Dancing Lessons (10 page)

The bus let us off in the busiest part of the city, near the main market. The appalling stench, heat, noise, dirt, and confusion overwhelmed me. I hardly knew what I was doing as I stumbled towards the nearest taxi. I told the driver the address and he took off with a jerk. Only after we were stuck in traffic a few streets on did I come to my senses and begin to wonder if I had done the right thing and even if the battered old car I was in was in fact a taxi. For there was just an empty hole where the meter should have been and the driver looked suspiciously like a Rasta, his hair bundled up inside a knitted tam in red, green, and gold stripes. When I realized this, my heart fell down to my shoes, for at that time Rastas were scary people. This was in the early sixties. They were madmen, everyone said, who had their heads turned by smoking ganja and then went berserk and chopped up people with their cutlasses. We didn't have any down where we lived, not then, but I saw them sometimes in the town and walked in dread of ever being accosted. People were gleeful whenever the police caught one of these “Beardmen” and shaved off his locks and beard, for it was as if they were literally flying into the face of everything considered decent, with their frightening shouts of “Babylon!” and “Fire!” and “Natty Dread!” The market women, like Millie's mother, were always bringing new Rasta jokes from town, for at the time they were figures of fun as well as fear with their strange ways of speaking and behaving. Millie was always telling stories about them to me. There's only one Rasta joke I remember now: This fine lady was walking down a side street when she suddenly came face to face with a dreadlocks Rasta with long natty hair and beard. “Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed. In her fright dropping all her packages. At which the Dread put his fingers to his lips and admonished her: “Go in peace and tell no one that you have seen the I.”

That Rasta driver certainly drove as if he was filled with some spirit, with one hand either on the horn or flung straight out of the window in a salute to other taxi drivers or people on the sidewalks who called out to him, for he seemed to know everyone downtown. “Lion!” they shouted. “Zion!” he shouted back. His radio was thumping out what passed for music, my headache was pounding in time to the drumming, and he was singing along—“When I reach Mount Zion / I gonna—beating out a rhythm with his fingers on the steering wheel. He leaned his body into every curve, which he took at top speed, as I clutched the seat with both hands to keep from bouncing.

I wanted to ask him please to drive slowly, to turn down the radio, to stop singing, but I couldn't bring myself to do so. After a while I found myself paying more attention to the passing scene than to the driver. We had left all the noise and confusion and crowded streets behind and were climbing up into the hills. Here the streets had nice sidewalks, all the houses were substantial and set far apart and had gates and thick hedges and beautiful lawns and fresh air. I would have enjoyed feasting my eyes on this scene had I not started to worry whether the driver could be trusted, if he was taking me to the right place, if he had put me down as the countrywoman I was the moment he saw me and was planning to take me somewhere to murder me for the few coins in my purse. Which then brought me to another worry, were all the twists and turns he made necessary? Was he prolonging the journey to increase his charge? For it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't asked him what the charge would be. I had heard enough of people taken in by the cheating city slickers. I was almost sick with worry by the time he turned down a street of even grander houses than those we had passed and shifted down to a crawl as he started to look for the address.

“What was the number again, Dawta?” he asked.

I was so flustered I couldn't remember and had to fish in my purse for the letter that had the address on it. He didn't have to drive much farther before he rolled up in front of number 30. Before I got out, my heart sank as I looked up at the black wrought iron gates that were firmly closed, and the freshly painted white two-storey house set some distance behind an ocean of flower beds and lawn.

The driver turned around to look at me fully then and he must have sensed something in my expression. “This is the place the Dawta want?” he asked in what seemed a kindly voice and he actually smiled, showing several gold teeth. I was surprised to see he was middle-aged, older than I thought from his driving, for I hadn't looked at him properly when I got in.

