by John Harding
‘Here, let me help,’ said Mr Beach, coming through the back door with William’s case. He went to set it down, but there wasn’t a bit of floor space to put it on, save for the narrow corridor that led from the back door to the rest of the house between the wavering cliffs of rubbish. Having realized this, Mr Beach opened the back door and set the case down on the porch. ‘We’ll get that later,’ he said. ‘Here, hold your arms out.’
William did as requested and Mr Beach began demolishing one of the towers. Onto William’s outstretched arms he placed a plastic carton of shredded paper labelled ‘Hamster bedding’, a few dozen magazines, a case of beer (‘Ah, so that’s where that got to,’ said Mr Beach enthusiastically. ‘I just knew I hadn’t drunk it all!’), a can of fly spray and a pile of towels that looked clean, but might well not have been.
Clean was rapidly becoming a relative word here to William. Indeed he was not too worried about the possible effects of germs, which, even if fatal, would probably entail a slow kind of death. He was thinking that this was exactly the kind of low-life dysfunctional household that real-crime TV shows revealed to be a breeding ground not just for bacteria, but for serial killers too. The Beaches could have had any number of murdered children concealed about the place and nobody would ever have been able to find them.
Mrs Beach was a large woman. Actually she was morbidly obese, even fatter than a woman whose photograph would later cause William so much trouble, but he wasn’t even aware of the term back then. You didn’t see so many super-fat people in those days.
Anyhow, eventually Mr Beach excavated a chair. ‘Take a seat,’ he repeated, indicating it with a bold sweep of his hand that seemed to reveal no small amount of pride in having proved himself to be the owner of one.
Then he saw that the oscillating pile of stuff William was holding wouldn’t permit him to move, let alone sit down. ‘We’ll just, uh, get rid of this,’ he said and began removing things from William’s pile and redistributing them between the various piles around the room. He was only a little guy and had to stretch to place a towel or a can of beans on the tottering towers. It was like watching a circus act. You kept waiting for the object that would be the last straw and bring a tower down. There was even the possibility of a domino effect and the whole kitchen disappearing for ever under stuff.
Eventually William sat down and Mr Beach repeated the whole exercise so that Sandy could sit beside him. ‘Supper’s ready!’ announced Mrs Beach. She looked around at the various towers until she spotted a couple of dinner plates halfway down one. Slowly and with surprising delicacy for such a large woman, she slid them out, one by one, without disturbing the rest of the pile, although it was hearts in mouths for a moment or two while the whole thing swayed threateningly.
She had to move sideways through the stacks of stuff because the gangway was too narrow to take her full on. Mr Beach followed her, like one of those little cleaner fish that hang out with whales, steadying wobbling stacks that she had brushed against. Having placed the plates on the table she returned to the stove and came back with the skillet and turned its contents onto them.
William gazed at the congealing, greasy mess before him. It was impossible to identify it. There was something yellow in there that he hoped was egg because he didn’t even want to think about what it might be if it wasn’t. There was something black and cylindrical that he prayed was a charred sausage. Other bits and pieces defied analysis.
‘Don’t wait for us!’ said Mrs Beach. ‘We’ll eat later.’
‘Yes, we’ll have two sittings,’ said Mr Beach. ‘Kids first, adults after.’
Indeed, looking around the room, it would have been impossible for them to do anything else. Even one sitting had been a major achievement. But in spite of everything, William couldn’t help feeling sorry for Mr Beach. The way he said ‘kids’ with such enthusiasm. You couldn’t help knowing that it was the first time he’d been able to use the word in the plural in this house. His happiness made William feel uncommonly sad. He knew then he wouldn’t have the heart to refuse to come back to this awful place. There was nothing for it; he was going to have to spend a big part of his childhood here.
He began pushing his food around his plate, reasoning that as soon as the Beaches turned their backs it would be pretty easy to conceal the meal around the room. Nobody was going to notice it wherever he put it.
