The Guyana Contract

by Rosalind McLymont

  Now, as he pondered the idea of his country in the grand design of those with limitless power and wealth and influence, he delved into his encyclopedic store of little dots. Was there something magical in this land of eighty-three thousand square miles and barely half a million people that others saw and the Guyanese didn’t? It had to be more than the gold, the diamonds, the bauxite. Perhaps someone saw it as the Caribbean’s Singapore or Malaysia. An eighty-three-thousand-square-mile factory churning out all sorts of goods for buyers around the world? That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

  Perhaps a haven for people running from high taxes, now that Bermuda and other islands were under the microscope. A military beachhead maybe? But in preparation for war between who and who?

  MacPherson sighed heavily.

  “Don’t let it weigh so much on you, Macky boy.” Livuh spoke gently. “We could bring in St. Cyr without a word to anybody. What is there to lose? He’ll either find a clean deal or a dirty deal.”

  “Yes, but what will it cost us? How will we pay for his services?”

  “Don’t worry about that. He owes me a favor for that first Port Authority contract. I was the one who introduced him to those folks.”

  Macky sighed again. “Okay. Let’s bring him in, then. But make sure he knows that discretion is the name of the game. I know nothing about this. I’m not even sure I want to meet the fella.”

  “You’ll never have to worry about St. Cyr and discretion, Macky. The man breathes it.”

  Macky stood up, drained his glass and stretched. “Livuh, you’re either a godsend or, as you Americans say, a pain in the ass,” he said.

  Livuh laughed and stood up. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  He looked at his watch. “Well, it’s way past midnight. I stayed here longer than I intended to. I’m off. Need my beauty sleep.”

  They shook hands at the door.

  “Good night, Macky. I’ll talk to my guy tomorrow and give you the particulars.”

  “Ahright.’Night, Livuh.”

  9

  June 16, 1998

  “Did you hear what Pilgrim Boone did to Jamaica, Compton?”

  Nelson Roopnaraine stood in the doorway of Compton Dalrymple’s office, a thick sheaf of papers in his hand. He was on his way down to the accountant’s office on the first floor. The government was demanding more than the firm had already paid in taxes, a demand with which he had no intention of complying.

  Roopnaraine looked like a man who was feeding from the fatted calf. The gold ring with a huge nugget that he wore on his left middle finger and the gold chain-link bracelet he wore on his left wrist gleamed as he absently shuffled and reshuffled the sheaf of papers. The pounds of prosperity that generously expanded his girth were set off by a custom-tailored gray suit, light-blue shirt, and blue-and-gold tie. His jet-black hair no longer was slicked down with coconut oil as in the old days. It was airbrushed light, with a few wisps strategically arranged on his forehead. His thick eyebrows had been plucked into gentle contours. His nails had been manicured for twenty dollars U.S. at Savitri’s, the salon of choice for everyone who was anyone in Georgetown. The scent of Old Spice Classic smacked the air with his slightest move.

  Dalrymple abruptly stopped the dictation he was giving to his secretary and looked at his partner.

  “No. What did Pilgrim Boone do to Jamaica?” He, too, exhibited the physical weight of prosperity. And, like Roopnaraine, to whom he had introduced his own tailor, he was resplendent in a summer-weight gabardine tan suit, white shirt, and olive-green bow tie. Gold adorned a finger on each hand and both wrists. The smooth-shaved, baby-bottom skin of his face and manicured nails marked another job well done by Savitri’s. Cartier glasses and Diesel cologne bought in from Atlanta completed the image. Dalrymple and Roopnaraine were your corporate Dapper Dans par excellence.

  “Took away the G-15 summit from them. Got it moved to Trinidad and Tobago,” said Roopnaraine, his voice almost breathless with awe.

  “Don’t be an ass, Nello. You can’t move the summit like that. All fifteen of those countries voted for Jamaica to be the host this year.”

  “Well, Lawton Pilgrim seems to have gotten that decision changed. That’s what you get for pissing that old bastard off.”

  “What do you mean pissing him off? What did they do to him?”

