‘He was the vicar—’
Mr Ebenezer interrupted again. ‘Not a church-going man. Haven’t got all day.’
‘I have gold to sell, Mr Ebenezer.’
‘That’s more like it.’
Mr Ebenezer reminded Song of a toucan with his alert eyes, his large nose more like a beak and the jerky way he cocked his head from side to side.
‘I’m looking for a direct channel from me straight to the hands of a broker in Georgetown. I don’t want to sell in Bartica. I want to come directly to someone here. Nobody in between taking cuts or commissions. I’ll declare some to make sure it’s seen as above board. But I’ll split the saving. I need someone to work quickly and take everything off my hands. They’ll need to take it all – and pay cash.’
‘Glad you got to the point,’ Mr Ebenezer said. ‘What I can’t understand is why he’s taken such a shine to you.’
Song shifted on the sofa and a book fell to the ground. Mr Ebenezer grimaced. Song picked it up and gently put it back on the seat.
Mr Ebenezer stopped looking at the painting and turned to face Song again. ‘What did you say to him ?’
‘Mr Ashkanzi Senior ? I met him at the shop once when I was selling. He and his son Farad. His price was lower than fair but we made a deal.’
Mr Ebenezer sneezed and took a large handkerchief out of his pocket. ‘There must be something else . . .’
‘I’m half-blind,’ Song volunteered.
Mr Ebenezer snorted.
Song paused. ‘We both like birds.’
‘That’s it,’ Mr Ebenezer said. ‘An amateur ornithologist.’
‘I can’t call myself an ornithologist, sir,’ Song said. ‘But with Father Holmes and a friend, Jon Swire, we drew up four books on the birds of Guiana. We were the first to identify the whiskered white-headed song warbler; the Royal Ornithological Society allowed us to name it.’
‘That old man would like nothing more than someone who could understand his passion for birds,’ Mr Ebenezer said, blowing his nose. ‘It was always more than a hobby to him. He could have devoted his life to birds. But his parents wouldn’t have it. His son doesn’t take an interest either. Never took an interest in anything except money. Easy money, too, that’s the kind he likes. Lazy son-of-a. That’s it, though. Didn’t take me long to get to the root. It’s the birds, of course.’
The two men were silent. Nanny was clattering metal dishes in the next room. Through the windows drifted in the holler of a stall-holder calling out the price of roti rolls; words hung on the air like the smell of good cooking.
‘Do you know what you are ?’ Mr Ebenezer said. ‘You’re a fast talker. You make it sound like you have a new story. It’s not a new story. You’ve got gold to sell. You want it out of the system. You want me to buy it at a good price. I need to sell it at a better price. And the world keeps turning.’
‘There’s one difference,’ Song said. ‘I’ve got enough gold to make us both very nervous.’
‘How much are we talking about ?’
‘It will keep us both busy.’
‘Where is it ?’
Song smiled.
Mr Ebenezer was irritated. ‘I’m not asking for X marks the spot.’
‘It’s on my land,’ Song said. ‘I bought fifteen thousand acres. I have the deeds.’
‘You bought land ? Not your average pork-knocker then. Who else is involved ?’
‘Nobody yet. I have a loyal fixer called Chi who gets paid very well and who I will continue to pay well. I plan on asking him to run the site.’
‘You better pay him well. Loyal ain’t a word I hear much about life upriver.’
‘The business does well, he does well. He knows that.’
Mr Ebenezer pulled himself up from his chair, walked to the wall and stared into the dusky oil painting of the man tending his goats. He tapped the frame of the picture.
‘This is a boy who lived in the mountains of Yemen. His father was a goatherd and he watched him head to the hills every day. But when the boy came of age he moved down to the city. He was a hard worker and had a sharp business mind. Within thirty years he owned most of the shops and controlled all the coffee and qat coming into the country from Ethiopia. Some said he was richer than the Sultan. Then one day he woke up and walked away. He left everything. His big house, his indulged family, his string of businesses. He went into the mountains and nobody heard from him again. Some say they saw him from time to time up in the hills with only his goats. The same life his father had lived.’
