No Safeguards

by H. Nigel Thomas

  Looking forward to finishing the Spanish course. I don’t think I’ll visit any more countries — haven’t the funds for it — so you’re likely to see me in a month or two. Prepare yourself for long nights of conversation.

  One love,

  Paul

  I remain seated on the side of the bed, still holding the pages of Paul’s Guatemala letter. I’m happy that there’s been tangible emotional growth in Paul — and yes, I think that Paul’s writing is worth something — but if he’s dead none of it will matter. It’s ten months since this letter was written. And Paul implied that he was tired of travelling and would be home within a month or two. Two months would have taken him into October, the month when Stan struck. Last night I dreamed that Paul had been arrested for drug possession, and I was on my way to bail him out of prison but couldn’t get to the airport.

  All this criminality he wrote about. If he’s been killed, they’d eventually trace his identity. He wouldn’t be so foolhardy to travel without identification. He implied as much in his Costa Rica letter. Of course his body could be in some shallow grave or in some forest off the beaten path. Sometimes it’s where adventures end. I think of Timothy Treadwell who created a new persona and went to the wilds of Alaska to prove he could interact with grizzlies and protect them from human predators; and after 12 successful summers finished the 13th in a grizzly’s maw. Sometimes it’s where adventures end.

  BOOK THREE

  REUNION IN THE LABYRINTH

  22

  IT’S 5:45 PM, OCTOBER 7, my birthday. Jonathan’s mother has invited me for supper at 7. I’m rushing. I have to get to the Radisson metro station. The telephone’s ringing. I don’t have time to answer it. The answering machine comes on. “This is a message for Mr. Jay Jackson, from Marjorie Bligh at the Canadian High Commission in Guatemala City. It’s to let you know we have news of your brother Paul. The Guatemalan government informed us that at 9:15 am Guatemalan time, he boarded a flight for Miami, and from there will take one to Montreal. He knows you’ve been looking for him.”

  “Ms. Bligh, this is Jay Jackson. Thanks for letting me know. Is Paul alright?”

  “I think he is. I just wanted you to know he has been located and is on his way to Montreal. If the flights were on time, he should be there already.”

  “Thanks.” I hang up the phone and feel slightly dizzy. I sit on the sofa. My heart is racing. I try to control my breathing. The phone will be ringing any time now. It’s 14 months — 14 months. Too fast, Jay. Too fast. He hasn’t told you his story yet. Wait.

  The phone rings. The caller ID screen says it’s a public telephone.

  “I don’t know if I should speak to you,” I say.

  “You’re expecting me. Good.”

  Silence.

  “Shouldn’t you be welcoming me back? Glad that all’s well?”

  “So all is well! And you want me to kill the fatted calf?” Silence. “I don’t have all evening. I’m dressing to go out.”

  “Okay. Okay. You’re in a position to make me crawl, so I’ll crawl. I’ll brown-nose if that’ll make you happy.” Silence. “Jay, I need to get into the apartment.”

  “Ma could let you in.”

  “Ma is dead, Jay.”

  “You know that, Paul! You know that and you didn’t come home.” I hang up the phone and the dizziness returns.

  The phone rings again.

  “Jay, calm down. Please. I found out yesterday. I went to Guatemala City with a friend, and I ran into my ex-Spanish teacher in front of the Cathedral tour-guiding a group of students. He told me somebody had come to the school trying to find me and had placed ads to let me know my mother had died. I booked my passage immediately — at great risk — right away and went back to Huehuetenango to collect a few things. I have been on buses and planes for the last 36 hours.”

  “Paul, it’s my birthday and I have a supper engagement at 7.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “I’ll leave a key under the mat at the front door.”

  “I need money for the cab too.”

  Of course you do. The opposite would have been news. Guess I shouldn’t knock it; cheaper than getting you out of jail.

  “I have only eight US dollars, and I’m hungry and stink.”

  “I’ll leave $60 with the key, enough for the taxi and a meal. It’s a loan. Understand? A loan!”

