Shape-Shifter

by Pauline Melville

  As the Monday morning vendors laid out their pyramids of scarlet wiri-wiri peppers and green water melons for the day’s sale, Shakespeare was already knocking at the door of his grandmother’s house.

  ‘You wan’ coffee-tea, cocoa-tea or tea-tea? I ain’ got milk.’ She shuffled round the tiny kitchen.

  ‘Tea-tea,’ said Shakespeare. It was his next request that she balked at. She jutted out her jaw and looked at him askance:

  ‘Why you want to borrow me clothes?’ she asked, suspiciously.

  Shakespeare avoided an explanation. He cajoled and begged his grandmother until finally she gave in and let him depart with one longish skirt, an old blouse with puffed sleeves, a headwrap and a pair of high-heeled shoes her daughter had abandoned there the year before.

  On his way home, Shakespeare bought an old coconut. Once inside the house, he allowed the jalousies to remain shut and moved around in semi-darkness. Every now and then he checked through a slat to see if the unmarked car with its ominous occupants had reappeared. No sign of them. He emptied the tapes and books from his bag onto the sofa and replaced them with the clothes his grandmother had lent him; Then he chopped the coconut in half and cut out the white flesh with a small knife. After that, he spent some time banging the two halves of the shells together until they produced a sound that satisfied him. Then he placed those too inside the bag. He fetched an axe and that also went in the bag. ‘Now comes the difficult bit,’ he said to himself, and went over to the telephone. Several times he lifted the receiver and replaced it on the hook. Each time he put it back, he would walk round the room rehearsing a slightly different version of what he planned to say. Finally, he picked up the phone and dialled the number of Vice-President Hogg’s office. The secretary answered.

  ‘Good morning.’ The tone of Shakespeare’s voice was fawning. ‘This is Comrade Shakespeare McNab speakin’. I am so sorry to trouble you – I would not dream of troublin’ you if it was not a matter of extreme urgency. I have had a warning dream concerning the Vice-President. My dead mother appeared to me in a dream last night warning me that he is in imminent danger and I felt it my duty to pass the message on.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end of the line, then came the snappy reply:

  ‘I do not take messages from dead people.’

  Shakepeare’s brain raced. His entire plan would totter if the message did not get through:

  ‘No. The message is from ME,’ he said, hastily. And to ensure that the Vice-President did, indeed, receive the information, he added, ‘I shall, of course, be writing to confirm what has happened, but I thought I should pass it on as quickly as possible, lest anything should occur before the letter reaches him. I should not like to be the one responsible for withholding that sort of information.’ That should fix her, thought Shakespeare, who discovered to his surprise that he was on his knees in front of the telephone.

  ‘All right.’ The voice was reluctant. ‘I shall inform the Comrade Vice-President if you think it is really necessary.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Shakespeare. ‘I think it is.’ His scalp was tingling all over as he hung up.

  More than once, during the rest of the afternoon, Shakespeare decided to abandon his plan altogether. It was too risky. Too much was at stake. It would be wiser to do what his grandmother suggested and flee the country. Nobody would offer him a decent job if he could not get his old one back, and if this scheme failed, he could say goodbye to the broadcasting world forever. All the same, perhaps it was worth one last attempt.

  As dusk fell, a shortish man could be observed sizing up and examining the trees that bordered a narrow stretch of road some distance from the city. To his right, the road led to the entrance gates of Vice-President Hogg’s private residence. The house itself remained out of sight at the end of a long drive. To his left, the road extended for a hundred yards or so until it met the main highway. Nothing but a tangle of trees and shrubs stood on either side of it. Overhead, a host of bats sewed up the great opal and silver clouds with their flitting, looping trajectories. Half way between the gates and the end of the road, Shakespeare spotted the tree that he wanted. It was a young, slender casuarina tree. He took the axe from the bag and began to chop at-the base of the trunk. With the sound of each chop, his heart leapt with fear and he glanced up and down the road. No one came. When the trunk was half severed, Shakespeare looked at his watch and decided to wait. He hid out of sight, in the bushes. The tree stayed upright. At about the time he had estimated, a chauffeur-driven limousine turned off the main road and made its stately way up the rutted earth track towards the entrance to Hogg’s estate. The driver stopped to unlock the gates and then the car disappeared up the drive. It was nearly dark.

