Bivouac Read online

  “’Lectric machines, love,” she said. “’Lectric.”

  Ferron parked Clarice’s car in the parking area of a paint store. He sat, staring at the entry of the building, and waited. A sharp siren wailed across the swelling traffic on Half Way Tree Road. Then women began spilling out of the small green door. Women of all sizes, ages, shapes, and shades. They moved slowly, chatting, arguing, counting their change for the bus. He was not sure why he was doing this. A part of him felt guilty—as if he was betraying her. But he wanted to see where she worked, wanted to see what she looked like in her own space, casual, unaware of him, as she had seemed in the waiting lounge of the clinic.

  Her head was tied with a red scarf which she whipped off as she stepped into the sunlight. She was laughing. Her eyes kept darting along the main road. From where he sat, he could see how her body had changed rapidly after the child. There was still the slight plumpness, but her neck was now long and elegant and her body moved with a fluid, athletic ease that he was not expecting. No one would know she had just had a child. And she seemed to want it that way. She had to keep working, she said, and her mother would have to take care of the child. “Ah love the child, but cyan mek her turn me old before my time, don’t?” she asked, smiling at Ferron. He nodded indulgently because he knew she would do anything for her child. At least he imagined this. He had only seen the child once. He had gotten to her place a little early and she was stepping out of the yard to take the child to her mother’s place. Otherwise she was careful to not have the child around him. When he asked her about this, she laughed and hissed her teeth dismissively, as if he was just being absurd. He left it alone.

  She kept looking up and down the road. She was expecting somebody. One of her workmates waved her hand, teasing. Mitzie shook the tail of her skirt, laughing. The others laughed. She patted her hair and pulled at her slip, lifting her purple skirt at the same time. She wore white sneakers. Her eyes kept darting. Ferron looked up and down the street. There was no car waiting in the dusty yard in front of the building.

  The other women waved to Mitzie and continued toward Half Way Tree proper, using their numbers to stall traffic as they crossed, laughing and trotting. Mitzie stood at the foot of the stairs and stared up and down the street.

  A tall black man stepped out of the green door. He carried a briefcase. He locked the door and slowly made his way down the stairs. In profile he had the girth of a happy preacher. His forehead shone in the haze. Ferron thought this was who Mitzie was waiting for. They talked. The man nodded, smiled, pointed up the street, and Mitzie shook her head. The man walked slowly away, toward the Anglican church.

  Ferron started the car. He was planning to drive by and say hello. There was no real reason for hesitation. They had no obligations to each other, and they seemed to agree that the less they knew of each other’s lives, the better. He concluded that he would feel a lot better if he simply drove by and offered her a lift.

  Then he saw a white Mazda swing dramatically across the flow of traffic and stop abruptly in the gravel and dust of the yard. Mitzie did not turn around. She was playing a game. The car idled in the yard. Nobody got out. She slowly swung her bag over her shoulder, assumed a businesslike expression, and walked casually to the car. The door was opened from the inside. She glanced around and stepped in. The car stirred more dust as it headed up Half Way Tree Road toward the J.B.C. Ferron followed.

  The Mazda danced through the traffic streaming toward Constant Spring. By the time they came to the green of the golf club, Ferron had concluded that the man was wealthy and lived well. He was afraid to know his age. He stopped following and pulled into the Catholic girls’ school, cloistered by a rich forest of tall shade trees. He drove slowly over the cattle grids and moved toward the golf club building. He parked under a pouis tree on a carpet of yellow petals. From there he could see the tee-off mound and the long stretch of green of the fairways. To his right was the club pool. He could watch the fair-skinned women, some of them people he knew, lying around in the sun, reading.