  “Not so fast, Bro. Not so fast, my Kuk-kuk! Wait until I explain myself.” He hangs up the phone.

  Jay, let him explain himself. My eyes overflow. The dizziness is gone and I feel calmer. Fool, phone Mme Beaulieu. Tell her Paul has arrived and you can’t come.

  “I am soulagée. Wait your brother and amène-le. One instant. Jonathan, Paul est arrivé. Je te passe Jay.”

  “Pas vrai! Paul est arrivé!”

  “Oui. Il vient tout juste de me téléphoner de l’Aéroport Trudeau.”

  “We can go get him.”

  “He’s already on his way.”

  “Wait for him. I’ll come get you. We have to celebrate this. Whoo-hoo!”

  I’m silent.

  “Cheer up, man. He’s alive and back home. A tout à l’heure.” He hangs up.

  I go out to the corridor and put the money under the mat and return inside and leave the door unlocked.

  Twenty minutes later Paul raps and enters the apartment. He drops the grey carry-on case, all the luggage he has, at the door and comes toward me with his arms wide open. His beige shirt and white cotton slacks are crumpled. He seems thinner. His eyes are red and his forehead glows. His head is shaved and his face is clean-shaven with some of its roundness gone. He reeks of stale sweat. I stay seated on the sofa, my arms folded. He sits beside me and puts an arm around me. We sit there for what seems to be a long time until I hear Jonathan’s stomping heels followed by his rapping and the key turning the lock.

  “Go have a quick shower, Paul. Jonathan’s mother wants you to come for supper.”

  Paul leaves us, and Jonathan sits beside me. “He’s lost a lot of weight, at least ten kilos. What do you think, Jay?”

  “Jonathan, I’m not thinking.”

  Jonathan puts his arm on my shoulder. We sit in silence while Paul is getting ready.

  Paul comes into the living room. He’s dressed in olive green slacks and a pale grey knitted long-sleeve shirt. A teal-blue hand-knitted cardigan printed with geometric Mayan motifs is draped over his left shoulder. His eyes are riveted on Jonathan. “Congrats. Have you guys got married?”

  “Tu te trompes,” Jonathan says. “We’re not a couple, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Paul’s lips retract, one hand goes to the back of his head and the other to his chin.

  “Let’s go,” Jonathan says.

  Raymond Beaulieu, his thick white hair glossy under the foyer light, squinting in spite of his glasses, is at the door when we arrive. I introduce Paul. Raymond is 77, 15 years older than Cecile. I admire him. As a young man, barely in his twenties, Raymond worked to unionize his co-workers, and was branded a communist by Premier Duplessis. For 18 months he’d had to sleep in a different house every night to avoid being arrested and thrown in jail. In his later years he joined the administration of the CSN.

  Inside, Cecile Beaulieu — coiffed with a gleaming gold pom-pom, cheeks pink and round, pendant jade earrings, an emerald-green silk dress, a beige apron — pulls me to her bosom and gives me a loud lip smack on both cheeks. “Bonne fête, mon fils!”

  I introduce Paul and she searches our faces for resemblances.

  Supper is onion soup au gratiné, stuffed tomatoes, lamb with rosemary sauce, roasted potatoes, and a mixture of roasted red, green, and yellow peppers, washed down with Beaujolais red wine.

  While Cecile is in the kitchen putting together the dessert, Raymond says: “So, Monsieur le Voyageur, tell us about your trip.” />
  “Nothing special to tell. I got malaria once, stomach trouble a few times. Got robbed once. On another occasion had to crouch behind a car until a gun battle ended.”

  “Ça alors! Parle-nous ça.”

  “The robbery or the shoot-out?”

  “Le vol d’abord.”

  “Maman,” Jonathan calls. “Viens écouter ça.”

  Cecile comes and stands at the entrance between the kitchen and the dining room.

