The Polished Hoe (25 page)

The scenery surrounding this struggle to the death, between St. George and the Dragon, is similar to the vegetation and the surroundings of Hastings Rocks, where the Bimshire Police Band plays popular classics, and Sousa marches, every Wednesday evening, in the bandshell shaped like a gazebo.

The scenery is of rocks, polished by the perpetual pounding and washing by the waves at the foot of the bandshell. There are trees. They look like the local trees of the Island. Like clammy-cherry trees. And dunks trees. Like beach-grape trees. And tamarind trees. In the painting of St. George and the Dragon, the trees are short and stumpy and fierce-looking, as if their branches are ready for a fight; to join in allegiance with St. George and help him to defeat the Dragon. There is a woman praying at the side of a road. And in the background, there are two buildings like towers, tall and dignified and powerful like the water tower in the Plantation’s yard. Or like the Factory that groans and clanks at the start of the Crop-Season, grinding canes.

The painting is done by a man named Raphael. No one in this Village was ever christened Raphael. Sargeant knows no one by this name.

“Ralph, in a foreign language,” she says. “I can’t remember which one, Eyetalian, or Spanish.”

“Is a strange way to write ‘Ralph,’” he tells her. Perhaps, the man writing his name this way, or the man who sold the first original print of this
St. George and the Dragon
painting, could not spell properly. Or, perhaps, it is a name common to other parts of the world.

The woman at the side of the road is praying for something: for the happy outcome of the struggle between St. George and the Dragon.

In this Island of Bimshire, there is a Church by the name St. George. The St. George’s Anglican Church, which has the best Choir, and the best Organist in the Island. And there is a parish named St. George. People in the Island laugh at people who come from the parish of St. George, because St. George lies in the middle of this small Island, and still is not touched by the sea. The Georgians of St. George, as “serrigated” from the sea; and therefore stupid, the Villagers say.

There are no Dragons in the parish of St. George. Or in the Island. Just the Alsatian dogs and the Doberman-Pincers that the rich people keep. Dogs that can tear your guts out, and your heart out, if they catch you on the wrong side of the road, at the wrong time, in their district. Dogs that are trained, so Manny swears, to rip out the hearts of the poor Islanders, meaning black people.

St. George’s Dragon looks no more frightening than a Hastings District Alsatian dog. And now that Sargeant sees St. George’s Dragon close up, and in the flesh, so to speak, he is not frightened for Dragons, or for Alsatians; and he feels that the bravery people bestowed upon St. George, and showered him with, and talked about in storybooks for children, and in bedtime stories, the bravery for killing the Dragon, has the same truth and the same history, as
The Man Who Jumped Over the Moon.
Or
Little Red Riding Hood.

This Dragon fighting with St. George is nothing but a big Alsatian dog snarling at the mouth, at the wicket gate of the homes of rich white people in Hastings District, in the Island of Bimshire, in the Wessindies, in the Carbean. In the “New Whirl,” as Wilberforce calls it.

Even its teeth, the teeth of this St. George Dragon, snarling, and covered with thick white foam, is nothing different from the scare Sargeant has spent his whole life living through, every day of the week when he had to cross the white road, to go about his business; Personal, or Police; this Hastings Road, called the white road, because of its white marl and the angle of the fierce sun shining on it, whitening it; white, too, because no one, no other black person, but he—small, scared boy; or big man, police Crown-Sargeant, but still frightened to death, to be in this Hastings District—was passing along on it; its loneliness and the fear the loneliness instilled, always made him regard it as a white road.

And when the teeth sank into his soft black sweet flesh, in the softest part of his behind which has no muscles, and the blood spurted out from the punctures made by the teeth, teeth longer and whiter than these drawn in the mouth of this Dragon by this man named Raphael—a name no more important than Ralph in this Village, in this Island of Bimshire, in this part of the New Whirl—for the first moment, all Sargeant could feel, was aware of, could experience, was the exhilaration of fear, and the excitement of the contest, of the duel like the one he experienced in his imagination of locked horns with Mr. Bellfeels that Easter bank holiday; now it was he against Alsatian. Sarge against the Alsatian. St. Sarge and the Alsatian. Nigger against Rover. They called all their dogs
Rover
. They called Sargeant
nigger
. And they called all their servants and labourers in the fields
nih-ger
, to rhyme with
chigger.
And he didn’t have even a clammy-cherry stick in his hand, or a limb from the ackee tree, or even a piece of the coconut frond— with which he swept the grounds and the yard and the tennis courts of the Garrison Savannah Lawn Tennis Club—to protect him from the Alsatian, and ward him off, until the owner came reluctantly, with the white smear of a smile on his face; and said,
“Here, Rover! Here!”
And when the wicket gate was closed, he could read, more clearly now, in spite of smudges of someone’s hand attempting to erase the message, this warning, painted in black stencilled letters: NO DOGS, NIGGORS & JEWS ALLOWED.