  ‘Quick. Quick. Is now or never,’ whispered Shakespeare to himself, his face set in a wild grimace. With all his might, he pushed at the trunk of the casuarina tree until it fell in a graceful faint, blocking the road. Shakespeare dissolved back into the bushes, then remembered he had left his bag by the tree, ran to retrieve it and slipped on some wild tamarind pods. He cursed, but the pods gave him an idea. He picked one up and shook it. It rattled. He slipped it under his arm and melted once more into the trees. The sky had turned from silver to grey to black.

  Vice-President Hogg gazed moodily from the open back window of his limousine as the driver came to a halt, the branches of the toppled casuarina tree waving in his headlights:

  ‘I have to get some help to move this obstruction,’ apologised the driver after inspecting the offending tree. Hogg grunted his assent and waited while the chauffeur sped off towards the main road.

  It was then that Hogg began to hear things. First of all he heard the sound of soft, ploppy bangs on the roof of the car which he dismissed as something falling from the trees. Then, what appeared to be the piercing whistle of a bird assailed his ears, a whistle that ended in an unearthly rattle. Two minutes later, from his right, he heard a loud munching sound from the bushes. Almost immediately, from his left he heard a high-pitched voice calling:

  ‘Hello, daalin’.’

  Silence followed. Hogg’s small eyes shifted from side to side. Nothing happened. Hogg permitted himself to relax a fraction when the silence was broken by the clip-clop of hooves along the dried earth road. Hogg thrust his head out of the car window. What he saw appalled him. Beyond the section of road, illuminated by the car headlights, he could just make out the figure of a woman. She wore some kind of headwrap and a whitish dress with puffed sleeves. She was approaching slowly with a lolloping, uneven gait. Worst of all, she was beckoning him with the crook of her first finger, beckoning him to follow her into the bushes. Hogg gave a little moan and fell on his knees in the back of the car. No sooner had he assumed this position than all hell seemed to break loose in the trees at the side of the car. He could hear shouts, the crashing of branches and the snapping of twigs, as if some enormous creature was threshing about. Then Hogg heard a familiar voice yelling:

  ‘Go way! Leave him alone, I tell you.’ More silence.

  Fearfully, Hogg raised his face to the window where it confronted the equally tense face of Shakespeare McNab.

  ‘Praise the Lord. You safe.’ Shakespeare panted. ‘Did you get my message? I came to warn you in case the message din reach.’

  Hogg wiped a film of sweat from his face with a handkerchief. The breast of his khaki jacket rose and fell as he stared, mesmerised, at Shakespeare, his jaw slack.

  ‘Might I get in the car? I think it would be safer for both of us.’ Shakespeare tried to control his breathing rate. Hogg shifted to the far side of the back seat and Shakespeare slipped in beside him:

  ‘Lord a mercy. All these years I bin tellin’ stories about these things an’ I never really believe them. Now I know it all true. Lucky I was here. I fought her off. You know who that was?’

  Hogg’s eyes swivelled towards Shakespeare. They seemed to contain some sort of warning, but Shakespeare could not stop:

  �
�La Diablesse.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Hogg, confused.

  ‘La Diablesse.’ Shakespeare lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘That must have been the warning my mother was trying to give you in the dream. Did you get the message I left?’

  Hogg nodded.

  ‘La Diablesse. You know. She got one straight foot and one cloven hoof. She lure people to their death in the forest.’

  A rumbling laugh emerged from Hogg’s nether regions. Shakespeare quailed. The plan was not working. Hogg didn’t appreciate the seriousness of an encounter with La Diablesse. Shakepeare’s own heroism would go for naught. He shot a worried glance at Hogg’s enormous, shaking bulk.

  ‘Jesus God,’ said Hogg. ‘I thought it was my wife.’

