The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q (11 page)

But it wasn’t. They simply sat there, stiff and silent, not a flicker of feeling on their faces. Rika stopped in her tracks, not knowing what to do. Only Marion knew; Marion, in whom there was not a selfish bone. Marion, who had no subterfuge, who wore no mask. It was Marion who rushed forward, first to her grandmother, with a cry like the mewing of a cat, and threw her arms around the woman. Slow, stiff arms rose to embrace her, and now the ice had been broken the man began to push against the armrests of his chair in the vain effort to stand up, and so Marion rushed to him too and, her arms around his thin frail body, pulled him to his feet.

‘Grandad! Grandad!’ she cried, ‘I’m so happy to meet you! I’m Marion, and look, this is Rika, and Norbert and Neville!’

Rika couldn’t move. She was overcome with a sudden shyness; she wished then she could be more like Marion, outgoing and warm and wearing her heart on her sleeve, but she wasn’t and never would be. It was only when she saw a tear trickling down the old man’s face that she, too, took a hesitant step forward; Marion let go of him and passed him to Rika, who gingerly took him in her arms. The old man mumbled something in her ear and then, to her horror, she felt him trembling, and a moment later she was holding a violently sobbing man in her arms. Over his shoulder she flung a desperate look at Granny, who, with all the expertise of a woman who knew the human heart and how it works, sorted them all out, sat them all down around the coffee table, summoned Basmati to serve them drinks and snacks, and led the way into the obligatory getting-to-know-you conversation, small-talk which covered every subject under the sun except Ol’ Meanie.

The woman in the Tower, Rika discovered, was not in the least bit mad. She was just a sad, bitter little old lady hungry for something she, Rika, could give. She promised herself to visit as often as she could.

W
hen they left
the house it was growing dark and the light was on downstairs. The boy named Rajan was still reading, or rather, reading again, having presumably swept the yard. Rika lingered as the others walked towards the gate. She was not usually the type to speak first, and never started conversations. But there was something about this boy and his absorption in the book …

‘What are you reading?’ she asked. He held up the book so she could read the title herself.

The Book of Mirdad
, she read. It was a slim book, rather tattered. It gave off a sweet, pungent smell which reminded her of the Hindu stalls outside Stabroek Market, decorated with kitschy prints of gods with elephant heads and four arms, sticks of incense giving off long winding tendrils of fragrance.

‘What’s it about?’ she asked. The boy looked at her with dark, soulful eyes; eyes which seemed to scour the last depths of her soul. At first he did not answer; he took his time. Finally he spoke.

‘It’s about how to find God,’ he said.

Rika sat down next to him. ‘Really! Is that possible?’

The boy smiled. ‘If you know where to look, then maybe, yes,’ he said.

‘But I’m not sure if I even believe in God. My mother doesn’t. I’m not even baptised. But Granny does and I go to St Rose’s, so it’s all a bit mixed up. I used to want to be a nun but I changed my mind, and I’ve been having doubts, thinking about the whole thing, God and everything. I mean, what’s it all about? What’s the point of everything? Why are we here anyway? Mummy’s an atheist and I’ve been wondering if I should become one too. What church do you go to?’

She was amazed at herself. Where did these words come from? How come she was speaking at all, and to a stranger; she, who was so tongue-tied her brain would freeze over when obliged to converse?

‘We’re Hindu.’

More words came, involuntarily.

‘Oh! There are a few Hindu girls in my class. Mummy says the fact that there are so many religions is proof that they’re all man-made myths.’

Rajan only chuckled.

‘She says the notion of a man up in the sky and heaven and hell and so on is just made-up.’

Rah smiled, and nodded. ‘Oh, I agree about that – the man in the sky and all that. I don’t believe in him either.’

‘What do you believe, then? Hindus have lots of gods, don’t they? I’ve seen all the pictures of them at the market.’

‘Hindus don’t all believe the same thing,’ said Rajan, ‘the one thing we all agree on is that there are many paths to God, and they are all valid, and they all lead back to the same source, like all rivers flow to the ocean.’

