The Guyana Contract

by Rosalind McLymont

  Roopnaraine paused and shook his head. One look at his friend’s face and Dalrymple knew what was coming next. Nelson denounced to anyone who would listen the wanton bleeding of Guyana’s gold deposits. At the very least, he contended, the traders and the country should have something to show for all that good El Dorado gold. But there was nothing. Not even one good road.

  Dalrymple listened patiently as Roopnaraine groused. “Boy, I tell you. This gold business gets me so blasted vex every time I think about it. Everybody is a gold trader these days, and it’s every man jack for himself. Instead of all of them organizing and getting a good price? Nah! Each body selling for himself. So all of them end up selling out our country’s gold cheap to rass in Venezuela and Brazil, then got the temerity to brag about how much money they’re making, when it’s the Venezuelans and Brazilians who mekkin’ big money when they purify the gold and sell it to Europe and America. You don’t see how ignorant we are? Venezuelans and Brazilians mekkin’ more money sellin’ Guyanese gold than Guyanese themselves! It’s a damn shame!”

  “So what happen with the two Rupununi boys, Nello?” Dalrymple interjected firmly.

  Roopnaraine studied Dalrymple pityingly for a moment, as if his friend embodied the ignorance that afflicted the gold traders. Dalrymple grinned. This was nothing new. Nelson always got on one high horse or another when his belly was full.

  Roopnaraine took a deep breath and picked up his tale. “Once, when they crossed into Venezuela, they came across a man who was on the run from this Alejandro. The poor fella was trying to get back to Guyana. It was a man they knew from long, from their village. He is the one who told them the story of Alejandro and the Guyanese who worked on his land. They said the same man’s body was found the very next day, in the jungle, just near the border. He’d been shot dead. They suspect it was other Guyanese who work for Alejandro that did it.”

  Roopnaraine paused to drink some water. By then, Dalrymple had leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. He had closed his eyes, and his hands were clasped behind his head.

  “You sleepin’, man.” It was an accusation.

  “No, Nelson. I’m listening to you.” Dalrymple said patiently. Then he added: “You really believe that story? You said you were all drinking. You sure it wasn’t the liquor talking for those boys?”

  “You don’t know those people. I’ve had more dealings with them than you. Other people make up stories like that to impress others. But one thing Guyanese Indians don’t do is try to impress. They have a whole different philosophy about life. With them, it’s all about keeping it straight and simple. They don’t complicate things the way we do, like trying to remake ourselves according to other people’s perceptions of us.”

  Dalrymple laughed. His eyes were still closed. “What happen, Nello? You’re getting deep in your old age, or is it all that curry hassa talking?”

  “You can laugh. But I tell you I’m getting tired of the Tonto syndrome. I’m tired of bending over backwards to keep other people’s egos intact. Tired of letting people get away with the idea that they are doing our country a favor when all the time they’re either lining their own pockets or securing their own country’s future. And don’t tell me you don’t feel the same way. I know you.”

  Dalrymple sighed. Nello was right, of course, but he didn’t want to go down that road just now. The whole mess surrounding Livuh’s death had gotten to both of them, more than either wanted to admit. He sighed again and changed the subject.

  “Anyway, this Alejandro you’re talking about doesn’t sound like the same person. But then, who knows? Macky mentioned his name when he was going back and forth with Dru, but he didn’t dwell on it. Just threw it out in one of his Mack attacks then dropped it.”

  “Did Dru know him?”

  “No. She said she didn’t recognize the name at all.”

  “But you think he may be someone to check out?”

  “Aww come on, Nello. You know Macky. He doesn’t drop names for dropping name’s sake. There’s bound to be a connection somewhere between this guy, the whole Savoy deal, and Livuh.”

  “So what do you think we should do, Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Don’t get sarcastic with me. Didn’t I say right from the beginning that we should pull out?”

  “That would be a bad move. You know what would happen if we did that? Not a single American firm would ever give us another contract. Word would get around that we can’t be counted on when the going gets rough and no American would want to do business with us. Would you blame them? And if it’s proven that Pilgrim Boone had absolutely nothing to do with Livuh’s death, then we might as well close up shop and go plant rice.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating. Anyway, don’t we have clients from other countries? Even if the Americans drop us we would still get contracts from the Canadians and the Europeans. And especially the Asians.”

  “I wouldn’t put my money on that. These foreign companies may be rivals with each other, but they stand on common ground when it comes to countries like ours. They take their cues from each other.”

  “Not the Asians. Not these days. Don’t forget they were colonized just like us, which makes them very suspicious and very wary when they’re dealing with Europe and Uncle Sam.”

  “Well, maybe you have a point there. But they’re cheap and selfish. It’s all about money with them.”

  “Like it isn’t with everybody. So are you saying we should just fold our arms and wait for the cungxi to hit the fan?”

