The Ten Day's Executive and Other Stories E-Book

Rhoda Bharath

• Herausgeber: Peepal Tree Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 262

Beschreibung

Rhoda Bharath's stories bring a very contemporary Trinidad of the internet and social media into an urgent but complex focus. Told through a distinctive range of individual voices, they visit the domestic and public spaces of a country moving too fast between the knowing innocence of its past and the experience of a globalised present where the words "shipping and transportation" have quite a different meaning in the thesaurus of the street corner. Caught in the antagonisms of race, class and gender; the violence that comes with the trade in cocaine; and an Anancy politics where government power is the means to personal wealth made secure by favours to one's ethnic supporters, Bharath's characters are often engaged in a struggle to balance a desire for meaning and self-worth with the temptations of survival by any means. What Bharath brings to these narratives is an elliptical economy of suggestion that invites the reader to make connections; a bold, prophetic voice of alarm over a world that seems to have lost its moral compass; and subtly empathetic insights into the inner lives of her vividly drawn characters, but also a witty eye for the absurdity of their pretensions. Rhoda Bharath was born and lives in Trinidad. A writer, lecturer and blogger, she teaches at the University of the West Indies, St Augustine. Variations

Leseprobe

RHODA BHARATH

THE TEN DAYS EXECUTIVE AND OTHER STORIES

First published in Great Britain in 2015

Peepal Tree Press Ltd

17 King’s Avenue

Leeds LS6 1QS

England

© 2015 Rhoda Bharath

ISBN13 (PBK): 9781845232931

ISBN13 (Epub): 9781845233129

ISBN13 (Mobi): 9781845233136

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission

These stories are works of fiction.

All the characters appearing in the stories are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

to Karen Joanna and Poy Poy

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Considering what a glorious procrastinator I am, I really have to thank the people that prompted me to action. To Barbara, Hannah and Jeremy who prodded and poked as gently and firmly as possible for this to get done; to my mother and father, Pearl and Claude, who always told me I could do and be whatever I wanted, and bought more books than perhaps their pockets could afford; Teressa, the most amazing sister ever; Charlie, who didn’t mind when I left him to his own company while I wrote these stories; the MFA programme and UWI and the students in that programme who kept me on my toes creating dangerously; every writer who ever gave me honest feedback like Miss Erna and Miss Olive and Tanty Merle; my fairy godmother Rachel Manley who waved that wand and cracked that stick in turn; Funso Aiyejina for the patience, the edits, the support, the voice in my head; and Tony, who keeps believing even when I don’t: Ase-Oh!

CONTENTS

The Ten Days Executive

Sempo’s Wedding

Before I Dead

Redemption

The Fairest of Them All

Breast Pocket

Sweet Hand

Circles and Lines

Gaps

The Right Word

Action Reaction

Split Level

Calendar of Events

THE TEN DAYS EXECUTIVE

Basil needed a work bad. It was almost eight months since he get lay off from the security job he had at the bus terminus.

“Patience, Basil, patience!” the manager, Mr. Iphil, had tried to reassure him.

“In a month time we go call you back. You know it had election. You know government change and they had was to shake up staff. Give we a few weeks. Once the dust settle we go hire back all we old workers.”

Being a patient fella, Basil wait two months. He ain’t bound to go back to work right away. In fact, the little layoff did really come like a holiday for him. At first he stay home and help Dulcie round the house and harass she a little bit, like any self-respecting husband. But then he start to feel tired hanging around the house and he went to see Mr. Iphil. Only to find out Mr. Iphil and all get fired and some new man name Beharry take he place and Beharry ain’t have no time to see anybody and ain’t know nothing about no job that some previous manager promise.

“Is a new dispensation now,” Beharry say. “Check in the papers for when we have vacancies.”

Is then Basil start to worry. He didn’t figure that the change in government woulda affect him so. He realize that since he hair and Beharry hair wasn’t the same texture, it probably mean that the two of them did vote for different parties and, as is a government job he was waiting on, he might have to wait a while. Maybe until the next elections if he party could get their act in order and get back in power.