He stopped speaking then, suddenly. Maybe he wanted her to go, was waiting to get back to his book – she knew the feeling. But she couldn’t let him. It was extraordinary; the fact that she had started this conversation, even though she was known to be shy; and that she had continued it, and told him so much about her family, and asked so many questions. But the words and the questions seemed to gush from her; she couldn’t stop them.

‘That’s very –
cryptic,’
she said. She had never used the word ‘cryptic’ before. It was a new word; she’d read it somewhere that week and looked it up in the dictionary. She’d been looking for a chance to use it, though normally she’d use these new words in writing, not in speech. But trying to get words out of Rajan was like pulling up a tree by its roots. There was something cautious, reticent about him, which made her all the more curious.

‘Mummy says nobody can prove the existence of God and so He doesn’t exist. She says she only believes things that science can prove.’

This time, Rajan laughed out loud.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Well, look, Rika:
if
there
is
a God, a final intelligence and power behind all this …’ he waved his arms is if to enclose the world, ‘don’t you think he would have invented science itself? So how could science prove the intelligence that is antecedent to it?’

Antecedent.
She would have to look that word up, but for now she could guess its meaning.

‘You mean –
before
science? The
source
of science?’

‘Yes. I’ll make it simple. For instance: an all-powerful creator God would have had to invent the laws of science, so that this universe actually functions. He’d have to figure out all the complications of the human body, and create flesh and blood, hair and nails and everything. He’d have to figure out how to make a couple of planets, and toss them up into a vast sky, and have them rotating and spinning. He’d have to dig the ocean beds and fill them with water. And so on. I mean, what is
our
human intelligence and power compared to that?’

Rika laughed. ‘I guess, a bit like an ant compared to a human, right?’

‘Exactly! More like an amoeba in relation to a human. Imagine an amoeba trying to figure out the existence of humans! Trying to prove that humans exist! I mean, I’m sure amoeba have their own intelligence, and are smart in their own way, but I think understanding humans would be beyond their reach. So if there
is
a Power behind all this, a higher intelligence we call God, humans trying to prove its existence is just like amoeba trying to prove the existence of humans.’

‘And if there
isn’t
such a Power? No God?’

‘Well, if there isn’t, then all this …’ again he spread his arms wide, ‘all this is just a fluke. It all happened by accident.’

Rika shuddered; a sense of awe ran through her, an icy chill down her spine, yet the next question was already rising to her lips.

‘So, what then? Let’s say, there is a God, and he isn’t a man in the sky, then what and where is he? If we can’t prove his existence – where should we look for him? Does that book tell you?’ She pointed to the book he still held, a finger between the pages acting as bookmark. She was interrupting his reading – almost a crime, if you loved reading. But she couldn’t help herself.

‘He’s right here in our hearts: the living consciousness in all of nature; humans, animals, plants.’ The answer came without hesitation. ‘He is the self of our self, the core of our being, the substratum of our consciousness.’

‘
Substratum?’
Another new word.

‘The foundation. The bedrock. The source.’

‘Oh. And that book…’ she pointed to it again, ‘…tells us how to find him? I mean, you said yourself we can’t figure him out.’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Through love. Love with a capital L.’

‘Oh.’ It was as if she was suddenly struck dumb. No more questions came. Then,

‘Can I borrow it, when you’ve finished?’

‘Well …’ He hesitated. ‘Well, you can borrow it now. I’ve read it before. I’m reading it again but I can lend it to you if you really want. But it’s a bit hard to understand.’

He handed her the book, and she took it with delight, and smiled at him. ‘But I’ll have to hide it from Mummy. She’d say it’s all nonsense.’

‘You have to find your own way,’ Rajan said. ‘We all have to. It’s good to question things and dig deep for answers. It’s good to question and keep questioning.’

‘I will,’ said Rika, and hugged the book to her as if it were precious. She should leave, now, but still felt rooted to the spot, curious about this boy.

‘Are you here a lot?’

‘I live here,’ said Rajan, and pointed to a room at the back of the Bottom House. ‘That’s my room. My mother lives upstairs and looks after the old people and does all their cleaning and cooking. I look after the garden – after school, of course.’

One question led to another and Rika discovered that he was in his final year at Queen’s College and hoped to win the British Guiana Scholarship and go to England and study medicine.

