Grand Menteur
Grand Menteur
Jean Marc Ah-Sen
BOOKTHUG
DEPARTMENT OF NARRATIVE STUDIES
TORONTO, 2015
FIRST EDITION
copyright © Jean Marc Ah-Sen, 2015
The production of this book was made possible through the generous assistance of The Canada Council for the Arts and The Ontario Arts Council. BookThug also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Book Fund.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Ah-Sen, Jean Marc, 1987–, author
Grand menteur / Jean Marc Ah-Sen.
Short stories.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77166-131-7 (EPUB.)
I. Title.
PS8601.H2G73 2015 C813’.6 C2015-905700-0
PRINTED IN CANADA
Acknowledgements
The secret world of Mauritian street gangs is not for the faint of heart. Fraught with peril and mischief, its inner workings are a mystery to the daughter of one of its most valued members: Serge, the Grand Menteur. A liar of exceptional caliber whose sole responsibility is to purposefully confuse police with alibis, the Menteur fears for the criminal future he has unwittingly introduced into his daughter’s life, when her clear knack for violence attracts the notice of senior gang members.
Mauritian Kreol, English, and French blend together into a heady brew of language in Grand Menteur. Written in a nuanced style reflecting the island-nation’s convoluted history of colonialism, this debut novel by Jean Marc Ah-Sen sheds an unflinching light on the poverty and down-and-out hardship of a shadow class of immigrants from the 1940s to the ’80s.
Their story, with elements of child/parent relations and the tumultuous emotions tied to leaving home for greener pastures, will resonate with readers familiar with diasporic fiction, adventure and travelogue writing, and ‘lock, stock and barrel’ British crime fiction.
For Katrina and Chester, my la la la lights of love.
Malbar (left) and Sergent at a Sous function, circa 1963
I.
Rue La Paix, Port Louis, Mauritius, 1956
MY FATHER USED TO RUN around in the mid-forties with a group of hustling street toughs called the “Sous Gang.” A subject of spirited ridicule, the name was variously attributed to from as strange a thing as the practice of sooging catamarans clear of dead fish, to the synchronized smirking members performed when accused of a crime. One account, brimming with college petulance, even related the name to the Kreol phrase, “To ene sou inne vinne cinq sous” (Your penny’s become a nickel) – a veiled reference if anything ever was to distinguishing sodomites by their similarity to the dimensions of circulating coinage. These were young, darned-if-you-did-darned-if-you-didn’t children, exulting behind the embrasures of a coconut-studded headquarters, who would arrange themselves for a bizarre allogrooming ritual that spilled out onto the street, the bazaar, or as was often their custom, the Champ de Mars Racecourse. They would blow nits out of each other’s heads, and with a wad of chewed gum flattened into a four-inch square, catch the airborne pests, intent on selling them as an ersatz tukmaria for the composition of alouda glace. You will perhaps encounter no more challenging a task than to imagine this farouche network of children, these bandolier-wearing layabouts who carried stale tamarinds clumped into katty quids and were sensible enough to search for ectoparasites among one another, but were otherwise unmindful of honouring society’s customs of civility with so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. If a shopkeeper inquired why they were not in school when they walked before his storefront in the noontide sun, they walked on by, paying him no heed, only to return after nightfall to render all of his goods invendible in one manner or another.
The story of how my father came into contact with this network of delinquents is rather a hopeless one. I stress this point because solicitors and constables always believe a lifestyle of crime involves an overdetermination of choice, like you could decide the quality of water that came out of the Colmar Canal into your taps any more than you could decide the colour of your skin. The architecture of survival does not care about those who quibble with its provisions for choice: there is always unfinished business somewhere or other, and an axe to grind can meet life’s challenge. Suffice it to say that holed up somewhere in a David Street tannery, poor and left to his own devices, my eight-year-old father would reflect silently on his exclusion, dreaming of the material world.
The Sous Gang meanwhile found relief from Lady Luck’s retreating favours in the form of several well-coordinated rackets. It was not known to the majority of the wayfaring public, to cite one memorable example, that in the chiselled-hollow Tin Lizzies abandoned behind a walled junkyard on La Rue Royal, existed an elaborately structured glory hole where two hundred rupees could produce the epiphanic combination of a mastiff’s unclenched cheeks and, if one was looking for it, a clear conscience. Though there’d be a greater likelihood of surviving a leap from Montagne des Signaux with a clutch of chickens strapped about your arms than finding true happiness, there was at the very least a sporting chance of getting your money’s worth. Their eventual meeting, I have it on my father’s word, transpired when the singular circumstance of a vacancy arose within the Sous ranks – a vacancy for a Grand Menteur, a position my father knew well from his time panhandling in the street with my grandfather. With his recommendation of a tannin-based tagging system to monitor the diminishing marginal returns of the stray dogs in question, my father was given probationary placement within the gang organization.