Six more weeks pass and the little bit of money save up in the bank almost done and Dulcie starting to get vex because now Basil ain’t have no money and he still want sex every day. Basil decide to try a little hustle. He borrow a partner car and pull bull with it in the night in areas where regular taxi wasn’t working. It went okay for a while but it didn’t last. The man want him to bring in sixty dollars a night and sometimes Basil was barely making that.

So, no sleep in the night and in the day he catching ass because Dulcie face swell up like crapaud after rain and she calling him good-for-nothing under she breath whole time. He getting real fed up and frustrated and sometimes when the frustration hit him so he feeling to cuff up she ass good and proper. But he fraid. She have a cousin who is a Special Branch police. A sweater police. Basil ain’t fraid ordinary police but he don’t make joke with sweater police. Anybody who could wear that kind of wool in this here heat have to be beast. He remember once when he was working as a security in a grocery he see two of them beat down a bandit. They start with him at the front of the grocery and end up in a storeroom in the back. The two of them take turns beating the man. After they finish subduing the suspect was straight hospital for him.

So Basil decide to leave Dulcie and she muttering alone, because he ain’t want to get subdue. But still he studying day and night how to make money. He try wrapping grocery, but the pay real low. Four dollars an hour and he working from nine in the morning to all quality hour in the night. After one month, he leave that too. By then Dulcie stop muttering; she talking in plain English now.

“Basil, you real worthless for truth. My mother did warn me. She tell me you blight. But no, I hot, I want man. But like is a manicou I get and now look the pressure I seeing.”

Basil remain quiet. He ain’t say peep. He know the day he open he mouth, she go answer him back and he can’t take it when woman answer him back. He know for sure for sure he go lash she. So to keep the peace, he hush he mouth.

By the time August month end reach, Basil was at the end of his rope. One night Dulcie outright blank him. She turn she back and steups.

“Why the ass you don’t go and get a ten days,” she ask him, “before you try to give me a nine months?”

The next day Basil went down by the Government Works office to see if he could get a ten days.

While he walking down Cemetery Street he remembering how he used to cut style on he partners when he see them working ten days. Men like Leonard and Frankie and Kyle. He remember how even when he was in school playing the fool he always used to say one thing he ain’t doing is working ten days. He can’t be so hard up he have to do manual labour. Nobody in he family ever line up to cutlass grass on the road or dig drain. All of them work for the government or in a bank; he ain’t go be the first one to start.

But when he reach the government building, he almost turn back. Was like crazy ants on sweet bread. About a thousand people, some in line and all of them carrying on, some cussing hands down and demanding to see the foreman, because they cousin This or they uncle That tell them they getting a work this morning. Basil face fall one time; he get downpress. But when he study how sour Dulcie face go be when he reach home and tell she he ain’t get nothing, he decide to try a thing. He decide to look for somebody in the line he know and see if he could kinda get a skip. He searching the faces and them but he ain’t see nobody to spark off a talk with, no nice woman to give sweet eye and fall in step with. A Muslim fella lean up on a wall give him a half nod while he scanning. Basil stop.

“But wait nah,” he say to heself. He shake he head, but he figure he go pursue it still.

“Darryl? Darryl from Government Sec? Boy, is long time. What vibes?”

“Salaam alaikum. Not Darryl no more boy. Is Malik now. I cool. What bout you? Seeing bout a little work and thing?”

Basil nod; taking him in and looking round him, he decide to jump in one time; small talk and catching up might cost him.

“Boy, I ain’t know how to operate in this place, nah. How you does go about it?”

“Go by the foreman and let them write down your name. Then they does call you out for different gang and thing.” Basil was immediately impressed by the amount of gold Malik wore in his mouth. One tooth even had a diamond stud.

“But it have people like ants here. I feel I mightn’t get through and I have a wife home there. If she only hear I ain’t get something is pressure. You ain’t have a contact?”

Basil watch him and try out a smile after he say that because he know he ain’t do it smooth enough. Malik shrug.

“Contact is a hard thing to make here. Men does take they time to decide who to make their friend. You know what I mean?”

Basil nod. Malik stand up straight. Basil stand up straight too. Then some fellas approach them and start talking to Malik so Basil walk off.

Eventually he find he way to a table and give he name to a big woman with a red headtie who calling everybody “darling”. She tell him stand up and wait. Basil see about three page of name in front of he own in the book. He heart sink.

