As Flies to Whatless Boys Read online

  Here Mr. Stollmeyer raised up his hands. Quieting the fearful murmurings of his listeners.

  And yet, he continued, the tide was about to turn! As you shall all presently hear. For scarcely a fortnight ago, on the majestic north coast of this fair isle, our industrious agents met with the good fortune of examining still another estate. This property was sufficiently expansive for our purposes. Most significant of all, it was the first estate examined by our agents that fell within reach of their meagre pocketbooks!

  This property—which, unbeknownst to us, we sailed past ourselves this morning aboard our own Rosalind—was subsequently purchased. In haste our agents hired a handful of peons to assist in clearing the brushwood, so that our first food crops might soon be sewn. To drain a rather oppressive mangrove swamp, so as to render our property immediately more healthful. And upon the elevated portion of its picturesque and most idyllic bay, the sturdy foundations of our modest cottage have now been laid out—

  In other words, says Mr. Stollmeyer, our first tropical home!

  It was these very labours that our agents left off this morning when—in a flap, spying through their eyeglass—they observed our happy Rosalind scuttling past. The agents hailing Captain Maynard, who’d coincidently arrived the previous evening, bearing fresh supplies. And so it happened that our good agents—most anxious to see us and relate to us their cheerful news—set off on the Miss Bee directly in our wake behind us. Having arrived at this port within the hour of ourselves!

  At this point, as though Mr. Stollmeyer had finally given Captain Taylor his queue—which, of course, he had not—the captain stepped forward again. This time to the very edge of the Satellite’s crate. Crimson-faced and smiling—

  Belly-a-mud, he says.

  Now Mr. Stollmeyer spoke out bold from behind him. In no quiet tone of voice neither. He was, by this point, far beyond the limits of his patience—

  Inebriated fool, he says. Pie-eyed nincompoop! Will you kindly . . .

  Belly-a-mud, the captain repeats, then takes a breath. Chaguabarriga, he explains. It’s Español. And War-ra-hoon. What means Belly-a-mud.

  With this pronouncement Captain Taylor, still perched at the front edge of the crate, a dozen feet above our heads, removed his tattered seaman’s cap. Proceeding to wipe it cross his perspiring brow. Revealing to us—with something of a shock—his perfectly round baldhead. Shiny and topped over with a circular patch, like a bright white bowl. The cap preventing the sun from colouring this portion of his scalp the equivalent crimson of his face. A shiny white bowl that seemed, in truth, like the only clean part of our captain’s person.

  He replaced the cap, bowl disappearing again—

  Belly-a-mud, he says. Belly-a-mud! Belly-a-mud!

  The captain paused, stumbling forward a step, accompanied by a cry of alarm from the women gathered below. Causing several of the men standing near the front, including Papee, to shove forward. Past the women and children. Holding they hands suspended above they heads.

  And son, this was a good thing too. Because now Captain Taylor smiled his peculiar smile one last time. He removed his cap to wipe it cross his brow—white bowl appearing and disappearing—and he pitched forward. Down off the crate. Into the waiting arms of the men gathered below.

  By this time the cries of alarm had escalated to shrieks of panic. Women and children shoving back, the men laying out Captain Taylor cross the salty deck.

  At which point Mr. Etzler shoved forward heself, shouting out from atop the crate. Shaking a disdainful finger down at the sprawled-out captain—

  ’Ese drunk! he shouts. Blind drunk!

  Which had the curious effect of silencing us all in one—every manjack and woman-jill gathered on that deck—turning in confusion to gaze up upon our leader—

  Douse em down wiss a bucket huv water! he orders. It’s perfectly clear zat ziss blathering imbecile is PISS-ARSE-DRUNK!

  Another silence followed. During which Papee—kneeling now at the captain’s side, his ear pressed tight to the old man’s chest, two careful fingers probing at the artery along his neck—raised up his head. Calling out to Mr. Etzler—

  On the contrary, he says. Our Captain Taylor is dead.