  “I thought you knew, man. They strung him along on their FIS contract then gave it to Peat Marwick.”

  “Why would they want to do a stupid thing like that?”

  “Maybe somebody didn’t like the idea of a l’il black gyal in charge of the account. You know how some o’ we people t’ink,” Roopnaraine said seriously. Roopnaraine held the view that the human race was divided into black people and white people. Anyone who was not European was black because that was the way the white-controlled world treated all non-whites. And in the eyes of whites, if you were black you were inferior. Not that he believed this inferiority crap one bit. It was just the way white people lived in a world where they were outnumbered, but had the power of money and weapons of mass destruction.

  “All white people?” Dalrymple asked in surprise the first time Roopnaraine expressed this view. Dalrymple saw eye to eye with Roopnaraine on most issues, but this was not one of them. He could not accept that all whites believed in the master race theory.

  Not even a breath passed between his question and Roopnaraine’s vehement answer. “Every last one o’ dem, plus dem who t’ink they white! But white man ain’ bettah dan nobody. And in Guyana, nobody bettah dan nobody. All o’ we is Guyanese, an’ as Guyanese, we got bigguh t’ings fo’ worry ‘bout! Like how fo’ grow rich in a rich country that’s poor.”

  Today Roopnaraine was in no mood for verbal sparring on the subject. “There is no way Lawton Pilgrim would let such a low blow go by. No way,” he said, slapping the sheaf of papers against his palm for emphasis and unleashing another burst of Old Spice.

  “What makes you so sure Lawton Pilgrim is behind the G-15 change, if indeed there is a change? I didn’t hear anything on the news.”

  “What’s the matter with you, man? Isn’t that why we get paid big money?

  To know the news before it makes the news?” Roopnaraine tut-tutted, shaking his head.”You let me down, Commo. I got wind of a sudden venue change from some people at the Caricom Secretariat. Then I put two and two together, and Drucilla Durane all but confirmed my four. She said she had never seen Pilgrim so furious when he found out that he had lost the contract to Peat Marwick.”

  “You believe her? She may be telling you that just to put pressure on us about delivering this airplane deal. You know how cold and calculating she is.”

  Roopnaraine laughed.”She isn’t cold at all. She’s quite nice to me in person and when she calls. You’re just saying that because she won’t give you any.” The pretty secretary coughed. She crossed and re-crossed her legs daintily, trying hard to suppress a snicker.

  Dalrymple gave her a hard look. “I’m a happily married man, in case you have forgotten, Mr. Roopnaraine,” he said with a straight face.

  “Since when did that ever stop you, sweet boy?” Roopnaraine countered with a slow smile.

  The secretary could not contain herself. She exploded into a fit of coughing, hastily excused herself, and, sputtering that she had to get a drink of water, rushed from the office.

  Roopnaraine stepped aside with a deep bow as she ran past him.

  “You’re such a fool, Nello,” Dalrymple said. “Try to be serious. We’ve got to get more aggressive with the minister on the air transport proposal. He’s dragging his feet.”

  “I think he’s been talking to Lebba Lip. He doesn’t make a move without checking with that man. And you know Lebba Lip. Man got a mind like de CIA. Don’ trus’’e own mudda.”

  “His mother died when he was twelve years old, Nello.”

  “Well, he don’ trus’ she spirit.”

  Dalrymple feigned shock. “Nelson Roopnaraine talking about jumbee. I
thought you didn’t believe in such things—jumbee, and mermaid, and moongazer, and baccoo—all of those spirits that populate our wonderful folkloah.” He ended with a mock British accent.

  “Very funny, Mr. Dalrymple. You should take your own advice about being serious. Let’s invite Minister MacPherson to lunch this week.”

  “Good idea. You set it up.”

  “Okay. You know, Jamaica should make amends to Pilgrim Boone. They might get the summit back.”

  “You mean they should suck up to Pilgrim Boone?”

