The Polished Hoe (43 page)

He is more confident now of his ability to rearrange, from memory, and in total darkness, objects and persons he has been passing in broad daylight.

He walks this Village at the level of the centipede and the worm, on bare ground, on roads in the darkest of nights, patrolling. Now, from this window, he has a new elevated knowledge of his Village. There are more trees clogging-up the land than he had imagined.

“You been looking at me, Miss Mary-Mathilda, all these years! Seeing me
almost naked
!”

“To your right . . .” she tells him now, “I’ll be your eyes. To your right, you would see the Pilgrim Holiness Church that Gertrude attends; and to your left, the Church of the Nazarene, where Pounce stands up at the window during revival meetings; and the narrow road, then the alley turning into the lane that leads to the house where Golbourne lives . . . his house need a coat o’ paint bad . . . to the one-roof chattel house where Pounce live; the three-roofed-and-kitchen house where once Mistress Rosa Mary Antoinette Brannford carried on her needlework and making pudding-and-souse every Saturday afternoon, and where now, her husband, Mr. Brannford, live alone, on full disability pension from the Aquatic Club, going half-mad; and the tree at the corner of Flagstaff which his wife ordered him to stand and wait under, until the Governor had-finish eating his food . . . stands big and broad, like a fowl-cock fluffing its wings, boasting of its prowess with hens, showing off his colours amongst the encircling hens in the yard; and the intersection of Highgates Commons and Reservoir Lane that divides the inhabitants of the Village of Flagstaff, and their homes, into good and bad, into decent and worthless; into the rich and the poorest, into the Village and the Plantation; and, man-yes, more than anything, you could see, clearer even in your imagination than the blackness of tonight is allowing you, the steeple of Sin-Davids Anglican Church, where you sing in the Choir. In the Church Yard, if it was day, the tall croton trees, with all their multiple colours and prowessness, like the plumes of the fowl-cock, you could visualize. Tall and powerful, even though, with only this light, you can’t see it. But it is there. And from this distance, the outline of Sin-Davids, and the way it is built from local coral stone from the Village Quarry, and imported marble from Englund. Isn’t it majestic and frightening, at the same time? In this pitch-blackness?”

“The music we have-sing in that Church!” he says. “And almost break-down the walls, and crack the windows, with our voices!

“‘O, all ye Beasts and Cattle, bless ye the Lord; praise him, and magnify him forever.’”

He intones this, imitating Revern Dowd chanting.

“‘O, all ye Fowls of the Air, bless ye the Lord,’”
she says, in response,
‘praise him and magnify him for ever.’”

“The times we have-sing this Psalm!”

“This is Morning Prayers,” she says.

“But we are saying Morning Prayers in the evening.”

“And a late evening it is.”

“When I was a choirboy, and my voice didn’t crack yet, I use to spend the whole time, when Revern Dowd standing in the pulpit giving his sermon, counting every one of these verses in this Psalm. They come to thirty-two. All thirty-two begins with the word
O
.

“‘O, all ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise him, and magnify him for ever.’”

“Yes!” she says. “This is the Benedicte. I used to know all thirty-something verses, by heart, too. And once, my Sunday School teacher made me memorize the first three words in each Benedicte.”

They stand and look out through the window, humming under their breaths, but not in unison, the verses of the
Benedicte,
as they come to them. And then Sargeant says, “Lemme see hommany
Benedictees
you know.”

“Man-yes!” she says, smiling. “Man-yes, it’s a bet!”

“What are we betting?”

“A kiss.”

“‘
O, all ye Works of the Lord,’”
he says.

“
‘. . . bless ye the Lord,’”
she answers; and adds,
“‘O, ye Angels.’”

“‘O, ye Heavens,’”
he says.

“‘O, ye Waters.’”
And they continue like this, down, down to
“‘Let the Israelites bless the Lord,’”
which is what she says.

“‘O, ye Priests of the Lord.’”

“‘O, Ananias, Azards, and Misael . . .’”
she says.