But Mrs Beach was watching him like a hawk. ‘Come on now, William,’ she said, ‘even if you aren’t especially hungry, at least eat your vegetables.’
Afterwards William was given a tour of the house by Mr Beach. In some places the alleys between stacks of stuff were so narrow that William thought they must be no-go areas for Sandy’s mom. At one point Mr Beach proudly pointed out a glass extension to the side of the property. ‘The sun room wasn’t here when we bought the place,’ he explained. ‘We had it put on. I don’t know how we managed without it. It’s very useful for storing more stuff.’
Now William was not given to any great psychological insights and he was only eleven years old. But his own mental disorder made him empathetic to the psychological problems of others and he had a sense that all the rubbish hoarded in the house was a manifestation of the Beaches’ depression (he could imagine his dad saying to his mom, ‘Well, heck, I’d be depressed if I had a kid like that!’) and he started to feel sorry for Sandy. This didn’t mean he liked him any more. Quite the reverse. The more contact he had with the little prick, the more he despised him. But it helped him be a bit kinder to the kid. You had to pity someone who lived in a house that was so cramped there wasn’t even elbow room to have a decent wank.
NINE
AFTER THE SHITTING Managua invited William for breakfast. He would have liked to refuse, because he wanted to unpack his things and start on a plan of action, but although his experiences on the shitting beach had made him temporarily nauseous, as soon as he was away from it he realized he was famished. Moreover, he had no food. He had expected to get his meals at the hotel, but there was of course no possibility of that. Not only that but he had nothing to exchange for food since it was obvious the locals had no use for money, let alone credit cards. From the conversation last night he had worked out that yams were a kind of currency, but he had no idea of how to get any or even what they were. Some type of root vegetable, he suspected.
So he accepted Managua’s invitation while at the same time wondering how far he could take advantage of his hospitality and, perhaps more importantly, how he could keep himself from thanking him for it in the meantime.
A fire was burning outside the entrance to Managua’s hut and on it was a steaming cauldron.
‘Lamua!’ called Managua, ducking his head through the doorway. There was no reply. ‘Now where is be that damn woman?’ said Managua, pulling his head out. He looked worried. ‘Where she is go poke damn nose today?’
He saw William looking at him and made a show of brightening. ‘You is have wife at home, gwanga?’ he asked, indicating that William should sit himself down by the fire.
‘Ex-wife,’ said William, and seeing that Managua looked puzzled, he elaborated. ‘I don’t have her any more.’
‘Ah, I is be sorry for hear that.’ Managua sighed. ‘Same here. I is have ex-wife too. She is be blow up along with my leg. I is lose both together. Now I is only see she in kassa house.’
This speech was completely baffling to William. On the one hand Managua appeared to be telling him that his wife had been killed in an accident; on the other, that after all she was still alive and presumably had left him, perhaps on account of his having lost a limb, but that he still maintained some sort of relationship with her, in this kassa house, whatever that was. Whatever the explanation, this was not the time to ask for it.
Managua lowered himself to the ground and unstrapped his leg. He placed it behind him as if fearful it might roll into the fire and began rubbing the tip of his stump. ‘Is hurt like damn sow,’ he explained, seeing William’s surprise. ‘Is rub
against leg plenty damn bad. Is be some other fella’s leg and is be too long for me, that is be problem.’
‘You lost your leg because you stepped on a mine?’ said William.
‘Yes. My leg, my wife and my baby. All is go in one bang. We is see Americans plant mines. Then they is leave. People is wait and wait and nothing is grow, so people is think mebbe they is dig they up for find out what they is be. Big mistake. Then nobody is be hurt for long time, so we is think mebbe all bombs is already be step on. Second big mistake.’
William pulled a notebook and pencil from his back pocket and scribbled something. Managua watched with interest as he took a ladle and spooned thick stew from the pot into a couple of wooden bowls. He handed one to William.