  “Ouch! Those are unkind words, Mr. Dalrymple.” Roopnaraine made a big deal of contracting his body and sucking in air through his teeth as if he had been stung by a bee.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Where the hell is that grinning hyena?” said Dalrymple, stabbing one of the buttons on his phone with his thumb to summon his secretary.

  10

  Drucilla froze.

  It couldn’t be. Not after all these years. After all those dreams. “Hello? Dru? Are you there?”

  Twelve years. Twelve years had passed and the ordeal still haunted her, tormented her in her sleep. It got so bad sometimes that she would cry out and bolt up in bed, sweating and trembling.

  That was what had killed the one serious relationship she had had in all that time. She had refused to see a therapist and Anthony—God how she had loved that man!—just could not take the screaming and the sweats and the shivers anymore.

  “Dru?” Theron St. Cyr sounded anxious.

  Dru took a deep breath. This bastard made me lose Anthony!

  “Yes…yes. I…I’m here.”

  Why was she stammering when her thoughts were so clear? She heard St. Cyr sigh with relief.

  “I suppose I caught you by surprise. I hope it is not a bad time for me to call.” His voice was apologetic, warm.

  Dru heard the faint French accent, so much harder to detect now, almost nonexistent. But it was there, in the formality of the “it is not” instead of the more conversational “isn’t,” in the slight catch at the back of the throat over the “r.”

  Suddenly, all the horror, all the fear and despair of that night in her ramshackle prison in Paris came at her in a rush. Her stomach somersaulted. Her head buzzed.

  The man saying her name so easily on the other end of the line, talking to her so comfortably, was the man who had put her in that prison.

  Theron St. Cyr!

  Rage boiled in the pit of her stomach. How dare he call her! How dare he say her name as if she were his friend! What did he think? That she would forget? That she would forgive?

  The twirly cord that ran from the receiver to the base of the telephone shook violently. Dru sprang to her feet, her face tight and hard.

  “As a matter of fact you did not catch me at a bad time, Mr. St. Cyr,” she said with asperity. “How did you get this number?”

  “‘Mr. St. Cyr!’ Whoa! This Dru I remember. But why does she surface again? Why are you so angry with me, Dru?”

  Why are you so angry with me, Dru? The rage in the pit of Dru’s stomach rushed upward and crested in her head. Theron St. Cyr was mocking her. The man was daring her to be nice to him!

  Dru drew her breath and opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say anything there was a light knock on the door and Grant Featherhorn stepped into her office. He closed the door softly behind him and leaned against it laconically, his arms folded across his chest, his languid gray eyes fixed on Dru’s.

  All the fight fled from Dru.

  Her jaw dropped in disbelief. She stared at Featherhorn.

  The gall of the man! Bad enough that he had not even waited for her to say, “Come in.” But to just stand there so rudely. Couldn’t he see that she was in the middle of a serious phone conversation?

  She covered the mouthpiece with her free hand and mouthed that very question to him between clenched teeth.

  Grant Featherhorn did not even blink.

  “Aren’t you going to respond?” St. Cyr’s voice was plaintive now.

  It was too much for Dru. “Excuse me!” she barked into the phone. “There is an unpleasant situation in my office and I have to deal with it!”

  She covered the mouthpiece again and addressed Featherhorn, fixing him with eyes that glinted like points of steel in the sun. “This is a very private conversation, Grant,” she said caustically.

  “This is company time, Dru,” Featherhorn drawled back with a smile. Dru turned her back to him. Grant Featherhorn was a partner in the firm. A member of the Inner Circle. And he was her nemesis.

  When she joined the firm, she and four other recruits had been assigned to senior partners who would prepare them for membership in Pilgrim Boone’s Inner Circle. She had been assigned to Featherhorn and, in their first moments alone, after all the gladsome introductions, in the privacy of his imperious office, he had made it clear that he thought she did not belong on Pilgrim Boone’s fast track to the executive suite. That, to him, she was there solely because Lawton Pilgrim felt compelled to wave the flag for affirmative action.