And they both cross themselves, making the sign of the Cross, she correctly; he, moving his hand at the first horizontal position to his right, instead of to his left. Their faces take on a satisfied look, like a glow, like an understanding; as if there is affection between them, like the visage of beneficence that he has seen on the faces of the congregation after Communion; and together, concluding the
Benedicte,
they recite,
“‘Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.’”

“‘As it was in the beginning,’”
he says.

“‘. . . is now . . .’”

“‘. . . and ever shall be . . .’”

“‘. . . world without end.’”

“‘Ah-men,’”
she says.

“‘A-men,’”
he says.

She forgets to give him the kiss: and he does not ask for it.

“Let me show you this,” she says. She takes a red cloth tied with black string, from a chair. Slowly she unties it; slowly, and seductively, and dramatically, looking at him as she does this. He does not know what is contained in the velour folds of the cloth which she peels back like the skin of a banana. Then, he sees it. It is a box. Slowly, for she is performing magic now, she lifts the cover of the box, and shows him a second, smaller velour bag. This contains an instrument. And when she unknots the silk tassel from the bag, she pulls from the cloth a spying glass.

“No, Mary-G! No!” he says.

She places the spying glass into his hands, and goes to a large desk below another window, and from a drawer she takes the tripod for the spying glass. She extends the legs of the tripod, takes the spying glass from his hands, and screws it tightly on to the tripod. She swings the long lens in the direction of the valley below, locks it into that position, and motions him to look.

The spying glass is about one yard long. But when it is extended, to suit focus and distance, it stretches to about four and a half feet. Its body is made of dark brown leather, and marking each joint, or section, there is highly polished brass. The combination of leather and brass reminds him of the smell of the upholstery in the Chief Justice’s Jaguar Mark V. That powerful, smoky smell of a man who is sweating. Almost that smell. This spying glass looks as if it is brand-new.

“Look,”
she says.

He touches the eyepiece warily; and handles the instrument carefully in appreciation of its price and its owner’s regard of it. He marvels at its beauty and workmanship. He is nervous holding this magnificent and expensive instrument.

“Look!”
she says.

He looks through the lens, and immediately takes his head away. The lens is so powerful that even with no moon shining he can make out the outlines of things. His imagination does the rest. At first, it is like seeing objects through steam; or mist. But the lens clears up, and he sees some objects the way he sees congo-eels and lobsters when he wears goggles underwater.

“We used to use ones like this, in the Special Branch, to spot Nazzie submarines!”

Out of the darkness of the valley, where there are no street lights and only a few kerosene and acetylene lamps burning, the occasional headlights on motor-cars indicating turns, like blinking eyes, comes an object. It looms up at him. With the force of a jab. He is rattled by its magnification. The object occupies the entire lens.

“You’re seeing your house,” she says. “Or should be. Flagstaff Macon Castle, with the Royal Insurance Company shield on it, made outta tinning.”

“My God!”

“The sun blinds you when you look at it during the day. But you can still read the
Royal
in the sign.”

“My God!” he says.

“If it was light outside, and I keep saying this,” she tells him, “you could see the little dent in the Royal shield, beneath the letter
y.”

“I insure the place against all natural disasters,” he says, “with a U.S. Money Order, ten dollars it was, that Ruby send for me. And I remember telling Manny, ‘Ten hard, cold Amurcan smackeroons!’ the afternoon Griffoot the postman deliver the airmail letter. I tell Manny, ‘Manny, Ruby getting rich as hell, fast-fast up in Amurca!’

“With part of the Money Order, I take out insurance ’pon the property, with Royal Insurance Company of London-Englund. Flagstaff Macon Castle insure with them. Against fire, storm, hurricane, burglars and the unseen. And the unforeseen. Against every-damn thing imaginable.”

“Tomorrow, in daylight,” she tells him, “you could see the dent beneath the
y
.”

“My God, Mary-G! That dent made by a rock-stone three months ago. I pelt it at a wood-dove. The rock smash-against the house, missing the glass panels I had-install in the front door, by a
khunh
, with the rest of the Money Order.”