He wait and wait; he name never call. But he noticing that plenty other fellas who was behind him in the line, some of them who was talking to Malik, get call and he start to wonder.

That evening, all he get from Dulcie was another long, wet steups.

“You ain’t try hard enough, Basil. Goodnight.”

The pressure was too much. He went on the block to look for Frankie and take a smoke. In a haze of ganja, the two of them start to plan Basil future.

“Boy, I telling you frankomen, the only way to get a work with URP now is to know somebody, get a Indian last name or turn Muslim. Even though you looking Creole, you have a little colour and your nose ain’t spread like mine. Let we say your last name was Singh or Ramdath or something, you coulda get away with saying you is a dougla. Then you might have a chance. You have so much family, none of them in URP?”

Basil suck on the joint Frankie hand him.

“Boy, you ever hear bout a Huggins in URP? Huggins does only be bank manager and store manager, boy.”

“Well, being as how all you so rich, it must have some Huggins in management who could find a job for you.” Basil ignore Frankie sarcasm.

“So since I ain’t Indian and I ain’t know nobody, no work?”

“Well, is either that or you have to turn Muslim, boy. That is the only way I see you getting through. The Muslim and them does run everything in URP.” Basil hand Frankie back the joint and cross he arms over he chest. For the next half hour, he hardly say a word. He thinking hard.

Dulcie was so damned vex over their money problems she wouldn’t take on Basil. She mind hot with making ends meet and making sure the neighbours and them ain’t find out she and Basil catching they ass to get by. But by the time she cool down she start to notice how he behaviour change up. She ain’t know what to make of Basil. Whole time he moving quiet, quiet. He come home one morning with a book and whole day he lie down in the bedroom with it. All the steups she steups and quarrel she quarrel, pointing out that even though he ain’t working it don’t mean that it ain’t have work round the house to do, Basil ain’t say boo. He just reading.

That night she look for the book but she ain’t find it. And when she come to bed well prepared to buff his ass for loafing whole day and then turn she back, he ain’t even touch she. In fact, is he who turn he back. One time Dulcie get confuse. But she smart. She ain’t let him know. She turn she back too and pull the sheet hard.

Next morning Basil get up, brush he teeth, drink a glass of water, tuck a parcel under he arm and leave the house. For three days, Dulcie ain’t see him. By the time she vexation over and she start to worry, Basil walk back home cool cool. But he look different. He ain’t shave the whole time he wasn’t home.

The first thing to come in Dulcie head is that he have a next woman because Basil movements ain’t making no sense. One minute he was all over she, the next minute he ain’t taking she on and he moving funny. Disappearing for days at a time. She start to wonder who trying to mash up she living and take way she man. She start to ask round. When she bounce upon Frankie in the market one day she ask him point blank what going on with Basil.

“Like he have a woman or what? Is horn I getting horn?”

“Don’t talk shit nah, woman,” Frankie tell she. “Too besides, is more than a week now me self ain’t see Basil. He riding partner these days is some fella name Malik.”

“Ah worried,” Dulcie confess. “When I do see him all he doing is lying down inside reading.”

A whole month again pass. Nine months no work. Basil stop shaving, stop talking to Dulcie. Sometimes when she go in the room for something he bend down in a corner talking to heself and she can’t make out nothing he saying.

“What happen? You working obeah or what?”

But Basil doing like he ain’t hear. He ain’t take she on. He get up, dust off and stretch out in the bed. The morning after that scene play off he went out. Dulcie start to brace she self for a next disappearance. Or worse than that. She telling sheself maybe she shouldn’ta ask him that question about obeah the night before. Maybe that little straw break the camel back.

“What I go do without Basil,” she wonder. “He ain’t working is true, but he ain’t so bad as all that.”

Dulcie study the man she was with before Basil. A fella name Cyril who used to beat she regular when he get frustrated or was out of work or both. She was with him for six years and in that time he make she throw away two children. Then she meet Basil and things change. The licks stop and Basil insist they go family planning. She wipe she eye.

Basil fed up, tell she she too quarrelsome. But she can’t help but worry about their future. She study all the things she family say bout him and how she defend him and now it look like Basil was going to prove them right and she wrong. Basil was a good man, she know that; but if he didn’t have a job, how other people would know that? If she didn’t cuss him and light a fire under he ass, she wasn’t sure he would try to find a job. Well, okay, yes he was trying. But she wanted him to try harder.