  “It happened a Saturday night. We’d gone clubbing, four of us, in Guatemala City. We’d arranged for an SUV to pick us up at 3:15 am to take us back to Antigua, less than an hour’s drive from Guatemala City. When we left the club, we saw a black car following us. About half way between Antigua and Guatemala City, on a stretch of downhill road, the car sped past us, stopped, and blocked us. Three masked guys came out from the black car, their guns trained on the SUV. ‘Get the fuck out and put your hands up,’ one of them shouted in perfect English. Next they shot bullets into the tyres of the SUV. We got out of the SUV. They ordered us to face a steep bank and to empty our pockets. We did. One frisked us to make sure we’d handed over everything, while the others trained their guns on us. They demanded our watches too. Hans — from Germany — lost his Swatch. I’m sure it all took less than three minutes but it felt longer. Then they got into their car and sped back toward Guatemala City.

  “Ten minutes later a police cruiser with two officers came by. Our chauffeur explained what had happened. They squeezed us into their cruiser and took us back to Antigua.

  “‘¡Estén feliz que no hayan muertos!” (Be glad there were no deaths) the officer who did all the talking said to us.

  “Eleven days after the robbery, the police officer who’d interviewed us came to the school with our wallets. He said somebody found them in a forest somewhere outside of Guatemala City. Everything except our money and credit cards was still in them. I lost about $30. I kind o’ knew this sort of thing could happen, so the only ID I had in my wallet that night was the data page from my passport. I’d left my ATM and credit cards at home too. The other guys weren’t so lucky. Of course, the robbery never made the news. Too routine I guess.

  “All in all, we just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. I stayed in Guatemala for 13 months after that and nothing like this happened to me again. And of all the students in the school — there were over a hundred of us — we were the only ones that got robbed . . . Guess because we’d had the temerity to go into the capital on a Saturday night.”

  “Et pourtant tu y’es resté pour encore combien de temps?” Raymond asks.

  “Thirteen months. That’s a long story that will take more than a thousand and one nights.”

  “Coffee’s ready,” Cecile says.

  Long before the party is over Paul falls asleep on the living room sofa. Around 1 am, Cecile prepares the spare room for him. I share Jonathan’s bed.

  23

  IT’S SUNDAY. WE’RE back at the apartment. Each of us waits for the other to make the first move. Paul’s in his bedroom.

  Is he hiding from me?

  I’ll settle the estate as soon as possible and give him his share and wash my hands of him. Here he’s back after fourteen months of silence and can’t even say sorry.

  I’m hungry.We’d had toast, coffee, and orange juice at the Beaulieus’. Don’t cook, Jay. Don’t be his servant. I go to the kitchen, grab a handful of cookies, open the fridge, pour myself a tumbler of apple juice, and take them to my room. I pull out Marcel Trudel’s L’Esclavage noir au Canada français from my bookshelf. It’s on the list of texts for my major comprehensive exam. At least now I can reschedule the exam for January or February. I pile up the pillows, cushion them against the headboard, and nestle myself in the bed, supporting the book on my pulled-up legs. My eyes rove over the words without registering their meaning. I can’t concentrate, and know I’ll never be able to until I find out why Paul had been incommunicado.

  Paul raps and enters. “What’s there to eat? I’m hungry.”

  “Cookies and juice.”

  “That’s not food.”

  “There are lots of restaurants on Victoria and Côte des Neiges.”

  “I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

  I ignore the opening.

  “I checked the fridge. There’s no food in it. Give me some money. I’ll go buy groceries and cook.”

  Let’s see where this is headed.

  “See, you’re smiling. Tell me you’re glad to see me alive, Jay. I want to hear it.”

  “Only you would say something like that. Only you. I gave up teaching, rescheduled my comprehensives, because I was preparing to come to Guatemala to try to find you. You don’t believe me? Phone Marjorie Bligh at the Canadian High Commission in Guatemala. She thought I would end up getting conned by crooks, or, worse, getting kidnapped. She’ll tell you how many times I called and quarrelled with them because they hadn’t located you.