Flagstaff Macon Castle is painted in reddish brown. He cannot see its colour in this light.

“Spying glasses of a similar mannifacture to this one, is the ones we used to use for spying at night!” he says. “All military people in the Allieds use’ them. I even see them use in war movies at the Olympic Theatre.”

He uses his imagination more than his actual vision, to see the Royal Insurance shield nailed into the deal board over the front door. He can see the heads of the nails he used, so powerful is his imagination. Why he can see things so clearly as if it was daytime? What kind of science was necessary to manufacture this English-made spying glass that brings objects so close to his face, on so black a night?

He had nailed the shield on to the house, with a claw hammer, using five rusty nails he had got from Manny; and he drove the nails in, proud in the full view of his neighbours; displaying the sign that testified to the fact that he was now a man of means; that Flagstaff Macon Castle is covered by insurance, “’gainst natural and unnatural disaster,” Manny told him, with equal pride; for although Flagstaff Macon Castle is a one-roofed chattel house, with a door in the middle of the two windows which open outwards, on a hinge, and propped up with a window stick, the naming of the house, its “christening,” had made everyone in the Village see it as a castle. Everyone gives his house a name, written on a piece of cardboard or tinning or three-ply; or, the name is sometimes written straight onto the house itself. The most dilapidated house in the Village has a name. Manny does not know how this habit started. It is probably a custom in imitation of the Plantation. So, the Villagers go on “christening” their houses, just as the Royal Navy christens warships.

Sargeant’s mother died twenty-eight years ago; and for the past twenty-five, he has lived without interruption, even before he christened the house, in this house which he “inherited.” His mother owned the house when he was a child. She died suddenly one day, overseas. He assumed ownership. There was no Will and Last Testament. There was nobody to whom the delapidated house could be given. His father had died when he was two years old. From typhoid fever. The house was unpainted; the wood was grey from age; part of the floor had collapsed; and there were holes in the roof, where gaulings and blackbirds squatted. Sargeant painted the house, repaired the roof, replaced the rotten wood with new lumber he bought one length at a time, on paydays; painted the new lumber; and on the Sunday, three days after Griffoot had delivered the U.S. Money Order, gathered all his friends, Manny, his former teacher, Mr. Edwards from Elementary School, Golbourne, Pounce, Mr. Brannford and Gertrude, to “christen” the house with a name. Gertrude cooked boiled chicken for the jovial, loud men; and served them dozens of Fray Bentos corn beef sandwiches with a leaf of fresh lettuce protruding from each; and when the work was done, they all drank a shot of Mount Gay Rum, in a toast to the house.

“Let we christen the blasted house!” Mr. Edwards, the schoolteacher had said.

“Man-yes!” Manny had said.

“Wha’ name we christening this house with?” Mr. Brannford had said. He had drunk three shots of Mount Gay when he asked this question. “Wha’ name you giving to this castle, Perce-boy?”

“Macon Flagstaff Castle,” Sargeant had said.

“Jesus Christ!” Golbourne had said.

“Wha’ shite this is you coming with?” Manny had asked.

“The blasted house belongst to the man,” the schoolteacher said. “Let the blasted man christen the blasted house Macon Flagstaff Castle, Flagstaff Macon Castle, or Macon Castle of Flagstaff, or whatever blasted name he choose. And every-blasted-body in Flagstaff Village will walk-pass the house, look up at the blasted name, and laugh-like-shite!”

“Wha’ it name?” Mr. Brannford had asked, four times now.

“Flagstaff Macon Castle,” Sargeant had said.

“So be it!” the schoolteacher had said. “So be it blasted.Well be!”

And they drank the second bottle of Mount Gay empty; and got another twenty-six-ouncer from the Harlem Bar & Grill, which Manny made them pay for; and he drank some of it with them, himself; and they continued into the dusk of that Sunday, drinking rum and repeating the name the house was christened with, and singing Psalms; and then left for Evensong and Service.