  He did not speak those words outright. Grant Featherhorn would never do such a thing. He was the firm’s lovable resident liberal. A graying, longhaired charmer, maddeningly svelte and handsome, who frolicked with people in high civil rights places.

  What tipped Dru off that he was a closet racist, flower child image be damned, were his condescending remarks when he and she were alone. That’s when he would use expressions like “your people” and “your kind.” He would correct her pronunciation with long-suffering patience: “It’s ‘pencil’ not ‘pincil,’ Drucilla. And it’s ‘Wednesday,’ not ‘Widnesday.’ Sooner or later you’ll have to lose your people’s accent and learn how to speak like someone who really belongs in the upper echelons of Pilgrim Boone.” He would reel off names of blacks who had been “accepted into some of our most exclusive social circles” and who spoke “so well.”

  “Close your eyes and you’d never believe there was a darkie in the room,” he would say with a gleam in his eyes, goading her.

  Darkie!

  Dru would bite her lip, swallow hard, and vow silently that this man would not win his war against her.

  Making it into Pilgrim Boone’s Inner Circle was important to her. She needed to prove to herself, and to a whole bunch of people who had their eyes on her, that she was that good. The color of her skin may have gotten her in the door, but that was not what was going to keep her in the building and get her into the Inner Circle.

  She told no one about Featherhorn’s haranguing. Not even her brother—her one and only sibling who knew just about all of her secrets, all her heartaches. Featherhorn was the kind of individual who would never slip up. He would never inadvertently reveal his true nature to anyone in the firm.

  At least not to anyone who mattered.

  So who would believe her if she complained?

  Dru knew she was totally on her own in this and she was absolutely certain that Featherhorn knew this. Just as she was absolutely certain, much later in the mentoring period, that he knew that she knew he could not keep her out of the Inner Circle. For she was one of Lawton Pilgrim’s chosen, and there was not a damned thing he or anyone else could do about it.

  Unless she quit.

  Away from the eyes and ears of everyone else, Featherhorn tried to make her quit. When she made it into the Inner Circle—it seemed a lifetime ago—he looked straight into her eyes, smiled, congratulated her, and wished her well.

  Dru would never forget that smile. It had made her shiver.

  Theron St. Cyr’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “I tell you what, Drucilla. Evidently, I made a mistake calling you.”

  He paused. When Dru said nothing, he continued, his tone distant and formal. “Perhaps it is because, as you say, something unpleasant has developed at your office. Clearly, however, it’s not a good idea for us to be on the phone together. At least not at this time. So I will give you my phone number and you can call me if you woul
d like us to meet again. If I do not hear from you, I promise you I will not call you again.”

  He recited his number.

  Maybe it was because Featherhorn was in the room and she did not want to have to explain why she was holding a phone to her ear and not saying anything. Maybe it was because she wanted to know exactly where to find Theron St. Cyr when she finally found a way to bring his ass down. Whatever the reason, Dru grabbed a pen, pulled a notepad toward her, and wrote down Theron St. Cyr’s telephone number.

  When St. Cyr finished reciting the number, he did not ask Dru whether she had written it down or not.

  Dru spoke stiffly into the phone. “Yes, I think this is the proper way to deal with it. Good-bye.”

  She put down the phone. It was the best thing to do, she told herself. She could not rail at St. Cyr as she wanted to, not with Featherhorn installed in the room. This was personal business. She would never play into Featherhorn’s hands. Would never give him the opportunity to even suggest that Drucilla Durane’s private life was troubled and risked compromising her work.

  She planted her hands firmly on her desk, raised her head, and spoke to Featherhorn. “It was very rude of you to come into my office and just stand there while I was on the phone, Grant,” she said icily. She no longer held her tongue with him, not since she had come to realize that he was powerless to keep her out of the Inner Circle.

  She sat down, tore off the sheet on which she had written St. Cyr’s number, and placed it between the pages of her leather-bound day planner. Featherhorn watched her movements without saying a word. He waited until she closed the day planner and lifted her eyes to his again before he spoke.

  “What about Guyana, Dru?” he asked quietly, ignoring her remark about his being rude.