I nodded. I paid him what he asked; it was almost half of what I had left. I was shocked at the amount, but still had no idea of whether he had cheated me or not. The street was empty as I got out of the taxi and watched it move off slowly, looking shabby and out of place. I went to the gate and gazed up at the house. I picked up a stone to knock on the metal mailbox attached to the gate to attract the attention of someone inside, for that is what we country folk did. But even though I raised my hand with the stone in it, I couldn't for the life of me bring it down. It was as if I was suddenly seeing myself in slow motion. My unkempt hair pulled back and knotted at the back with escaping strands like steel wool. My plain cotton dress with my breasts straining against the fabric for it had gotten too small for me. I could see the large sweat stains spreading from under my arms and feel the dampness and rank smell. My feet were stockingless in my one pair of good shoes that weren't that good anymore as I had bought nothing new for myself since I married. Surely these people inside would take me for a madwoman. Would they recognize me? I was only in my early twenties then, but I knew that my plain and careworn self was that of someone much older. How could Junie claim me? It struck me for the first time that day: what if she didn't want to? What if she refused to come with me? What if she simply said no and closed her face? During the miserable journey to get there, I had not once thought about that. In the world I occupied, as it was then, children had very little say about what they did or didn't want. Their job was to obey adults. But in my heart of hearts I knew that obedient and polite though she might have been, her own wishes would matter terribly to me. She had to want to come.

I felt so overwhelmed by everything my entire being began melting away, becoming insubstantial and faint. I knew I couldn't go through with it. I dropped the stone and held on to the gate, my head bowed, trying to gain control of myself. It took a while, but I finally pulled myself up from that abyss and turned back to the street, with no consciousness of where I was, with no plan in mind. It took me a while to focus. When I did so, I was surprised to see the taxi parked on the grass verge on the other side of the street. It was a dead end, and I suppose the driver had merely gone to turn around. I cringed with shame at the thought that he must have been watching me. How long I don't know. I had lost track of time. I walked towards him, still with a sense of remoteness, still outside of myself. As he reached behind and opened the back door I got in automatically.

“De I-an-I not dere then?” he asked as I got in and shut the door.

“No”, I said.

“Where the Dawta want to go to now?” He had turned around and was looking at me.

I stared at him, my mind still a blank.

“I-man a forward a bus station, seen?”

I nodded, glad to have the decision made for me. As the car moved off, I found myself sobbing, loud dry sobs. I stuffed my handkerchief into my mouth to stop, and eventually the sobs ceased. I sat, ashamed, for I could see the driver glancing at me in his rear-view mirror from time to time. I noticed that he had turned down the radio and this time he did not sing along. He seemed to drive at a more sober pace too, as if to accompany my mood.

It wasn't until we were back in the crowded section of town near the bus station that I came to my senses and realized that I would barely have enough to pay for this taxi ride, and once I did so, I certainly wouldn't have enough to pay for a bus ticket to take me back home.

I had no idea what I would do, and what is more I didn't care, I didn't care what happened to me. When we got to the station, the driver turned around and watched as I drew the notes from my purse and fumbled with the coins to make up the amount to what he had charged me before. I held out the money to him. He didn't take it. Instead, he gave me a searching look and I thought he was going to ask for more.

“De Dawta going far?” he asked. I told him.

“Clear to there?” He made it sound as if I came from the end of the world. I nodded.

He thought for a bit and shook his head. He said, “Is all right, Dawta. I-man was coming back down here anyway.” It took me a while to understand he wasn't charging me. I stared at him in disbelief. “Jah-jah seh, Not one of my Idren shall go hungry and beg for bread. The I can see you have a heavy burden to bear. Go in peace. Selassie-I.”

I was so confused I'm not sure I thanked him properly as I got out of the car and shut the door. For just then another passenger came up. The driver turned and smiled at me and nodded. I held up my hand in farewell and stood there long after he had driven off, buffeted by the flow of people, struck by the first act of kindness anyone had shown me in a very long time. Then I got hold of myself and pushed through the crowd to find my bus. Before I got on I bought a coconut from the vendor and drank the water, but though he cut the nut in two and offered me the jelly, it couldn't pass my throat. I was lucky to get a window seat again, and as the bus pulled out I put my head against the woodwork and, despite the rattling and the shaking, I closed my eyes and slept all the way home.