By the time he was sixteen, he had already engendered a reputation among Port Louis lowlifes as something of a smooth talker: consorting fellows were wise to avoid his badinage about “the porthole romances of the Silver Tent Gang” or “the blind fortunes of the pushcart poulterer.” Such lies soon placed him among thieves and bandits, the tartuffism of their lifestyles enjoining him to forget the old ways of earning money. For there is great reserve in a dependable liar – in somebody one can trust to be tenaciously mistrustful. When asked, “Where’s the money?”:
Answer: What money?
Question: The money from the horse betting.
Answer: I don’t go in for things like that.
Question: You know what I mean.
Answer: The money from the horse betting.
Question: So you admit it.
Answer: I admit to nothing.
Question: You admit that you don’t go for things like horse betting.
Answer: I admit I don’t go for things insofar as horse betting is involved, yes.
Question: So you don’t admit to admitting that you don’t go for things?
Answer: You’re trying to confuse me.
Question: Answer the question.
Answer: No.
Question: And why not?
Answer: No, I don’t admit to admitting I don’t go for things.
Question: Then naturally you admit you do go for things; say horse betting, for example.
Answer: I don’t admit I don’t go for things, generally, because I do.
Question: Are you some kind of nihilist?
Answer: I don’t go in for things like that.
For indeed, all he did was lie; he hardly stole, he trounced no one. His role, like the other Sous before him, was limited to what he exclusively knew b
est: falling behind the others on the getaway to stall and confab. He handled the police in the same way they handled him – with prejudice and a view toward humiliation. So it was that his encouragement of a friendship with a member of the constabulary, one Malbar, was bound to raise more than just a few eyebrows or, in his particular example, tightly clenched fists.
As far as first meetings go, it fell short of the hope-drawn promises a lifetime of cinematic exposure inevitably bestows. Malbar was an imposing fellow, hunched shoulders and an itinerant jawbone giving him the air of a constipated volcano. He walked with a striding confidence unmatched even in the annals of police history and amazed all manner of peoples with his indifference to those at the mercy of his absurd authority. The brave cock on his dunghill, raised on an unbroken diet of thuggery and snapping hardship, was equal parts bull and insensate, on the receiving end of denigrations only a gazetteer armed with a rotogravure could articulate. The young officer was eager to pass muster, and there posed no better means for this than by policing the stout-hearted brats of the Sous Gang. One morning, in the presence of two lowly gang members,
Declarative: Sa gogotte la enne voleur. Jamais li travail. Cotte to croire li gagne casse pour li habille coum ca? Li enne bourrique: li conne ziste coquin, mange, divertir, caca.
Question: You there, in the red! English?
Answer: Non.
Question: I’m looking for this dog’s owner. Er . . . enough people are complaining.
Answer: Buyer beware, sousoute.
Question: So it’s one of you then?
Answer: Mod cons.
Question: Eh?
Answer: Conveniences. We offer all mod cons.
Question: I ought to take you in on charges – charges of gross indecency!
Answer: The dog is not mine. I have never seen it before. Ask anyone.
Imperative: Your English has come along considerably since we started. Leave the strays well alone!
Declarative: Get stuffed!
Malbar followed his instincts home in this fashion, propelling himself up the chain of miscreants until one day he found Sergent – as my father was known to others – in the process of tagging a Sous pup on a deserted thoroughfare. While another gang member of roughly the same age (though twice the size) named Ti Pourri held the dog down, the eager lawman sized my father up with a stinking crook-eye, poised finally for an actual arrest.
Accompanied only by that blear-eyed gargoyle, easily mistaken for yon young gallant, what with the way he thumped behind like a rudderless ketch, my father simply looked up and muttered to Pourri, “You’ll survive,” before flying off around the corner to safety. Ti Pourri spent a fine time of it that night surrounded by hardened criminals anxious about the back-door parole, only to be welcomed upon his release with his expulsion from the group. Apparently (the source of which remained flagged in mystery), Ti Pourri succumbed to a statutory ouster on the Sous Charter grounds that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut and abandoned his post when faced with the gablou. The seizure of “Old Faithful,” as the pooch had been christened among the more reliable of his clients, was in many ways the end of that rather misfortunate use of canine flattery.
Sergent was not ignorant to the benefits of contact with blue arms of the law; such contact kept him spry and reminded him when to be aloof. At times, while cultivating this aspect of being standoffish, he went too far, and even became suspicious of his friend the constable. Meetings with Malbar sometimes sent my father deeper into himself, and the tightlippedness he bore like a badge of distinction grew intolerable. It continued in and out of the home, or so my mother would recount before her sad fate put an end to conversation between us; it must have made some sense, somewhere in the winding cockles of my father’s brain, to engage in discourse with a dark concentration that could save him from incrimination. Only my father could conceive the phrase, “You’re looking well,” as an indictment after all. (How did he look beforehand?) Unable to otherwise articulate pleasure, envy, anger, frustration, my father took to his sacred refuge, this vow of unruly silence, with the ardency of the poverty line. But the transition from prolixity to silence did not occur overnight. At first, he began to lose track of stories he’d told certain officers. He squabbled among Sous members over what had allegedly been communicated by his own nefarious tongue. But maybe most significant was that his foundering as the Grand Menteur coincided with the decision that his services were needed by his eleemosynary countrymen. Something in his brain made him realize that even the least deserving were welcome to the ill-gotten gains of his imagination – whether in the form of handing out stolen merchandise, or simply to take the Sous to uncharted ground that would aggravate closed-minded superiors like the infamous Black Derwish, he decided he would become a humanitarian.
