“Ki kote twalet la?” an attendee asked me, taking notice of me lying down and reading.
“A droite.”
Cherelle came from behind the faceless pilgrim to sit beside me. I passed the codex to her.
“I’ve seen it,” she said plainly. “I read mine as a child.”
“Good reading, I hope.”
“I like the poulterer story. It’s clever and all, in its way.How everything in the codex is written in a way to mystify the police. They all know the head arrangement. All one sprawling flea-flicker written in crayon.”
“Merde dimoune. My head hurts,” I groaned, having been duped like I was a child again. “How do you mean?”
“I don’t know what it says in yours, but don’t believe even half of it. Especially the bloodlines. Can you really imagine my father mending roads like Pitkin? Oh God. Uncle Sylvan’s no General Schreiber, no military man either. He doesn’t make eye contact with his barber. Do you remember that meeting in the Blue Boar? Well, did the four of them look like brothers to you? ’Cause they can’t all have had the poulterer as their mother . . .”
“Hmmm. I’m at a loss for words if I’m honest with you. Do any of these meetings get your motor running? Like the old days, I mean.”
“No,” Cherelle said. “Not for a long time now. I’m not even sure my dad has his heart into it. He’s just going through the motions. Not sure about Pourri though. He’s come on like gangbusters.”
We looked at Pourri marching down an aisle between pilgrims with a riding crop clasped in his hand, except the leather tip had rupees glued to it. He looked like he’d gone to seed. He walked past men, thwacking anyone at the elbows that wasn’t maintaining the orderliness of his line. “Golnar, from Golnar family! Cheong, from Cheong family!” the Derwish called out, as pilgrims advanced to their table, greedily awaiting which items they’d requested had bypassed the Canadian customs office. Most faces turned away from Serge and the Derwish in low spirits, though more often than not begrudgingly chewing on a foot-long smoked sausage cut in two as they walked away. The pilgrim who jabbed me was comparing his parcel from his family with what I guessed was an itemized list they had sent him through the mail, outside of traditional Sous postage routes. His envelope bore none of our postage stamps. Noticing this, I stood up to confront him, resting a hand on Cherelle’s shoulder to stop up her talking in the politest way I knew how. I changed my mind and instead made my way to my father. Pourri blocked me from getting closer.
“Sorry, can’t let you pass,” he said oleaginously. “If it can wait, you have a better chance seeing him after we’re done for the night. Between you and me, just for appearances’ sake. Can’t let these crumbs think we’re picking favourites.”
Pourri gently directed me to the back of the line. Again, another pilgrim asked me, “Ki kote twalet la?” and once more I directed him to the lavatory. In the corner of my eye, I saw the door slowly swing shut (its hinges needed to be oiled), and noticed a small multitude congregating inside, including No Stamps. This spelled big trouble, my bones were telling me. I expected that I would have to restock the entire lavatory, but instead I overheard on my approach animated and disillusioned squabbling.
“Ene la trappe sa. La police immigration pu vini coma dire mouche du alouda limonade!” a voice I thought belonged to No Stamps vociferated sourly.
Cherelle, inheriting my sense of alarm, also began to take notice of various pockets of individuals assembling outside of Pourri’s line. Cherelle was presently behind fifteen or so pilgrims looking at the St. Albans awards cabinet. Imprecations erupted from the pilgrims’ lips. Seeing me approach, Cherelle jogged towards me to keep me away.
“What are they looking at?”
“Your T.E.A.M. Award,” Cherelle said. “The one commemorating your work with the police? What is that about?”
“Aio mama oh, ki lengrenage mo fine tomber . . . !
By this time, my father had begun to take notice of the river parting of people in his field of vision. I looked at him, and then nodded my head upwards in the direction of the exit behind him. He handed off what looked like a bottle of wine to the woman in front of him, then signalled for Piom to come to his side. Piom fleered in Serge’s direction, and walked towards the selfsame exit I was motioning to.
Suddenly, and with the same force I was accustomed to hearing it smash outwardly, the male lavatory door was kicked wide open. No Stamps brandished a ballcock, ball float still attached, in his right hand.
