The Final Passage

by Caryl Phillips

  ‘Michael man, Michael! Where you going?’

  The man was short and stocky. He looked wildly about himself like an animal caught in a steel trap. He skidded to a halt and began to splutter, letting his lower lip hang loose so Michael could see the bright redness of his gums against the pink of his tongue.

  ‘Well, man, what you doing?’

  Michael shook his limp hand. ‘I just going pick up some yams and thing for Leila.’

  ‘Well, I surprise to see you for I hear the pair of you done gone off to England like the rest of the damn island. Boy, I sure you gone, you know. I sure, sure.’

  ‘Next Thursday,’ said Michael, eager to escape the man's enthusiasm.

  ‘Boy, you gone on next Thursday boat then?’

  ‘Yes, man.’

  ‘Well, then what I hear is half-true. You really going England, you really going.’

  He said nothing more and for a few moments he just looked Michael up and down in boyish admiration. Then his eyes flashed and he licked his eager lips. ‘And you still has the bike and everything?’

  ‘Yes, man.’

  ‘Same Michael, same Michael.’ He paused, then snapped to life again. ‘Hey! I just think of something. You remember Footsie Walters’ brother, Alphonse?’

  ‘I hear talk of him.’

  ‘Well, you know he just come back from England? I sure he going be able to tell you lots of things about the place that you don't going get to hear from nobody else for everybody be too much hearsay and hesay.’

  Michael looked at this man as he hopped from foot to foot, unburnt energy coursing through his every muscle. He was in his early twenties, Michael's own age, and he helped out on the fishing boats, begging a drink here, a piece of food there. To most people he was simply a young man who had as yet no life of his own to recount in exchange for his scraps of food, no stories of the sea and far away places, no wars that he had fought, no bridges that he had built, rivers he had forded, or canals he had dug. Thoughts of who he was, and why he was living as he did, were beyond him. He lived and that was all. Once, a long time ago now, some white man had called him the conscience of the island and he had laughed loud, then begged a next piece of bread.

  ‘Where Alphonse Walters living now?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Just down by the water's edge. Ask for him there, this side of the big boats. You want me come with you?’

  Michael shook his head, pushed ten cents into the man's palm and walked off.

  ‘Mr Preston, for a ten cents more I can go watch your bike for you.’

  Michael ignored him and walked on.

  Alphonse Walters lived in a flimsy one-roomed shack called a house. His hushed voice crept through the stillness encouraging Michael to enter. He did so and sat nervously, for the man's burnt orange-brown skin was rich and leathery, as if ready to be stripped clear of his body and moulded into a saddle. It was like nothing Michael had ever seen before. His hair was black and greasy and flecked at the edges with a light grey, and below it protruded a pair of bright, but sad, dark brown eyes set in hungry, uneven sockets so that Michael had the triple impression of depth, wonder and poverty. When he spoke he did so quickly, letting his head drop to one side like a floppy dog's, throwing out a helpless arm, palm turned up, to make important points. He shrugged his shoulders a lot, and sometimes he clasped his thigh and walked blindly and with an exaggerated limp to emphasize the point about his lost ship and how he got to England. Then he made a violent downward jabbing of the hand meant to symbolize a customs officer in England stamping his non-existent passport, and he laughed loudly at this private joke.

  ‘You know what lathe is, boy? When I first get to England I work with more lathes than there be people on this island, you can believe that? And the thing is, they be all in one room and when they start up they make such a damn noise that all I hear is the sea.’

  His laughter cracked, then split. He coughed violently, trying to catch his breath, then he continued.

  ‘Only one day I did listen too hard and the noise sound like the world done finish, or me at least. What happen is I knock over some acid which spray up all over me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I been noticing how you looking at me skin funny so, but now you know. They give me £100 and tell me to go home, but I stay another five years just doing nothing, boy, begging in truth. But now I back home and you can see how I living.’ Again he laughed as he remembered, but every word was measured, painful.

