by Shani Mootoo
He pushed the box toward her and encouraged her to look inside. She reluctantly opened the box. Inside was a portable gramophone with two seventy-eight r.p.m. disks stashed on the turntable. Mala covered her mouth in surprise and embarrassment.
“But I hardly know you. Is not right for a woman to take presents so expensive from a man. I am sorry but I can’t accept this, Mr. Ambrose.”
“Not Mr. Ambrose. Ambrose alone is fine. You do know me. And I only brought it back for you because I hold you in the highest esteem and wanted to pay my respects to you in the spirit that—” He broke off abruptly. It stunned Mala to realize he was about to cry.
“I expected you to be wearing a priest’s collar,” she quickly said.
His mood shifted. He dropped the topic of the gramophone and slid into an eloquence that he clearly delighted in displaying.
“After a year of schooling in theology,” Ambrose began, “I found that certain concepts had the effect of turning me into a rather irascible fellow. Quite the antithesis of a theologian, don’t you think?” He chuckled, looking to her for a response. Mala remained silent. “I left the seminary and went to a little-known university where I completed—quite successfully, might I add—a degree in entomology. I am an entomologist, a bloody entomologist, Pohpoh!” He laughed heartily. She stared at him blankly, not sure what he meant.
“Look. At the heart of theology there is a premise—they will try to tell you otherwise, but if one listens carefully there is a premise that we humans are the primary sun around which the entire universe revolves. Unstated but certainly implied is the assumption that humans are by far superior to the rest of all of nature, and that’s why we are the inheritors of the earth. Arrogant, isn’t it? What’s more, not all humans are part of this sun. Some of us are considered to be much lesser than others—especially if we are not Wetlandish or European or full-blooded white.”
She found his words and meanings too obscure for her to follow and Mala became interested in the musicality of his voice. His words were like cut-glass pendants tinkling on a string. He paused and waited for a response but she was far too lost.
“Ambrose, I never knew you to talk quite so much.”
“Well, I feel as if I want to talk with you about everything and to talk and talk and talk forever and ever. With you, that is. Everything I learned while I was over there I wanted to discuss and share with you. How are you, Pohpoh? Tell me, how are you?”
“I am good, yes.” Mala wasn’t sure if she was hearing him correctly. “But I don’t understand what you are talking about. What about the Reverend? What he say about you not finishing your studies? You must have to pay back the mission a lot of money, eh?”
“Ah, dear. Where should I begin?”
“You begin already. Just carry on. But go slow and explain so I can understand you.”
“Look, it’s not that I intended to turn my back on God. I just don’t think that those instructors and eminent theologians are equal to their theories of theology. When I was asked about my special areas of interests I told them that I dearly wanted to map the importance of the insects and bugs mentioned in the Bible to the spiritual well-being of humankind and the earth on which we all, man and nature, co-exist. All of God’s universe.”
Mala began to giggle. He looked at her quizzically.
“I thought I wasn’t understanding you but now it look like I am.”
“Yes? Yes? Ah, Pohpoh. I knew you would! They thought I was loco but when they realized I was serious they let me begin a study of my own. Yet every step of the way they intervened, insisting that I posit the insects and the bugs and all creatures not of the human species as lesser, as dumb, and to relegate them to being God’s tools, servants, or as doom that He would send down upon mankind as punishment, or that He would visit upon us as reward for our deeds. Well, I wrote a letter to the Reverend and he agreed that I could use the scholarship to study entomology as long as I promised to return and work as a good Christian in the ministry of agriculture.”
“You goin to work in the cane fields, Ambrose?”
“I got him to agree that I would work in the area of tourism. Bringing people to God via the ministry of His marvellous nature. He told me that if I weren’t so bright, and if Mammy weren’t such a good and God-fearing woman he would take the scholarship away and give it to someone else. But he knew that ever since I was a child I had a heart for entomology. So I don’t owe them any money. But I do owe you tremendous gratitude. It was you who introduced me to the world of insects, you know that, eh, Pohpoh?”