  “You’re a selfish, sadistic lout! You enjoy torturing people. You want to be a writer? Use writing to explore your own sickness. It wasn’t enough for you to torture Ma while you lived with us; you continued to do so after you left. Ma! Ma who did nothing but sacrifice her entire life for us! While you were here I hated you for it, but I forgave you. It was adolescence, I said. It was your frustrations because you no longer got the adoration you got in St. Vincent. You were lashing out at us in anger for your asthma, for the rotten deal life has given you.” I try to stop, but it’s no use. “But life also gave you the best intellect any human being can have. You turned that too into a whip. Deliberately. To flog us.”

  Paul’s staring at the floor.

  “Then you went away, and you made Ma feel she meant nothing to you. How has Ma ever wronged you? How? You and I received the best parenting Caribbean children without fathers can ever get. The son for whose health Ma ended her marriage rejected her. Unbelievable. She bore it in silence. She did. Her only concern was that you were in good health and not in trouble. Instead of blaming you she blamed herself. She never judged you. In the end, I was glad she had her religion. Her belief in God and the afterlife was a great solace to her. But I can tell you, before her illness came, she cried a lot, grieved a lot, ate very little, and went into a depression over the fact that you never even said hello to her in your cards and letters to me. You are a monster.

  “You were in Guatemala for a year and a half. We got one letter. One! No address. No way to contact you. Not a telephone. I have e-mail. I’m sure there are ISPs in Guatemala. And you damn well could have phoned — collect. You have a sick sense of power.

  “Go! Get out of my sight! Leave! My wallet’s in my jacket pocket. Take what you want and go buy your food. Close the bedroom door and keep out of my sight.”

  Paul leaves and I begin to sob. My thoughts go back to the day that Jonathan drove me to collect Anna’s ashes at the crematorium, and later to the funeral service in the church Anna belonged to. Paul wasn’t there, and I’d wondered if he too might be dead.

  I feel listless and exhausted and eventually sleepy. When I awaken, I smell cooking. I get out of bed and see a sheet of paper on the floor inside the door. I pick it up, put it on the dressing table, and head to the bathroom.

  I return and read the note. “In much of what you say, Jay, you are right. Ma never deserved to be treated the way I treated her. But consider this. I hated myself, and I hated her for having had me. But if I am as heartless as you make me out to be, I would prefer to be dead. And there are many times I wanted to be dead, since I was 12. At times I deliberately courted it. Not writing to Ma or mentioning her when I wrote you was just a continuation of my behaviour before I left. You’re right. I wanted to make her suffer. It’s childish. I know. But I didn’t see the consequences you mentioned —

  The telephone rings. A male voice says: “¿Puedo hablar con Pablo, por favo
r?”

  “Paul, take the phone.”

  — If you remember well, I was supposed to leave Guatemala two months or so after I wrote you. Well, I didn’t. There was a good reason for it. For that same reason, I couldn’t write and didn’t want anyone contacting me. Of course, some good later came of all this, but it further complicated the issue. If you will allow me to, you’ll get to know the full story in due time.

  Would you at least tell me what happened to Ma, what her illness was, where she’s buried, etc.? I want to know.

  Twenty minutes later Paul knocks on the door. “Dinner’s ready. That’s if you trust a monster like me not to poison you.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “What did you cook?”

  “Chicken paella.”

  The table’s set with a green damask tablecloth, beige linen napkins, crystal wine glasses, Royal Doulton plates, and sterling flatware — all of which Anna had brought back from St. Vincent after Grama’s funeral. The paella is in one of Grama’s Royal Doulton serving platters, and the salad in a crystal salad bowl.

  Some Christmas dinner this.

  Paul’s watching me intensely. “Go on. Don’t hold back. Say what you’re thinking.”

  I want to say, what sort of bribe is this? Instead I ask: “Where did you learn to do stuff like this?”

  “Can’t tell you right now. Do you like it?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Sit.” Paul goes to the kitchen counter and returns with a bottle of Frontera. “Inexpensive but good.” He fills my glass and pours himself half a glass.

  “I didn’t know you were allowed to drink. I was surprised when I saw you drinking last night.”