The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q

by Sharon Maas

  ‘Hi,’ Jag said now. ‘I just wanted to apologise for what happened Saturday night. I was a bit drunk and a bit worried about the baffle and I behaved badly. I’m very sorry.’

  The moment Rika heard his voice, and more than his voice, his apology, she melted, forgot all her good resolutions as well her conversation with Rajan, and forgave him everything. The forgiveness was immediate and complete.

  ‘Oh, it’s quite all right!’

  She smiled into the telephone, wanted to kiss it. Is this how people felt when they smoked a joint? ‘High’, they called it; she’d overheard some of the girls talking about it between classes. High, like floating. Jag only had to speak and there she was, up in the clouds, and a little giddy.

  ‘No hard feelings!’ she added.

  ‘Good. Then I’d like to take you out again.’ He sounded relieved, and quite humble. ‘If you’ll let me? Give me a second chance?’

  Wow. He was actually doubting she’d say yes! So she had to reassure him.

  ‘Oh yes, of course! I’d love to!’

  ‘Fantastic!’ said Jag. ‘I’ll come and pick you up tomorrow at four, OK? Better if you wear pants; I’m coming with the bike. I’ll take you for a spin.’

  ‘You got the bike fixed?’

  ‘Yes, I found someone with the same model that had been in an accident. He was selling off the spare parts so I was able to get an old baffle. I’ve got my baby back! So I’ll be in a good mood this time and we can really connect. You up for it?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, of course!’

  ‘OK; see you tomorrow!’

  * * *

  Tomorrow came. At school Rika was confident and less mysteriously silent than the previous day. She held her head high and now and then whipped it so that her hair swung, the way she’d always envied in other girls. A few of the girls came up and touched it; they asked where she’d had it done, and she told them. They asked what she’d worn at the fete and she told them. They asked about Jag and this time Rika let casually drop that she was going out with him again. This evoked sighs and big eyes and admiring remarks. Rika was on top of the world; she remembered Rajan’s words about feeling good about oneself being the natural state, the state we were all meant to be in. Yes, it was true! Confidence and happiness were natural feelings; she felt true and whole and just good. This time, everything would work out the way she wanted. It had to.

  She didn’t really have any fashionable pants so she decided to wear her newest jeans, which, she discovered, were just a bit tight. She hadn’t worn them for several weeks and she must have grown in the meantime, filled out. She nevertheless squeezed into them and found a decent blouse to go with them. She decided not to wear make-up this time; her first attempt had been such a disaster she felt embarrassed just thinking of it.

  Jag arrived on time; obviously, his contrition was genuine. She skipped down the outside steps to meet him and clambered up behind him on the Yamaha. They roared off. Jag headed north to the Sea Wall and for a moment Rika feared he was thinking of a repeat of last Saturday – though of course, things would be a little less convenient on a bike – but he didn’t. Once there, he headed east and they sped along the East Coast road, past Kitty and the Carib Hotel and up towards Ogle. The wind lashed her hair against her face; she had to hold it back and wished she’d thought to put it in a ponytail. But! It actually whipped! Just like white-girls’ hair! It was a miracle! She finally had the hair she’d always wanted, and she’d be grateful for that.

  They passed Goedverwagting; Rika wondered how far up the coast he’d take her. But at Le Ressouvenir he slowed down and turned left, into a side street, and then he stopped.

  ‘There’s a nice little restaurant here,’ he said. ‘I thought we could have a drink.’

  Rika nodded and followed him upstairs. A sign above an open doorway said ‘Elmo’s Corner’. Jag led the way in and right through to the balcony, which overlooked the Atlantic, brown-and-white and lashing against the Sea Wall just beneath them.

  Jag ordered a Coke for himself and a Lime Rickey for her. As they sipped their drinks, he chatted with her about everyday things. He asked her about school and her family and she gave clipped answers because the shyness was back in full force. This was exactly the time to act confident and regal so it was a shame that her newly acquired aplomb could desert her just when she needed it most …

  Jag made no attempt at seduction. He took her home before dark, and promised to call again, which he did. He didn’t even try to kiss her. He was a paragon of good manners and chivalry. Rika felt proud enough to introduce him to Granny and the rest of the family; but, no, perhaps it was a bit too early.