“What’s this, Sergent?” Malbar asked one morning, wiping the beads of sweat that converged on his nostrils. “You’re not out for yourself anymore?”
“I’m the enterprising sort,” my father responded.
“Avant ki mo tane rumeur la! I hear that you have convinced the Black Derwish that the police chief is looking for him. That his ‘worm-ridden guavas’ are somehow responsible for sick officers, and in their absence, escalating crime rates. You have managed to convince the costermonger not only to abandon his fruit, but that both police and those they are responsible for are engaging in one form of backsliding or another. I can assure you, however, that my ability to impede the criminal element remains unwavering – on account of an iron stomach.”
“Children of Beau Bassin clinics can say the same.”
“You’re not capable of charity. You can’t have the interests of those children at heart. It’s not possible.”
Sergent’s face remained blank, frustrating his friend’s suspicions. By way of appeasement, my father handed Malbar a guava the size of a golf ball.
“When it comes to the subject of suffering children, I can assure you, I am all seriousness.”
“How is our good friend Ti Pourri faring these days?”
“Antagonism is not your strong suit. You come evidently to talk, so talk. One of us was born into the wrong profession.”
At these words the heavy-framed officer bristled. It was a fact that Malbar had been reluctant to accept. They had kept schtum about their arrangement with most others, allowing them to go about their business, their transactions of exchanged information, with a celebrated facility of movement. The dates for an unscheduled police training exercise could be traded for the location where stolen merchandise was being stored, or perhaps even where a fellow gang member could be nabbed for indecent behaviour; but the balance sheet constantly threatened to spill over into lopsidedness on either side. Malbar dusted off and then quickly replaced whatever reservations stirred within him to their musty place of origin.
“You’re right,” Malbar said. “It benefits neither of us to continue down this road. Curiosity behoves me to ask you where you’ve really gotten all this fruit from, if not from the Derwish?”
“You’ll not get me to admit to anything. Perhaps as a matter of pride, but then again, perhaps not.”
“Apparently, I have no interest in bringing you to the station.”
“Yes. You play your part incredibly well. ‘I know nothing about dogs and I know nothing about missing fruit.’”
“‘I did not mention dogs.’”
“‘Your presumption that I did alarms me.’”
Then followed a moment of grave import, of the first transgression and the first enlightenment, consequences of which are still being felt to this day:
“Tell me, tournevis. Are you happy here? Bound by the ocean, these mountains, the peoples’ incivility? Bound by the law that I represent?”
“Tsk tsk – you lose. Partie terminée. Do not talk to me of happiness if you are not prepared to define it, Malbar. It’s elementary.”
“The Mauritian preoccupation with it is unseemly,” Malbar continued. “More so than other peoples. It is an is
land pathology.”
“Stop hashing potatoes. What do you get at, talking to me about my affairs?”
“There is a whole world beyond the water Sergent – that’s all I meant to imply.”
“You remain. Behaving and dressing like me. Correction – us. Using our tongues. You wish to discuss pathologies?”
“Connard, this is all you know. Are you prepared to live with it being all you have ever known?”
“I have what I need. Mine is a life of practicality: practicality of thought, practicality of action. Maybe you should consider that I do not care to know what is beyond that water.”
“Doling out stolen fruit, grinding out a pauper’s profit. Guavas and dogs, dogs and guavas. You speak of ambition, but content yourself to run exchange-marathons with canaille and degenerates. You will learn that light suppers do not always make for clean sheets. Yours is a nostalgie de la boue. Trouble will haunt your footsteps if you remain here, in the same way that revelation or largesse would a more fortunate man.”
“Eh, your melon drama depresses me,” my father quipped. “You’re interested in how many cases of the fruit exactly? I don’t know which is more galling: taking business advice from a pillock, or having travel plans thrown in with them.”
2.
Somerleyton Rd. Brixton, London, England, 1965
THE AUGURIES OF MALABAR’S bibulous prophesying arrived in the summer of 1958 with the force of Edison’s collapsing elephant, courtesy of an elaborately folded spheroid document tessellated with triangles and looking like a paper meteorite. I can only imagine – one is left little alternative with a pretender – my father’s mental state when, clasped between his fingers of almost uniform length, flapped the monograph on which rested the source of his newfound apprehension.
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