Genie and Paul (18 page)

It had been apparent to everyone Genie had met back in Mauritius that she was a foreigner, even before she’d opened her mouth. She’d wondered if it was her clothes, her haircut or the particular quality of her brownness, which glowed in a fresh way (she liked to think, looking closely at her new colour whenever she stepped, dripping, out of the shower), built up from a greyish London base coat with successive layers of tan. When, in Mauritius, people had identified her as foreign, they had commented. And, when they commented and she replied, they heard the accent and seized on it, happy to talk to someone from London, happy to have been proved right.

But not this man. This Rodriguan. This man with the high, narrow shoulders that brought to mind Paul’s had no interest in her at all. And why should he? To him she was just another Western tourist.

She was sitting at the hotel bar drinking coffee, making a plan. She’d hoped to engage the barman in conversation – wore an expression which conveyed this, she thought – but after serving her he’d turned back to his task of chopping up fruit for the evening cocktails. His manner changed when he was joined by a colleague – a pretty girl with eyelashes so thick they looked frilly. The two flirted as they manoeuvred their way around each other in the cramped space behind the bar, so cramped that the waitress knocked over a glass of orangeade and swore, apologising briefly in French to Genie.

That’s OK, Genie replied in Creole. The waitress looked up at her suspiciously, gave a brief, tight smile, took up her tray and sashayed out towards the pool, asking the barman, over her shoulder, to clear up for her. His name was Regis, Genie noted.

Was it very bad here after the cyclone? Genie asked, again in Creole.

Yes. They’re still clearing up now. There are still food shortages. But not here.

Was he trying to reassure her, or was he being sardonic? She hoped not. She felt that his sarcasm – if sarcasm it was – was being used against her, was meant to further the distance between them. More so for being in Creole, which Genie had chosen to converse in for the opposite reason. She guessed that must be his intention: after all, he had not commented on the fact that she had spoken to him in his own language, when she was clearly – with that accent – a foreigner. This man couldn’t care less. His indifference, coupled with the shy dimples that had emerged only in the presence of the waitress and disappeared when she left, annoyed Genie intensely. Suddenly she snapped, I’m not here on holiday you know.

Oh?

I’m looking for my brother. She took out the photo of Paul. Have you seen this guy around?

No.

He’s definitely here.

Plenty of places to hide in Rodrigues, he said. If you don’t want to be found.

I suppose.

Genie wanted to say, Your island is not as big as you think it is. It’s tiny. I’ll find him.

But you know, he said, looking straight at her for the first time, everyone on this island has to go to Port Mathurin at
some point. And if not your brother, then someone who has seen him, at least.

The bus to Port Mathurin was old and blew out emissions so thick that Genie thought instantly of some hooved animal, stamping up clouds of dust. After she had paid the conductor, a middle-aged woman with rust-coloured hair and
rust-coloured
eyebrows drawn in with pencil, Genie showed her the photo. She told the conductor about her search for Paul but the conductor said nothing. She had that lost look that tourists always wore when listening to directions you and they both knew they would forget as soon as you walked away. After that, the woman’s gaze turned to rest on Genie, that same look, whenever she was not otherwise occupied with the other passengers – schoolchildren in dazzling white uniforms, scrawny old men in short sleeves and straw hats. You never know, Genie said to herself. The people you see around you. They could all be lost to someone.

Not much of a capital, Genie thought, walking the
dirt-packed
road that led to the centre, though like any tourist she was delighted by the little painted shacks and the women in woven hats selling lemon pickle and bottles of tiny red chillies. She remembered what Gaetan had said about the island: that it was like Mauritius from an earlier time, nothing more than a village, really.

Gaetan had taken her lack of interest in Mauritius personally, she saw now. But once he had given her all the useful information he had to offer – that Paul was now in Rodrigues, having gone over by ship over a week before – Genie had seen no reason to stay on. Grandmère had no idea who she was. And why wallow in sentiment when she felt nothing about the place? That, to her, would have been dishonest. And anyway, it was not the past that interested
her, it was the present, and Paul’s absence from it. That was what she was here for.