  This small revelation did not affect him as much as he thought it would. He thought he would be annoyed or deeply saddened. He felt neither emotion. Instead, he felt challenged, liberated, vaguely triumphant—and sexually titillated. He knew that Mitzie liked him, despite her obvious connections, and he enjoyed the luxury of knowing that he was close to a woman with a secret life of somewhat questionable morality. Her secret relieved him of the guilt over Delores. She had already told him about Dave, her baby father. Her honesty embarrassed him. She had assured him that she felt nothing for him. He was simply the baby’s father, a moment of abandon at a friend’s wedding reception in Westmoreland. They had made love in the van that had carried down about twenty people from the sewing factory. After that, their relationship lasted for two more weeks and then it was over. Her pregnancy did not surprise her, though she had not planned for it. She did not expect support from Dave and got none. He had come to see the baby, and for her, that was enough. He would come back and she was fine with that, but Dave was not her man. He had his own woman, and that was fine with her. Simple as that.

  Ferron, on the other hand, had lied. He had painted a picture of complete hopelessness when describing his relationship with Delores. The truth was more complex. He could still marry her, despite everything. He hadn’t mentioned the night after the funeral at her parents’ place. It would muddy the waters. Now, with this secret of hers, they were somewhat equal.

  For the first time in months, his imagination was alive. He tried to picture the man and Mitzie eating together, whispering on the telephone, making love. He imagined the man to be married, middle-aged, and able to lavish her with gifts. He decided against asking her direct questions about the man. Instead, he would spy, he would try to pick up clues, he would try to see how long she would keep the secret from him. Something to look for, to discover, to wait for.

  When it was dark, he drove out of the school. There was a message from Femi by the phone. Femi wanted to have lunch. It was urgent. There was another message from his supervisor asking when he was planning to come back to work. He would go back to the Institute in the morning. He went to his room and waited for Delores to call.

  Unpublished notes of George Ferron Morgan

  I was thinking last night of Jamaica College and I remembered the smells. From the day of writing the scholarship, the smell of that green grass which had just been mowed. Then the green paint of the dining room and the smell of red bully beef and the soft bread that they used for sandwiches. I remember also the smell of linen in the dormitory and the smell of carbolic soap in the bathrooms and the sense of cold water, which was partly smell and partly touch. I recall the smell of candle grease with a tinge of horror that one had not kept awake: that the grease was in your hair, you realized, as you woke up to laughter. The smell of games: linseed oil on cricket bats and the chalky smell of composition balls and then later the smell of leather balls. I remember, too, the smell of the leather of footballs. Particularly the smells of the dining hall: mince and rice, and pork and rice and peas on Sundays. The bread again at breakfast, and cornflakes—which we were brought up on. Beef balls slightly burned, and the sweet biscuits and lemonade at refreshment. But in season, all over the school, was the smell of Bombay mangoes; you could smell it for yards and it lingered. I have a distinct memory of the smell of piano keys in the assembly hall, piquantly because Roy Ashman gave me permission to play the piano when I was still in the junior school. I had not realized, before last night, that one could remember smells so acutely. And they are all smells from Jamaica College. What must have happened is that I started smoking immediately after leaving school and the sharpness quickly disappeared. Tastes abundant. I recall the most delicious meal of meatballs and young potatoes served in a restaurant at the waterfront in Genoa. Roast beef and potatoes in hall in Oriel College with McLaughlin intoning, “Give the potatoes a fair wind, please,” taking one back to “Fair stood the wind for France.�
� A fish pie on a cricket tour in Surrey. Lashes of strawberries and Norfolk cream in Norfolk by the sea—they were large strawberries (and cheap) and the cream was impossibly delicious. In Africa, garry and beans anywhere. Fried sprats, eaten heads and all. Of course, palm oil. And, in Jamaica, ackee and salt fish, boiled breadfruit and peas soup.

  fifteen

  “I have somebody on that already. Private investigator. Following the followers. A bit rough, but he is good,” Femi said, chewing rapidly. “You should try this, man.”

  “Vegetarian,” Ferron said, shaking his head. He was trying to concentrate. Femi was talking quickly.

  “Your father, eh, he was a revolutionary. You know that, right?”

  Ferron nodded, but thought, Yes, a dead revolutionary. Look where it got him.