“Fouille partout de fond en comble,” he rallied. “Checker ki zot fine coquin!”
So they were after what the Sous had stolen from them, which made a terrible amount of sense, I was sad to admit. The next little bit would not be easy to surmount. Not the off-chance of calamity, but sick-to-your-heart guarantees.
“They can breathe life into dead animals,” another member of the crowd screamed. “Let’s see them breathe life into themselves after we’ve done ’em in!”
Without more fanfare, all was pandemonium. Pourri charged at No Stamps with both arms extended over his head, which he brought to bear over his opponent until he was No Face. A flood of forty or so people streamed out of the men’s lav, which had as its tributaries the people by the awards cabinet and a few others by the Accounting office. Pourri was sent flat on his back by the onrush of people. A naked man stepped out of the lavatory carrying a toilet seat cover and the rest of the pilgrims made themselves scarce screaming, “Pillywick! Pillywick’s here, get out the way!” A few who remained loyal to the Sous made a barricade of flesh around the head table. Cherelle was trying to wheel her father to an exit amid ceiling-fan-arcing bowls curving downwards, made more unbearable by the refuse from the bins assailing us. Then came the stale Yorkshire puddings.
I found Piom in an earthquake position beneath an exit door, unsure if he was meaning to block it or if he felt it the wisest place possible from some safety procedure he incorrectly associated with the situation at hand. Making easy work of him was merely a question of how hard to slash the air in front of me with a Torx. He shrank away, clawing at the jamb. I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck before I threw him out on his ear. He landed on some bags of rubbish, not seriously hurting himself, but the pressure his body exerted on the bags propelled a horde of maggots formerly contained within them into the air, whereupon they sprinkled down about his crown and shoulders, burning the air with a stercoraceous lining.
Some of the shelter regulars were milling about outside waiting to be let in, as opening hours were less than an hour away. I called a few by name to help me.
“Charlie! Rusty! Hey Freddie! I’ve got a sawbuck for each of you for twenty minutes of your time!”
The three men cut to the front of the line, looking past Piom as they went inside. I let them into the building quickly. The sounds of violent commotion continued from the dining hall. I could faintly see Pourri pushing someone into the ceiling fan, hoisting him up by his collar and belt loops.
“The man in the wheelchair, the woman protecting him, and the geezer in orange plaid,” I instructed. “Get them outside safely. Don’t louse it up!”
I galloped to Adrienne’s office, going around the dining hall along Trade Route Five. I fumbled for my keys and managed to trip over no fewer than three chairs in the cramped office. I dragged my father’s trunk case over my shoulder. As I was locking up, I could feel that I was being watched; this I could tell over their laboured breathing. No Face was covering the side of his head with a bleeding hand, while the other supported himself against the wall.
“Coma to capav faire sa avec to propre race?” No Face wheezed.
“Take it on the arches, No Face.”
“Kete?”
I dragged the unconscious No Face and the trunk to the second floor, propped open a window, and slumped my freight out the opening. I followed behind, filing a mental note to shut the window before leaving should the carousing come to end before I was out of a job. I met Cherelle, the Derwish
, Serge, and their saviours in the alleyway, without so much as a hair mussed from their heads. Rusty and Charlie were holding Piom fast between their arms, and he squirmed every now and then, looking like toothpaste someone was trying to wriggle back into the tube.
“Here’s your other rabble-rouser,” I said to the onlookers.
Serge was looking through the top of his straw boater, which had been peeled back like a can of Campbell’s soup.
“About time,” Serge said. “Bring him here.”
“What do you think, Serge?” Derwish asked.
“I think he’s a fuck sight better than we could hope for. Give him a few weeks to nurse off the beating he’s taken before we put him to work again.”
“What are you nattering on about?” Cherelle demanded.
“Don’t throw a strop,” the Derwish said. “You probably just don’t remember him. You only met him once, when you were young. That’s Darlo, the Menaceur – dans dilo, ‘in over his head.’”
“Explain,” I said bluntly.
