When the Singing Stops

by Di Morrissey

  Madi’s voice was still trembling. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Stay inside and give him time to get away. He’s not going to hang around now the alarm has been raised.’

  They crept up the stairs and joined Matthew taking a cautious look out of darkened windows at the grounds around the building. Soon two mine vehicles arrived at speed, one of them with a siren howling, and their armed drivers began searching the grounds, flashing powerful torches into the surrounding bush.

  Matthew took his sister in his arms. ‘You all right?’

  She sniffed a little, then forced a smile. ‘Yes. I’ve got over the heart attack. Why Matt? Who?’

  ‘Someone very powerful is getting very nervous.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Madi asked.

  ‘Go back to Georgetown and report the incident. But don’t expect anything to come of it. You two are going to have to be very, very careful from now on.’

  By mid-morning the group were packed up and heading back to Georgetown, discussing whether Madi and Connor should risk going to the Carnivale celebrations. It was decided that there would be safety in numbers in a public place.

  The group was subdued and even in the safety of the car travelling with three men in broad daylight, Madi couldn’t quash her growing feelings of fear. She was in danger and she had no control over it, other than to run from this country which so held her under its spell.

  As the car carrying the Australians drove towards Georgetown, a group of women living in one of the villages downstream from the mine began gathering branches blown down by the night’s storm.

  Arms filled with firewood, they gossiped as they headed along the muddy track. A teenage girl walking ahead of the others suddenly gave a start and dropped the bundle of sticks she had balanced on her head.

  The body of a large black man, dressed in city clothes, lay to one side of the path. Beside him was a Colt .45. But what caused the women to chatter in shock and fright as they peered into the bushes, was the sight of his body entangled in the brilliant coils of a rainbow camoodi, the giant land snake of Guyana, a close relative of the river anaconda. Such a fate was regarded as a reprisal death, caused by magic, a punishment for some unjust deed carried out by the man. As they hurried away to fetch the shaman, they surmised the storm had been sent and justice had been done.

  No identity papers were found on the man. His body was quietly removed and the incident was never reported in Georgetown.

  Next day was a holiday and by sunset crowds were already lining the route of the parade, while thousands more were flowing in colourful, festive waves towards the city. Arches strung with lights-and bright paper streamers and balloons straddled the streets. Banners, painted with Carnivale—Go Yo, Go We, fluttered from light poles and buildings. Houses along the route overflowed with partygoers and radios and TV sets were tuned in to the festivities with preview stories of the bands, singers and dancers due to appear in the next few hours.

  Connor, Madi and Matthew had decided to get into the spirit of the event and forget their past worries as best they could. Joined by Kevin, Viti and Sharee they clapped their hands and jigged in their seats as the car radio blared a calypso ditty. As they nosed through the jammin’, dancin’, singin’ throngs, Connor felt die fears of the previous two days being pushed aside.

  ‘It’s like everyone is on holiday or on stage,’ cried Madi.

  ‘Great atmosphere . . . and the whole thing hasn’t even started yet,’ said Matthew.

  ‘I’m so glad we can all share this together,’ said Madi, hugging Sharee and Viti beside her. ‘But I’m sorry Ann and John couldn’t be here. We got a postcard from them in London saying they were having a great time and to be sure we didn’t miss the Carnivale parade.’

  ‘The parade happens after the speeches, then it’s party time till dawn. The Pessaro is doing a breakfast cookout in the carpark and there’s a street market along the seawall,’ said Kevin.

  ‘The parade is the main thing,’ said Connor. ‘The people work on the floats all year.’

  ‘When is Xavier having his big rally?’ Matt asked.

  ‘In two days’ time. He wants the madness of tonight to settle down first. Lester says there will be a big group of Amerindians in the parade,’ said Madi, ‘and they’ll stay in town to hear Xavier speak.’

  ‘There’s the VIP grandstand, we’re next to that,’ said Connor.

  ‘Where the heck are we going to park?’ Matthew asked.