  6th Message

  28/9/10

  dear mr robot:

  you is a effing shitong mr robot, is what you is!!! all night long 2 of we jooking-down de place like no 2morrow, & u playing so innocent, never mind dat jooking was sweet 2 bad & i can only admit how much i was liking it 2, my tuti still pulsating & twitching & smoking-up lil bit so nice dis morning when i reach here in the archives & miss samlalsingh come running 2 tell me furst ting what take place yesterday thursday afternoon during my 1/2 day off, how you did come inside here toting U OWN PERSONAL XEROX MACHINE, wherever-de-FRANCE u get it from, & u tells miss samlalsingh how i give u EXPRESS PERMISSION to bring dis machine inside de archives like dat, & u tells she how MISS RAMSOL SAY u could copy out as much of copies as u want to do u research 4 dis crazyass man ETZLER & dis book u say u writing, even though of course miss samlalsingh know straightway dat is only another 1 of u boldface lies & bullying & SCHEME IS SCHEME U SCHEMING SHE again to copy out u copies, & she tell u NO EFFIN WAY MR ROBOT!!! but u carry u bigass machine inside de place regardless & plug de plug & commence to copying out u copies

  but miss samlalsingh tell me how before de furs 5 copies come out from u machine, or maybe de furs 2 numbers of dat MORNING STAR, whilst she was bawling down de place hysterical like i instruct her to do in perilous situations like dat to SHUT DOWN DIS BLASTED MACHINE STRAIGHTWAY MR ROBOT!!! & miss samlalsingh tell me how furs ting before u know it ALL de visitors in de archives commence 2 queuing up straightway in a long long queue wid all of dem people only fighting down each other now 2 copy out DEY copies pon u machine, & dey was all shouting dat if some blasted-foreigner-yankeeass-whiteman could copy he copies den DEY COULD COPY DEY OWN COPIES 2, & before de furs 5 copies of dat STAR come out u didnt have no choice a-tall but let miss roses to copy out she copy of recipe 4 guava duff out last saturday gazette, & mr hosien want 2 copy out he copy of sunday-horseraces-paddocks-lineup from de standard, & michael antony want to copy out a next article from some bigass oldbook he got, & earl & marlon & caz & lawrence & all de rest of de wotless crew, & u had 2 let dem copy out dey copies 2 mr robot, cause if not u would have pon u hands a RACE RIOT 4 EQUAL & FAIR USE OF DE PHOTOCOPY MACHINE IN DE T&T NATIONAL ARCHIVES

  so in trut mr robot i aint know how much of copies you manage to copy out yesterday afternoon, dat i can only suppose not much more den de furs few numbers of dat MORNIN STAR, cause u had to let all de rest of dem people 2 copy dey copies 2, & den miss samlalsingh say u had to put in more ink, was so many copies dem people was copying, and den dat xerox start to smoke-up from overheat-exhaustion just like my tuti did wear-out and break-down last night from all de jooking, so before u know it was 5 oclock time 4 de archives to close & u didnt scarce get through 5 numbers of dat STAR, & after longlast wid all she shouting and bawling miss samlalsingh could pull de plug pon u machine & shut it down, but i say it serve u yankee-francin-whiteass right

  so mr robot u best listen good good 2 me & hear what i tellin u, eh? & dont try dat one again, u unnastan? eh? cause laws is laws & rules is rules and NO PERSONAL PORTABLE PHOTOCOPY EQUIPMENT allow inside, & u know it good enough, even though in trut according to miss samlalsingh dat machine u was toting wasnt so small a-tall a-tall, but she say it was BIG as a BARREL of BABASH BUSH-RUM, wid u redface straining hard like u making a caca now 2 carry dis machine, dat me & miss samlalsingh couldnt HELP weself from laughing lil bit at dat 1, & i hope it give u a HERNEA mr robot, just so long as it don’t ruin de jooking equipment, cause DAT would be a shame in trut