“So what kind of work it is you going to do?”
“Commerce. Some sort of enterprise of my own. Finding a position would be quite impossible, I tell you. It would be quickly discerned by any employer that I am incurably notional. I would be fired before the completion of my first day. The charges would fill a ledger: daydreaming, insolence, stubbornness, quixotism and so the list would go.”
Mala couldn’t quite follow him but somehow, to his delight, he made her chuckle. She glanced at the gramophone still sitting in the box. Its arm was brass coloured with ornate etchings. It was very pretty.
“So if I want to hold a job I must employ myself,” Ambrose said happily. “I have so many ideas but I will bore you with only my most compelling.”
“What is that?”
“I was thinking of harvesting spider silk. Do you remember how those imbeciles at school used to try to crush a strand of spider silk? They would smash at it with a rock but it never split apart. There have been attempts already to harvest the silk but with little results. I think I might have stumbled upon a way, Pohpoh.”
There was such affection in the way Ambrose said Pohpoh that Mala was unable to tell him that she could no longer bear the name. Pohpoh was what her father had lovingly called her since she was a baby, long before the crisis in the family. But when Chandin Ramchandin started touching her in ways that terrified and hurt her, she hated the way he whispered, “Pohpoh, my little Pohpoh, you must never leave me, eh?” She decided not to ask Ambrose to call her Mala just yet. The request might cause too many questions to hang like a curtain, separating them. She would wait for a time when she was sure nothing could wedge a distance between them.
“I am thinking also,” he continued dreamily, “of purchasing a pirogue, a small boat, to take foreign visitors who come in search of nature’s tropical wonders up the river and out to the vast swamplands on the eastern coast. The swamp is the home of magnificent birds, so colourful and varied in size, with fantastic appendages that make them appear to have escaped the pages of a fairy tale. The swamp is also home to countless species of fantastical crabs and lizards and crocodile. Those foreign naturalists would give their arm and a leg to see what lives in that swamp. I am certain, too, that there we could also find a copious supply of web-spinning spiders. What do you say?”
It was all too strange for Mala, especially his use of the word we.
“You like the bread?” was all that she could say.
“And you, Pohpoh, could serve them tea and hot bread at the end of the river trip. What do you say? I had no idea that you baked so competently. But of course I am not surprised. It is rather an excellent taste. I could eat such bread very happily for every meal for the rest of my life.”
The surprise of such a revealing pronouncement quieted them both. They parted awkwardly, Ambrose pretending to forget the gramophone on the table and Mala pretending to not notice that it remained. He made his way out the back door.
Without removing the gift from the box she looked at it, touching the fat brass arm. She clutched the records to her chest, imagining that Ambrose knew these musical pieces well, had especially chosen them for her. She returned the disks and closed the box. With less difficulty than Ambrose, she lifted it and walked into her bedroom. She shoved the box under her bed, out of her father’s sight.
IT WAS MARKET day. As he left t
he house that morning Chandin Ramchandin had, as usual, stated what he wanted for his evening meal. “Curry a brown fowl,” he said but it was understood the meal must also include rice, split pea dhal, curried channa or aloo and one sadha roti. Chandin left six shillings on the kitchen table for Mala to go to market with. It was enough to buy the chicken but with all her baking for Ambrose she would also have to get flour for the roti. Before Ambrose left, Mala was distressed that she would have to shorten his visit so that she could make the trip to Pilai’s Dry Goods and the market. She needed time to kill, gut and pluck the fowl before cooking it. There would be no lingering today.
Fortunately, Ambrose had left her just enough time to complete her work and cooking before Chandin returned. But so preoccupied was Mala with her intriguing beau, she entirely forgot what day it was. Before leaving for the market she fixed on her head a wide-brimmed hat with large red flowers and purple birds. She looked at herself in the mirror, pretending she was in the market and, unbeknownst to her, Ambrose too was in the market watching her. She turned and twisted her face, puckered her mouth and raised her eyebrows, mimicking the well-to-do women who sometimes made the market trip. She imitated them asking the vendors with benevolent arrogance for a fat young fowl, a bundle of cinnamon, a pineapple. She saw herself in the mirror as she imagined Ambrose might, the way he might watch and admire her.