  Darkness began to creep in and the crowds were shoulder to shoulder. ‘There’s Lester. Cooee Lester!’ shouted Madi. Lester, with his son Denzil on his shoulders, was pushing through the crowd. He heard the Aussie cooee, which Madi had taught him up the river, and lifted his arms in salute, doing a little dance step as his laughing son clutched his father’s hair to keep balance.

  Lester and Denzil were swiftly swallowed up in the crowd as Madi and the others pushed their way into the roped off section beside the grandstand. They showed their passes and ducked under the rope to join Stewart Johns and Gordon Ash. ‘Should have brought those shooting-stick seats you take to the polo,’ said Sharee. Their section was a raised wooden platform, while in the grandstand beside them were politicians, diplomats and their wives, government officials and some heads of large businesses.

  Glancing over at them, Madi went cold and nudged Connor. ‘He’s there. Third row from the front.’

  Matthew and Connor surreptitiously studied the row of VIPs and saw Rashid Bacchus, with a large woman in a sari wearing elaborate gold jewellery, seated prominently next to a senior politician.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ whispered Madi.

  ‘We do nothing. We’re in a group in a public place. It must be the safest place in town. What’s he going to do, for God’s sake. Just don’t even look his way,’ advised Matthew.

  ‘Have you had that chat to your discreet friends?’ Connor asked Johns.

  Johns nodded. ‘Matters are being looked into. Naturally they have to move with discretion and care.’

  ‘Will anything come of it?’ Madi asked bluntly.

  ‘Let’s wait and see, and in the meantime enjoy the parade, eh?’ smiled Johns.

  There was a burst of fireworks and a distant cheer. As the parade swept past them, the beat of the music was intoxicating as band after band in splendid outfits swayed and played on the back of elaborately decorated flatbed trucks. Each steel band had its own distinct sound and the musicians, dressed in wild and crazy costumes, swayed and jigged as the sticks hit the pans.

  The humour of many of the floats sparked cheers and laughter as none of the nation’s celebrities or well-known organisations escaped the barbed wit of the calypso singers and dancers, their banners and signs.

  There were dancing men on stilts, men dressed as toy soldiers in long striped satin pants or crinolines and pantaloons that covered high wooden poles.

  The women dancers were dressed in barely covered sexy spangles, over-the-top enormous ball gowns and frilled rumba dresses that showed their legs, and all had tall and outlandish headdresses.

  ‘It’s a bit of a cross between what I imagine the carnival in Rio to be, crossed with the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, but the music is better,’ shouted Matthew to Madi.

  Agile limbo dancers contorted their bodies beneath impossibly low poles, their limbs splayed as they arched under, heads just above the ground.

  ‘They look like spiders,’ declared Madi and Sharee nodded.

  ‘They say limbo came out of the slave ships when the men had to twist and contort their bodies into such small spaces. There are also spider fables connected with limbo theatre.’

  ‘Nothing here is ever what it seems on the surface,’ grinned Madi.

  Inhibition was tossed aside and those watching swayed and gyrated to the rowdy band rhythms, while others danced on the spot or joined in the parade.

  Most of the parade performers wore masks which were garishly painted, outlandish creations of myth an
d fantasy.

  A different kind of music heralded the next section. Drums and wind pipes sounded through the cheering as a contingent of Amerindians led by Xavier Rodrigues approached carrying a new flag decorated with Amerindian symbols which linked the nine tribes under the outline of a tree.

  The people of the forest made a striking contrast to the glittery extravagance of the calypso dancers. Their faces were painted blue, white, red and yellow, some wore tall feathered headdresses, and both men and women were bare chested, wearing their traditional aprons and simple bone and plaited jewellery. The women held baskets, pottery bowls or matapee tubes. The men carried their traditional spears, bows and arrows and blowpipes. They moved in unison, in a slower snake-like rhythm, sure footed, their muscular legs and arms displaying their strength and agility. Grinning broadly, the men would occasionally lift an arrow or point a blowpipe or spear at the crowd, causing shrieks of good natured alarm. Kevin stood with his video camera trained on the spectacle.