And here now, in the safety of thick paint, is this big man, in armour, dressed in cloth of mail; iron, painted black; mounted on a horse, a white horse, and holding a spear or a lance—or is it a sword? He must go back and take a second, longer look at St. George’s picture—in such a puny, overblown struggle of gigantic, mortal proportion. He must go back and take a second look. They have now passed St. George and his dog-faced Dragon, and are standing in front of the framed head of a woman. All this protection and armaments, lance, sword, armour, steed, just to kill an animal no bigger than a Bimshire dog, an Alsatian; and still have his name sent down to the Island, in history, in school books and in Bible stories for educating children, all the way from Europe to teach him and a million other Bimshire boys in this sleepy corner of the tropical New Whirl, a lesson in strength and in daring and in big-heartedness; and in fortitude.

And in moral bravery?

And chivalry?

The painting she is showing him now is of a head. The head is the head of a woman. At the bottom of the painting, it is written that this head is
Head of the Madonna.
It is done by someone named Boltraffio.

“Boltraffio,” she says. She pronounces it as if she were born speaking those names. “My boy who spend time in Rome-Italy brought back this with him. And he teached me, taught me, the right way to say the name Boltraffio.

“Bolt-raffio,” Sarge says.

Here is another strange name, Sargeant thinks. Here in this Island, the names that name people are names that show and paint and reflect who the people are: or, at least, part of what they are. Here in Bimshire, names are names you understand; Sarge, Constable, the Revern, Manny, Naiman, Mary-Tilda; names you can pronounce easily; and remember. But the name of this painter. And this
Madonna.
Madame, he knows. He has heard that name used many times. As a matter of fact, he was thinking of her a few moments ago. Madame Glorie, the Instructoress of the Hastings Salon for Modern & Classical Dance. Madame Glorie, he knows. Donna, he understands. There are lots of whores down in Town, in Suttle Street, with the name Donna. Nelson Street, famous also for whores, is crawling with Donnas and sailors off English ships, and native pimps; and Donnas-to-burn, too. He came across a Donna once, who said she is a writer, not a giver of pleasure . . .

Yes, they come to Nelson Street down in Town, in droves, both during the height of the War and in the hushed safety of Armistice; and then, the quiet of peacetime. Pre-War, and post-War. Yes. He knows about Donnas. But the larger name,
Ma-donna. My-deardonna. Muh-dear-donna. Muh-donna. Ma-donna.
Perhaps, in a foreign language,
Madonna
means something different. He surmises that this could be a European name for the Virgin Mary.

The name is foreign. But the features of the person with the foreign name are local, are native, are peculiar to this Island of Bimshire. Are Bimshirean. He knows women, black and white, and those mixed with black blood and with white blood, who could be this woman’s mother, or sister, or aunt, or child, so strong is the resemblance.

Head of the Madonna.

He likes
Head of the Madonna.
He likes the native women whom this
Head of the Madonna
reminds him of: he has seen her walking in Town, coming from Cave Shepherd & Sons, Haberdasheries, after she has purchased her vial of Eau de Cologne No. 4711; and he has seen her changing from dress to sporting whites, quick, in fumbling speed, frantic; in a rush to evade his eyes, as he passes behind the green-painted CHANGING ROOM: LADIES ONLY sign at the Garrison Savannah Lawn Tennis Club; and he sees this face, part of
Head of the Madonna
, as the face of the woman playing tennis, as she tosses her head backwards in a sharp violent movement, to settle her straying hair, and keep it out of her eyes, before she serves, from blinding her from seeing the returned ball coming at her from across the net, like a bullet; and when her hair is controlled, he sees the face in
Head of the Madonna
, calm, controlled, confident and beautiful, as she begins tying her long brown hair into a bun, into a knot, in this same shape shown in these European colours on this shimmering painting, rectangled in the dark brown mahogany frame that he is looking at, that Mr. Waldrond made. She and this woman are the same
Madonna.