Swinging her woven straw basket, humming and admiring the flowering shrubs and trees in neighbouring yards, Mala was ecstatic as she strolled down the five long blocks to the market. Cooking for her father was a chore she performed without much thought or caring. But now cooking had become a delightful production. She would cook more than enough food so that tomorrow she would be able to show off and offer her talents to Ambrose.
When she got to Pilai’s store, to her horror, it was closed. Then she remembered the day was Wednesday. Her disbelief quickly turned to fear. On Wednesdays Pilai opened his shop for only two hours in the early morning. By nine o’clock he would close and make his once-a-week trip to the docks for provisions that came in by steamer from another island. Everyone in Paradise knew his schedule. She looked down at her feet and noted her shadow was short. It was well past ten o’clock. She was no longer very confident that she would get a chicken, let alone a brown one so late in the day.
The fowl, pork and beef vendors’ tables had already been cleared. The fowl vendor was hosing off blood, feathers and snippets of entrails from the table and scales, and feathers and excrement from the stack of empty cages behind his stall. A couple of fish stalls were still running. Through a swarm of lazy flies she saw meagre piles of discoloured shrimp and some whole fish that had lost their gloss of freshness. All the king fish, red fish and cavalli were finished, the vendor said, but he had a shark and would give it to her cheap. Shark was always far cheaper than the other fish. Mala knew it was said that only people whose souls were dark would eat the flesh of an animal that was known to eat the flesh of man.
Mala considered the shark. The vendor slit its belly with a flamboyant gesture and yanked out the guts. He stretched apart the slit intestine. She looked, and seeing nothing resembling human body parts or unusual colours, she agreed to take it. She sought solace in the fact that fish was cheaper than meat. She would spend her father’s money carefully and take change home.
Spice and vegetable vendors were plentiful still. Mala bought tomatoes, onions, garlic, star anise seeds, sweet potatoes, eddoes, cassava, yam and scotch bonnet peppers. To compensate for her carelessness she bought a bundle of her father’s favourite vegetable, string bean bodi. She still had a shilling and some pennies.
Chandin Ramchandin would not get his curry but Mala would cook up the tastiest stewed fish and provisions he had ever had. She would fry the bodi with onions and tomatoes, the way he liked best. He would not miss the curry. And the next day she would be able to give a plateful of the anise- and pepper-flavoured fish to Ambrose. It was indeed for Ambrose that she was cooking. It would be fine with him to be served shark. Ambrose was not one to be afraid to indulge in all kinds of pleasures. And Chandin Ramchandin would likely not ask what kind of fish he was eating. If he did she would simply say it was carite. He would never know the difference.
But when her father arrived home that afternoon, he expected the neighbourhood to be permeated with the bitter aromas of freshly roasted and ground curry paste. He was shocked to be greeted by the quieter aroma of fish tamed in burnt sugar and anise, the smells of a creole stew. Mala heard him drag open the front gate. She swiftly set the table for one. In a white enamel bowl she spooned out a large serving of the brilliant, tomato-coloured fish, decorated tastefully with the yellow scotch bonnet pepper floating in gravy. There was still enough left for herself and Ambrose. She put a portion of the bodi in a saucer and some rice in a sky-blue enamel bowl. She was finished by the time Chandin unlocked the front door.
She stood in the kitchen in full view, but he did not glance in her direction. He walked straight to his bedroom where he undressed, removed his shirt and changed from a pair of worn-out, stained khaki pants to worn-out, stained pajama pants. Mala anxiously brushed flies away from the plates of food. She expected a confrontation but trusted that after the first drop of her stew touched his tongue he would quietly finish his meal. In his pajama pants and a ragged merino vest, Chandin shuffled barefoot into the kitchen, still not looking at Mala.