  ‘You must be careful in England. Concentrate. I remember one day in England I see a man in the street so lonely he just fall over, wet his pants, laugh, then cry. Then I see some policemen come to arrest him but I don't know what for. Maybe he drunk in charge of a sidewalk?’ He lowered his eyes. ‘They probably take him somewhere and mash him up a little, then let the man go.’ Again he paused. ‘You must be careful, for it's a stupid and bad, crazy world, Michael. You say is Michael your name, yes?’

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Michael,’ he mused. ‘I still can't place your people, but if they die in the boat then I suppose I wouldn't have get to know them.’

  He stopped for a moment and thought of the boat disaster. Then he lifted his face to Michael.

  ‘But I don't care what anyone tell you, going to England be good for it going raise your mind. For a West Indian boy like you just being there is an education, for you going see what England do for sheself and what she did do for you and me here and everyone else on this island and all the other islands. It's a college for the West Indian.’

  Michael listened for hours, the voice small, eventually weakening and giving up altogether, but not before it had cleared out the old man's mind of all the things that England had meant to him, all the things that he had seen, that he had felt, that he had lived. For Michael it had been like eavesdropping on a cold and chilly dream.

  In the half-light of sunset Michael stood and pressed a dollar (all the money that he had) into the rusty palm of the man. He left the house to find his motorbike. As he climbed on he realized who it was the man reminded him of. Like his grandfather, the man had filled his head with ideas, half-formed, half-truths, uncritical, myth, none of which could be verified except by trust. He turned his bike towards St Patrick's.

  The following afternoon their guests arrived complete with a tired baby and a carrier bag crammed full with bottles of beer. Leila and Michael sat outside and watched them coming up the road, the last few yards seemingly endless. Millie led the way in her blue dress and white hat, her white shoes, white handbag and the bottles of beer to match. Bradeth looked equally smart in his suit, the same suit he had worn to the wedding, even though the pants were beginning to bulge a little at the knees and drop at the crotch. The jacket had never really fitted. The two of them, husband towering over wife-to-be and carrying the sleeping child, looked exhausted.

  Millie put down the beer, the bottles clanking angrily, not caring whether or not they smashed. She reached across for Shere and followed Leila into the house.

  ‘I tell him we should get a taxi or wait on a bus, for Shere wants to sleep, but will he listen? ‘We going walk for it's a nice cool day,’ he says, and on top of that he turn up at the damn church carrying a bag full of beer and the minister calling the banns.’ She sucked her teeth long and hard. ‘When he say if anyone know of any just cause or impediment, or what ever it is they say, I nearly die for I beginning to think of a few myself.’

  Leila played with her god-daughter's small and sticky hand. Then she moved over to the tap and started to run some water into a bowl.

  Outside Bradeth remained standing. He scratched his bristled head and looked down at his friend.

  ‘You want one, take one,’ he said, pointing at the beer. ‘I think I done fetch enough for the afternoon.’

  Michael stretched forward, picked one out, opened it and handed it to Bradeth. Then he opened one for himself. Bradeth hitched up his trousers and sat down beside Michael, his knees shooting up past his ears. He took a long drink before
venturing to turn to him and speak.

  ‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘How is everything? It's all working out?’ Michael nodded. ‘It seem like it,’ said Bradeth. ‘Leila looking better already.’

  Michael took a long and satisfied drink, then closed his eyes. They sat like this for a few minutes and then, without opening his eyes, Michael began to speak.

  ‘We not buying no return, you know. We both decide it's a new life for us over there so we just going come back when we come back. Not enough space to grow or do things here.’ He paused. ‘But you know what it is I talking about.’

  ‘Yes, man,’ said Bradeth. ‘I know what it is you saying.’

  ‘It's just that I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking for small work when I know I can get big work if I wants it. Me, I want a car and a big house and a bit of power under my belt, like any man does want. This country breed too many people who just cut cane in season and happy to be rum-jumbie out of it.’

  ‘It's true,’ said Bradeth, ‘but what you think if say next year Millie and myself decide we going come to England?’