  cordial,

  miss ramsol

  director, t&tna

  8

  Disembarkation

  As Kings Wharf remained congested with packets off-loading the first class—and the morning slipping away fast—Papee made arrangem
ents with a fisherman, hailed over to the side of the Rosalind, to row us ashore in his small pirogue. Now we climbed down a rope ladder, one after the next, stepping cautious into the rocking rowboat. A sailor tossing down we hastily prepared bundles of belongings. Wrapped up in blankets and tied tight with twine. They contained the things we’d brought along for the voyage. All our other possessions packed into the trunk in the hold, to be forwarded to our place of residence after a day or two. Exactly what this place might turn out to be, none of us knew. Not even Papee. Because prior to the previous night, when Mr. Carr and the deceased Captain Taylor had informed us of the state of our ‘cottage’ at Chaguabarriga—a dozen bamboo poles stuck in the mud—all of us, including Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer, had expected to arrive in Trinidad to find some kind of accommodations. For this reason the agents had preceded us to Trinidad with the Society’s funds in they pockets. So despite all of those interminable days and nights aboard ship—only dreaming about this very moment when we would, finally, set foot in Trinidad—none of us, not even Papee, had thought scarcely a moment beyond it.

  I can assure you it wasn’t the enchanting moment we’d envisioned neither. The fisherman rowing us ashore perched atop a mound of mullet he’d spent the morning seining. Some still alive, occasionally flapping up they tails in little explosive fits—like a cornered batimamselle beating her wings against a screen. Finally, with a crunch, he beached his pirogue on the gravelly shore. Now, one-by-one, we jumped down from the pointed bow, bundles clutching under our arms. Bracing weself against each other as we traipsed awkward up the steep embankment. All our knees and ankles wobbly for the first few steps. Like we’d forgotten how to walk. Son, I could only recall the comte’s sheep—we were them now—stumbling up the seafront.

  Yet hardly could we reach the boardwalk at the top when a handful of bareback young boys approached. Surrounding us, smiling, grabbing our bundles from out our arms—

  Me to tote dis load for you, suh! one says.

  Please feh carry dis parcel, mis’ress! says another.

  And before we could utter a word in response—even if we had understood the boys’ singsong—each of them had hoisted a bundle up atop he head. Holding it balanced with a single spindly arm, or no arm a-tall.

  They led us onto the wide-open expanse of the Plaza de la Marina. Lined on both sides with dusty almond trees. Son, they’re not there again, those trees. But in the old days we used to call it Almond Walk, so prevalent were they round the periphery. At one end, facing the bay, we saw the hard stone structure of Customs House, with the harbourmaster’s office inside.

  The boys leading us over to the nearest patch of shade. They took down they loads to rest a minute, passing round a corked bottle of water. Papee searching his pockets for something. We didn’t know what it could be. Eventually he produced a folded slip of paper, opening it out careful, showing it to the eldest of the boys.

  This same boy squinching up his brow, staring down at the piece of paper—

  Vin-cent! he calls out. And the smallest and skinniest of the boys jumped up and hurried over.

  Vincent squinched his brow in a similar manner, head cocked to the side, staring at the note holding in Papee’s hand. Then he took the piece of paper heself—raising it up to the sun like he’s verifying a bank-bill—slowly mouthing out the words.

  Yessuh! he says at last. Only a lil temporary cumbruxion. Everyting undah control, suh!

  He paused, smiling up at Papee—

  Me knows de house good-good, suh. Numbah nineteen Duke Street—Mastah Johnston res’dence. Scarce fifteen minutes footin from here!

  Son, only then did I recall the prime minister back in England—suddenly it seemed so far away—sitting behind his big disheveled desk. Writing out that address with his delicate fingers.

  Now the boys hoisted they bundles up atop they heads again. And Vincent led us off like the Pied Piper, Papee’s note holding out before him like if it’s a map.

  He directed us round the perimeter of the plaza, in and out the patches of shade cast by the almond trees. Turning up onto Abercrombie Street, off to the side of the Customs House. Now we entered the metropolis of the town itself: a careful checkerboard of treelined boulevards, each laid out parallel or, like Abercrombie, perpendicular to the sea. With a fresh breeze off the bay filtering along it. The street itself paved over in a thin layer of pitch, softened by the sun at this hour. So with each step we felt its surface sinking a little beneath our boots, waves of heat rising up. Yet our porters walked over the hot pitch barefoot, without even a flinch.

  They turned right after a block onto Queens Street, tall tower of Trinity Cathedral rising up before us. But not before we crossed Chacon could we view the building from in front like it was meant to be seen. Only then could we take it in, in a single breath—the gothic-styled tower and intricate front façade, modeled after Westminster Hall itself. Son, I don’t have to tell you how there isn’t another church in the West Indies—nor few others elsewhere in the world neither—could give you that kinda impression. That feeling inside you stomach of soaring splendour.