  No one could recall the actual moment it happened . . . no one could clearly identify who might have been responsible . . . but the incident turned the grandstand into a blur of colour and chaos.

  From the centre of one group of Amerindian dancers, a blowpipe had been lifted and in a fraction of a second, a deadly dart dispatched. No accidental shot, it hit straight and true into the neck of Rashid Bacchus, who clutched his throat and fell sideways, fatally hit.

  Once the screams and panic in the grandstand had been identified as terror, attention shifted from the parade. But the dancers continued to shuffle forward, still in unison, unaware of the incident.

  Connor grabbed Madi’s hand as police whistles blew and there was a scramble around the fallen banker. Matthew nudged Kevin, who continued to shoot videotape of the grandstand, panning around swiftly to capture the street scene, then back to the now chaotic crowd gathering around the body. Johns and Ash quickly led their group from the scene, their place eagerly taken by curious onlookers.

  By the time they got to their cars, they heard the police and ambulance sirens, but with Kevin driving, and directed by Viti and Sharee, they sped through a string of deserted back streets to his house. Singh and Hyacinth had the day off, so Kevin jumped from the car and opened the gates. Johns’ car with Gordon Ash in the passenger seat was right behind him.

  In less than half an hour after the dart had struck its mark, they were seated on Matthew’s balcony with drinks, each of them feeling stunned and overwhelmed by the murder.

  They discussed over and over the sequence of events, debating whether the killer had been a plant, or whether the Amerindians and Xavier knew about it.

  Johns leaned back and rubbed his eyes. ‘If the Amerindian contingent knew what was going to happen they sure as hell didn’t show it. It’s most certainly the work of a loner, but who was he working for? That, as the Americans say, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question.’

  ‘It might be a question worth a helluva lot more than that,’ said Ash. ‘There’s no denying whoever organised it has done this country a community service.’

  ‘Surely Xavier won’t be held responsible for this,’ said Madi in a worried voice.

  Everyone turned to Johns. ‘His people will be prime suspects, but you can bet your life not one of them saw anything, or knows anything. The police will get nowhere in that direction, but it won’t do Xavier’s image any good. Maybe Mr Bacchus had become an embarrassment to the powerbrokers above him. Maybe they felt he had gone too far by linking his drugs racket to big business in Guyana. Particularly as he had been fingered by Madi and Connor running drugs up the river.’

  ‘But hardly anyone knew that,’ protested Madi.

  ‘Once we mentioned it in government circles, it would have circulated at the speed of light,’ said Johns. ‘Maybe Bacchus had become an embarrassment to his political cronies. A great many people could have had a reason to want him dead.’

  ‘It will sure put a dent in some of the deals he was involved in,’ said Connor.

  ‘Oh good,’ added Madi. ‘Perhaps that will be the end of the casino.’

  No one followed up on Madi’s hopes that the casino project would finish with the killing. Then Connor suggested another angle. ‘Just suppose Bacchus had information, political and business names for example, of others involved in this drug scene. Blackmailing them would make him a prime target, don’t you think? And how convenient for everyone to blame it on the Amerindians.’

  Madi was aghast at the possible extent of the corruption, but at the same time she was convinced that the real threat to her life, and Connor’s, was now removed. Bacchus must have been behind the attacks on them. Now that danger was gone. That at least was a relief, but even so she needed another stiff drink and helped herself at the bar.

  ‘One thing we can be sure of,’ said Johns with the assurance that comes from a lot of experience in Third World countries like Guyana, ‘there will be some interesting ripple effects from tonight’s little episode. Very interesting ripples.’

  There was a jangle from the buzzer at the gate and Matthew leant over the balcony and looked down. ‘It’s Lester and Xavier,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  Everyone settled themselves in the living room as Kevin played the video he’d shot of the Amerindian dancers parading past the VIP grandstand. Xavier leaned forward at the point where one of the dancers was lifting a blowpipe to his mouth. It was a relatively close shot and it lasted only a few seconds before Kevin had panned left and caught Bacchus clutching his throat. The camera had then panned back to the parade. Kevin rolled the tape back and froze the picture on the man with the blowpipe. Xavier shook his head. ‘I have no idea who that is. He’s not one of our people, he looks the part but his face painting is not quite traditional. Who do you suppose is behind this?’