‘Really! So you’re good at school? I’m terrible, except in English. And French. And Latin. But only maths counts really and I’m terrible at that. You can’t get a good job without maths. That’s what everyone says. A job in a bank, I mean.’

Her face crumpled. ‘That’s the main reason my mother hates me. I’m so bad at school, so dreamy, and I’m terrible at maths.’

‘I can help you, if you like,’ said Rajan. ‘It’s my best subject.’

A
nd so
, at last, Rika had a friend.

He might be a boy, but he was not like at all other boys; more like a girl, in that she didn’t need to be pretty for him or wiggle her hips; but then,
not
like a girl, as she didn’t have to pretend to be interested in fashion and catching a boy. Rajan shared her great interest in Philosophy. Rajan understood about wondering what it was all about, and he didn’t find it boring to discuss vital matters such as
Who am I?
and
Where do Thoughts come from?
And
What is Happiness?
In fact, she and Rajan could talk for hours on such subjects and never grow bored, and Rajan had some interesting views and explanations.

Most practically, Rajan was good at maths, and helped her with her schoolwork, which improved drastically as a result so that Mummy ceased complaining, and lost the title of Ol’ Meanie. Almost every afternoon after school, every Saturday and Sunday, every free moment she could wrest from life – except for Wednesdays at St Ann’s Orphanage – Rika spent with Rajan. She soon discovered the short cut through the alley – a gap in the palings at the back of the yard, and a corresponding gap in her grandparents’ fence - and escaped as often as she could. The hours alone in the Cupola gradually diminished to zero. A best friend, at last; one who knew her inside out. Knew her soul, which was what she’d always yearned for.

O
ver the next few years
, many dramatic changes took place. Both grandfathers died. Rika moved into her paternal grandfather’s room in the Annex, and inherited from her maternal grandfather, along with each of her siblings, a bank book with what seemed to her a fortune in savings, to be administered by Granny until she turned eighteen. The rest of Grandpa’s inheritance would come to all four children on Grandma van Dam’s death. The latter, meanwhile, withered into a mental decay which kept the grandchildren at bay; visits became more and more seldom and finally dropped off altogether. Only Marion cared enough to keep calling, and then only once a month.

B
ut it was
the country itself that had gone through the greatest upheavals, and Mummy had played her role throughout. British Guiana’s struggle for independence was already legendary. The PPP, led by the Indian Cheddi Jagan and the African Forbes Burnham won the 1953 elections in a landslide. Dorothea, though young, became the Minister of Women’s Progress, a new and startling position. Cheddi Jagan began to implement the long-promised social reforms, which would eventually lead to Independence. But his reforms were too radical for Britain: in October 1953, the democratically elected Government of British Guiana was removed from power by the British Government. Claiming that there was a danger of Marxist infiltration; Britain suspended the constitution and sent in the troops to ‘restore the peace’.

‘What peace?’ Dorothea Quint had railed, quite publicly. ‘We are already at peace!’

But it was too late. The Ministers of the Government – of which Dorothea was one – as well as the House of Assembly, were dismissed by the British Governor, who proceeded to appoint an interim Government, with Forbes Burnham, Cheddi’s one time coalition-partner and soon-to-be arch enemy, at the helm. Many leading members of the PPP – including Dorothea – were detained without trial. (‘Mummy was in jail!’ Dorothea’s children boasted) and, under a state of emergency declared by the Governor, civil rights were suspended. But the PPP rallied itself, and won the 1957 elections, and again the 1961 elections.

That was too much for Britain. Following the orders of the US Government, the British colonial rulers changed the electoral system from first-past-the-post to proportional representation, and ordered elections for 1964 – reneging on a previous agreement to grant independence before any further elections. Under the new election rules the PNC won in a coalition with the United Force; Forbes Burnham became Premier of British Guiana.

On May 26, 1966, British Guiana became an independent country and was renamed Guyana. The PPP was forced into retreat; as a member of the Opposition Party, Dorothea Quint became the Shadow Minister of Women’s Affairs. Years of racial unrest, economic mismanagement, and finally chaos followed. Guyanese fled the country in hordes, emigrating to the Promised Lands of the UK, the USA, and Canada in a brain drain that would rob the country of many of its best and brightest. But not Dorothea. She stayed, and fought on.

