evening, Mrs Bevan was saying fulsomely to them: ‘You must come again,’ while directing a frosty shoulder at Mr Chang.

  When they were safely inside the taxi, Rosa and Chofy clung on to each other and screamed with laughter.

  ‘And what about you?’ said Rosa, bursting with excited delight. ‘If you’re not careful you’ll have to spend the rest of your life relating bush stories at dinner parties.’

  Love Gone a Fish

  Through the half-open door of the bathroom, he watched Rosa sponge herself down.

  He liked to look at her without her knowing. Sometimes he watched secretly while she brushed her hair in front of the oval mirror of the rosewood dressing-table. Sometimes he came across her by chance on the telephone, stretching out her long legs on the sofa. He would stand gazing at her until she spotted him and smiled. It gave him the same feeling of alert excitement as when he had tracked a labba or a deer in the bush and the animal just continued foraging for food without realising he was there. It put him at an advantage in the hunt.

  Rosa switched on the shower and nothing happened.

  ‘Oh shit. The water’s off again. It must have gone off just this second.’

  She filled a calabash with water from the bucket and sluiced herself down with it. Chofy watched the almond curves of her breast, waist and hip. Then she sat on the wooden toilet seat, her face cupped thoughtfully in her hands. From where he was, in the dark, he heard the sound come and go as if she were pouring slow, obstinate, hesitant, golden syrup.

  She wiped herself and came and stood naked by the window.

  ‘Don’t stand there. I don’t want anyone else to see you.’ He felt oddly jealous of anyone else seeing her like that.

  ‘It’s dark. No one can see me,’ she said and went on standing there. ‘What will we do when I have to return to England? It’s soon.’

  ‘We must discuss it. Come away from the window.’

  He came up behind her and she pushed his hands away. He went over to the bed, undressed and lay down.

  ‘Come and lie down with me.’

  Rosa was half trying to overhear what the Americans were saying on the verandah below. They were having a final nightcap and, seemingly, still chuckling over Chofy’s story about the sloth. Then they started to talk about the Rupununi and when they were due to join their colleagues there and she realised that she had not managed to ask Bill Bevan if she could accompany him. Her failure to do so seemed somehow typical of what happened in this country — a demonstration of the second law of thermodynamics. Everything tending towards inertia. She tried to remember the relevant laws. Something to do with entropy and disorder increasing with time. From below came the sound of ice clinking against glass tumblers and she strained her ears again to hear what was going on.

  ‘Wait a minute. I’m trying to hear something,’ she said to Chofy.

  Bats flitted round the sapodilla tree and a glittering moth dipped in and out of the headlights of a car parked in the yard.

  ‘Come and lie with me.’

  She leaned her elbows lazily on the windowsill.

  ‘Shhh. I can hear what they’re saying,’ she whispered.

  Before she knew what had happened, Chofy was on his feet, stumbling in the semi-darkness to pull on his green Y-fronts and pants.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  ‘You don’t want me. I’m going. I shall leave you in peace and stop harassing you. I’m off.’ He left the smart shirt he had borrowed on a chair and began to button on his own bright shirt. In the half-light, she could see his face like stone.

  ‘Oh don’t be silly,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not being silly. I can see you don’ want me physically. I should not like to impose myself on you,’ he said formally. Now she could sense the fullness of his rage, as he laced up his boots.

  ‘I do want you. Of course I do.’ She danced over to the bed and rolled on it, kicking her legs in a sort of protest.

  Chofy walked, in one of his controlled tempers, through the long attic, past the stiff settle and the table on which stood a vase of dried grasses. She hea
rd his boots clattering down the wooden stairs.

  After a few minutes, when it was clear he was not coming back, she fixed the mosquito net, pulled the sheet over her shoulder and tried to sleep. She had missed the chance to tell him how she felt. Even a sloth has better timing, she thought ruefully as she drifted off.

  Two hours later, Rosa woke with a raging fever. The onset was rapid. She sat up in bed and recalled how she had been soaked by the rain when they went to the university. Now, her eyes and nose were streaming. Soon her nightshirt and sheets were soaked with sweat. For a moment, in the moonlight, a sort of delirium affected her and the patterns on the sheets looked like moving insects, butterflies, dragonflies and cockroaches.

  She slid from underneath the ghostly cocoon of her mosquito net and went to look for something to quell the fever. Feeling her way further down the attic, she switched on the light which hung, a small yellow bulb, almost doused by the vastness of the tropical night. Her nose streamed with ammonia. On the draining-board stood a coffee cup. She rinsed it and poured herself out some rum. There was something exciting about the fever, despite the discomfort of her streaming eyes and nose. It infected her with a powerful restlessness.

  Outside, it was windy. The open window framed a portrait of dark, chaotic night. Across the road, she could just make out the branches of an awara tree, tossing slowly like the plumes of a circus horse. The house teemed with air. Breezes entered through the open Demerara shutters in starts and sallies like jazz riffs.

  ‘I’ve come back to say I’m sorry.’ Chofy stood, contrite, at the far end of the attic. His boots squeaked as he came over and hugged her.

  All the time she slept, he had stayed downstairs, just walking around in the large rooms where patches of moonlight shimmered on the polished floors of greenheart wood. He found a bow and arrows hung on the wall for ornamental purposes, and let fly an arrow across the room into the side of a giant armchair. Then, for a while, he had lain down on the sofa in the gallery which had once been used for dances, looking up at the slender columns and the painted cupola in the ceiling, staring into the shadows by the oak sideboard laden with dusty silver platters, wondering what to do.