When the Singing Stops (9 page)

The flight was not one of her most enjoyable. Crammed between two large Jamaican men, who talked across her in accents thick with reggae rhythm and peppered with ‘man' and ‘yo',
Madison slunk down, closed her eyes and slept till they touched down in Trinidad. As the men groped for bags and hats, they gave her wide smiles.

‘Yo weren't very good company, Mary.'

‘Still, it was nice sleepin' with yo,' quipped the other.

Madison couldn't help smiling back at them.

The stopover was only forty-five minutes and as any view had disappeared under the dark sky, Madison decided to stay in her seat.

The stewards, slim, dark and handsome, exuded a warm charm. Madison was struck by their affectionate physicality. They touched their passengers—discreetly and inoffensively—patting an arm, gently adjusting a head on a cushion, and when conferring with a stewardess they would give her arm a friendly squeeze or touch her hand to make a point. It was such a refreshing change from the slick professionalism that ran off most airline staff and made you feel you were made of plastic, as they waved their pots with the litany . . . ‘Tea? Coffee?' There was a genuine warmth and naturalness about these men that made up for the dried bread roll snack and melting chocolate bar.

On the intercom before takeoff, the pilot advised the flight was on time. Arrival at Timehri airport, Georgetown, Guyana, would be approximately 10 pm.

An hour after the plane landed, Madison wished she'd never thought of coming to Guyana. Straight off she could see that frustration, irritation and discomfort lay ahead of her. She was standing in a straggling line with forty other tired passengers in a hot tin shed with a single fan slowly churning as rain pummelled on the roof. She eyed the one immigration official with growing annoyance. He stood secure behind his podium apparently enjoying the knowledge that he represented Authority and Power, while in front of the wooden counter everyone waited for him to pass judgement. He took each passport in his fingertips and slowly turned page after page, looking at every stamp ever entered there. Occasionally he glanced up at the cowering owner of the little book before languorously turning its pages again to find a suitable blank space. With closed fist he smoothed the page open so it stayed flat. He lifted the Official Rubber Stamp, checked its details in case they had miraculously changed in the past few minutes, pressed it firmly and carefully onto the ink pad, checked the bottom of the stamp again and, with a last glance at the passport holder, he lifted his arm and stamped the page with a mighty and impressive thud. The book was then thrust at its owner while the immigration official looked to his next victim.

Nodding at the five deserted immigration podiums, Madison asked a South American
businessman behind her, ‘Why don't they have more officials doing this?'

‘It's midnight. Who wants to work at midnight?' He shrugged and almost smiled in amusement at her question.

Madison struggled to control her exasperation. ‘But all flights get in at this hour. You'd think they'd have a better system.'

The man raised both his hands in a dismissive gesture. ‘This is Guyana.'

He was a man in his fifties, olive-skinned with dark eyes, hair greying at the temple. He was slightly paunchy and looked a little worn around the edges. He seemed the type nothing would faze, a man who'd travelled and seen a lot in his time.

The line moved up one. Madison yawned and was suddenly concerned about Matthew's friend. Would he still be out there? ‘How far are we from town?' she asked the businessman.

‘It's an hour's drive, more maybe in this rain. Have you got a hotel reservation?'

‘No. I'm being met, I think. I'm supposed to go to my brother's, but he's out of town.' She suddenly felt a little nervous. Guyana so far had the feel of a place dominated by Murphy's Law. If something could go wrong, it would.

‘The decent hotels are full because there is an international tariff conference on in Georgetown,' he explained. ‘Don't worry, my wife is meeting me and if your friend's not here, you can stay at our place and we'll take you to
your brother tomorrow. I'm Antonio Destra, by the way.' He shook her hand and Madison felt at ease and surprised herself by trusting this friendly man immediately. He exuded a rather fatherly air. ‘Here's my card. I've been in Miami on business.'

‘You're Guyanese?' She glanced at his card. ‘Oh, you work for an American company.'

‘Yes, we sell new and used equipment to the mines and construction companies. I'm actually Colombian,' he added. ‘And you?'

‘I'm Australian. Madison Wright. I've come out to visit my brother—he's on assignment here at the Guyminco bauxite mine.'

‘Ah, we do business with them . . . one way or another. Sometimes there is no money at Guyminco,' he shrugged. ‘They're having problems.'

‘Yes, my brother's company AusGeo is trying to sort them out. How do you do business with them if they don't have money?'

‘We take payment in bauxite then sell it on the open market. It's just a matter of shuffling commodities. Business is business,' he beamed. ‘So what are you going to do while you're here?'

‘I'm not sure. What do you suggest?'

‘You should see the Kaieteur Falls—the jewel of Guyana.'

They talked some more and Madison felt herself warming to this friendly and outgoing man.

Suddenly she was at the top of the line,
enduring a blatantly sexual assessment by the immigration officer before he embarked yet again on his slow and deliberate passport inspection routine. Eventually the stamp fell with the official approval and she passed through a doorway to a messy hall where the luggage was piled. She finally found her bag and took it to a large powerfully built, black woman customs officer who glanced at Madison's small carry-on bag and asked with economy of words, ‘Duty free, house goods, food, liquor, shopping?'

‘I don't need any of that stuff, I'm just here on holiday with my brother. Please take a look if you want.' Madison was trying to be polite, trying to disguise her growing impatience.

She was waved through and, dragging her bag on its wheels, she walked into a brightly lit bare area that served as arrival and departure waiting space, opening onto a crowded carpark where the rain continued to teem down. Madison stopped in confusion, surrounded by bustling, pushing, shouting taxi drivers and porters looking for business.