  The strength oozed out of Shakespeare’s limbs. Never had it occured to him that Hogg would mistake the apparition for the ghost of his wife. He attempted to put the matter right:

  ‘If you will forgive me for contradicting you, Comrade Vice-President, I am sure that what I saw was La Diablesse. When I shouted and shake the branches, she jus’ fade back into the trees.’

  Hogg frowned. ‘What brought you here?’ He sounded suspicious.

  ‘A feelin’. A powerful feelin’,’ said Shakespeare.

  Shakespeare peered timorously at the corpulent figure beside him. Hogg appeared preoccupied. He was scowling as he fingered the ring on his right hand, twisting it this way and that. Suddenly, he pulled the ring off and flung it through the car window. Just then, the car headlights picked out the anxious face of the chauffeur. He was with another man and together they set about removing the tree from the path of the car. Shakespeare knew that if he was to seize the opportunity before it vanished he would have to make his move fast:

  ‘Well, sir … Comrade sir, I can see that you are safe now. I must be gettin’ home. Sadly, I have been made redundant from the broadcasting station and I have got to get up early and look for other work.’

  Hogg turned slowly and scrutinised Shakespeare. Shakespeare wilted a little under the penetrating stare.

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Hogg, thoughtfully. ‘I think I might be able to help you on this.’

  Shakespeare batted his eyelids and started to thank him effusively, hoping for an immediate return to the broadcasting station, but Hogg continued: ‘I am going to offer you a position as my personal adviser.’

  In his grandmother’s kitchen the next day, Shakespeare strutted from the window to the table, laughing and boasting as he related, in full detail, the success of his ruse:

  ‘So, what you think, grandmumma. I clever? You grandson clever? I am now Personal Adviser to Comrade Vice-President Hogg,’ he crowed.

  She stirred some casreep into the pepper-pot.

  ‘Leave the country,’ she said.

  The Iron and the Radio Have Gone

  ‘I AM MAROONED, MOLLY!’

  Donella Saunders stood on the verandah and gazed across the dried patch of garden towards the neighbouring house. That house, like her own, needed a coat of paint. The white wooden building sagged in places. Rust had crept over the zinc roof of the outhouse. The stake fence between the two properties zigzagged all askew under the weight of untrimmed hibiscus that ran along its length.

  The plump white woman with a necklace of mosquito bites around her neck sat in the wicker chair and said nothing.

  ‘I cannot imagine why you came,’ continued Donella. ‘We are in a parlous situation here. Extremely parlous.’

  A brown-skinned woman in her mid-fifties, she was tall, extraordinarily thin, with a high forehead and an air of ravaged elegance. Her wavy brown hair was scraped back from her face and pinned untidily with combs. She flicked ash from her cigarette nervously into the garden and stared morosely ahead of her at nothing in particular.

  Molly Summers basked in the satisfaction of knowing precisely why she was there in the sun-struck capital of Guyana. It was in order to enrich the lives of the schoolchildren she taught in England. Only half-aware of the other woman’s mood, she sipped a cold cup of coffee and inspected her new sandals. She tried to imagine the shoe shop in Finsbury Park where she had bought them, continuing business as usual while she sat thousands of miles away on the other side of the Atlantic.

  From the first moment when, some years ago now, she had muttered ‘Oh yes Lord’ in the silence and tranquillity of the Friends’ Meeting House in Muswell Hill, she had recognised her mission: to work for, understand and promote the culture of the oppressed races in England; to ensure equality of treatment at least as far as Moseley Road Junior School was concerned – she had even proposed (unsuccessfully) that the name of the school be changed. By nature a self-effacing woman, she overcame her timidity to make frequent interventions at staff meetings. She attended all the anti-racist courses run by the local education authority and cast reproving looks at colleagues who made racially ambiguous statements. She studied the pre-emancipation history of the West Indies, experiencing quiet satisfaction at the role of the Quaker movement in the struggle against slavery. The Quaker faith suited her with its one god so pale and subdued and down to earth that he barely existed. High self-esteem was an abomination to Molly, who trod a lifelong tightrope between trying to do good and trying not to feel pleased with herself for having done so. But as far as the race question went she prided herself on having got it pretty much right. When the opportunity to visit the West Indies came in the form of a remark made casually by the only black teacher in the school – who never dreamed that it would be taken up and acted upon – that if Molly really wanted to visit the Caribbean she could probably stay with her brother, Molly leapt at it. It was her duty to go. She battened down her feelings of apprehension and consulted her colleague on appropriate clothing.

