The Claws of Mercy

by John Harris

  “What are you doing down here, Assissay,” Jimmy demanded.

  Assissay stopped speaking and turned slowly, and the man in the mackintosh slipped behind him.

  “The loftiness of man shall be thrown down,” Assissay chanted. “Proud white man shall be brought low. De Bible says so. Poor humble black man who loves de Lawd shall come to his proper place.”

  “Cut out that nonsense. What are you telling these people?”

  “I tell ’em dat de white lawd perish when de revolution come. Black men rise up–”

  “White boss go pinch black man’s rice,” someone shouted explosively from the crowd, the words flung out of the hubbub like a missile. “White boss stop black boys’ fish.”

  “You’d better clear out, Assissay,” Jimmy said quickly. “Before I fetch Sargy Asimani and get you shoved in the calaboose. That kind of talk’s dangerous.”

  “Black man no fear danger, Boss Jimmy,” Assissay said calmly. “White boss Gotto make poor black man suffer. De Lawd watch over poor black man. White man Gotto ride black man with whip and spur–”

  Jimmy’s jaw set. “Hop it, Assissay. Now. One-time. Before I throw you out.”

  “No white man can lay hands on a black man,” said the man in the mackintosh with a readiness that indicated he was well briefed for trouble.

  “Who’re you?” Jimmy demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  “The men have elected me their representative.”

  “Their representative? They’ve got their representatives. They’ve got their union. You a union official?”

  “I represent the New Africa Political Movement.”

  “Never heard of it. And I don’t suppose they have either. You’d better get moving. You don’t work here.”

  “I demand the right to speak to the men.”

  “You can speak all you want after they’ve finished work or when they knock off for chop. Not now. Get moving. Both of you.”

  The crowd began to edge round Jimmy again and he was very conscious of black faces all round him and the smell of sweat and earth and charcoal, that smell of Africa he would remember all his life.

  “Black man suffer from white dictatorship–” the man in the mackintosh looked sideways at Assissay and started to speak, his attitude that of an orator.

  Jimmy stopped him. “You’re not an Amama man,” he said.

  “No.” The other drew himself up. “I’m from Freetown. I’m investigating reports of oppression–”

  “Leave that to the union officials and the government. Now, off these workings before I throw you off. Both of you. I’ll give you until I count five.”

  “No white man can lay hands on a black man.”

  “One.”

  “I demand the rights of the black slaves here in Amama–”

  “White boss plenty proud,” Assissay commented.

  “Two,” Jimmy chanted, at the same time uneasily measuring himself against the other two.

  “We in Freetown are backed by powerful forces.” The voice of the man in the mackintosh cracked a little nervously as he tried to continue.

  “I’ll bet you are,” Jimmy said, his heart pumping wildly. “That makes three. You’ve got two more seconds.”

  “I will inform the District Commissioner.”

  “Four. Inform away. I’m going to sling you out first and he can ask questions afterwards.”

  The agitator stared for a second longer at Jimmy then he gathered his mackintosh round him like a cloak and turned in an undignified fashion up the sloping road, his feet slithering in the mud.

  There were a few hostile murmurs from the crowd but no one moved and Jimmy began to advance on Assissay, who stared at him for a moment, glanced sideways at the dwindling figure of the man in the mackintosh, then turned abruptly, and began to stride away after him.

  When Jimmy, in a passionate rage, arrived back at the bungalow, Gotto was still there as he expected, but to his surprise Clerk Smith was there, too.

  The black man jumped up hurriedly as he appeared and bobbed his head in a half bow.

  “Good morning, Boss Agnew,” he beamed.

  Jimmy glared at him, conscious of the stuffy heat that made his anger all the more unbearable and of a goading certainty that of all Gotto’s associates, this stupid, vain black man was the only one with the sense to realise he could be handled with flattery. “Clear out,” he snapped.

  “Boss, I just talking over t’ings with Boss Gotto–”

  “Clear out!”