  Eventually we turned and continued down Fredrick Street, entering Brunswick Square, sidewalks radiating out the middle like a giant ship’s wheel. Sir Woodford’s statue standing there at the centre like if he’s Ulysses heself.

  Following Vincent’s lead we veered left, proceeding down the main walkway to the middle of the square. Passing beneath Sir Woodford’s upraised sword. Now we veered right at a forty-five-degree angle, turning east onto the walkway bisecting the square, leading us onto Upper Prince Street. Which we followed for another three short blocks, crossing Henry and then Charlotte Street.

  We passed the first private homes—sparse, inward-looking, constructed in the Spanish style. They thick stone walls enclosing musty courtyards. Further along we saw the more modern, timber-built, French-style homes. Erected on groundsills, with deeply shaded galleries at the top of elaborate filigreed stairs.

  Only a few pedestrians out walking the streets in the midday heat, the town still adhering to the old Spanish custom of an afternoon siesta. Even the potcakes lay sprawled in patches of cool shade, paying us little mind as we walked past. Even as Amelia stooped beside each one to give it a patting.

  A block beyond Charlotte Street Upper Prince Street intersected George Street. From there we could peer slightly downhill to the public market, beneath a handful of carrotroofs. But at this midday hour the market appeared all but abandoned. Now we turned left onto George Street, for the slight uphill march of a single long block. Walking perpendicular to the shore again, cool breeze blowing against our backs. Finally coming to the intersection of George and Duke streets where—turning right again behind our porters—we saw the first ostentatious, noticeably wealthy homes. Set a good distance back from the road. Surrounded by lush foliage. And only a few hundred yards beyond the crossing, scarcely fifteen minutes from the time we’d left the harbour—though to us it felt like we’d been wandering through the town all afternoon—we arrived at our destination: #19 Duke Street, the Johnstons’ residence.

  Entr’acte

  7 September 1881

  Cumbruxions

  My father paused here a moment. He reached into his pocket for his old-fashioned watch, attached to his vestcoat buttonhole by its long goldchain. That same watch that had once belonged to Mr. Whitechurch—and had somehow been passed down to my father—but he hadn’t reached that part of his story yet.

  He clicked it open. Then he stretched the watch forward, into the glow of the pitch-oil lamp, studying its face—

  Twelve o’clock already.

  My father clicked the watch shut and slipped it back into his pocket, taking up his cigar box—

  Son, I have a map somewhere inside here, showing you just how the old town was looking in those days. Because I don’t have to tell you it’s changed up plenty since then!

  He paused, looking over at me—

  Once, when I was giving somebod
y this story—I can’t even remember who-the-arse it was—I marked out the exact path we walked through old-time Port of Spain that afternoon. With a red pencil. The Tucker clan following young Vincent like a string-of-squids. Walking from the old Plaza de la Marina, up the hill to Mr. Johnston’s house on Duke Street.

  My father turned to his box again. Ruffling through the papers.

  I sat trying to imagine what the city must have looked like. Back then, when my father first saw it, at fifteen years of age. That first night when he arrived from England.

  The incoming tide held the Condor steady, her stern still facing the shore. It hadn’t turned yet. Neither the tide nor the ship. I looked up at the moon, standing there above the dark mountains, cut with a knife down the middle into a perfect half. So somehow you saw the moon’s other side, even though that half was caught in the earth’s shadow and blanked out completely. You saw it—like a kind of reflection—even though it wasn’t there. Plenty stars in the sky.

  All-in-a-sudden Captain Vincent appeared, shaking us from out our solitude. Striding forth from the dark shadows by the side of the wheelhouse. My father and I turning together, startled.

  The captain cleared his throat—

  Ah-ham!

  He approached us with a half-full bottle of rum tucked under an arm, stack of three tumbler glasses holding in his other hand. Still in full uniform, even at this late hour.

  Look the devil-self! my father said, putting down his box. I was just telling R-W here about you!

  The captain came to a halt before us. My father turning now to give me a sly wink—like if he’d orchestrated this appearance of Captain Vincent, at this particular moment, to coincide with the telling of his tale too—