Dulcie wipe she face and let she mind drift a little.

“Maybe I was a little too quarrelsome,” she tell she self. “Maybe I have to try to be a little sweeter. Maybe sweetness go do the trick.”

That night, Dulcie lie down whole time listening to Basil breathe hard. She know he ain’t sleeping because everytime she whisper he name or shift in the bed he stop breathing. As soon as the sun rise, she tell sheself she going put question to him. She watch he face next to she own; she could barely make him out with that beard. She wanted him to shave. She wanted him to talk to her again. She wanted the old Basil back.

He leave she in bed early that morning. She lie down under the sheet studying how to start. He come back and ask she for a scissors. She try to start but by the time she open she mouth he done find the scissors and gone.

“When he come out from the bathroom,” she tell sheself. “I can’t let him go out today with things sour between us so.” When he come back in, Dulcie jump. All she could find to say was “Jeezanages!”

Basil leave the house with real pace that morning.

The crowd at the Government Works Office looked even larger that day. Christmas was two months away. If any of these fellas have woman like Dulcie, Basil thinking, they know they have to find some change to bring home. At least by the start of December.

His partner, Malik, was leaning up on the wall again.

“Asalaam alaikum, Malik,” Basil greeted him.

Malik straightened up, “Alaikum salaam, Bro.”

“The clothes fit you like is yours, brother.”

Basil almost blush.

“I going to put down my name,” he say, “I...”

“Relax, brother.” Malik put up a hand to stop him. “I organize you already. All you have to do is wait.”

When the foreman come out with the list, Basil try hard to hide he excitement. The whole crowd surge forward but he remain lean up on the wall next to Malik, cool as ice.

About fifty people get call and he ain’t hear he name. He straighten up. Man from all side walking off and going in they gang while he, Basil, lean up on the URP Building wall like a jackass in the taj and tunic he borrow from he friend.

“Relax,” Malik say, making a pumping downward motion with the palms of his hands. “I organize you.” Basil studying what Dulcie go say if he come home without a work again. He know she go give him fatigue after how he carry on for the whole of the last month. Especially after this morning. “Relax?” Malik could relax. He coocoo done cook. He, Basil, ain’t relaxing till he hear he name.

But the foreman reach the end of the list and Basil ain’t hear he name. He ready to cry. He grit he teeth.

“Grin and bear it,” he say, repeating a phrase he father used to use all the time when thing not going good. “Grin and bear it, Basil.”

“...Malik Mohammed, Faraz Mohammed,” the foreman reading. Was the charge-hand list he calling out now. Basil make ready to leave, a heaviness in he stomach. He wondering how he go face Dulcie.

“Khalid Ali, Yasin Abdul, George Peters, Mustapha Hussain...”

Basil jump. Yasin Abdul? He say Yasin Abdul? A charge hand? Allah-u-akbar! God really great in truth! He look at Malik. He partner smiling at him all over he face. Basil feel like he coulda kiss him.

He couldn’t wait to see the sourness leave Dulcie face when she get the news. He, Basil Huggins, alias Yasin Abdul, was now part of the management team. Allah-uakbar.

SEMPO’S WEDDING

Sempo led Teresa to the Nissan Bluebird, his heart beating fast fast. He was trying hard to appear laid back but his head was spinning. Today, he’d talk to Miss Angelina about her daughter. With luck, everything could be arranged when he was at her house.

As he slipped into the driver’s seat he asked her if she wanted something to drink, then cursed himself for making a false move; it wasn’t normal for taxi drivers to offer their passengers drinks. He saw his thoughts mirrored in Teresa’s eyes and the hint of a smile flashing across her face. He had to play his hand carefully with this one.

“No thanks,” she said almost inaudibly. “I good.”

She seemed relaxed and at ease, even a little bored.

