Bodily Harm (31 page)

“Just as well, it’s bad for you,” says Rennie, who believes in roughage, more or less.

“That depends on what else you have to eat,” says Paul.

There’s music, coming along the beach, wooden flutes and a drum. It’s a parade of some sort, a mob of people walking along on the sand. Even though it’s morning they have torches, cloth wrapped on sticks and soaked in kerosene, Rennie can smell it. Behind the adults in the crowd, around the edges, children are jumping and dancing in time to the music. Two kids are carrying a banner made from an old sheet:
PRINCE OF PEACE: HE WORKS FOR YOU NOT YOU FOR HIM
. Out front is Elva, chin up, strolling rather than marching. She has a white enamel potty in one hand and an unfurling roll of toilet paper in the other. She holds these objects high, as if they’re trophies.

Rennie and Paul stand to the side as the parade goes past. At the very end comes Marsdon, still in his boots; the heels sink into the sand, it’s hard for him to walk. He sees the two of them but does not acknowledge them.

“What does it mean?” says Rennie. “The toilet paper.”

“It’s aimed at the government,” says Paul. “It’s what they’ll need after the election.”

“I don’t understand,” says Rennie.

“They’ll be so scared they’ll shit their pants,” says Paul. “Roughly translated.” He’s indulging her again.

They walk up the beach to the main road of the town. The parade has turned around now and is coming back; people have stopped to watch it. There’s a car parked also, with two men in mirror sunglasses in the front and a third in the back. He’s wearing a black suit, like an undertaker.

“The Minister of Justice,” says Paul.

Paul says a lot of the stores are closed because of the election. Knots of men are gathered here and there; sun glints on the bottles as they pass from hand to hand. Some of the men nod to Paul. Not to Rennie: their attention slides over her, around her, they see her but only from the corners of their eyes.

They go up the hill and along a back street. There’s a persistent hum; as they walk north it becomes a throb, a steady heartbeat. Metal, a motor of some kind.

“The power plant,” says Paul. “It runs on oil. That’s the poor end of town.”

They go into a store called The Sterling Emporium. Paul asks for some long-life milk, and the woman gets it for him. She’s about forty-five, with huge muscled arms and a small neat head, the hair screwed into lime-green plastic curlers. She brings out a brown paper bag from under the counter. “I save it for you,” she says.

“Eggs,” Paul says. He pays. Rennie can’t believe how much they cost.

“If they’re that hard to get,” she says, “why doesn’t someone start a chicken farm?”

“You’d have to ship in the feed,” says Paul. “They don’t grow it here. The feed weighs more than the eggs. Besides, the eggs come in from the States.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” says Rennie. Paul only smiles.

“They catch the thief,” the woman says to Paul as they’re heading for the door. “The police take him on the boat today.”

“He’s lucky then,” Paul says to her.

“Lucky?” says Rennie, when they’re outside.

“He’s still alive,” says Paul. “They caught another man, last month, stealing pigs up at one of the villages; they pounded him to death, no questions asked.”

“The police?” says Rennie. “That’s terrible.”

“No,” says Paul. “The people he was stealing the pigs from. It’s a good thing for this one he only stole from tourists. If it was locals they’d have kicked his head in or taken him out and dumped him into the sea. As far as they’re concerned, stealing’s worse than murder.”

“I can’t believe that,” says Rennie.

“Look at it this way,” says Paul. “If you get angry and chop up your woman, that’s understandable; a crime of passion, you might say. But stealing you plan beforehand. That’s how they see it.”

“Is there a lot of that?” says Rennie.

“Stealing?” says Paul. “Only since the tourists came in.”

“Chopping up your woman,” says Rennie.

“Less than you might think,” says Paul. “Mostly they beat or slice rather than chop.” Rennie thinks of cookbooks. “There’s no shooting at all. Not like in, say, Detroit.”

“Why is that?” says Rennie, hot on the sociological trail.

Paul looks at her, not for the first time, as if she’s a charming version of the village idiot. “They don’t have any guns,” he says.

Rennie is sitting on a white chair in the beach bar of the Lime Tree, where Paul has left her. Parked her. Stashed her. He has a boat coming in in a few days, he said, there are some things he has to take care of. Rennie feels peripheral.

Is there anything you need? he asked before he went off.

I thought most of the stores were closed, she said.

They are, he said.

Something to read, she said, with a touch of malice. If he’s so good at it let him try that.

He didn’t miss a beat. Anything in particular?

Anything you think I’d like, said Rennie.