Song drew a breath. ‘I like a good story. Was that your father ?’
Mr Ebenezer didn’t answer Song’s question. ‘It’s a lesson against greed.’
‘I’ll remember it,’ Song said. ‘Not having enough, having too much, both have their problems.’
Mr Ebenezer nodded. ‘I’ll take you on. Jews of the East, they call the Chinese. Different eyes. Different noses.’ He tapped his temple. ‘But the same heads.’
Song didn’t understand the comparison, nor did he like it, but he didn’t speak out. He was aware he was choosing to follow his dead father’s advice this time, to stay quiet, to keep his head down, and that didn’t make Song feel good. But he knew he wanted to do business with this man and was conscious that speaking out might put the relationship in jeopardy.
‘Where do you live ?’ Mr Ebenezer asked.
‘Bartica.’
‘Well, if you can survive Bartica . . .’
‘I’ll be back and forth from now on. I’m buying a house here.’
‘Are you ?’ Mr Ebenezer cocked his head to the side again. ‘Ashkanzi and I have something in common, you know. We like ambition. That’s why he sent you to me. When the gold starts coming out thick and fast you bring it here and we’ll talk some more.’
‘It’s already coming out thick and fast. Do you have a pair of scissors ?’ Song pulled his shirt outside of his trousers and let the hems hang in his hands. ‘It’s sewn into the cloth.’
‘Nanny,’ he yelled. ‘Bring scissors.’
Nanny walked in with wet hands and a pair of scissors. ‘No need to shout.’
‘Make sure the door downstairs is locked,’ Mr Ebenezer said to her.
‘You know I find that entirely unnecessary.’
‘Go on,’ Mr Ebenezer said. ‘Lock it.’
Song took off his shirt and laid it out on the desk. He started cutting the stitching around the borders of the squares Chi had arranged so carefully.
‘Hurt your back ?’ Mr Ebenezer said. He was looking at Song’s scars.
Song dismissed his comment. ‘Long time ago,’ he said. He felt more anger than shame. Angry at the men who had left their marks.
Mr Ebenezer nodded. ‘Hard to forget with scars like that.’
‘They’re out of my sight. I don’t notice them.’
What Song said was true. He was glad not to see those reminders daily, yet they also represented for him a fight he had to keep fighting – not to be answerable to anyone ever again. To better himself, to rise above, to leave that all behind him.
Song continued to unpick the stitching. He gently shook the cloth; three nubs of gold fell into his palm. He held them out to Mr Ebenezer. Mr Ebenezer took Song’s wrist, flicked it and emptied the contents of his hand into his own.
‘Very nice,’ Mr Ebenezer said. His hands were trembling. ‘How much is in this rag ?’
‘Just under three pounds. Took us two days to take this out and we haven’t even started.’
Mr Ebenezer put a piece of gold in his teeth and bit it. ‘How about we make this the first of many happy trades ?’
Song put out his hand and Mr Ebenezer took it. They shook firmly. Song sensed he had found a match in this outspoken old man who was unafraid to say exactly what he thought. In many ways, more a Bartica type than the hypocrites of Georgetown. Brimful of prejudice perhaps, but not pretending to be otherwise. Song felt he knew what he was getting himself into with this one.
That
night Song went up to the sea wall. It was hot and the mosquitoes were biting. Song recalled the last time he’d been this way – with Father Holmes by his side. They had come across Scott and Millie, and Song had seen a new side to Father Holmes, a vicar, or more simply a man, trying to fix the injustices of the world around him. His wrath at Millie, his concern for Scott. Song understood Father Holmes’ reaction even more clearly now. Scott, the houseboy, like Song had been then. And in some ways, newly back in Georgetown, Song felt similarly now. He couldn’t risk making a mistake, like Scott.
‘I’m looking for a Mr House,’ Song said to the man selling ice lollies. ‘You know him ?’
‘Up there.’ He nodded down the line of tables. ‘You want a house, you got the right man. He’s the big one. Nicer than he looks.’