  The next day, and the day after that, Jag took her for motorbike rides, always to a different destination; sometimes up the East Bank, as far as Houston, sometimes the East Coast. ‘We can go to swimming at Beterwerwagting one day soon,’ he promised. ‘If your parents let you? My family has a beach hut there. Or to Red Water Creek. Whatever you prefer.’

  Always he was polite and respectable and respecting. Never did he put a foot wrong. Rika’s popularity at school climbed to new heights. She had a boyfriend; and what a boyfriend! She glowed. This is me, she thought. The real me! I am strong, beautiful and confident. Just like Rajan said.

  * * *

  On Thursday afternoon, while sipping drinks at Esso Joe’s after a thrilling ride up the East Coast Road, Jag said,

  ‘I’d like to take you somewhere nice Saturday night. What about Palm Court?’

  Rika was so startled she almost choked on her Lime Rickey. She coughed so much Jag had to get up and slap her back.

  ‘Thanks – sorry! I – I just – really? P-palm Court? Really?’

  ‘Yes really! Why not?’

  ‘I just thought I’m, well, I’m a bit young?’

  Palm Court was by no stretch of the imagination a teenage hangout; it was in the top echelon of Georgetown’s restaurants. Businessmen took their guests there for lunch, and well-heeled couples dined there on their anniversaries.

  ‘Don’t worry about your age – just say yes or no!’

  Did she even have the sort of formal dress that would be required? She couldn’t wear that Granny thing, after all; not again, and not there. And yet …

  ‘Well – yes, of course! Oh Jag! I’d love to! Thank you!’

  ‘OK; it’s a date, then. I’ll pick you up at six – I’m borrowing the car again.’

  He dropped her off at her gate and Rika made her way up to the Cupola in a daze.

  I’ll buy a new dress. Ready-made! An evening dress! Oh! I can’t believe it! Palm Court! Where will I get the money for the dress? And I’ll need new shoes, again! I spent all that money I took out from the bank last week – I can’t possibly ask Granny for more … But, it’s my money after all. I’ll just take it. Get my bankbook and passport from the office. It’s MY money! She’ll never know.

  The thoughts swirled in Rika’s head for the rest of that evening and kept her awake that night. She scribbled it all down in her diary, the writing hardly legible, the emotions gushing out on to the page, rambling, agitated. But the diary wasn’t enough; the words welling up, the questions, the fears and the ecstasy needed an oral escape. She longed to talk to someone, preferably Rajan, pour out the thrill of it all into willing ears.

  Instinct told her Rajan wouldn’t approve. He had warned her off Jag, after all – and how wrong he had been! Really, she should go over to Rajan tomorrow to let him know he’d been wrong; that Jag was, now, almost her boyfriend, to judge by his behaviour these last few days. So attentive! But even though he’d been proven wrong he, Rajan, probably wouldn’t approve. And why should she care about his approval, anyway! He wouldn’t understand. She needed a girl for that.

  Rika hurried down from the Cupola as fast as the spiral staircase would take her, then took the proper stairs two at a time. She grabbed the telephone receiver, dialled Trixie’s number.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  RIKA: THE SIXTIE
S

  ‘That’s a lovely dress!’ Granny said when Rika emerged on Saturday evening, all dolled up. ‘Who made it?’

  ‘Oh – ahmm – I – um …’ Rika scrambled to think up a good lie, and she found it quite easy to create a half-truth, which wasn’t quite the same as an out-and-out fib.

  ‘It’s actually ready-made!’ she said. ‘I borrowed it from my friend Trixie.’

  Granny accepted this story, and Rika continued to the Morris chair beside the window, which had become her regular waiting-post for Jag.

  ‘I’m glad you have a nice friend at last,’ said Granny conversationally. ‘You must invite her home one day – I’d like to meet her. Are you going to a party?’

  ‘Actually, Jag’s taking me to dinner at Palm Court!’ Rika said.

  Granny knew by now that Jag was her boyfriend, and thoroughly approved. Jag was from a good family, and that, really, was all that mattered. Respectability was a guarantee for good behaviour.