  Michael laughed and opened his eyes. ‘I don't see nothing wrong but you must first ask Millie.’

  Bradeth sucked his teeth. ‘Well, I don't know what she thinking, but if we come it means she going have to sell up the shop and I somehow don't think she going want to do that.’

  ‘Well, maybe you better ask she for you can never tell.’ Michael paused for a moment, then went on, ‘And you hear we have a buyer for the house now. When Leila's mother come back she going build a new house further back off the road for some peace.’

  ‘You got it all organized.’

  ‘You have to, man. You have to.’

  Bradeth leaned forward and pulled another two bottles from the bag. He opened them, passed one to Michael and they continued to drink. Leila came out of the house.

  ‘The food is going to be ready in about ten minutes. Do you want anything?’

  They both made noises which meant they did not, and Leila went back inside. For a moment they were quiet again. Then Michael spoke. ‘So when you going tell she you want to go to England?’

  ‘I don't know as yet. I don't know how she going take it so I have to pick my time.’

  They drank silently, then opened their third bottles. Bradeth turned to his friend.

  ‘I hear about one coloured man out there who writing home saying he be having at least three or four different white girls a week.’

  ‘He lie.’

  ‘I tell you like I hear it.’

  ‘I know the man?’

  ‘It's Willie Daniels’ cousin from Halfway House. He writing back every month and sending postal orders for the other three Williams brothers to come out one by one.’

  ‘He must have a good job, then.’

  ‘They say every coloured man in England have a good job that can pay at least $100 a week.’

  ‘Yes, I hear about it but I'm not sure,’ said Michael.

  ‘Well, you know Shorty Fredrick's son out there now making a fortune from investments, and you remember what Shorty Fredricks’ son was back here? The man born a criminal thief and alcoholic.’

  ‘I hear about him and a few of the others.’

  ‘So life over there can be good, you know. I mean real good, man, and you lucky, you know.’

  Bradeth's adrenalin began to surge and he laughed. He was excited. Michael drained his bottle, then looked at his friend.

  ‘You know you start thinking that way, man, and you might end up selling your pants to a white man.’ Michael kicked the dust. ‘And that's the truth, for yesterday Alphonse Walters, brother to Footsie, almost tell me as much. He tell me sometimes England don't be no joke for a coloured man.’

  Bradeth emptied his bottle, thought hard, then spoke. He avoided Michael's gaze.

  ‘I sure that what he tell you be true, but I suppose the only way to find out is to go there.’

  Michael nodded and they were quiet. After a minute or so Leila shouted from inside the house that the food was ready, and Michael rubbed some life back into his face. Before they went in Bradeth picked up an extra couple of bottles to drink with the food, then he dragged the bag into the shade. They would drink the rest later.

  After the meal they sat outside again, this time with Leila and Millie. Inside the children were awake, but lying contentedly by themselves away from the heat. Millie talked about the banns and went over the horrors of the service again. And Bradeth praised the food endlessly. And then they were quiet, as if running out of topics to talk about. Eventually Millie, squinting into the sun, turned to Leila and spoke softly, but with an accusatory innocence. ‘So who else you know in England beside your mother?’

  Leila thought for a moment. ‘Only people you hear about, or people we talk about.’

  Millie turned to Michael. ‘And what about yourself?’

  ‘Same as Leila.’ He paused. ‘I mean, you know people from time who you know gone there but you not real friends with them so you don't keep no address or nothing.’

  Bradeth chipped in, ‘Anyway, it's the type of place in which I hear you soon going make friends.’

  Millie was swift in picking this up. ‘Who tell you so?’ Bradeth shrugged his shoulders and Millie went on, ‘You not hear about the woman who think things getting so bad over there that she send all her precious belongings and a family photograph album to an address in America and she don't even know no people there. She just make up an address in New York for she sure that England going put all coloureds in concentration camps and she want something to survive. You tell me that does sound like a friendly place to you?’