“It’s what the position entails. He’s the patsy, the gudgeon, the heel. He’s our man, on the inside, like. Pourri and him put on quite a devil of a show.”
“They’re a little advanced in years for this nonsense, don’t you think?”
“You and Cherelle were to replace them. Before plans changed.”
“What’s all this then, your bread and circuses?” I looked to Serge for answers.
“This is good housekeeping, fouineuse, like your waiting area keeps reminding me,” Serge stated. “We’re having trouble carting off so much luggage through too many checkpoints. This lightens the load a sight, not to mention drives up the value of our services, due to scarcity. Those that re-up anyway. Market conditions are favourable.”
“Tire kaka mettre pete.”
“Exactement.”
“And Piom?”
“We’ll see how he manages without a support group on this side of the world and without speaking a lick of English. Nothing without your newspaper translator, are you boy?”
“Is there any point in my going back to work in a few minutes?”
“Pourri already has the insurrectionists at gunpoint, toeing the line,” the Derwish reassured. “They are helping restore order and the condition of the premises in which we were welcomed. Thank you for that.”
“Coma to capav faire sa avec to propre race?” a disoriented No Face, née Darlo, repeated.
A welter of the sausage-witted, pulverized seditionists lay prostrate on the tiled floors. They were then gathered up and had their goods confiscated, banned from the Sous for three years. They would have to pay heavy amercements should they desire new applications, which of course all of them did. The cycle was such that the ousted members never outstripped the incoming “birth rates” of new members. This delicate balance in harmony was chief among the Green’s responsibilities. Apparently his absence from such meetings ensured his unflagging impartiality managing admissions, even if no one had seen him in person for quite some time, maybe since the Kadadac Incident.
Yet wherefore the enduring survival of our derelict people? To what grace the raw power of these schemers? Where else but the many children, siblings, acquaintances, comrades willing to abet the happiness of their devoteds, kith and kin who comprised the enablers, sympathizers, and even enemies. All points of discourse intersecting into a lightning array of action and inertia. Like I myself did when Malbar’s remains, distributed and contained within eleven cheddar cheese tins and wrapped in a pair of disintegrating pajamas, were conferred to me for safekeeping, given how I’d kept his codex free from harm and prying eyes for so many years and the nature of assistance I provided at the shelter (now the new Sous headquarters in the sleepless hours of the night). And though my acceptance into the group was delayed by my infractions – failing to follow my father’s orders to find work outside of the Sous, and later and much more seriously, being unable to resist the wandering thoughts of a psilocybin-induced delirium, going so far as to put the codex on sale to the Roundman – it is decided.
I am trusted with the fifty other codices insulating Malbar’s cheesy ashes from the many bumps in that trunk’s diverse, happy travels. But the codices need reworking for a modern age, need updating and legibility for new threats on a Perspex-composite horizon, shimmering like a rainbow of new viability. The disaster with Piom has proved that much of the logic of greying temples needs to be not so much challenged, as improved upon.
“Aka Aka Boule Caca Les Veres Les Veres Mayoner Ister Ister TAC” – this one’s off to Brighton, this one’s off to Stroud, this one’s running his dole rounds keenly, this one’s sold his plow. That one can’t be trusted, that one knows too well, that one’s sold down the river, and drowns for quite a spell. That sort of thing, per Serge’s communiques. He beams with puddles of pride on the day that I hand him fifty new, hardbound codices the size of matchboxes, each containing some stolen or allegorized plot from The Bulldog Breed, A Stitch in Time, One Good Turn, Up in the World, and countless other Norman Wisdom films. He approves of the liberties I take, but mainly the orders I follow, and the new assignments I concoct for his peers to be delivered with their new documentation are well-nigh flawless.