  And here she was.

  It was ten in the morning. The sun was manoeuvring itself into position for the mid-day strike and Molly felt a prickling sensation along her forearms as if tiny, crystalline needles were being inserted under the skin. She raised a chubby hand and patted the top of her head. If only someone had reminded her to bring some sort of hat. Her pleasant, unremarkable face was framed by a neat helmet of iron grey hair, cut pudding basin style with a fringe. When she smiled, her expectant expression combined with the childish haircut made her look like one of those fuzzy newspaper photos of a murdered ten-year-old girl. She was, in fact, fifty-nine years old.

  Donella pulled her yellow kimono round a body that was all angles like a stick insect and addressed Molly:

  ‘Excuse my déshabillée. You must forgive me. My mind too is disorganised this morning.’ The accent was extravagently English upper-class, hardly a trace of Guyanese, the result of years spent in England, daughter of some high-ranking diplomat. She stood facing Molly, taking short nervy puffs at her cigarette.

  ‘The iron and the radio have gone,’ she announced. ‘Someone climbed in through the window. I am totally unnerved. Completely and utterly unnerved. Do you think the maid left the top half of the door unlocked or did they come in through the window? On top of everything, this is the last straw. The radio I can do without, but not the iron. The iron cost three hundred dollars. We have nothing here. I am distraught.’

  She wafted from the verandah into the living room to look for an ashtray. In a minute, she returned:

  ‘Excuse me, dear. Here are some magazines for you to look at.’ She tossed some ancient copies of Harper’s magazine and a Tatler onto the table. ‘I am afraid the telephone is constantly demanding my attention.’

  Molly could hear her dialling a number on the telephone and then heard the wailing voice relating the story of the iron and the radio. She had been dumped at Donella’s house by her reluctant host, Ralph Rawlings, while he went about some business downtown. As soon as he returned she would persuade him to drop her at a bookshop where she might find some educational material to take home. She had begun collecting small items like a calabash, postcards, Amerindian artefacts, the sort of thing that would be a stimulus in the class
room. Now she needed books. Story books and picture books.

  She picked up a magazine idly and put it down again. A fat, old, black woman came onto the verandah of the house opposite and threw something from a pot into the garden. Heat pinioned Molly to her seat. She remembered the night she had arrived at Timehri Airport. Nothing had prepared her for the beauty of Georgetown. The streets were the widest she had ever seen. Tall slender Royal Palms tapered off into the sky, the foliage of each one silhouetted against the night clouds like a spider dancing on a stick. The taxi passed stylish old colonial buildings whose latticed partitions and verandahs gave the appearance of white wooden lace and then continued, carrying her across small bridges over intersecting canals. But the next morning she awoke to find the city smiling at her with rotting teeth. She was living in an open sewer. A tentative, exploratory walk revealed the city to be built on a network of stagnant, liquorice-smelling drains and canals choked with rubbish. Floating belly up in one of them was an enormous, bloated rat. Molly was shocked. Later that morning she walked with her measured, schoolmistress tread to the sea wall and looked out over the pink metallic sea to where she supposed England was. One of these two countries is imaginary, she thought. And I think it is this one.

  Donella posed in the doorway. Behind her the ebony-faced maid did not look up as she dusted assiduously and moved things round the table.

  ‘My dear, would you be so kind as to pass me my cigarettes? Please understand that you have caught me in a state of dire confusion because of this break-in. Maxine! Bring me some matches please.’ The maid brought matches. ‘I shall repair to my dressing-room and find some clothes to throw on my body after I have showered. In England, you know, I would shower however cold it was, whatever parts of me were freezing and dropping off. If I remember correctly, the English do not cleanse themselves too frequently.’ She went off into some other part of the house.