Authors: Pauline Melville
Shape-Shifter
SHAPE-SHIFTER
Pauline Melville
TELEGRAM
To my parents
I Do Not Take Messages from Dead People
The Iron and the Radio Have Gone
The Conversion of Millicent Vernon
About that Two Pounds, Mrs Parrish
The Girl with the Celestial Limb
Eat Labba and Drink Creek Water
The shape-shifter can conjure up as many different figures and manifestations as the sea has waves.
UNKNOWN POET
It is a firm article of faith that the shaman or medicine-man of the Indians of Guiana, to whom nothing is impossible, can effect transformation of himself or others.
WALTER ROTH
,
Enquiry into the Animism and Folklore of the Guiana Indians
SHAKESPEARE MCNAB WAITED IN THE OUTER
office of the Ministry of Home Affairs. His appointment with the Vice-President of the Republic had been for eleven o’clock. It was now half past. He had no idea why he had been summoned. The secretary had been unable or unwilling to enlighten him. Shakespeare smiled ingratiatingly whenever she looked up from her typewriter and she ignored him. He took some papers from the briefcase on his knee and pretended to study them. The rambling, wooden building in which he waited was one of the old, colonial houses built by the plantocracy and now converted into government offices and ministries. Outside, the gracious width of the street was divided along its length by a stagnant canal. At intervals of fifty yards or so, giant royal palms sported mangy and yellowing foliage. Shakespeare decided that secretaries to public officials ought to be given a course in charm. He would not reprimand her for being ungracious. He would simply shame her with the exquisiteness of his own manners. She paused from her typing and looked up. Shakespeare gave his most delightful smile. She resumed typing with some ferocity. He fanned himself with his papers. It was hot and he was thirsty.
‘The Comrade Vice-President will see you shortly.’ The secretary did not raise her eyes as she spoke. Shakespeare experienced a flicker of anxiety. Could it be that someone at the broadcasting station where he worked had reported him for not using the term ‘Comrade’ frequently enough when addressing his colleagues? He prepared his defence. He was a broadcaster. It befitted him to be accurate in his use of words. His dictionary had informed him that the word ‘comrade’ was supposed to refer to ‘a close companion’ or ‘an intimate associate’, not any old Tom, Dick or Harry as was the custom nowadays. Besides, the Vice-President would hardly be summoning him for a personal interview on such a trivial matter. No, it was bound to be something of more weight. Perhaps the Vice-President was looking for someone to write his official biography. That would be a more appropriate reason for the summons. Shakespeare worried over how he would deal with the widespread and malicious rumour that the Vice-President had been responsible for the death of his own wife, by poison, at a state banquet after she had threatened to reveal certain delicate facts about his financial acquisitions during the current term of government. One moment, apparently, she had been toasting the Republic and the next she was slumped, face down, in a silver dish of curried shrimps. Shakespeare frowned. We allow too much scandal and gossip to interfere with our politics, he thought. It is because we are a relatively young nation. We will mature in time. Although, he recollected, she had been cremated, which was unusual. And with surprising haste.
Shakespeare shifted along the bench to the part that was shaded from the window. If he were truly to be offered the post of Comrade Biographer to the Comrade Vice-President, no doubt he would be required to give some details about his literary accomplishments:
‘Of course, there are my two volumes of poetry. The muse does visit me occasionally, usually at night …’ Shakespeare paused in his thoughts. The enormous hulk of the Vice-President did not seem to be the sort of shape whose owner would be interested in verse. He was puzzled. Why should the Vice-President be interested in what he, Shakespeare, was best known for – the collecting of folk-lore? Each morning, after the nine o’clock news, Shakespeare came on the air with a proverb or saying from one of the cultural traditions of the nation: African, Asian, Chinese, Amerindian, Portuguese or Dutch. On Thursdays, he had a ten-minute slot and told a longer folk story. Today was Friday. He had just finished a short proverb when Horace Tinling, his boss, put his head round the door of the small cubicle that passed for a studio and informed him that he was wanted immediately at the Ministry of Home Affairs. Shakespeare disliked Horace Tinling. In his opinion, a man who wore a bow tie with his camouflage jacket was a special sort of hypocrite. It occurred to him now that he was possibly going to be asked to replace Horace Tinling as Head of Home Programmes. Satisfaction bloomed inside him. He began to rehearse in his head the expansive, man-to-man chat he thought would take place as he was granted this new status. Hopefully, over a cool drink:
‘How did I come to be called Shakespeare? Well, Comrade Vice-President, the story is that when I was born, my father came home from work, looked at me and said: ‘Well, he don’ look so bright. ‘E ain’ pretty either. We better do something to help him make his way in the world. We goin’ name ‘im Shakespeare.’ And, in fact, I did turn out to have some small literary talent.’ Shakespeare liked to end this anecdote with a self-deprecating chuckle. He imagined the Vice-President chuckling with him as they sipped their drinks – drinks served by the secretary who would be forced to alter her aloof demeanour to one of friendly respect when she witnessed the intimate camaraderie between the two men. On the other hand, perhaps it would be wiser not to mention names. The Vice-President’s name was Hogg. Shakespeare had attended the same school as Hogg, who was a few years his senior. His most distinct memory of the Comrade Vice-President was of him leading the school choir on Empire Day in a lusty rendition of ‘Here’s a Health unto His Majesty. Fal la la la la Fa la la la.’ It would not be tactful to remind him of that either. But he must remember to congratulate him on his recent appointment to the prestigious post of Vice-President, the only other serious contender for the post having been found shot dead in Camp Street.
‘The Comrade Vice-President will see you now.’ The secretary was holding the door open.