I work best at obfuscations, have five years’ worth of it in fact from my time at St. Albans – a skill bound to improve further with time. Pourri needs alibis for certain dates, which I scribe into a loose timetable that looks more like a mandala than a rap sheet. The Derwish insists that his relationship with the Green be explicitly maintained, much like my father’s stories’ interconnectedness with Malbar’s, though I can’t make some of the particulars stick. The Derwish even asks that I review the documents attributed to Cherelle, which I doubt she even knows exist. She is happy to be a chauffeur for the gang, and her father’s keeper. I, on the other hand, marvel in fear at the possibility that the codices reveal too much of the truth of the Sous activities. Serge champions the demented wisdom of his policies regarding the truth to be infallible. They are insurance against infiltrators reading the codices and abandoning the feasibility of all information contained within, alibis and all. We are all givealittles then, mining and miming the heuristic world for a solid ounce of possibility, a vast metabolic network of propositions, equivoques, sufficient causes, and truth-functions. So began the world, so becomes the world.
My final task is to account for my own presence among the Sous, as a testament-taker and witness to their activities, their Grand Archiviste. This is my father’s only gift to me, in a life known for its tyrannized privation. To bear witness, and to give account of my journals, through the privilege of a tourist, of the life of the small-time and its heathen impedimenta. Go forth, knowing thyself a sear imitation of a woman, daughter of a tarradiddling island rover, with the shame of things to come tailing behind her. There are other stories to recount, bien sur, of the nabobs bankrolling these enterprises of crumbling dust and island particulate, of Pillywick, the day tripping Sous commando assassin, the mescal button politicos in the Sous Court of Appeals, Malbar’s last days, and his persecution by a recurring dream of rabid dogs chasing him without his trousers on, for fear upon his death that his minders neglected to bury him with his nightshirt on – all worthy, goodly tales of palm-shaded profligacy, but deserving only of mention, and never more than partial confirmation, outside of their own hardback tomes. All things picayune have now wandered their way under my compass, straight-sighted and true, accompanied by the manginess of the slums, the bowed spirit of a querent, and the quietude of a seer.
Glossary
Tukmaria: Basil seeds.
Alouda glace: Mauritian milkshake.
Sa gogotte la enne voleur . . . mange, divertir, caca: That dick is a thief. He never works. Where do you think he gets his money to dress like that? He’s an asshole: he only knows how to steal, eat, gallivant, and shit.
Sousoute: Cunt.
Ti Pourri: Literally, “small-rotten.”
Gablou:
Police.
Avant ki mo tane rumeur la: Before I hear that rumour.
Li content sali nom . . . casse so la guelle: He likes to sully the names of people; that’s why they broke his jaw.
Montagnes pas zoine – dimoune zoine: Mountains don’t meet. People meet.
Eskiz mwa: Excuse me.
Mo pa pou repeter: I won’t repeat myself.
To tousse mo ti fi encore . . . pilon: If you touch my daughter again, I’ll break your back, you faggot.
Erezman toulmonde conne to fatigan: Luckily everyone knows you’re tiresome.
Trwazyem fois mon dire . . . sulazman ici: That’s the third time I’ve said to leave the children at home. There’s no relief here.
Pe nas trakase: Don’t worry yourself.
Kok depaille: Hairless cock.
Les guels kok: Penis-face.
Pinere: Cheater.
Plok Poners: Idiots.
Mo pou zigeler toi: I’m going to fuck you.
Gogote: Dick.
Souslard avant sous terre: “A drunkard before underground.” Alternately, “a drunkard before I’m dead.” The pun of the word “sous” is lost in the translation.
To faim: You hungry?
Cot to billet: Where’s your ticket?
Kadadac Bar: Kadadac is the onomatopoeic sound of a child piggybacking and bouncing on someone, possibly referring to the hooves of a horse trot.
To pu mange tous sa la: You’re going to eat all that?
Hmmph . . . dans Canada: Hmmph. You don’t learn French here in Canada?
Boule caca . . . roule caca: “Ball of shit,” and “roll shit together” (as one would a snowball), respectively.
Dire moi ene coup (ki qualite couillion sa): Tell me something (what kind of idiot is this?).
Ti zom: Small man.
Rotin Bazar: A switch, primarily used for beating.
Chamarel: Mauritian city, but also a game of hopscotch.
Grand Menteur Page 14