There were a dozen wooden tables set out along the seafront with men playing draughts and dominoes. The onlookers were gambling, clutching the neck of a bottle and slapping at mosquitoes. Men looked up as Song walked by. Some touched their hat. One offered to take a bet. Song shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I don’t gamble.’
Song moved down the line and stopped where there were two men playing dominoes and five watching on. The player with his back to Song was huge and he guessed this was Mr House. His head became his neck became his shoulders which sloped down to his flabby arms. His white vest bulged outwards, tugging at the stitching.
Song joined the crowd to watch the game. Someone offered him a drink; he shook his head. No one spoke. Everyone watched the two men clackety-clack the ebony pieces around the tabletop.
The big man lost. There was clapping and cries of delight from some quarters. Others moseyed off into the night. The big man scraped his chair back. ‘Can’t win ’em all. Sorry boys.’
The winner asked him for a cigarette. Mr House handed him two. As the big man started to walk away Song touched his arm. ‘Mr House ?’
He turned his head slightly.
‘My name’s Song. I’m from Bartica, but I’m looking to buy myself a place in Georgetown.’
‘Found the right man,’ Mr House replied. ‘What you looking for ?’
‘Something in a nice part of town.’
‘Just for you ?’
‘Bigger than that.’
‘I’ll meet you at nine under the clock.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Mr House turned and headed back towards town. Song watched the huge figure slope off. It had been brief but congenial.
Song continued along the sea wall. The breeze had picked up and the salt air was cooling. He looked out across the water and listened to it lapping softly against the wall. The night was inky and starless. He could not see a horizon in the darkness. He imagined the Dartmouth moored offshore and remembered how small it had seemed that day they disembarked and he looked back. How much further away was his family ? Beyond the edge of the sea, an impossible distance away. Blurred images came to him of his sisters and brothers. He watched their undefined silhouettes diminish as the cart rolled away. A family fading. Then he thought of Hannah. A strong clear image of her face, her smile, her figure on a bicycle. He hoped to show her a house in Georgetown. A new home. He pictured children running in the yard, hearing their voices carried through windows into the house. The hope of another family, another life.
The next morning Song arrived at the clock ten minutes before nine. Mr House was already there, sweating in spite of the coolness of the early hour. Song glanced up at the time.
‘You’re early,’ Mr House reassured him. ‘Just like to be earlier. Promptness is a sign of respect for other people’s time.’
Mr House was wearing more clothes than the night before and looked bigger in daylight. He filled his shirt but not uncomfortably. His glasses were too narrow for his head and splayed over his ears. Droplets of sweat trickled down his temples and were absorbed into his shirt collar, which was cutting into his neck.
‘More than a room, you said ?’ Mr House said.
‘Yes,’ Song replied. ‘But it’s the location I care about. I want a good address.’
‘Where you living now ?’
‘Bartica.’
‘Bartica, eh ? Won’t be hard to improve on that. Well, assuming you make it back here alive from time to time you’ll want something nice here. And you won’t be on your own forever. Man cannot live on bread alone. It’s whether you want to live for the present or plan for the future.’
‘For the future,’ Song said. ‘What’s Georgetown’s most respectable neighbourhood ?’
‘Outside of the English neighbourhood ?’
‘I don’t have my bearings. Is the vicarage in the English neighbourhood ?’
Mr House raised his eyebrows. ‘On the edge of. But if you want to live in the vicarage you’ve come to the wrong man.’
‘I did live there once, you know. I was Father Holmes’ houseboy.’
‘Ah, making sense to me now. I remember. Sugar boy come good. Not your average pork-knocker then ?’
‘I hope not. Otherwise I’d be poor, drunk and dead in ten years. So, the best neighbourhood ?’
‘I’d suggest by the law courts. A good area for a new boy in town. Don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’
‘By the law courts,’ Song repeated to himself.
‘Of course it depends on how much you’re prepared to spend.’
‘Depends on how much they’re charging,’ Song said.