Compared to Rodrigues, Mauritius was like London. She had not recognised any of it from her childhood. She had thought then that countries were not home – families were. How could she feel at home in herself with Paul missing?

But, over the course of the afternoon she spent wandering around Port Mathurin, something here struck Genie deeply. It was the slowness of the place, the unguarded manner of the people, the underdeveloped look of it. Rodrigues seemed more foreign to Genie, more far away from London, but it seemed more familiar too: more like how she’d imagined the Mauritius of her childhood to have been. The actual Mauritius she had just left seemed almost as brusque, as wary, as littered and light-polluted and full of noise and agitation as London in comparison. No wonder she hadn’t recognised it as part of her
past
.

The centre of Port Mathurin was a few narrow streets laid out in a grid and lined mostly with those painted zinc shacks, low cement buildings and larger, more ornate colonial buildings which were governmental residences or offices. These last were set back from the road behind high walls. Over one wall hung the branches of a frangipani tree. Genie caught a whiff of its scent, so strong it was almost obscene. She disliked the flowers, which were too ripe, too fleshy: they would not fade and die quietly like English flowers, but looked as though they’d go straight from full bloom to rot.

Why are you trying to find him? Gaetan had asked, as he was driving her back to the home in Vacoas.

Because he’s lost.

If Ti Jean was still alive, he might return at some point. He would want his shack back. Paul was squatting the place, after all. But, listening to that wind last night and the waves which seemed to be creeping ever closer, Paul guessed that it might be the island itself which evicted him. This was what he thought, standing on the edge of his rock. This was what he did now, every morning when he awoke. Pulling aside the sheet of zinc which had sung all night in the wind, he would look up at the sky. He would walk out as far as he could on the land until it turned into rock and stand looking out to sea. This morning, something about the light brought back his dream, the one he’d had almost every night since
that
night. And now he remembered it: him and Genie in Mauritius, taking a trip down to Gris Gris on Jean-Marie’s motorbike. When they’d run out of road, they had left the bike and continued on foot over huge silvery rocks that looked like wads of chewed-up chewing gum (she’d said). Feeling his way back into the memory of the dream and its almost pleasurable sadness, he remembered that nothing much happened. Nobody died. It was just unbearably, beautifully sad. They were climbing over these rocks, him and Genie, down to an amazing stretch of sea, when Genie had stopped to inspect some plants at her feet. She’d asked him what they were. Dunno, he’d said, pinching off a leaf to sniff. Pine! he’d said. They’re little pines. Must be the coastal wind. Stunts ’em. Weird, he’d said, I’ve never seen tiny little pines like these before – and then he’d noticed her giving
him this strange look – this very sad look – and he’d said,
The blue honey of the Mediterranean
. That’s what Fitzgerald said.

Honey.
Just like honey
. Eloise, stroking his skin, would sing that to him sometimes. On his way to the snack shack, the song played in his head. He had been to the shack several times now. He liked to listen to the boy’s radio, liked the way the boy was always dancing around, even while seated, and he liked hearing him talk about books. The boy was crazy for them.

Today, when he saw Paul approaching, he smiled.

I’ve got a surprise for you!

Don’t tell me Ti Jean’s turned up?

This was a running joke of theirs. Jeannot laughed and brought out a flask from under the counter. Soup!

Soup? For me?

Lentil soup. You eat the same thing every day. I thought you might like a change. It’s what we had for dinner last night.

That’s great. Thank you. I’ll give you the flask back tomorrow.

You can give it to my mum.

Your mum?

I’m not going to be here from now on. I’m going back to school tomorrow. I told my mum about you. She asked all sorts of questions. She asked me what you were doing here. I didn’t know what to say. What
are
you doing here?

When Paul returned to the shack he looked through his things. He wanted to find something to give Jeannot. But, looking through his suitcase, he found nothing of worth. He had only basics with him – ‘prison possessions’ he called them. Genie had always hated that joke. And the pills, he had
those too. An old book that was falling to pieces. And a silly story besides. He could find nothing to give the boy. He was angry and confused by his sudden urge to cry.

Later that afternoon, he walked back to the snack shack. He had with him the flask, which he’d washed out in the stream. And the newspaper clipping he had found under the mattress. He thought the boy might find it interesting.

