The Black Isle (50 page)

Naturally, this frenzy clashed with Kenneth’s rational views. Having used them once, he wished to have nothing more to do with the spirit world.

“People around the world are going to think we’re all fools—or worse, witch doctors,” he groaned. “These are the crucial, formative years, when the Isle’s reputation is being forged. We can’t afford to be thrown into the wrong club.”

For the Black Isle to make the sprint from independence to respectability, gears had to shift once more. Kenneth’s brain whirred and whirred.

In August 1960, almost a year after independence, Kenneth took me to celebrate my thirty-eighth birthday at the Ship, a venerable restaurant built along nautical lines and best known for its steaks. While I preferred to ignore these annual milestones, Kenneth, with his head for numbers, always kept count.

I arrived at the restaurant trying to subdue the hope in my heart that he’d offer me a different kind of present this year. We had lived separately for the eight years of our liaison, as was normal for unmarried people at the time. But Kenneth never brought up the Likely Next Step, and I’d tried to accept that such a step might never happen.

Was marriage all that important? Today’s women might roll their eyes at me, but back then it meant securing Kenneth’s heart. Of course, it’s not as if I were a simpering Victorian heroine in a frilly pinafore, waiting for Mr. Darcy and his sachets of gold. I was a strong woman who could summon forth spirits and accomplish in weeks what Kenneth couldn’t begin to do in years. Even so, when it came to making the first move, I was still only a woman. And in those days, in that benighted part of the world, women didn’t propose. That was strictly a man’s job, no matter how enlightened the beau or brave his girl. If Kenneth didn’t want it, I wasn’t going to risk pushing him away with my eagerness. Had the notion even crossed his mind once, he’d had ample opportunity to ask. We were, after all, the best of friends.

“There’s a contagion of sentimentality about,” he said, cutting into the medium-rare beef Wellington we both ordered. “I know we’ve been through a lot of drama and uncertainty—occupation, emergency, independence. But
life
is full of uncertainty. People can never progress if they refuse to confront this. It demeans them. It turns them into children.”

He’d said such things before, but on this evening, I sensed a double meaning, as if he were offering a critique of my lingering romantic expectations—or what he perceived as such. The waiter refilled our champagne flutes and we sat back, gazing at each other in our corner alcove—the make-believe captain’s cabin. Since becoming a public figure, Kenneth would only go to restaurants with private nooks where he could dine, hidden from view. At first I assumed he was self-conscious about his tongue; later I realized that he feared his image as a working-class hero might be compromised if people discovered his fondness for fine food and, worse, expensive wine.

He always ordered champagne on birthdays. But over the years, I’d come to learn that he was far more enamored of the idea of champagne than its taste. He gulped it down and got drunk far too quickly.

Already more than a little tipsy, he suddenly leaned into the table. “Listen. I have two proposals I’d like to run by you tonight.”

I knew not to get hopeful; as usual, Kenneth was just having fun with words.

“What’s that term again, the one you use to describe a ghost-free area?”

“Clean,” I said, sipping my drink.

“Right,
clean
. I was always fond of that term. It’s concise, unfussy. Conveys everything, really. I’ve been thinking quite a bit about how to get the Isle
clean
. It’s almost as if we have to
rip out
the sentimental, backward-looking lobe from people’s brains so they’ll stop their blasted fixation on those awful things.”

“Ken, I really don’t think it’s sentimentality. I think it’s fear.”

“Whatever it is, it’s crippling us. I have two solutions. To start with, in any case.”

I nodded. He smiled and took a big swallow of champagne.

“I was appointed deputy minister today.”

This good news took me aback. He’d given no hint of it and had seemed, until this moment, almost peevish. The appointment had loomed as a possibility, but I never imagined it could happen so soon, especially when older generations of grassroots leaders, the kind who hated educated elites, were still holding the reins. As deputy minister of Social Affairs, he’d be in contact with factory workers and captains of industry, and this mobility was what he’d always craved.

“That’s wonderful!” I took his hand.