  ‘You mean you honestly don’t know?’ asked Connor.

  Xavier shook his head. ‘So many people could have a motive to kill Bacchus, particularly after he was identified as the man who ordered the execution of Madi and Connor.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ added Johns.

  ‘I’m cancelling the rally,’ announced Xavier calmly. ‘Naturally, the police and media are going to make a lot out of this. We must be careful that racial inferences don’t aggravate an already delicate situation. Our political enemies could gain much from blaming me for what has happened.’

  ‘Hey, look at this,’ shouted Kevin, who had been forwarding through the video. He rewound a segment and stopped the tape. ‘Look who’s standing at the side of the parade.’

  ‘Antonio Destra! Now what do you suppose he was doing there?’ exclaimed Madi.

  ‘Possibly watching from the sidelines, like everyone else?’ said Stewart Johns.

  ‘Damned odd,’ observed Gordon Ash. ‘Who is this guy, apart from being a dealer in mining machinery?’

  ‘A wheeler-dealer of the old school. He’s mixed up in everything, knows everyone, and, by local standards, squeaky clean from what I gather,’ said Johns. ‘You know him, Xavier?’

  ‘Destra, as you say, knows everyone. He has given money to help Pieter Van Horen’s research in the medicinal plants project. No one solicited him, he just came forward a few months ago and said he would quietly like to help. He wrote a cheque on the spot.’

  There was a stony silence, everyone trying to understand how Antonio Destra could fit into the already complicated puzzle. More drinks were passed around.

  ‘He was up at New Spirit when Ernesto St Kitt was killed,’ said Matthew in a low, neutral voice.

  Madi’s heart missed a beat. ‘I thought he was one of the crowd doing the hard drugs at New Spirit. But I figured I must have been mistaken. He seemed such a good family man.’

  Everyone looked again at Xavier, expecting some illumination, but Xavier merely shrugged and raised his hands slightly in a gesture of despair.

  While the men discussed the situation a while longer, Madi made coffee and tried to sort out her confused feeli
ngs. She went back to the balcony and sat in a cane chair looking up into the tropical night sky as if the answers might be written in the stars.

  There was a sense of relief that a serious threat to the future of Guyana had been removed. But tempering this relief was a disturbing feeling that if she decided to fight for what she believed was right here, there would be new enemies and new threats to her life.

  Lester wandered out with a beer and squatted beside her. ‘Yo not lookin’ too happy, Miz Madison. Should be, yo is safe now. Tings is lookin’ good.’

  Madi looked at him affectionately. ‘Do you really believe that, Lester, truly?’

  ‘We wait an see, eh? See what de day bring tomorrow, or next day,’ advised Lester.

  Inside the house Johns poured himself another whisky, then he walked out onto the balcony, nodded to Madi and Lester, and strolled to the far end. He stood looking at the sky, as if he too were seeking answers. But he already had one.

  Can’t figure why it took me so long to tumble to it, thought Johns as he sipped the drink. Must be getting old, mind slowing down. Bloody CIA, that’s who Destra’s working for. Bloody CIA. Has to be. It’s a perfect front for an in-country agent. Still, no need to broadcast it around. The final act of this little drama hasn’t yet been played, that’s for sure. What’s more, I’m bloody sure Xavier knows it too. Whose side is Destra on, or is he playing the field? Interesting, he mused, very interesting. Gives life a bit of an edge to get mixed up with that lot, always interesting in these sorts of countries.

  TWENTY

  The funeral of the banker Rashid Bacchus attracted a huge number of Georgetown’s Indian population. However, outside his vast network of family, his business associations attracted more than enough people to give his passing the dignity a man of his position and wealth would normally command. But many of those professing great sorrow did so with little genuine regret. It was important to be seen at the funeral, it was important to say the right things, it was important not to do anything that might fracture the flimsy facade of decency.