  Bradeth shifted uneasily. ‘I hear the woman mad,’ he said.

  Millie laughed scornfully. ‘You think so? I hear it's a two-week crossing on some stink-up Italian boat stopping at every damn port except Tokyo and Russia, and the only food I do hear they give you is cheap rum that sure to kill you dead, and everyone running like their arse catch-a-fire.’

  Leila coughed, then spoke. ‘People are always saying all kinds of different things.’

  But Millie was adamant. ‘Too many people beginning to act like it's a sinful thing to want to stay on this island but there don't be no law which say you must go to England, you know. People here too much follow-fashion.’ Leila did not have time to answer. ‘So Michael, why you don't say something? You being too damn quiet for my reasoning.’

  ‘Well, I think you right some of the way but I don't think it can be anything but good for a young family. I mean there is where all the opportunity is, and it don't mean to say we can't come back here with some profits after we finish working over there if it's so we choose to do.’

  Millie was quick to speak again. ‘So just tell me how many people you see coming back from England with anything except the clothes they standing up in?’

  ‘No, Millie, it's not fair.’ Michael wanted to get up to make his point but he remained seated. ‘People only been going out there a few years so why they should be coming back now? It's just starting.’

  ‘So how long you think it going take them before they coming back?’ asked Millie.

  ‘Well, for those that really want to come back maybe five years,’ suggested Michael. ‘Maybe ten.’

  Millie laughed and everyone went quiet.

  ‘More like five hundred years,’ she said. ‘Maybe longer.’

  Again they fell into a deep silence, each daring one of the others to speak first. Then Michael started up the conversation on a different topic. For the next two hours they talked of anything, everything, but nothing to do with England. That subject just caused too much trouble among friends.

  *

  Thursday morning and the restless sun rose particularly early, or so it seemed. Michael opened his eyes and reached over to touch his wife, but his blind hand slid across the sheet and off the end of the bed. He turned over, sat up and heard her talking to Calvin. She was packing. In the pale morning light Michael's shado
w moved slowly across the greyish white slats of the bedroom wall. He decided to lie in bed a few moments longer. As he reached down to pull up the sheet, he caught his hand in a band of light which clipped the edge of the ring; his memory stirred.

  Last night he had eaten his meal in silence, then, scraping the wooden chair across the floor, he moved over to sit in the cooling breeze of the open doorway and watch the evening fall. Leila cleared up the soiled plate and utensils from the small table top. Michael kneaded his soft palm into his face, wondering whether he should bother to shave before he left but, as ever, there was very little stubble to remove. In this light nobody would notice. Leila handed her husband an open bottle of beer which he drank slowly and reflectively before placing it down empty beside the chair.

  ‘Anything you want?’ asked Leila.

  ‘No, it's alright.’

  Michael spoke to her with detachment. Up above a solitary gull wheeled lazily. Then the sun set, not with the usual outburst of colour, but with a gentle, almost touching grace.

  ‘Leaving this place going make me feel old, you know, like leaving the safety of your family to go live with strangers,’ said Michael.

  Leila stood up and carried Calvin across to the table where she would finally prepare him for bed. She looked across at the back of Michael's head, feeling as though he were confessing something to her and that perhaps she should not have moved away from him. But before she had a chance to say anything, he spoke again.

  ‘I met Footsie Walters’ brother Alphonse in town last Saturday when I went in to carry the yams. He don't make it sound bad or nothing, but he make it sound a bit different from how I did imagine it.’

  ‘Which is like what?’

  ‘Better, I suppose.’

  For a moment Leila had thought she must be mistaken. She wondered if Michael was consciously trying to create this mood or if he had really forgotten himself. Either way she went forward and put a hand on to his shoulder.

  ‘I know things between us don't be so good at times,’ he said, looking up at her, ‘but it's like you're putting a chicken into a cardboard box. The thing bound to start jumping about a bit and loose off a few feathers.’ He laughed, then scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘I'm beginning to sound like a preacher man.’