  “I say to him dis ole world sad ole world wid all these bad t’ings happenings in Amama–”

  “If you don’t clear out I’ll sling you out.”

  Smith’s expression changed abruptly to one of panic and, reaching for his umbrella and hat, he edged past Jimmy towards the door.

  “White man no fit talk black man all same dat,” he said indignantly.

  He finished the sentence sliding down the steps of the veranda on the heels of his white shoes as Jimmy gave him a violent shove, and he spun round in the wet red roadway and waved his umbrella, his glasses askew.

  “You no strike black man,” he yelled in his high-pitched voice. “I go tell Sargy Asimani. You go calaboose–”

  As Jimmy snatched up a book from the bamboo table near the door and hurled it as hard as he could, he took to his heels and ran.

  Gotto had risen from his chair. “You can’t do that to a friend of mine,” he snapped, his face taut and nervous.

  “Friend of yours? You going native or something. That clown’s one of the reasons why we’re not getting any work done.”

  “He’s a friendly little wog.”

  “Too bloody friendly! Listen, Gotto,” Jimmy shouted, in a towering rage. “I’m sick of finding that clot in here. This is our bungalow. Mine and yours. And I’m saying he’s not to come inside. The man’s a menace. If you want to be matey with him, go up to the village and do it there. Not here. That fathead’s one of the reasons why Amadu got a clout on the head last night. That’s why I’ve just found some wide boy from Freetown preaching fire and slaughter with Samuel Assissay in the workings.”

  Gotto laughed nervously. “Oh, God, man,” he said fretfully. “You don’t want to let that worry you. They’re always arguing.”

  “They weren’t arguing this time. They were listening. Only one of them was talking.”

  “Same thing.”

  “It wasn’t the same thing. And if you were only half a clown you’d know it wasn’t the same thing. That damn’ man was trying to cause trouble.”

  “Well, we know what trouble is,” Gotto said with a nervous snigger. “We’ve got plenty.”

  “Don’t you damn’ well care at all about the Africans?”

  “They get their money. They get their rice. They get their jig-jig. That’s all they’re interested in.”

  “If that’s what you think, then I was wrong and you’re less than half a clown. You’re probably a raving lunatic.”

  Jimmy glared, aware that Gotto would never see sense in any argument on behalf of the black workers.

  “Listen,” he went on. “There were never any troubles in Amama till you came up here. It’s only through the grace of God and the fact that we’re so far from anywhere that some official from Freetown hasn’t heard of all this – that and because everyone up here’s kept his mouth shut.”

  “Don’t tell me that. All the trouble I’ve got on my plate is because of tale-bearing. It’s not my fault Amadu got a crack on the head. I expect he’d been pawing some mammy and her husband caught him. They’re all the same – bloody immoral.”

  “They went for Amadu last night because they hate your guts. That’s why the canoe boys come.”

  Gotto was flushing angrily now. “I’ll go straight down to Asimani and report them.”

  “Asimani my behind. Asimani’s sick of the sight of you.”

  “I still say Asimani–”

  “You make me sick,” Jimmy raved, and as he went out he slamm
ed the mesh door behind him with such force that it broke.

  On the way to the jetty, he picked up Earnshaw who was walking down to his boats.

  “Happy, son?” Earnshaw said.

  “No,” Jimmy snapped.

  “I thunk not. Gotto?”

  “Yes. The man’s barmy.” Jimmy turned to look at him. “Did you go down to the court as you said you would? You were going to stick up for that African against him.”

  Earnshaw looked suddenly sheepish. “Christ,” he said. “You can’t go and stick up for an African against a white man in his position, daft as he is. Let him see his tour out.”

  “My God,” Jimmy said angrily. “I don’t think you’ve got the guts.”

  “No, I ain’t got the guts,” Earnshaw exploded. “And neither ’ave you. Neither has Romney. If you’re so keen on the District Commissioner knowing what’s going on, you go and tell him yourself. Go on, you’ve tried with Twiggy and failed, like I did. OK, turn the car round and let’s go down to the DC. He’s not far away. He’ll see us. We’ll warn him. He’ll soon have Gotto out. They can’t afford to have people like Gotto in Africa these days causing trouble. Come on, turn the car round.”