He stole a glance at his own clothes, the light blue short-sleeved shirt neatly tucked into shiny black trousers, only slightly scuffed black patent leather shoes and navy-blue socks – suddenly too blue for his liking. He didn’t have to look like Cary Grant or Rock Hudson, but it wouldn’t have hurt to be wearing black socks. Silk, if possible, like the ones he’d seen advertised in the shop window at Bachu’s. Not that she would have noticed. She was staring straight ahead, as if seeing the road for the first time. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror and only just resisted the urge to run his hand through his tousled hair. She might think him vain, or, at least, nervous.

“You will have to direct me, eh,” he said, to keep a conversation going, “I ain’t really sure where you living.”

She nodded but said nothing.

“Is near the ice factory, right?”

Another nod. He’d have to kick-start the conversation or they’d be pulling up in front her house before they’d exchanged a dozen words. This wasn’t going too smooth at all. By now she should have been flirting with him...

His mind went back to the first time he’d seen her. He was leaning against the grey Bluebird when she appeared out of nowhere, crossed the main road and got into a taxi. She had jet-black curly hair and her skin was so fair it was pink, like she was Spanish or Portuguese. She looked like she might be a secretary or shop girl, something upscale. Right away he knew he wanted to find out who she was. On that first day he’d whistled softly, nudged his friend Harry and motioned in her direction with his chin. Harry had taken one brief look, sized her up as out of their league, and gone right back to hustling passengers with Spanish, Lochan, Randy and the others.

But Sempo had been intrigued. The image of the hem of her flowered dress swinging gaily as she bent down to get into the old Falcon had remained with him until he saw her again a few weeks later. She was standing under the awning of the Bank of Nova Scotia, waiting for a taxi, trying to avoid the blistering sun. Sempo pretended to be busy hustling passengers for a Curepe trip, but he hardly took his eyes off her. He was not sure she knew she was being watched, though once or twice he got the impression she was watching him out of the corner of her eye.

Was she waiting for somebody, he’d wondered. Maybe Miss Prim and Proper not as innocent as she look. Maybe is a man friend she waiting for...

“What the hell? Who driving this car?” Randy’s voice had broken into his thoughts. “Aye, Semps, you eh working today or what? Yuh full! Either peel out or let somebody take your five and go!”

For a moment, Sempo was tempted to tell Randy to take the frigging five and go. But, whoever it was might be late. It might take half an hour or something for she man to come.

“Alright! Alright! I out of here.”

With a long, bold look in the direction of the green dress, he hopped into his car, hit the key, threw it into first gear and pulled out into the traffic. Feeling the urge to hear some music, he reached down and put the radio on.

“...Can’t hurry love./Oh, you just have to wait./She said love don’t come easy/It’s a game of give and take./ How much more...”

He changed the station. Later for Diana Ross and the Supremes. Now was not the time for all this heartbreak, tabanca music. He wanted to hear something to take his mind off the girl. Not moon over her like a lovesick fool.

“...So ah want yuh to write all yuh family name/ On ah piece of paper fuh me...”

There was a buzz of approval in the taxi.

“We go take the kaiso, Drive,” the passenger seated behind him said.

Sempo put both hands on the wheel and let Zandolee entertain the taxi for the remaining minutes of the song.

But then all the way to Curepe, he could not get rid of the phrase that had leapt into his mind: “Zandolee”, it ran, “...find yuh hole! Find yuh hole, zandolee!” And on the way back from Curepe he was thinking about what he would do the next time he saw her. After all, he chuckled to himself, you could make track for ’gouti to run on, but lappe does make he own way. And he was not no ’gouti; he was a lappe!

On Wednesday afternoon he’d seen her for the third time. She was alone again, on this occasion dressed in red. She was carrying a blue house-and-land umbrella; she obviously didn’t enjoy the broiling afternoon sun.

Fortunately for Sempo, things were slow on the stand; there were plenty of cars with only a dribble of passengers. He ran back to the Bluebird and took it around the corner. Then, checking the red dress was still in front of Nova Scotia, he hustled over to the Chinese parlour to buy two soft drinks. He walked slowly towards her with the icy-cold Solo Apple J bottles dripping cold water all over his hands.

“Miss, I see you looking a little thirsty standing up here in the hot sun,” he said, “so, I bring this for you.” He produced the bottle with a flourish, aware that half the taxi stand must be watching how the scene playing out. If he had to take any talk later, he at least wanted them to acknowledge his flair.