  “You people don’t know,” Femi continued. “He was, oh. But not here. Not in this country. Never here. Here he became a bureaucrat, a man of simple pleasures. Toothless retirement, he called it. But the fire always follows the warrior. The war always finds him, no matter where he goes.” He wiped his mouth quickly with a napkin, looked around for a waiter, and then snapped his fingers.

  They had a cool isolated table in the corner of the courtyard. Devon House was expensive for Ferron, but diplomats could afford it. Diplomats and the driven New Kingston yuppies who came in for a meal and expensive ice cream every lunch hour. The courtyard was cobbled with the actual stones of the eighteenth century. Leaves and dried flowers were scattered all over the stones.

  “Your brother, Lucas, he is slightly . . .” Femi indicated madness with a circling index finger at his temple. “Too much church. It happens. You have a cousin like that, you know? In England. You knew that?”

  Ferron nodded. He wanted to leave. Nobody expected him back at the Institute, but he was working on something very exciting. He had found some more clippings on his grandfather and was slowly piecing a life together. With the dreams still tormenting his nights, he felt he had to do this, this retracing of his past, finding context and meaning. Femi called in the morning and said it was urgent—something about the old man. Ferron was still waiting to hear it. Femi liked to prepare with food and drink. Ferron sipped a fruit punch.

  “Try this, man. Here, just a plateful. Here. These are good peas. Good.” He poured a few forkfuls into a small saucer. The mixture of vegetables was yellow with spots of red tomatoes. It had come with a layer of melted cheese.

  Ferron tasted it reluctantly. It tasted of meat. It was well-seasoned. He liked it.

  “Ahhh, see? You don’t trust your uncle, eh? See?” Femi said, scooping more forkfuls onto the plate. He called for a waiter again.

  “No, no, this is enough,” Ferron said.

  “Well, more drinks then.”

  The waiter was already at the table. He took the order and left.

  They ate in silence. Ferron was enjoying the vegetable dish. Then Femi stopped chewing and stared at Ferron. His eyes twinkling. Mischief.

  “Are you fucking that girl?” He pointed a fork at Ferron.

  Ferron tried to laugh away the necessity of an answer. “What girl?” he asked. Femi’s eyes were locked on his.

  “The one, ahh, D something. The one with short legs? Are you fucking her? Is that what is happening?” He moved the fork around like a baton.

  “Sort of,” Ferron said. He looked into his plate. It was empty. He glanced across to another table, wondering if they could hear the conversation. Femi spoke loudly.

  “Good. Fucking is good for death. When my father died, I fucked a lot. I cried too, mark you; but I fucked a lot. I couldn’t stop fucking. Very strange thing.” He looked as if the puzzle of that time was returning to him. “Fucking and death—they are related, you know. I have a friend—because I would never do this—but I have a friend who tells me that he likes to go to funerals when a man has died and left a young woman or a woman has lost her father or a dear uncle. He says that it is where most of his relationships begin, and the women are so open—not just the bereaved, but everyone there. It has a way of opening up the libido.” He laughed uproariously, hitting the table with his open palm.

  Ferron could not help chuckling.

  “Good to see you smile, boy, eh? Eh? Eh? So go ahead. It’s alright to fuck when you are mourning. The old man would approve.” He laughed, leaning back, scratching his chin.

  “Thanks for the permission, uncle.” He wanted to tell Femi that they were trying to “fuck” without much success, but decided to leave that issue alone.

  “Don’t marry her, though.” Femi leaned forward. “Dangerous connections. I have heard.” He leaned back with a conspiratorial look. “You know, right? They killed your father.”

  It was Lucas again. Ferron felt the discomfort that had disappeared for the past few days. Now it was back. This theory, this dream of a conspiracy, a murder.

  “You don’t believe, eh? Lucas told me. No problem. I am working on it. Don’t worry.” Femi wiped his mouth with the calico table napkin. “Just watch your back with that one. But you know all of that nonsense, eh? Yah. Condoms?”

  Ferron did not understand.

  “Using condoms. AIDS, my brother! Thousands are dying in Africa from this thing, ah. You use them.”

  “Yes.”