The story concerned a man from – oddly enough – a small village near Benares, in India. This man had suffered with stomach pains all his life. He was too poor to see a doctor. But finally, when he reached his thirties, his stomach had distended to the point where the pain was unbearable. He sought treatment. Cancer was suspected but the results of blood tests proved inconclusive. Finally an X-ray was performed. It was discovered that the cause of the man’s pain was his unborn twin, who had fused with him in the womb and had been growing inside him all these years. An operation to remove the twin revealed that he had
adult-sized
hands, feet and genitals. His head was covered in thick hair. He had teeth.

Asked how he felt about the situation, the man said, I am shocked. I have five sisters. I always wanted a brother and he was growing inside me all my life. And now he has been taken out of me I have no pain. But I feel as though I have killed him.

Today the
Mauritius Pride
had arrived. Genie stood for a long while on the docks, staring down into the milky green water, breathing in the hot smell of sweat on skin, dead fish, rubbish, salt and rust, wet rope and seawater, watching the flow of people and goods on and off the ship. Boxes of hi-tech hardware and sacks full of rice and sugar, and a Jeep. Wicker cages full of chickens, strings of dried octopus. Genie stood mesmerised by all this activity until it began to slow down. Then she approached a man who seemed to have some official status in connection with the ship. He wore only a pair of orange surf shorts which looked almost fluorescent against his black skin. She tried to get his attention but he did not seem to hear her, instead turning to signal someone, raising his arms and pointing to confirm his instructions.

Genie tapped him on the arm and felt a slick of sweat. He turned to her, tossing his head coquettishly, a gesture which set his finely plaited hair swinging and one which he carried off quite elegantly, Genie thought, for such a fat man. He made an impatient gesture. Genie realised then that he was deaf.

She asked as clearly as she could, in French, if he worked there. He looked closely at her mouth but did not seem able to follow her words. After her third attempt at explaining, the man grabbed a colleague and signed to him. This man turned to Genie and asked what the problem was.

Do either of you work here? she asked.

Yes, we both do. On the
Pride
.

Genie showed them Paul’s photo and asked if they’d seen him. The interpreter shook his head, but his colleague nodded and began to sign. He was on the crossing, two weeks ago, said the interpreter, following his friend’s gestures. He sat on deck with a couple of guys – other passengers – for almost the whole journey.

Do you know where he is? Did you get what he was saying to those men? Do you know who they are? She turned from one to the other as the interpreter repeated these questions to his colleague, each followed by a businesslike shake of the head.

He says all he can tell you is that the guys he saw your brother with seemed like bandits if you ask him.

Genie thanked them and gave them her details. As she turned to go, she stopped in her tracks and called out directly to the man who had seen Paul, forgetting for a moment that he could not hear her: why had he noticed Paul? How was it he remembered seeing him? It was two weeks, after all, since Paul had travelled over.

This time the interpreter quoted his friend directly.

He looked foreign. But not like any tourist or even a businessman. I wondered what the hell this guy was doing over here. There is nothing for him here.

It was half-past four in the afternoon by the time she made her way back to the bus stop. She had been waiting for twenty minutes before a young boy in school uniform walked past and asked her what she was waiting for. A bus, she told him curtly, as though he had been sarcastic. But they stop running at four, he said. Then, with the air of someone used to being disbelieved, he sighed and asked a couple of passing schoolgirls what time the buses stopped. Each girl looked at the other, fingers buried deep in a shared bag of sweets, as though it was a trick question.

Four, they said, almost in unison, barely able to talk around the bulges in their cheeks. The boy looked at Genie as though to say, You see! and walked off without a word.

It did not take long after that for night to fall, for the darkness to deepen and the barking of dogs to sound louder, now that the roads were quiet. Walking back through town in search of a taxi, Genie’s heart lurched with the approach of each shadowy figure she passed. It was at times like this that she forgot about Paul completely, thought only of the moment, of immediate dangers – though later it occurred to her that if Paul was in Port Mathurin he might only show himself when the streets were dark and empty, and that perhaps one of those figures she had shrunk from had in fact been him.