  “What else can we do?”

  “Shouldn’t we at least talk to Macky? Impress upon him that we’re innocent?”

  “What makes you think we can get near him now? On our own, without Dru?”

  “Well, I refuse to be dragged into somebody else’s mess. There must be something we can do.”

  “What if…” Dalrymple hesitated, weighing what he was about to say. “What if what?” Roopnaraine said impatiently when too many seconds had gone by and Dalrymple still had not completed the question.

  “What if we went to see this Theron St. Cyr?”

  “Theron St. Cyr?”

  “Yes, Theron St. Cyr.”

  “You mean the same fella Livuh went to meet at the airport?”

  “The very same. As I said, his name came up in the meeting with Dru and Macky. Dru dropped a strong hint that he might have been involved in Livuh’s death.”

  “So why should we go to see him if he was involved? So he could kill us, too?”

  “I didn’t say he was involved, Mr. Roopnaraine. I said Dru tried to accuse him of being involved. Now here’s a man who obviously was a good friend of Livuh’s, this Theron St. Cyr, right? And Livuh was a good friend of Macky, true? So maybe, just maybe, Mr. Roopnaraine, the man Theron St. Cyr is also a friend of Macky. Macky clearly didn’t buy Dru’s attempt to discredit him. That, to me, is a very strong indication that Macky not only knows the fella quite well, but he also is convinced that he had nothing to do with Livuh’s death.”

  “And you think we should persuade this Theron of our own innocence so that he’ll put in a good word for us with Macky, who, then, would remove us from the list of suspects.”

  “You have a better idea?” Dalrymple said defensively.

  “And during this meeting with Mr. St. Cyr, will we bring up the name Alejandro Bernat and the things that I heard about a Venezuelan whose name is also Alejandro and whose last name could possibly be Bernat?”

  Dalrymple glared at his friend. He did not appreciate Nello’s mocking tone. “The answer is yes,” he said coldly. He sat up, his face set. “Now you listen to me, Nelson. I will go to see St. Cyr even if I have to go alone. And when I go, I will run my mouth about everything I’ve heard in order to keep the good name of Rebecca Dalrymple’s son clean, you hear me? I don’t care how farfetched it sounds, I will say it nonetheless.”

  “And what about Dru?”

  “What about Dru? What about Dru? Miss Drucilla Durane will b
e on a plane to New York before you can snap your fingers. Mark my words. And once she gets back to New York, the impenetrable walls of Pilgrim Boone will come down around her. Small fry like you and me, on the other hand, have to live right here, in the middle of this mess, alone. That is, unless you can convince me that Pilgrim Boone will fly in their legal samurai to keep suspicion away from our door.”

  Roopnaraine sighed. For the first time in years he reflected on the choices they had made since the day he and Dalrymple stood beside the Lamaha and silently condemned the country’s railroad to death. They hadn’t bothered with the Mini Minor’s rusting carcass after that. To this day it remained half submerged in the middle of the Lamaha, a monument of long sufferance that had finally won the respect it was due when a contributor to The Sunday Chronicle’s op-ed page used it to position one of a string of a carjackings that plagued the city.

  “The latest incident of this reprehensible crime form took place less than a chain away from the rusty Mini Minor in the Lamaha trench. If only that princess of endurance could speak! For, as usual, fear has buttoned the lips of those who could identify the perpetrators,” the writer had penned.

  Whenever Roopnaraine drove past the Mini Minor he would nod in its direction and say, “Okay, Princess.” It was an acknowledgement of ownership. For, technically, the wreck belonged to him. He still had the letter from Mayor and Town Council granting him the exclusive right of removal. He and Dalrymple had parted company that day with an unspoken understanding. It had been easy for Dalrymple, who was still permanent secretary at Transport, to arrange a meeting with the Pilgrim Boone team.

  The contract was signed within a week.

  Roopnaraine sighed again. If he had a chance to do it all over again, would he make the same decision?

  “Absolutely,” said Dalrymple. For the umpteenth time in as many years he had correctly read the mind of his oldest friend and business partner. Roopnaraine laughed. It was a good-feeling laugh. The laugh you laugh when a burden is rolling away. So many times over the years he and Dalrymple had taken turns making each other laugh like that.

  “Okay, then. Where do we find this Theron St. Cyr?”

  20

  Dru dropped her bag on the floor, leaned her back against the door, and exhaled a long, loud sigh.

  “Oh, thank you, Jesus. Thank you. These four walls in Brooklyn never felt so good,” she said aloud.

  She closed her eyes and for a moment enjoyed the peace of listening to herself breathe. When she opened her eyes, she looked around the living room, lovingly taking in every piece of furniture, every painting, every knickknack: the colorful woolen rug from Aunt Petal; the sheer voile curtains her mother had made, the color of sunshine; and the grainy parquet floor that she still had not found time to sand and refinish.