  Jimmy sat silently under the tirade until Earnshaw had finished.

  “Hell,” he mumbled in excuse. “It’s hardly worth it. He’s only a few weeks to go now.”

  “Right,” Earnshaw said, satisfied. “I don’t want to ruin the bastard. You don’t think it’s worth it. OK. Now shut up and we’ll do as we done before – let it slide.”

  As Gotto, on his way to see Sergeant Asimani, approached the outskirts of Amama Town, the rain began to fall again. The heavy-bellied clouds that held the heat in suddenly split and down came the rain in a heavy downpour that punched holes in the muddy surface of the road and turned it into a quagmire again almost at once. There was no wind and the rain fell in solid sheets that brought down the dried palm fronds with it.

  Sweeping round a corner, the red mud slashing from the wheels in waves, the water sluicing off the windscreen wipers, he almost crashed into the big American Cadillac which pulled out of a side road. Desperately, he swung on the wheel and the car slithered to a stop against a palm tree with the crunch of a collapsing front wing.

  Gotto leapt out in a fury, the incident a personal affront to him, and splashed across to the other car, indifferent to the rain which soaked him in an instant. Dragging on the handle of the door, he heaved it open.

  “What’s the big idea?” he stormed. Then he stopped dead, his mouth open, as he stared at Zaidee Soloman, the anger in his eyes giving way immediately to a plea that she would treat him more mercifully this time than she had on the occasion of their first meeting.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said gently, unexpectedly humble. “Always I am so stupid. The water on the windscreen prevented the sight.”

  Gotto’s voice stopped in his throat as he stared at her, mute with that hideous awkwardness that had always gagged him at times like this throughout his life.

  “That’s all right,” he stammered, his anger drained away completely. “Nothing at all. Doesn’t matter really.”

  He was hot with the thought of her contemptuous stare on the last occasion they had met, that disastrous afternoon when his request to Indian Joe to release rice had ended in a rout. But she was smiling now, in a way that made him indifferent to the rain which beat the brim of his bush hat to a dripping switchback and plastered his clothes in dark wet folds on his body.

  Suddenly her eyes widened. “Quickly,” she said. “You must get in. You get wet.”

  “Listen–” Gotto’s gaping mouth shut with a click as, reaching over, she pulled him into the car alongside her.

  “How much is the damage?” she asked.

  “Nothing much,” he muttered, wiping rainwater from his face. “Bust mudguard. Probably locked the wheel. I don’t know.”

  “Where were you going?”

  “Police,” he mumbled, his hand hovering round his nose. “Make a report.”

  “You cannot go like that,” she said, cool and aloof in a jumper that made him blush. “Never must white people appear before these black trash in rumpled clothes. Come to my house. My servant will iron it for you. It will dry it.”

  She started the big car with a jerk and headed it towards Amama Town, the rain roaring on the roof.

  Gotto was struck dumb for a moment by the embarrassed panic which took the place of the mute gratitude that she had been kind to him. “No,” he choked as he came to life. “I’ve got to get to Asimani…”

  The rain came down steadily all morning in a shining curtain that made the trees grey metallic shapes, until at noon the clouds parted once more and the sun began to drink the moisture from the pools.

  Zaidee would not let Gotto move during the storm, her smiles dazzling him as they had Jimmy and before him Earnshaw and probably others. As he waited in the bungalow with its colourful European fabrics which were somehow African in their gaudiness – as though the blood that Zaidee tried to hide had still managed to peep through – he found himself to his surprise unloading his troubles about the mine to her, glad to have a listener, grateful for sympathy.

  “For one man it is too much without the support of his friends,” Zaidee said firmly when he had finished. “A man in a lonely place needs friends he can trust, people he can talk to. I also am lonely.”

  “You are?” Gotto stared.