Mr House had organised a donkey cart and the two men rode around town. Memories were stirred up for Song at every street corner. He remembered the tree where he had hit a gecko with his slingshot and cried himself to sleep that night; the canopy where he had sheltered from the rain and was so late home Amalia walloped him, then kissed him, while he stood there puzzled; the plot where a house burned down and a married woman, stark naked, jumped out of the window to escape. Her lover had done the same and broken his neck on landing. She had walked off with her head held high and without a shred of clothing on her body.
But most of all Song remembered simply walking these streets with Father Holmes. He wished Father Holmes could see him now and what he was dreaming up.
Mr House pointed out all the favourable parts of town and explained what was for sale and for how much. His commission was what he could negotiate off the sale price; if he couldn’t cut a sharper deal from the seller he’d walk away with nothing, that was his deal.
‘Thing is not everyone has a price,’ he said. ‘Tilby – the biggest real estate racket in town – thinks he can get anyone to sell anything. A dying grandmother’s bungalow. A family home. Probably thinks he could buy a damn church if he wanted to. You got to respect people. That’s the rule I live by.’
Song pointed out one house close to the law courts. It was a huge whitewashed stand-alone house with a wraparound veranda on the ground and first and second floors. There must have been twenty shuttered windows, some bay, some bow, with fretwork and deep overhanging eaves. There were lanky palms and hibiscus bushes in the large garden.
Mr House raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s not for sale, as far as I know, but I can look into it.’
Song looked at the man working in the front yard of the house. He recalled his first day in Guiana, when he looked out from the cart at the wide avenues and grand houses with their rolling green lawns. He remembered his hope that he might one day work in a garden like that. So much had changed for him since that first day in Guiana. His reality now was that he was buying the house, not hoping to work for the owner. Yet Song felt strongly that he still had more to do. He had been alone then. He didn’t want to be alone any more.
‘What should I offer ?’ Song asked.
Mr House said a price. Song named a figure 15 per cent lower for cash. They moved towards each other and shook hands.
By the end of the week, Mr House had secured the purchase. Song had the house and people had started to talk.
Song had one more person to look up before he left town. He had waited more th
an an hour outside the colonial administration building at the end of the work day before he caught sight of Jon. His old friend was wearing a nice shirt and pair of slacks. He looked relaxed, at ease in himself.
‘Jon Swire. Look at you.’
‘Song Holmes. Been wondering how long it would be till I ran into you. I been hearing rumours.’
‘Rumours seem to follow me like a bad smell. How the hell are you ?’
‘Not bad. Got a good job. Thanks to Father Holmes, but you know that. I’m drawing sketches of birds for Governor Johnson, but also of Georgetown life for the library, and all sorts.’
‘I couldn’t be more pleased. You deserve it.’
‘And you ? Whatch you do to your eye ?’
‘Lost the sight in it.’
Jon flinched. ‘Sorry to hear that. Must’ve hurt.’
‘You know what it’s like upriver. There are no second chances.’
‘And whatch you doing in Georgetown ?’
‘I’m thinking of moving. Tell me, how’s life here ?’
‘I don’t do much except work and feed myself and send money home. I miss the family. Don’t get to see them so often. They don’t visit so I have to go up when I can.’ Jon looked slightly flushed. ‘And I’m seeing a girl.’
‘It sounds pretty good,’ Song said, and he meant it. He couldn’t yet say he was seeing a girl. And although he had money, it would never be shared with his family. He found himself envying Jon, not with malice, but because his life sounded joyfully uncomplicated, true to himself and his family.
‘How’s your mama and little Sonia ?’
‘Sonia ain’t so little. They’re both doing okay, I think. I wanted to stick around for them but I had to leave. I couldn’t be around Kiddo any more, couldn’t watch Mama taking it from him. Either he was going to kill me, or I was going to kill him. And sure as hell he’d be better at killing than me.’
Song nodded. ‘It was best you got out of there.’
‘And now you’re getting out, too ? It’ll be good to have you in the same town again.’
‘Meantime I’ve got a job for you.’
‘Upriver ?’
Song raised his eyebrows. ‘Would you really come ? No, not upriver. And it’s not a sketch. Believe it or not, I’ve got a stuffed harpy eagle back in my room. It’s not beautiful but it was once. I need you to get it back to how it was, or close.’
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