A
s Shadow Minister Mummy
, a Leftist by nature, grew ever more involved with matters of greater import than Rika and her concerns; she fought on a thousand fronts for women, the poor, the downtrodden, and was more outside the house than in it, seen only at mealtimes and then only occasionally.

As ever, Rika and Marion were close, as close as sisters could be who were so radically different: Marion down to earth and practical, outgoing towards others and loved by all; Rika withdrawn, introverted, awkward, impractical. Rika, the quintessential dreamer, was deemed unfriendly and unapproachable by others, whereas it was only that she lacked the skills of small-talk and feared judgment.

Towards her brothers she felt nothing but alienation. Recently, alienation had turned to rancour. This was because of Devil. Rabbit, Rika’s beloved dog (though he was actually the family dog, not specifically hers) had died of old age; and a few days later a new puppy entered the house. Rika was overjoyed; a puppy all her own, to train and love and cuddle! But to her shock Mummy insisted the puppy be given to the twins: it was their birthday after all. Rika had complained to Daddy. The twins knew nothing about raising a dog! They did not even
like
dogs!

‘Mummy thinks it will help them,’ said Daddy. ‘She thinks giving them the responsibility of caring for a puppy will steady them and make them more conscientious. I think she might be right. It was our joint decision, Rika. Please accept it. Rabbit was yours all these years; give the boys a chance.’

But Rika knew the boys would be terrible as dog-owners, and she was right. For a start, the horrible name they chose for the puppy. Their first choice was ‘Satan’, but Granny put her foot down.

‘No Satan is coming into
this
house!’ she insisted, and since Granny always had the last word, the boys grudgingly agreed on ‘Devil’. And Granny grudgingly allowed it. After which the boys proceeded to train poor Devil to live up to his unfortunate name.

How did they do it? Rika had no idea, as it was done secretly at the back of the yard, behind the highest bushes and too far away to be heard from the house. The boys would disappear there every afternoon with Devil. Sometimes, they took household articles with them, like the pointer boom and the cobweb pole. Once, Granny caught them stealing a chunk of meat from the kitchen. Rika herself only found out when, on her way to Rajan through the back yard, she heard the angry yells, the excited frustrated yapping emerging from the bushes, eventually turning into nervous barking and then growling, snarling, howling.

She had tried to intervene, though she knew intervention was useless. Years ago she had tried to stop the boys pulling out flies’ wings, too:

‘How would
you
like it,’ she had said, ‘if someone pulled out your arms?’ The boys had only teased her. This time, she said: ‘You’re devils yourself! That’s wicked, what’re you doing to that poor dog? ’ But the boys only laughed at her and sneered.

‘No more sissy Rabbits in this house!’ said Neville.

‘You’ll see what a
real
dog is like!’ said Norbert.

And that was that. She longed to report them to the grown-ups; but the Quint adults did not approve of tale-telling. She tried visiting Devil herself, to counteract the wickedness with love; but all she got for her trouble was snarls and bared teeth, and she backed away quickly.

The final result was a dog so vicious he could not be left to run free in the yard but had to be kept leashed in the Bottom House. There, Devil would greet every person that entered the gate or came down the stairs or went up them or walked past him with the most blood-curdling snarls, his lips drawn back to reveal fangs that looked ready to rip the flesh from any living being, without distinction between friend and foe; the only exceptions to this treatment being Neville and Norbert.

It was the one and only time Rika had ever seen her mother express anger or even mild displeasure at the boys. Mummy loved dogs, and somehow the boys had kept their specific training from her until it was too late to intervene. The result was a tongue-lashing to make the
real
devil, if he existed, smile. Rika smiled too, to herself; she had recently come across the word ‘
Schadenfreude
’ in a novel, and looked it up, and found it described brilliantly her feelings.

They could not get rid of Devil, since no one wanted him; they were stuck with this beast in the Bottom House. The episode, for Rika, had revealed the basic nature of the twins. There could never be any closeness with them, for, it seemed, they lived on a different planet to her – one where kindness and compassion were foreign words, untranslatable.

Finally, it was Rajan who came to the rescue. Rika, complaining to him about the boys in general and their training of Devil in particular, said, in passing, ‘I can’t even walk through my own yard without that dog barking his head off. If he wasn’t tied down I’d be in mortal danger! I wish I could send those boys
and
the dog to the moon!’