“Yes, they, too, like my handshake.” He gave my palm a good, hard squeeze. “And though they’ll never admit it, it’s because I shake hands like an American.”

“So when will the news be out?”

“Press release goes out tomorrow. Which was why I wanted to celebrate with you tonight—in addition to your birthday, of course. I haven’t even told Issa and Zhang yet.” Another smile. “And you thought you were the only one who could keep secrets.”

I brought his hand to my lips and discreetly kissed it.

“So, my proposals,” he said. “I will share one with the public tomorrow. The other’s strictly between you and me.”

I returned his hand to show he had my full attention.

“First proposal: I’m going to suggest a master plan for lighting up every last dark corner of this island. We’ll begin with the city, of course, putting lights in alleyways and lights in the slums; then we’ll move outward, expanding to the suburbs until we get to the rural areas. Bright, electric streetlights by kampungs and shantytowns, anywhere ignorance might breed. Eventually I want
all
public areas, roads, reservoirs, cemeteries, and open fields to be lit so that everyone can feel free to roam about at
any
time, without fear.” He cracked a smile. “If we can’t control the minds of these ninnies, why not illuminate the hell out of them?”

“It’ll have no effect on ghosts, you know. They exist regardless of light or dark.”

“Ah, but it’ll have an impact on
people
. I’m not planning for the ghosts at all—they don’t vote. But if we can liberate people from the habit of superstition, think of all the things we can achieve! Think how productive we could be if everyone spent less time on prayer and idiotic rites. They’re all incredibly wasteful—of time, of energy, of material.” His voice grew subdued but his conviction was no less strong. “I know that for you, ghosts are real. But to everyone else, they needn’t be. And this is where my second proposal comes in.”

“The one that’s between you and me?”

He nodded slowly. “You will set up a ghost-hunting business.”

I couldn’t tell if he was actually being serious. “Like pest removal?”

“If you like.” He smirked, but his tone remained earnest. “I say ‘ghost-hunting’ only because it sounds more scintillating. I will supply you with your clientele. They won’t be just any old Tom, Dick, or Harry but important people who need such services and don’t want their names known to the world. There’s a demand for this, I tell you. I can send you four or five names as early as tomorrow. People who’ll pay
beautifully
. The only thing is you must leave absolutely no trace. It’s entirely sub rosa.”

“Ken”—I lowered my voice to a whisper—“don’t you remember last time? I was almost killed. It’s not a game.”

He seized both my wrists. “Cassandra, I am asking you to make them
go away
. It’s the exact opposite of calling them up. I’ll work in the light, you’ll work in the shadows, and together we’ll make this filthy little island
clean
.”

He was proposing I become his spiritual housekeeper. Even the language he used was insulting.

“Let me think about it,” I said, wringing his hands off me. But I already knew I wanted no part of it.

“What’s there to think about? It’s you and me, Cassandra. Just you and me.”

I looked into his eyes. Despite the boldness of his plan, the grandness of his ambition, there was not the faintest trace of the fevered visionary about him. Kenneth had never looked more sober, more calmly convinced about what would be good for me.

Kenneth had called it a proposal, but for him the plan was already set in stone.

The moment I entered work the next morning, I was greeted with Arctic coolness by Miss Joseph, the head nurse who’d become a sort of grande dame at Woodbridge. Over the years, her detached mien had hardened into an icy armor, inspiring fear in patients and nurses alike. She held a special distaste for me, regarding me as the poor, bedraggled thing she’d taken in years ago, only to have me maneuver my way up into becoming overseer of
her
nursing staff. This was her version, of course; the way I saw it, I’d put in long, hard years at the front desk and was promoted for my diligence and, unlike her, my comfort working in the wee hours, all alone in the dark.

“You got your wish,” she said, her eyes glued to her coffee mug.

“My wish?”

“Oh, don’t act coy.”

She fished out a letter from a register close to her, smoothing out its two fold lines, and thrust it in my face.

I saw the gleaming red imprint of the hospital’s official chop—“Approved”—and began reading. It was a neatly typed letter of resignation, in eloquent, lightly condescending prose, about my accepting an offer from an employer more appreciative of my skills. At the base was my supposed signature, made in Kenneth’s hand.