  ‘Palm Court? My, that’s posh! He must be really serious!’

  That’s exactly what Rika thought. She was delighted to hear Granny confirm it.

  * * *

  Jag didn’t come late this Saturday. In fact, he was a minute early, and Rika was at the door and down the front stairs even before the car had turned into the driveway. Jag met her at the gate, looked her up and down, and whistled under his breath.

  ‘Eeev-illl!’ he breathed, and his blatant admiration swung Rika up to the top of the world. He took her hand and led her to the car, opened the passenger door for her. Rika couldn’t stop smiling; her cheeks almost hurt. She had to stop staring at him! He was so handsome! He wore a crisp royal blue short-sleeved open-necked shirt, not tucked into the waistband but hanging down to his hips, in the new formal men’s style called shirt-jak – a cross between a shirt and a jacket, not requiring a tie. It had been decided on high that the wearing of jackets and ties for men in this tropical climate was pandering to the ex-colonial masters; thus the shirt-jak. The PM and all the Ministers and businessmen and important people all wore shirt-jaks now. Jag looked wonderful in his.

  He’d had a haircut, too, which she wasn’t sure about – she had loved that stray lock of almost-black that hung roguishly over his forehead, loved the way he swept it away now and then, and missed it. But that rascally smile of his seemed warmer than ever, those charcoal eyes more approving as they wandered up and down her length. She pulled at the hem of her dress as she eased into the passenger seat. She should have gone to Hyacinth this morning to let down the hem.

  Jag drove around the corner into Waterloo Street. They whizzed past her grandmother’s house; there was Rajan, harnessing the donkey to a cart laden full with cut grass. He hadn’t seen her, or so she hoped; she still hadn’t told him about all the exciting developments of the past week. She’d talk to him tomorrow. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Rajan couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand. Rajan with his strict work ethic and self-discipline and ascetic philosophy. Rajan didn’t live in the real world. She felt a pang of regret for Rajan, which, she realised, was a sense of pity. Rajan, saving up for university by cutting grass verges. Poor Rajan. She hoped he’d make it, and become a really good and famous lawyer or doctor … she’d have to explain to him …

  ‘Rika?’

  ‘Oh – sorry. What did you say?’ She shook herself out of her reverie and turned, smiling, to Jag.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts. You were sitting there smiling to yourself and shaking your head – like if you were talking to someone.’

  ‘Oh – well, nothing really. I can’t even remember.’

  Jag punched a button on the dashboard radio and Petula Clark burst into ‘Downtown’. Rika’s heart sang along; this was the life! She imagined she was in New York City instead of boring little Georgetown, painting New York red, with Jag. Jag tapped the steering wheel in time.

  ‘What’s your favourite music?’ Jag said, turning to Rika. ‘Mine’s the Rolling Stones.’ So Rika told him about the Beatles and realised she was no longer in love with George Harrison.

  * * *

  At Palm Court a live band, the Rock’n’rollers, was playing. Jag ordered a meal for her and she ate without knowing what she was eating. She sipped at the rum and Coke Jag bought for her and gazed as if hypnotised into his eyes. It was unbelievable. He was saying the words she longed to hear – or almost.

  ‘I really like you,’ Jag said. ‘You’re – different. So sweet and simple; I love the way your eyes shine.’

  ‘I like you too, Jag!’ Rika whispered. And she whispered even more softly: ‘I think I – I love you!’

  She was shocked at her own bravado. You shouldn’t tell a boy you loved him – not before he had said it to you. That much she had learned from eavesdropping at schoolgirl conversations and reading Teen Magazine. You had to wait and be coy and coax the longed-for words from his lips, and then, only then, you could say ‘I love you too,’ too being the operative word. He had to love you first; but he had only said like! The word love had slipped out before she could think, and it couldn’t be unsaid. Rika broke into a sweat at her faux pas. Thank goodness for the sequined bodice – it wouldn’t show dark circles under the arms.

  ‘You know what?’ Jag said. ‘I was reading the Reader’s Digest the other day and there was a quiz called ‘Test how lovable your girlfriend is’ and I did it for you, and it turned out you are one hundred per cent lovable! How about that!’