She let her gaze wander slowly down from his head to his feet. Then, she raised a palm in a gesture of refusal and turned her back on him, so she was almost facing the reflective glass of the bank’s window.

He stood there like a statue, left hand stuck out towards her, one bottle of Apple J tightly clasped between his fingers, his right hand holding the other bottle limply at his side, an embarrassed smile frozen on his lips.

She fingered the strap of her black handbag, folded her arms over her bosom and seemed to study her reflection in the window.

From across the street, the hecklers set off like fireworks.

“Boy, Semp, red woman is trouble, boy, big trouble. And when they high red like that one... Worse!” Randy’s comment brought an explosion of laughter from the crowd of taxi-drivers.

“Watch yourself, boy! You playing with fire.”

Sempo ignored them. He was looking at her reflection and thought he saw laughter in her eyes and the beginnings of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Shifting the weight from his left leg to his right, he decided to use her amusement at his embarrassment to his advantage.

“I buy this for you. No strings...”

She cut him short.

“Look, Sir, I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t talk to strange men or accept gifts from them. So, thanks, but, no thanks.”

Sempo was suddenly very conscious of the heat of the sun beating down on him. He held his pose while behind him his comrades continued to cheer. Slowly, theatrically, he dropped his left hand back to his side. That “Sir” was a razor on his jugular, a tree across his highway, a red light at his intersection, a zwill on the thread of his mad bull. She was playing hard to get; he would have to give her time.

He’d been sure he would see her again, so he snapped the cap off his drink with his teeth and took a long swig. Then, he turned smartly on his heels and went back to his car, a carefree smile locked on his face.

By the time he had resumed hustling passengers at the Curepe queue, she had crossed the street and got into her regular Longdenville taxi.

The fatigue from his fellow drivers soon began.

“Ou ka pis plu ho pasé tjou’w,” Spanish, the driver of the Super Saloon, the flashiest car on the beat, told him.

“You biting off more than you could chew, boy,” Harry concurred, “Never piss higher than yourself, it go fall in your face. That girl go only get you in trouble. Forget about she.”

Sempo was not so easily put off.

“All you know she?” he asked.

“Yeah. She name Teresa. She father is one of the main goldsmith in Chaguanas,.” Harry said.

“Yes, Maharaj,” Spanish added. “She mother is a Portuguese. The mother father was a jeweller. He had an apprentice in he shop. A little Indian fella who take up the trade, and take up the man daughter too. The daughter had was to leave home. They set up their own establishment on a side street in Chaguanas, until they get popular enough to move to the Main Road.”

Sempo nodded. He liked stories of people fighting odds and triumphing. Hadn’t he escaped the backwaters of South Trinidad to become a successful taxi driver, plying his trade in all these mysterious places, like Marabella, Couva and Pt Lisas, he had only heard about as a boy?

“Boy,” Harry warned, “that family ain’t easy you know.” Sempo nodded but, this time, he was no longer listening. His mind was made up.

His interest grew into an obsession. He would ask everyone, even his passengers, about Teresa’s family, and soon he was able to piece together the rest of her story.

Apparently, at the behest of his Catholic wife-to-be, Teresa’s father, had abandoned his faith and the couple had eloped and got married at in a civil ceremony at the Red House. A year later, to ease Angelina’s conscience about not having made vows before God, a quiet church ceremony was conducted by an accommodating priest. Though that was the last time Mukesh set foot in a church, he celebrated Christmas and Easter with all the gusto of a born Christian.

The story intoxicated Sempo. Teresa’s father had made changes for love, and Teresa’s mother was a woman after his own heart; he understood her. He wanted to share his story of escape with her, to tell her how he too had faced oppression. The ninth of eleven children growing up in a wooden hut in the back of nowhere in South Trinidad, his only choices in life had been subsistence farming on the family’s plot of land, or trying his hand at some sort of trade. He wanted neither. Toiling at the hard earth in Lengua at the mercy of sun and rain was not for him, and there was no trade he seemed good at. Masonry and carpentry did not come easily to him, and he did not have the money to acquire the tools to be a welder or mechanic.

But he had one real skill: cards. Nobody he knew could read a deck, or an opponent’s face, better than he. Nobody had a better poker face, even in the face of disaster.