  She inhaled the calming scent of lavender that floated out of the old-fashioned potpourri dish on the antique half-moon table just beside the door. Her eyes settled on the plants in the far window and her eyebrows suddenly arched, as if she were noticing for the first time how tall and upright they stood. How you’ve grown, she thought fondly, remembering when she had brought them home as tiny seedlings that first weekend, in all that rain, after she had moved into the apartment. She had deliberately chosen plants that did not require much watering, knowing that she would have to travel often. And if she had to be away for more than a week, she would give Mr. Jackson, the super for the apartment building in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn where she lived, twenty dollars to look in on them.

  Mr. Jackson! Now there was a man who knew plants. His own apartment was like a tropical garden.

  “I swear they’re the reason I’m alive today,” he told Dru the first time she stopped by his apartment to collect a package the mailman had left there for her. She had gasped in delight when he opened the door and she caught sight of the melange of flowers and foliage.

  Mr. Jackson had continued talking in that clipped Barbadian accent as he limped over to the dining table where he had put her package. “Lord knows I wanted to hit my wife Clarissa, God rest her soul, so bad sometimes. What a mouth that woman had on her! Good God! But I knew I’da been dead before I even touched her. So I just walked away and tended to my babies here when she got me all riled up.”

  But Dru was never away for more than two weeks and Mr. Jackson didn’t have to check on the plants more than twice. This time, of course, she’d been away just three days.

  Three days. Was that all?

  She walked over to the window and felt the soil in each pot. It was still damp. She had watered the plants the very morning she had left for Guyana.

  Guyana.

  She folded her lips into a tight line and turned away from the window. She went back to the door, picked up her bag, and walked down the hallway into her bedroom. A tiny red light flashed impatiently at her as she entered the room, drawing her eyes to the telephone on the nightstand beside the bed.

  “Your mailbox is full,” she said aloud, making a face as she mimicked the superior tone of the electronic voice that would greet her when she dialed her password to retrieve her messages.

  She glared at the phone for a few seconds, and then addressed it harshly. “Give me a break, will you? Christ! I just got back from another continent. Do you mind if I take some downtime?” She rolled her neck and cut her eyes.

  The red button blinked back insolently.

  Dru sucked her teeth, dropped her bag on the floor, and looked around. Everything was as neat and tidy as she had left it. She hated coming home to a messy apartment. She liked the instant, comforting embrace of order when she entered her own space after a trip. And, of course, her mother’s repeated exhortations from her teenage years would ring in her ears every time she prepared to leave home, “Make sure you wear clean, decent panties.” She would pause for emphasis on “decent” and open her eyes wide, meaning, in those days, no bikini panties.

  “And keep a clean home at all times like every self-respecting woman. Make up your bed before you leave your house so that if anything happens to you on the road and people have to carry you home they’ll know you didn’t come from trash. Don’t you ever give anyone a reason to wash their mouth on you or this family. Do you hear what I say, Drucilla?”

  Dru sank down on the side of the bed. The spread was taut. Not a single ripple.

  She threw herself flat on her back and stared at the ceiling. The late evening sun pushed slivers of soft golden light through the Venetian blinds and sprinkled them across the bed and on the walls. It was that very quiet, strangely melancholy moment between daytime and nighttime. The time of day they called “the gloaming” in Guyana.

  Gloaming. Even the word sounded sad.

  Thoughts of Guyana brought up the image of Theron St. Cyr standing over her, looking at her with such cold eyes. Her heart raced as she recalled the moment. Her face flushed hot and she turned her head sharply to one side as though Theron himself were staring down at her from the ceiling and she did not want him to see the heat of shame in her face and in her eyes. Even now, nearly twenty-four hours later, the shame of their last meeting was still raw.

  She had called him later that night, just before she went to bed, to say she would be leaving for New York the next day. She was calling because he had asked her to let him know when she was leaving, she had said quickly when he answered the phone. She had made her voice brittle and aloof to mask the humiliation she felt.

  He had been just as distant, speaking to her in that very formal English he used when he was being impersonal. He thanked her for letting him know. She was surprised when he offered to accompany her to the airport, but she had declined, saying quickly that it would be too much trouble for him, a stranger in Guyana. Besides, her colleagues Roopnaraine and Dalrymple were taking her to the airport, she told him. She gave him her home number, explaining that it would be best to call her there if he found out anything that she should know. She didn’t see any reason to give him the number of her cell phone.<
br />
  It had pained her to decline his offer to accompany her to the airport because it meant giving up an opportunity to redeem herself in his eyes. She could have used their time together on the way to the airport to explain the whole business about seeing Ramy again. She could have told him that she now believed he had nothing to do with Andrew Goodings’ death, that she knew about Tabatha, that she knew now that he did not try to have her kidnapped in Paris and sold into prostitution or slavery.