This is the part that really shames me, even now. Throughout that long, awful day I never gave a single thought to my other children. But even before I opened our gate I could hear the uproar from the house. I had no idea what time it was as I didn't have a watch, but I knew it was late. The house was in darkness. I called out as I walked through the door and was met by instant silence, and then shrieks of “Mama come” and the children exploding around me, all arms and legs. Ken came out carrying the baby, who was bawling her head off, but she too stopped as soon as I reached out to take her.

“Ken, what's happening?” I demanded. I knew my guilt and anxiety made me sharp with him.

“Nothing, Miss. Is so they been carrying on all day. From you leave.”

“They're not hungry?”

“No, Miss. Miss Millie come over and we feed them. They not hungry, Miss.”

“Mass Sam came?”

“Yes, Miss. But him gone again, Miss.”

He must have felt the hardness of my gaze, for he added, “Him just change him clothes and gone from morning, Miss.” He paused, and then finished lamely, “And him don't come back yet, Miss.”

“He didn't ask for me?”

“No, Miss. I tell him you soon come, Miss.”

I looked at Ken, suspicious that he was laughing at me, but somehow I didn't think he was. I was suddenly too tired to question him further.

I was flooded with guilt. I had never before left the children for so long and I hadn't prepared them for my absence. I silently cursed myself, wondering why I couldn't be thankful for what I had, instead of setting off on foolish quests. I inhaled the baby's sour smell and hugged her to me so tightly she started to scream.

I was suddenly overwhelmed by it all, by my hunger, my tiredness, my frustration, the smell of urine and damp, the eerie shadows cast over that dark little house by the one oil lamp that was lit. I felt as if I had seen a possibility of light but then had been dragged back down into a kind of darkness, and for once, and I swear it was only that one time, I was glad that someone had escaped it.

With the baby still in my arms I sank onto my bed. The two other little ones crept into the bed too and curled up tightly against me, their hot, sweaty little bodies stuck like glue. I eased my shoes off and stretched out with my back against the headboard, unable to stop my tears falling, thankful they were too young to understand.

I WAS MISTAKEN AS
usual, wasn't I? Many years later when Shirley was grown up and angry with me about something, she brought it up, the whole business of my going off. This was just before she left for New York, and her behaviour was getting as erratic as Junior's had been. Shirley had gone from placid to flying off the handle for no reason, saying anything that came into her head, no matter how hurtful. This from the child who had been the most loving and thoughtful of all of them.

“She's the only one you cared about,” she flung at me. “‘Celia this' and ‘Celia that.' That is all we ever heard. Nobody else mattered to you. Not even Pops.”

“But—”

“Mama, don't say a word! You know it's true. You could never accept the fact that you gave Celia away.”

“Wha—?”

“No, let me finish. Celia was like a little ghost haunting you, haunting me, all of us. She left a hole in my heart too, you know. My sisi! How could she have left me? But after a while I got used to it, pleased that it was just the three of us now, Junior and Lise and me. Celia was some big girl who came to visit and was fun when she was there, but I no longer ached to have her back when she left. And it would have been all right if you had left it alone. But no, you couldn't help holding her up as a shining star to us. Every day of our lives. It was ‘Celia this' and ‘Celia that'—”

Shirley was crying now. Tears were running down her face, but she made no attempt to wipe them. I was torn between stopping her outrageous accusations and comforting her.

“Celia could do no wrong while the rest of us could do nothing to please you. You have no idea how sick of Celia I was.”

“But you loved Celia. You idolized her!”

“Well, I did when we were little. Then I couldn't stand her. I hated her. I wanted her to die. Then you'd care about me.”

Shirley stopped talking and opened and closed her mouth abruptly, shocked at what she'd said. But it also stopped her crying. She took the handkerchief I handed her and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she sat on the bed, looking so sad while I just stood there, unable to move or say anything, my mind all stirred up. Then she sort of roused herself and got up and looked in the mirror and started to turn her head this way and that. At the time she wore her hair in a very short and curly Afro, and she had just had it cut. I knew she was trying to gain time. When she spoke again it was in a much quieter, thoughtful voice.