He was waiting when I came home—perched in my armchair, legs crossed, reading the
Tribune
.

“I forgot your presents last night.” On his lap sat a leather-bound book, a bar of chocolate, and a small bottle of cognac. “Happy birthday, toots.”

“How dare you!”

I ran over to slap him. He moved his head, and I missed.

“A simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed.” He smirked. “Book, chocolate, cognac—still your holy trinity, I hope?”

“Who do you think you are? You made me look like a bloody fool! I never said yes to your proposal—I said I would
think
about it! Don’t you care about what
I
want?”

“It’s because I care that I did it. You’re better than that hospital and you know it.”

“I can’t afford to make enemies at Woodbridge. Li’s still there.”

“So take him out. There are better places in town. And soon you’ll be able to afford them.”

He pulled out a folded slip of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. It was a list of five names, complete with telephone numbers and addresses.

“As promised. Should be a year’s salary right there, if not more.”

The names were familiar. I’d seen them in the papers—G. B., the owner of Robinsons department store; Dr. S. Y., the chief surgeon at Mount Alvernia Hospital; W. K. B., the president of the Green Spot bus company; and a couple of prominent housing developers. I could understand why these men might feel they needed the assurances of a state-approved “psychic.” Most of the Isle’s construction projects sought the blessings of a geomancer, but they were a famously shady bunch, so to get one vouched for by Kenneth, who everyone thought the coming man, probably made all the difference.

The money would certainly be helpful to me—and Li. But did I want to deal with that world again? I remembered all too well what it was like when things went wrong: jungles of snow, rivers of blood, a physical and emotional toll that might well kill me.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I finally spoke. “You said the news was going out this morning.”

“It did go out. I want to let the excitement die down a bit before I make my entrance. Not everyone there likes me, you know. And I didn’t want to go in without the knowledge that I have this
consolidation
in place.” He peered briefly at the list in my hand. “I’ve sorted them according to importance. Importance of the requester, not of the situation. For all I know, they may need nothing more than a plumber. Or a podiatrist. But you’re discreet. You won’t make them feel like fools. And if there happens to be some ghosts…”

“Ken, this doesn’t change anything. I still need time to think about it.”

He stood up to leave.

“Then this should help you think.” Lifting the book that was his present to me, he rapped his fingers on its gold-embossed cover:
Jude the Obscure
by Thomas Hardy. He smiled. “Best book ever written about missed opportunities.”

Three weeks later, I saw my first client, G. B., owner of the Robinsons department store. We met at his private, unlisted club, on the second floor of an innocuous office building on D’Almeida Street. The moment I stepped inside, I realized this was less a watering hole for the elite than a collection of waiter-serviced conference rooms, a venue for towkays to hold meetings they wanted neither the home nor the workplace to find out about. The largest room could fit up to twenty comfortably, but most had tables just for two. We took one of these small chambers. Little did I know then that over the next ten years, I would return to these rooms time and again.

G. B. was a corpulent Eurasian with an oily toupee, exactly as he appeared in news photos, but to my surprise, he had the gentle manner of an old dowager. He took a lot of sugar and cream with his orange pekoe and held the teacup with his pinky aloft. After a bit of polite chitchat, he handed me a slip of paper with an address.

“My mannequin warehouse,” he said. “We use them in my store. They’re high quality, imported from Czechoslovakia, not like the cheap ones my competitors use. Anyway, my dolls have been doing a bit of dancing at night, on their own.” He eyed me carefully. “You don’t think I’m being fanciful, do you?”

“Has anything been stolen or vandalized?”

“No, no, it’s not like that. After the fifth time, I knew it couldn’t be some kind of a prank, because no joker is that committed. It would take hours. You’ll see.”

He handed me a stuffed envelope, the contents of which had been previously negotiated by Kenneth: Six months of my old wages. I tried not to gasp when I saw those crisp new bills. G. B. and I signed no contracts; in those days, grown-ups knew how to trust each other and keep their mouths shut.