Which will at least make him think about her. She sits at the wooden table, eating a grilled cheese sandwich. What could be nicer? What’s wrong anyway? Why does she want to go, if not home, at least away? Paul doesn’t love her, that’s why, which ought to be irrelevant.

Don’t expect too much, he said last night.

Too much of what? said Rennie.

Too much of me, said Paul. He was smiling, calm as ever, but she no longer found this reassuring. Instead she found it a symptom. Nothing could move him. He kissed her on the forehead, as if she were a child, as if he were kissing her goodnight.

Next you’re going to tell me there isn’t very much, said Rennie. Right?

Maybe there isn’t, said Paul.

Rennie didn’t know she was expecting anything until she was told not to. Now they seem vast, sentimental, grandiose, technicolour, magical, ridiculous, her expectations.

What am I doing here? thinks Rennie. I should take my body and run. I don’t need another man I’m not supposed to expect anything from.

She’s a tourist, she can keep her options open. She can always go somewhere else.

“I am disturbing you?” It’s a statement, with the force of a question. Rennie looks up: it’s Dr. Minnow, in a white shirt open at the throat, balancing a cup of coffee. He sits down without waiting for an answer.

“You are enjoying yourself at the home of your American friend?” he says slyly.

Rennie, who believes in personal privacy, is annoyed. “How did you know I’m staying there?” she says. She feels as if she’s been caught by a high-school teacher, necking under the boys’ gym stairs. A thing she never did.

Dr. Minnow smiles, showing his skewed teeth. “Everyone knows,” he says. “I am sorry to interrupt you, but there are some things I must tell you now. For the article you are writing.”

“Oh yes,” Rennie says. “Of course.” Surely he doesn’t still believe she’s going to do this, now or in the future; but apparently he does, he’s looking at her with candour and assurance. Faith. “I don’t have my notebook with me,” she says, feeling more and more fraudulent.

“You can remember,” says Dr. Minnow. “Please, continue with your lunch.” He’s not even looking at her, he’s glancing around them, noting who’s there. “We are seeing how the election is going, my friend,” he says.

“Already?” says Rennie.

“I do not mean the results,” says Dr. Minnow. “I mean the practices of this government. Ellis is winning, my friend. But not honestly, you understand? This is what I wish you to make clear: that Ellis will not have the support of the people.” It’s the same measured tone of voice he’s always used, but Rennie can see now that he’s far
from calm. He’s enraged. He sits with his thin hands placed one on the other, on top of the wooden table, but the hands are tense, it’s as if he has to hold onto them to keep them from moving, lifting, striking out.

“The only votes Ellis is getting are the ones he buys. First they bribe the people with the foreign aid money from the hurricane,” he says. “This I can prove to you, I have witnesses. If they are not afraid to come forward. He give out the roofing materials too, the sewage pipes, the things donated. On St. Antoine this bribery is effective, but here on Ste. Agathe it does not work. Here the people take the money from Ellis but vote for me anyway; they think this is a good joke. Ellis knows this trick will not work here on Ste. Agathe, he knows the people are for me. So he has been playing with the voters’ list. When my people go to vote today, they find they are not recorded. Even some of my candidates have been removed, they cannot cast a vote in their own favour. ‘Sorry,’ they tell them. ’You cannot vote.’ You know who he put on? Dead people, my friend. Half the people on the voters’ list are dead. This government is being elected by corpses.”

“But how could he do that?” says Rennie. “Didn’t your party see the lists before the election?”

Dr. Minnow smiles his crooked smile. “This is not Canada, my friend,” he says. “It is not Britain. Those rules no longer apply here. Nevertheless I will do what the sweet Canadians would do. I will challenge the results of the election in the courts and demand another vote, and I will call for an independent inquiry.” He laughs a little. “It will have the same results here as it has there, my friend. None at all. Only there it takes longer.”

“Why do you bother?” Rennie says.

“Bother?” says Dr. Minnow.

“If it’s as rotten as you say,” says Rennie, “why do you bother trying to do anything at all?”

Dr. Minnow pauses. She’s shaken him a little. “I agree with you that it seems illogical and futile for me to do so,” he says. “But this is why you do it. You do it because everyone tell you it is not possible. They cannot imagine things being different. It is my duty to imagine, and they know that for even one person to imagine is very dangerous to them, my friend. You understand?” He’s about to say something else, but there are screams, from over near the kitchen door, the yacht people at the tables are looking, getting up, already there’s a cluster of them.

Rennie stands up, trying to see what it is. It’s Lora. She has one arm around Elva, whose eyes are closed, who’s silently crying. There are red splotches on her
PRINCE OF PEACE
T-shirt. Her face is streaked, mapped, caked, dark red.