‘You is like Shakespeare, gwanga?’
‘Shakespeare, well yes, I guess. I suppose most people do. Not that I’ve seen a lot of his stuff.’
Managua almost dropped his bowl. ‘You is see Shakespeare, gwanga? You is see Hamlet?’
‘Yes, of course, leastwise, I think so.’
Managua shook his head as if in wonderment, though whether at someone seeing the play or at someone seeing it and not remembering, William couldn’t be sure. The old man lifted his bowl to his lips. William copied him. The stew had a rooty flavour that William thought would be the way old sweaty socks would taste if you boiled them up. But he was too famished to let that put him off. And besides, anyone who had eaten at Sandy Beach’s house, as William had, had tasted far worse than sweaty socks.
William put the bowl down and picked up his notebook again. ‘What’s your surname, Managua?’
‘Surname? What is be, surname?’
‘Last name. You know, like a family name.’
‘Family name?’
‘Yes, the name that comes after Managua.’
‘I is have no other name. Nothing is come after Managua. Name is stop there. Nothing is come before, nothing is come after. Is just be Managua.’
‘But you must have another name. Everybody does.’
‘Not we. We is have only one name. What for you is need two? Is be American thing, always have more than you is need. If you is have more than one name you is just have more you is must say.’ He took another mouthful of stew and appeared to be deep in thought as he chewed it. ‘Suppose you is be in jungle and you is must call someone come pretty damn quick for catch pig. If you is must call extra name this additional bit is mebbe take just time pig is need for get away. What is be point of have more than one name?’
‘Well, to tell one person from another. You get two people with the same name, how does anyone know who you’re talking about?’
‘No-one is have same name. Is belong me only. There is be one Managua.’ He tapped his chest proudly. ‘Is be me.’
‘But you might not be the only one. Suppose someone else chose the same name. Or your father called you after himself. It would get confusing.’
‘No, you is be one who is get heself confuse. No-one here is have same name. Each person is be born is be new person, so is have new name. Same name is not be use twice.’
‘Not ever? You wouldn’t even give a child the name of a dead relative?’
‘No, no, no. That is be confuse. You is get muddle when you is talk with dead person in kassa house. Nobody is ever have same name as nobody else. Not since island is first rise out of sea. Each person is have own name. Each name is be just for one person.’
‘How do you keep finding new names?’ asked William.
‘Is be pretty damn hard, one time,’ said Managua. ‘But not now, since I is learn for read. Woman is have baby now is come Managua and is ask for name. I is just look in Complete Shakespeare. Last new boy is be call Falstaff. Next girl is be call Titania.’
Managua took the ladle from the pot and refilled their bowls. There was silence for a couple of minutes while both men ate, Managua slowly as though savouring every mouthful, William quickly, partly because he was hungry and partly because he didn’t want to taste every mouthful. Eventually his stomach had enough in it for him to concentrate on something else.
‘Well, if everyone has only one name it shouldn’t be too hard to track down the person I want to see,’ said William. ‘I thought it was going to be tricky because I only had the one name, but I guess it’s not going to be as difficult as I thought, if every name here is different.’
‘You is come here for see one special person?’ Managua asked. He didn’t see how this could be. How would William know the name of anybody on the island? He was starting to have a bad feeling about this.
‘Yes,’ said William. ‘It’s a woman. She’d be around thirty-five years old. Her name is, well, was’ – he consulted his notebook – ‘Pilua.’
Looking up from the notebook, William found Managua staring down into his bowl as though he’d suddenly discovered something interesting there.
‘Well,’ said William, ‘do you know her? According to my information, some seventeen years ago she was living in this village.’
Managua took his time to reply. ‘Of course I is know this woman. Is be my wife.’
‘Your wife? Who was blown up?’
‘Yes. I is already tell you all ’bout her.’