‘Well, I don’t know about the boys, but you could send the dog to the Pomeroon. I know a man there who retrains bad dogs. Gets them as tame as lambs.’

‘Really?’

‘True. He’s famous for it up in Essequibo. No matter how vicious the dog. I’ve seen it myself. They call him ‘the Dog Man’ up there; he just has a way with dogs. They all love him and he treats them well and somehow, like magic, they change. He lives just outside Charity; his name’s Balram Singh. My grandparents know him well. The retraining takes about six months.’

‘You think you could ask him … about Devil?’

‘My grandparents could ask him. I’ll find out for you.’

And so it was that Devil left the Quint household and went to the Pomeroon to be turned into a lamb. The boys sulked; it was the only time, in Rika’s memory, that they had been forcibly denied a thing they wanted, or punished for any misbehaviour. It was good to see the twins howling with rage and nobody taking any notice. Yes: unabashed
Schadenfreude
. But most of all, she was happy for Devil. When he returned to the household all sugar and spice, she, Rika, would become his friend and, maybe, rename him ‘Angel’. In a rare moment of collaboration, Mum had promised her: the rehabilitated Devil would be hers.

G
ranny Winnie
, as always, was the adult pole in Rika’s life, the guiding steady light. Together with Granny she had finally worked out what she wanted to be: a Librarian. That meant she could work in the most hallowed building in Georgetown, the Public Free Library, surrounded by the most precious objects life had to offer. She could pair people up with books, change their lives with literature. What could be better?

True, Granny had been sceptical at first.

‘The thing is, Rika,’ she said, fetching the pestle for the foo-foo. Rika had joined her in the kitchen; in the background, Pat Boone crooned on about ‘April Love’. ‘There’s really only one Library to speak of in Georgetown, and only a few librarians; they are all well-established women who have been there for donkey’s years and I doubt there will be another job available when you’re ready to start work. Librarian jobs are limited in Guyana.’

The cooked and peeled green plantains lay in the stone mortar on the floor. Granny began pounding them, solidly, rhythmically. Pat Boone sang of April showers.

‘Well, I could – maybe …’ Rika thought for a while. ‘I could go to England! There’re tons of libraries there! And bookshops! I could easily find a job there!’

Granny stopped pounding to give Rika a big smile and some serious attention. She switched off Pat Boone and put both hands on Rika’s shoulders.

‘That’s a wonderful idea, Rika! But you know, you’ll need a bit more than O Levels to get a librarian job in England. You’d have so much competition! You’ll need a few more qualifications!’

‘A Levels?’ Rika looked doubtful. It was bad enough having to sit for her O Levels next year; she had hoped that that would be the end of school. Should she continue on to the next stage? Extending the torture of sitting to attention in front of a teacher?

‘Definitely. You could do English Language, English Literature, and French. Or even Latin, or Spanish. Why not?’

‘Do you really think I could? Could I drop maths?’

‘Yes, of course! And then, you know what, Rika? You could maybe even get into University in England! Study English! Nothing but books, all day long!’

‘Wow!’ Rika was stunned into silence. Then she looked up, and smiled. ‘Really?’

‘Really! Wouldn’t that be wonderful!’

It sounded like paradise. And besides: Rajan would be there.

But, now that she had Granny’s attention, there was something more she had to ask; something more important, even, than Rajan.

‘Granny?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Why does Mummy hate me so much?’

‘Oh, darling!’

Granny carefully leant the pestle against the wall and gathered Rika into her arms. ‘Is that what you think? It’s not true! Oh, that woman! Lord, have mercy upon her! She doesn’t hate you, Rika, I promise! She loves you! Deep down inside she really, really loves you.’

‘But then why is she so cold and so horrible to me? She loves the boys much more. Look how they got Devil! I really wanted a puppy of my own, but they got Devil. And she just wants me to be
different.
Bright, and forceful, like she is.’

Granny just kept hugging her, kissing her cheek. It felt so good, to be hugged.

‘I don’t think she even knew how much that hurt you – giving the boys the puppy – but it’s not because she loves the boys more! Don’t ever believe that!’