Shakespeare stood in the centre of the room, a deferential smile firmly in place on his impish features. The smile was not returned by the Vice-President, a heavily-built black man whose overpowering sullenness held the gravitational density of an imploding star. He remained behind the desk and stared at Shakespeare. Behind his head, on the wall, a formal portrait of the President himself, with pursed mouth and coptic eyes, smirked down at Shakespeare. The Vice-President rose to his feet and came round from behind the desk. Despite his weight, his hips swivelled freely, like those of a spoilt schoolgirl. He came unhesitatingly forward and delivered a resounding slap to the left side of Shakespeare’s face:
‘Be more careful what stories you broadcast in future, Comrade McNab. That’s all. Good morning.’
Green with fright, Shakespeare McNab left the office.
Shakespeare made his way past the secretary to the door, his features frozen in a paralysed, lop-sided rictus, exactly as the slap had left them. He hoped the secretary would mistake the immobile gawp on his face for some sort of farewell smile. Speech was beyond him. He stumbled down the wooden stairs into the street. It was mid-day and there were not many passers-by but Shakespeare had the distinct impression that each one of them knew what had just happened to him, as if someone was riding alongside him on a bicycle with a megaphone, announcing: ‘
THIS MAN HAS JUST BEEN SLAPPED ROUND THE FACE BY THE VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC
.’ His trembling legs moved forward along the grass verge without seeming to make progress, like a mime-walker. ‘What did I do? What did I do?’ he repeated over and over. Usually, the heat and the spaciousness of the street conspired to reduce the most hurried pace to a stroll, but fear and the desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Vice-President propelled Shakespeare across one of the small canal bridges, towards the centre of town. His khaki shirt tail flapped behind him. ‘What did I do? What did I do?’ he asked himself, over and over again.
Instinctively, he headed for home. By the time he reached the ancient iron structure of the old Dutch slave market, a dreadful realisation had begun to dawn on him of a blunder that he might have made, a bloomer of such horrific enormity that the edges of his mind began to tingle. He attached himself to a group of people who had gathered under the pitiless sun, encouraged by the rumour of a bus, but agitation made him incapable of standing still for more than a minute or two and soon he continued, walking briskly away from the heart of the city. What had occurred to him was this:
Yesterday had been a Thursday, the day he regularly broadcast one of his longer folk stories. General laziness had prevented him from preparing the programme in advance. The studio clock was already pointing at ten to nine when he burst into the recording cabin, treading over the chaotic jumble of spools, reel-to-reel tapes and story-books. In this sort of emergency, he usually resorted to telling an Anancy story – Anancy, the regional folk-hero, the magic spider with the cleft palate and the speech defect, the tricksy creature of unprepossessing proportions who continually outwitted the great and savage beasts of the jungle. He grabbed a book of Anancy stories from the shelf and flicked through the pages to find one that he had not already read. Unfortunately for him, the one he plumped for was entitled ‘Anancy and Hog’.
‘Good morning, Guyana. And it is another beauuuuuuutiful day in our co-operative socialist republic, so I goin’ tell you the story of Anancy and Hog.
‘One day Anancy and ‘im grandmamma go to a ground fi provision. Anancy left him guitar there. When ‘im comin’ home togedder wid him grandmamma, he said: “Grandmumma, you know I did leave my guitar at groun’.” Him grandmamma say: “Me son, you is a very bad boy. Go for it but don’ play it.”
‘When Anancy comin’ home he play:
“When you see a hugly man,
When you see a hugly man
When you see a hugly man
Never mek him marry you sister.”
Then him hear footstep. Him lift up one of ‘im legs an’ listen. Along come Hog. Hog say: “Brother, you a play de sweet, sweet tune.” Anancy say: “No, Bro’er.” Hog say: “Play, mek me hear.” Anancy play Bap, Twee, Twee, Twee, all wrong note. Hog suck ‘im teeth and say: “Tcho! You caan play.” Hog pass by. As ‘im walk pon de road ‘im hear Anancy playing the tune. Hog come back: “Brother Anancy, I think you a play, you beggar. I goin’ kill you.” An’ Hog carry home Anancy an’ goin’ do him up for him dinner because that night he plan one big feast wid plenty big-wig hog comin’ fi supper. But inside de house, Anancy pop off de rope an’ dress up in Hog wife clothes. An’ ‘im say to Hog wife: “If you waan look pretty put on me lickle black suit an’ shut up you mouth!” An’ then Hog come in an’ kill ‘im own wife. An’ when Hog think ‘im done up Anancy, ‘im done up ‘im own wife and serve her for supper. And that is what make Hog a nasty feeder up to this day.
‘Well, that’s all from me for today. This is Shakespeare McNab signing off until tomorrow.’
As Shakespeare remembered precisely what he had broadcast the day before and the implications for his good health, he came to a halt on the corner of Howard and Queen Street. Some warm slops, thrown by a woman from the verandah of her house, spattered him. He barely noticed. Vice-President Hogg, he thought, believes that I have announced to the nation the fact that he murdered his wife. Shakespeare licked dry lips and put on a final spurt for home.
Safely inside his one-storey house on stilts, Shakespeare moved quickly round lowering the jalousie slats on all the windows. It made the place intolerably hot but he felt less vulnerable that way. In near darkness, he made his way to the table and poured himself a stiff rum. Then he sat on the sofa alternately sipping the rum and biting his nails. Just as he was planning to make his next morning’s broadcast a fulsome eulogy, extolling the virtues of Vice-President Hogg, the telephone rang. It was the smarmy voice of Horace Tinling giving him the sack:
‘So sorry, Comrade … unforeseen circumstances … replacing you with a recipe programme … if you could clear out your belongings before nine o’clock on Monday night, when the Vice-President is due to give a ministerial broadcast.’