Managua studied his bowl again, though William realized now that it was empty. It was as though Managua were reading tea leaves, he thought. Finally the old man lifted his gaze and stared into William’s eyes without blinking, either alternately or simultaneously.
‘Well then, it’s you I need to talk to. I’d like to ask you questions about her death, exactly how it happened.’
‘I is already tell you. Is be nothing more for say.’
‘And there’s something else. I hate to bring this up, but there was a – a – an incident with some American military personnel.’
Managua reached for his leg and began strapping it on. ‘Is best you is not ask about that, gwanga. We is say here, “You is put you foot on sleeping terrada.” You is know what is mean terrada?’
‘No.’
‘Is be green shoestring snake. You is step on one you is be dead just about same time you is know you is step on he.’ Managua hauled himself upright.
William scrambled to his feet too. ‘Look, I understand how painful this might be for you. But couldn’t someone else talk to me about it? Would you have a problem with that?’
Managua gave him a steely stare. ‘I is already tell you, is be no point. Is be my wife. Is not be something you is need concern youself for.’
‘But I—’
‘My wife is be dead, gwanga. Is be end of talk.’
This time Managua did not meet William’s gaze. Maybe that was why William had the feeling the old man was lying. Or if not actually lying, then at least hiding something. William could think of nothing to counter the man’s refusal to talk. Even the best legal argument has no power against a stone wall.
Managua finally looked up and William saw that while he’d been looking away he’d put a mask on. Now his face wore a smile as though to indicate the subject of the argument was as dead and buried as his late wife. ‘And now, if you is not mind, gwanga, I is must deal with that damn fool Polonius who is talk too damn much. I is send girl Tigua Captain Cook for bring you food. And tonight I is take you kassa house.’
‘Thank you,’ said William, somewhat mollified.
Managua received his gratitude with an exasperated scowl, and as he had the night before, swivelled on the ball of his artificial leg and disappeared through the doorway of his hut.
Shit! thought William. I can’t believe I did that. I thanked the old bastard again.
TEN
Is not give for while or take for while for give back,
Thing you is give or is take is get lost and then friend is go same way,
All this give and take is make man not so sharp for look after things.
But this most important: is not not talk tru for you self
And is then follow, like sun-down is be after sun-up
You is must talk tru for any other fella too.
THIS HAMLET IS be plenty damn hard, Managua told himself. He was starting to think it was not worth it. When he looked at the islanders they were like heedless children. The young ones ran around making fug-a-fug with everyone and everybody – and he wasn’t criticizing it, he had done the same when he was young, before he was married – they picked fruit, they fished, they settled down, had children, they died and then they returned to the kassa house. Those were the parameters of their lives and deaths.
They never thought about why they were here, they had no appreciation of the finer things the human mind was capable of, the part of man that could rise above food and kassa and the animal way one body fitted into another.
What he was attempting was so damned hard, he wondered if it was actually possible. Even if he had the meaning right, and he was not certain that he had, he wasn’t sure the islanders had the cultural references to understand Shakespeare’s world view. Even supposing that his translation of Polonius’s farewell speech to Laertes was accurate, what could it possibly convey to people who had no idea of their grown-up children going any further than a new hut next door? The longest anyone was ever separated from his parents was when he went fishing or on a pig hunt without them. A matter of a few hours. It didn’t require any homilies about how to treat your fellow man.
And all the stuff about borrowing and lending. The islanders had no real concept of personal possessions. If you asked an islander to lend you something the very idea would be so alien he would insist upon giving it to you. If you asked him for one fish, he was likely to press upon you two. If you asked him for a pubic leaf, he’d offer you his ceremonial skirt as well. For keeps. He wouldn’t expect to get it back. The very idea of asking someone to give you something and then insisting on returning it would be seen rather as an insult. As far as the islanders were concerned, everything had been put here for everyone to use. There was enough for them all. If at a particular moment you had something in your hands that someone else wanted or needed, and they had no yams to trade for it, why would you not give it to them?