He walked to the back verandah, looked around and came and stood in the doorway. His features were eclipsed by the evening glare.
“You wash clothes today?” he gruffly asked.
“No, Pappy. Today is Wednesday. I does wash clothes Tuesday and Friday.”
“You sweep the yard? It didn’t look to me like you sweep.”
Becoming afraid, Mala whispered back, “No, I sweep yesterday. I will go and sweep now-now if you say so.”
He looked at the plate of fish on the table. “I see you went and make market today,” he said quietly. He shuffled into the drawing room and swiped a finger across a centre table.
“And I see you didn’t dust today.” His voice was low but Mala could tell that a hurricane was around the corner. Tears began to cloud her eyes.
“No, Pappy.” The words were barely audible. His questioning was beginning to have its desired effect.
“So, if you didn’t sweep, you didn’t dust and you didn’t wash, what make you late that you didn’t get chicken?”
“Pappy, they didn’t have chicken.”
He walked over and stood by the table where the food waited. Mala watched flies settling on the dishes. She was trapped. Swatting the flies might provoke violence from her father, yet ignoring them was also perilous.
“So how is it that this morning I see Miss Barlo leaving the market with a fowl in her hand. And I see Miss Gomez with one and Mr. Samlal carrying two? Tell me?”
She opened her mouth to utter something that had not yet even formed itself into an idea, when he suddenly grabbed the bowl of fish and in one fluent motion rammed it into her face. In terror she gasped, inhaling stew in her mouth and nostrils. She kept her eyes on Chandin, even though the stew burned. She had learned to watch and anticipate his actions against her so she could control their impact.
Chandin Ramchandin’s body shook with rage. Mala puffed her chest out against him like a bullfrog in full defiance. He growled, anger stripping him momentarily of his faculty to speak. Clutching a handful of hair at the back of her head, he shoved the bowl into her face again, twisting it back and forth. Her nose began to bleed. She concentrated on the sensation of enamel against her face, as though taking notes on an experiment. With every clockwise twist he slammed his pelvis into her, banging her against the counter of the sink. She felt no pain. She tapped her tongue against the roof of her mouth checking the stew for seasoning. She tasted blood. To stem the panic brought on by the recognition of blood, she focused her eyes on the half-moon-shaped, chicken po
x scar on her father’s forehead. He let the bowl drop and leaned against Mala, resting his forehead on hers. The smell of his alcoholic body and breath agitated her more than the injuries he had just then inflicted. She slipped her tongue out of her mouth and licked the stew on her face. The taste of garlic and anise erased his smell. The stew was indeed well seasoned, perhaps the best she had ever cooked. She was pleased she had saved some back for Ambrose.
Chandin straightened himself and moved away from her.
“Idleness is the workings of the devil, you lying bitch. You want to have your own way—just like your mother. You is a liar just like your mother. I will teach you. I will see to that. I tell you I want curry fowl. It don’t matter to me where you get a fowl from but you will go and find one. Tonight self. You hear me? You ent sleeping until I eat curry fowl and this kitchen clean up good.”
He ripped off his pajama shirt, which was spotted with bodi and tomato, bundled it up and flung it at her face. She caught it in time. Slyly pleased with herself, Mala hung her head low and stared at her bare feet. He shuffled out of the kitchen and into his room. He slammed the door so hard the dishes in the cupboard shook. She breathed a long sigh.
It was already dark outside except for the flashes of lightning that lit up the tropical night skies. Not that Mala needed light to find her way around the neighbourhood. In the first few months after her mother had left she had trekked through the streets many nights in despair, undetected. Ashamed that she had been forced out of her father’s home to search for a chicken, Mala considered the possibilities. Her father clearly expected her to steal. How else would she find a chicken at night when no shop was open? Yet if she stole, her father would draw blood with his beating and berating—and would likely do the same if she returned empty handed. At the backyard gate Mala smelled a freshness. Something had recently died. It was not an offensive smell, perhaps a squirrel or cat. She followed her nose and waited for a flash of lightning to reveal what had met its death.