  ‘Really!’ Rika glowed. Those were surely the most wonderful words she had ever heard in her life. And he had called her his girlfriend! She really was his girlfriend! Unbelievable!

  Jag walked up to the band and whispered something to the leader, who nodded. The next song was ‘Angel of the Morning’. Jag asked her to dance, and led her to the dance floor, where a few other couples were swaying. He held her close as they moved; surely he could hear the thumping of her heart! His hand on her back burned into her, pressed her closer. What was that cologne he was wearing? Was it Old Spice? Boys these days wore Brut, but Rika, inexperienced as she was, could not tell the difference. She only hoped she had not sprayed too much Blue Grass on to her neck, because his face was close, so close …

  She was by far the youngest person on the dance floor. The women around her, they were, well, women. Grown up. One of them even had grey hair, and Rika was sure that she was looking at her, Rika, disapprovingly. Jag must have noticed too, because he whispered into her ear: ‘that old hag is just jealous – all she can get is an old goat to dance with!’ And Rika felt skittish and girlish; she giggled and buried her face in his shirt-jak. Inside, she was all bubbly, like champagne, and then she felt Jag’s lips on her forehead. She was young, in the prime of life, and lovable. It was hard to believe, but it was true. She had nabbed the best man in the whole of Georgetown – here she was with him; that was the proof. They danced to a few more slow love songs – ‘The Way You Look Tonight’, ‘The Twelfth of Never’, ‘Love me Tender’, ‘Love is a Many-Splendoured Thing’ – and then the band had a break, so Jag led her back to their table, and she had another drink.

  They spoke again about music. It turned out that their tastes were completely different. Apart from the Rolling Stones Jag liked female singers like Petula Clark and Nancy Sinatra. Rika was more eclectic in her tastes. Apart from the Beatles, she liked soul music – Otis Redding was a favourite – traditional Latin American music, Indian music and, her latest discovery, Bob Dylan.

  ‘It’s just so hard to get his records over here – I must be the only Guyanese who likes him,’ she said. But Trixie had an LP, Greatest Hits, and she had fallen in love.

  ‘I never heard anything by him,’ said Jag, ‘but I think my sister is a fan. She went to America last August and brought back a lot of LPs. I’m pretty sure Bob Dylan was among them.’

  ‘Blonde on Blonde, that’s his latest – oh, I’d love to hear that! It’s got songs I never heard, and this one I heard the other day on Radio Demerara: ‘Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowla
nds’. It was so sad it made me cry! I just wish we could get those records here!’

  She and Trixie had gone to the Sandbach Parker record store, leafed through all the LPs and confirmed it: no Bob Dylan.

  Jag was silent for a while and then he leaned forward over the table and said:

  ‘I have an idea. Let’s go over to my place and look at my sister’s record collection. I’m pretty sure she has that LP. In fact, I’m certain. We could listen to it if you like.’

  ‘Really? You don’t mind? Bob Dylan is a bit strange – I don’t know if you’d like him!’

  ‘Anything for you, my love!’

  Jag winked at her and raised his hand to click for a waiter.

  A frisson of excitement shuddered through her. She was going to Jag’s home! She might meet his sister – a much older girl who had left St Rose’s last year and was now, she believed, working at the Royal Bank! She couldn’t wait to tell Trixie. In fact, she couldn’t wait to tell Rajan, since she’d now definitely proven him wrong. He’d been so sceptical, cutting even, about Jag. There was a running commentary going on in her head, as if she was standing outside herself and watching from a distance, telling Rajan what was going on, like a cricket commentator. She’d tell him tomorrow. About Palm Court – Rajan had certainly never been here – the music, her feelings for Jag. Jag was so nice! So kind and attentive towards her! See, he took me to Palm Court, she would say to Rajan, and he was nothing but a gentleman! I was right to fall in love. Love is never wrong – it can’t be! It makes everything right! He’s not as bad as you thought! Perhaps Jag would kiss her afterwards – her first kiss! – and she could tell Rajan about that. Rajan would be as sceptical as ever, but that was because he had once loved and lost. That made you mistrust love. She would tell Rajan everything. She was proud of herself, and confident; she would never again be that shy social outcast, Rika Quint.