When he moves a little to his right, he is still face-to-face with the head of
Head of the Madonna.
Her eyes are following him. He has seen eyes like these. Eyes that follow him, eyes of a thief, a shoplifter, working amongst the thick crowds of Easter and Christmas shoppers in Cave Shepherd & Sons, Haberdasheries, down in Town. He sees eyes that give off this compelling dare, this occular defiance, this attaching glare, this magnetized stare, this piercing, convicting stare, whenever on his beat he passes along Nelson Street in Town, when the Careenage in Carlisle Bay is filled with ships that fly the Union Jack; during the War; and then, afterwards, in peacetime, when English tourisses replaced the English sailors.

He moves to his left, and the stare remains as piercing and focused upon him. He moves to the right, and the eyes are pinned upon him, still.

The stare of the head of
Head of the Madonna
frightens him.

He is glad that Mary Gertrude Mathilda is now holding his arm, his left arm, her hand resting just under the three silver stripes under the large silver-and-red Imperial Crown, resplendent in what it stands for, “a Crown-Sargeant” in the Royal Bimshire Constabulary Police Force; and she moves him, just as when she was still gliding him through the words and riffs of “A Tisket, a Tasket”; and they stand, with her hand still touching his arm, in front of another picture.
Pietà
—the Madonna with the dead Christ.

The person who drew this picture has a foreign name, too. A man named Sebastiano del Piombo. He too comes from Away, overseas; from Europe. But this name is not so foreign to Sargeant’s ears as the other two. He knows many black boys living in this Island named Sebastian. The
o
at the end is merely for style, he feels, to distinguish between a black boy playing cricket on the beach at the Crane Beach Hotel and another boy from Away, overseas, from Europe, who is playing tennis at Wimbleton, Rumbleton . . . or cricket, probably in a Test Match, at Lord’s; or probably playing soccer in Estrada di Vicenza-Italy; or in Sydney-Australia . . .

What game could a white European boy of this same age be playing at? Not cricket. What would this European Sebastiano be playing at? Swords. Duelling with swords. Playing to be a soldier, like St. George. Learning to fight and to kill, and to spill blood, just as they . . . Sebastiano’s father and Sebastiano’s uncle did years ago in their history of cruel culture . . . in this very Island of Bimshire, and in Trinidad farther to the south, and in Demerara buried amongst bush and jungle and drenched with rivers and waterfalls; and in Brazil, in the Argentyne, in the Canal Zone of Panama where men and women drowned in mud and escavations; and all of South America. A game of blood.

Blood. And swords. And trees trampled. And no knowledge of, and less liking for the local, native horticulture, the native vegetation, the native forestry. And not enough willow trees in their crunching, destructive path, from which, he has been made to understand, the very best, effectively functional, longest-lasting cricket bats are made.

“It is strange, you know. Very strange.”

It takes him a while to realize that it is the woman holding him by the arm, just below the insignia of his rank and status and Imperial Crown, who is talking to him. It is Mary Gertrude Mathilda, and not
Pietà
; or
Madonna.

His mind is still on the games taught to Sebastiano the European kid when he was growing up Away, overseas, in Europe; in Portugal, in Holland, in Spain and in Liverpool-Englund; at the same time and age as the barefoot boy born in this Island of Bimshire, drenched in sunlight and painted green in sugar canes, and beautified by the native horticulture, the native vegetation, the native forestry, flowers and the green fields growing, young yams and sweet potatoes and the pastures of Khus-Khus grass now brown and ripe for sickles and for sheep, and the majestic glory of the tall casuarina trees that reach and, in his imagination, surpass the dizzying height of the deep blue skies; the colour of sand on the beaches the tinge of the conch shell . . . all this majesty, all this beauty, wasted for years, for childhoods, before this moment, when he faces a painting drawn by a man with a European name . . . all this Island majesty . . .