  “And after that thing, you know . . .” There was something sadistic about the way Femi said this. So he did know about the rape. Ferron was not certain when the talk of fucking had started. But he evidently knew. “The lumpen can smell them from a mile off.”

  “What are you saying?” This came with a strong glare.

  “Forget it, Ferron. Forget it. I have been jaundiced by life. I am an old campaigner. But I was just talking about general thinkings. We are thinking about you. You should write. Writing is good; it is in the blood. Your grandfather wrote . . .”

  “You knew my grandfather?” Ferron was growing impatient.

  “The old man talked about him, a lot,” Femi said, pretending not to notice Ferron’s anger.

  Ferron saw the game. Femi relished such games. It was a simple rule and he never faltered on it: a man should be able to stand teasing. If he failed to, he should be teased and teased until he could stand it. Ferron calmed down.

  “A lot? Never told us much about him,” he said. It was the truth. Something that was part of this puzzle eating at him.

  “No?” Femi said, picking at his teeth.

  “No.”

  “Hell of a thing,” Femi said. Then he looked at his watch. “She is waiting. I hate women who wait. I prefer a woman who won’t wait—who does her own thing. Those who wait bring out the exploiter in me. I enjoy, but I don’t relish. They do what you want. We get along here, me and Theresa. Perfect arrangement. I come for a week, maybe like now, a month. We fuck like wild goats. Then I go. Just when I am getting tired of her. This is a long trip, but we make it interesting. You have been to Negril, eh?”

  “Once . . . maybe twice.”

  “I like Negril. Rural tourism. Rustic. We are going there. Maybe you should come, with that, ah . . . her name?” He opened his palm toward Ferron, questioning. Ferron noticed the yellow stain of tobacco on the edge of his fingers. Femi had strong hands. He shook hands firmly, almost roughly. He had developed the Ghanaian practice of snapping the fingers vigorously. He always took control of that part of the ritual, roughly forcing the finger of the person he was greeting between his thumb and index finger. Then, the quick, full snap. He once said he washed his hands in a goat’s blood to keep them tender. Ferron had pictured human blood when he heard this story, because the men, the old man included, laughed as they always did when they were sharing a private joke.

  “Delores,” Ferron answered.

  “Yes. Delores. Invite her. We could make an event of it. Kamau might come—alone. He is very faithful—to a fault . . . Unhealthy. If you ask me, that Italian wife of his is doing her own thing when he is away. They are very practical, Italian women. Very discreet. Yes, he should come. At least we can ha
ve some time to talk. Then we can plot. We have to do this thing properly, you know.” He was leaning forward again. “Are they still following you?”

  “Who?” Ferron’s uneasiness was souring the food in his stomach. Femi’s excitement, his boyish enthusiasm, annoyed him. But that was Femi—constantly searching for some diplomatic intrigue to revive the excitement of his youth. It was Femi who called Kingston late one night to announce that he was on the run. The old man had paid his airfare from London to Jamaica. He arrived at three in the morning, grinning from ear to ear. He declared to the family: “I am in exile.” The flight was genuine. Three of his colleagues were jailed a month later. Two of them were executed. Femi had escaped. He lived with them in Jamaica for nearly six months. Then he met Theresa and moved in with her. But he would arrive at the house after twelve each night to drink whiskey and talk about the struggle. The old man became animated during that year. He drank more, laughed more, stayed out more, shouted politics through the house more. Femi brought excitement—political intrigue. For a while Clarice was convinced that they were secretly planning a coup in Jamaica. It was during the seventies, and such talk was not unusual. But Femi left. He had somehow got back into the good books of the regime and was invited back to his old post at one of the northern universities. The old man became sober again and only drank club soda and bitters. Now, Femi was back, trying to make his stay exciting, leaping at the intrigue of the death. He is writing another play, Ferron thought. Another play.

  “Clarice said you thought you were being followed, from Mandeville. Did your cousin Cuthbert . . . Is he the one nobody is sure of?” Femi asked, changing the subject casually. It was part of his style when dealing with political intrigue. Casual. It gave the danger greater weight. “The brother’s son?”