  “Of course. Why not? I am not like all these others. I am not black. With whom can I be friendly?”

  Gotto blushed and apologised. “Don’t know why you stay here,” he mumbled in bewilderment. “I wouldn’t if I could help it.”

  “It is because here I am important,” Zaidee said simply. “And our little wealth seems great. In Freetown or Takoradi I should be unimportant – just another Syrian – and my wealth would be small. I do not like that. I like to be important.

  “Besides,” she concluded. “Too much I am believed to be African. I am not. I am Syrian. You know my father. In Freetown, though, this story would do me no good. The women there would not accept me.”

  She spoke in a soft voice and from time to time she laid her finger tips against his arm to stress a point. As she reached across him for a cigarette, her shoulder touched his and left him red-faced and confused and devoid of speech.

  She had the ability to give him confidence, though, and, because she appeared to enjoy listening to him, he opened out and talked, happy for the first time since arriving in Amama, probably for the first time since arriving in Africa. When he left, she drove him along the road towards the mine, passing the police station without his even noticing.

  “I will drop you here,” she said as she stopped the Cadillac alongside his own car, which was still jammed up against the splintered tree. “Then I must hurry away. I cannot be seen with you. My father is not trusted and it would do you much harm.”

  She laid a hand on his and she was very close to him as she spoke again. “We must be careful,” she said. “You must not ruin your career.”

  “I don’t care,” Gotto said loudly. “I’m not scared.”

  Zaidee touched his hand again. “It is not so simple as that,” she smiled. “To people who are surrounded by enemies, always caution is best. For both of us. We are alike. We are both unpopular. We are both lonely. Come this evening. I will meet you here. We will drink coffee again. It is good to have a friend.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “I have only my father. All he does is eat peaches from the tin. Otherwise nobody. Only black rubbish. I am not black.”

  Gotto blushed. “You’re beautiful,” he muttered.

  “You also,” Zaidee replied disconcertingly and Gotto gaped.

  “With a nose like this?”

  “With Syrians, large noses are a sign of great distinction,” Zaidee lied without blinking, and Gotto would have fallen at her feet.

  “They are a sign of distinction,” she went on unblushingly, “
because they are a sign of strength. You are obviously a strong personality.” She held up her hand as he protested. “Because you have not been strong yet does not mean you are not strong. You can start now. That is all the black trash around us understand.”

  “Think so?”

  “I am sure. I have known them all my life. Be firm. Be hard. Weakness encourages them to be lazy. I know this. That is why they do not like me. That is why I am alone.”

  She smiled again and leaning across, warm and soft against him, opened the door of the car. “It will be good to know I have a friend at last,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Come tonight. It is good to talk. I shall be waiting here. You will come?”

  Gotto nodded and mumbled his assent, confused, bewildered and utterly dazzled.

  He watched the Cadillac draw away up the road towards Amama Town, in a sudden agony of doubt because she didn’t turn her head to look back at him, then he swung on his heel towards his own car. As he did so, he almost bumped into Alf Momo and a gang of labourers.

  He flushed crimson as he saw Momo’s eyes flicker towards the disappearing Cadillac, then, fortified by the belief that his loneliness was over, he lifted his head and walked past the shift boss with a sudden new feeling of courage.

  Eight

  Amama was sodden and panting in the humid heat of the evening. The thermometer had started climbing again until the foetid air gagged in the throat. The clearing outside the mine bungalow was a sea of mud criss-crossed by the wheel marks of the station wagon and the car. Inside the living-room, the table had been moved once more. Bowls and zinc basins had been placed at various points about the floor and there was a puddle on the seat of one of the armchairs.

  The wild cucumber under Jimmy’s window was fatter and the plantain tree had grown another couple of notches. Behind the bungalow, the greenhouse shade of the bush had burst into life and the delicate new green was studded with trumpets and bells and lanterns. There was no wind and it was like being in a Turkish bath with the mirror blurred with moisture. Yet Amadu, like all the Africans, looked pinched and miserable.