At that instant a hand grasped her elbow. She spun around to push the offender away and suddenly, she was looking up at a well-dressed man with reddish hair and blue eyes. He gave her a swift smile and spoke with a pleasant Australian accent. ‘You're Madison. I'm Connor Bain. Let's get out of here.' He took the handle of her suitcase and still holding her elbow began to walk her swiftly through the throng.

A shout made her stop. ‘Hey, Madison!' Antonio hurried up, a pretty, small, dark-haired woman beside him. ‘Madison, this is my wife Celine. You okay or do you wish to come with us?' He glanced enquiringly at Connor who held on to Madison's arm and was frowning.

Madison made swift introductions and thanked him. ‘Connor is a friend of my brother. Thanks so much anyway.'

‘Telephone us next week and tell us how you're going,' Antonio called as Madison plunged into the rain-drenched parking lot, propelled by Connor's hand still on her arm.

‘Better hurry, it's wet.'

‘I can see that, but we didn't have to be quite so abrupt, did we?' asked Madison as Connor pushed her suitcase onto the back seat of his car and held the door open for her.

‘I'm trying to beat the travelling circus from the tariff conference. They come in for a conference and take over the town. City streets are blocked off when they travel anywhere. So who was that fellow anyway?'

‘I met him during the boring wait in Immigration—thanks for waiting for me, by the way—he works for an engineering company.'

‘Thought I recognised him. Colombian, I think.' He glanced at her in the darkness. ‘Do you make a habit of picking up men in planes and airports?'

Madison was tired and snapped more than she meant. ‘He was very helpful, and in case
you didn't notice, that was his wife who met him. I thought he was a decent bloke.'

‘Decent bloke.' Connor gave a short laugh. ‘Doesn't take you long to make up your mind about people.'

‘Feminine instinct is a powerful tool.'

‘So? How do I rate so far?'

She refused to look at him. ‘Too early.'

He chuckled, but as the car threaded through the crowded, unlit parking lot he suddenly groaned. ‘Oh, no. Damn.'

‘What's up? What are those blue lights? An accident?'

‘No, they are Georgetown's only two police cars escorting the convoy of tariff officials. By the way, if you are in an accident or need a police officer, do not call the police. Instead drive yourself to a police station, collect the required officer and return to the scene of the crime. Then you'll be expected to ferry him back again.'

‘You're joking. Why are the police going so slowly? Do all the cars only go at forty ks an hour as well?'

‘No. Driving slowly gives them the regal status they feel should be accorded them. That's the Guyanese for you,' he laughed as if that explained everything.

‘It's dark, it's pouring rain and it's the middle of the night. Do they expect the populace to line the road and cheer?'

‘You're getting the hang of the place already.
This is going to be a long trip. Tell me your life story.'

‘I think I'd rather sleep.'

‘Go ahead, drop the seat back,' replied Connor affably, thinking how incredibly young and innocent Matthew's sister looked in her jeans and T-shirt with her gold hair tied in a teenager's ponytail. He gave her another quick glance as she settled back. It would be nice to have an attractive, easygoing Aussie girl around for a bit. He began to think of places he might take her dancing and dining.

Madison had a million questions but felt she'd get only cynical replies from this man who seemed a bit brash and slightly superior. He was altogether too confident the way he'd steered her by the arm through the carpark. Not that he was impolite, just very sure of himself and what he was doing. And she'd had enough of overbearing men. Still, he certainly was handsome.

She opened her eyes as they hit a pothole and saw through the rain, bars of fluorescent neon lights shining on a wet canvas awning where a painted sign said Disco. Sitting incongruously next to it was the dome of a small squat mosque, cotton flags on bamboo poles sagging in the rain. She closed her eyes again.

The sound of the car horn awoke her with a start. Iron gates swung open and Connor parked most of the car underneath a white
weatherboard house. ‘We're here.' He touched her arm again, then called out. ‘Singh, where are you? Get the bag out of the back seat.'

Madison stumbled from the car, still half asleep. Connor took her hand luggage from her and opened the front door. A light was burning above a flight of wooden stairs. The house was silent. At the top they turned right and he opened a metal grille door across a hallway. ‘I won't bother you with the Fort Knox details right now. Second on the right.'

The room looked plain but comfortable. A small bedside lamp was lit between the single beds, one of which was turned down and had a mosquito net draped over it. Connor clicked a dial by the door and the overhead fan began to slowly revolve. ‘I'll bring your bag up. Bathroom is across the hall. The pump is on. Hyacinth will show you how it all works tomorrow.'

Madison dropped her jeans and T-shirt on the spare bed, picked up a towel from a chair, found the bathroom and washed her face, too tired to bother with teeth brushing or careful make-up removal. It was 1.30 am. Connor had left her bag inside the door. She unlocked it and groped for a clean T-shirt or anything near the top that she could wear in bed. There was a tap at the door just as she was finishing dressing.

‘Here. Welcome to Guyana.' Connor burst in offering a china jug which held magnificent bird of paradise flowers and two stems of white ginger. Their perfume was overpowering and
exotic. He stood the jug on the dressing table. He was dripping wet and she realised he had been raiding the garden to gather the flowers for her.

‘Things will look brighter tomorrow,' he grinned. ‘The rain will be gone and Matthew should be back by lunchtime.'

‘Thank you so much for picking me up and waiting . . .'

He reached out and intimately rubbed his thumb under her eye. ‘Smudged mascara. You look like a raccoon. Good luck, Madison.'

He headed for the stairs as Madison lifted up a corner of the mosquito net and fell onto the bed, wondering what to make of this man, so domineering . . . yet apparently still soft enough to smell the flowers.

M
adison slowly awakened but did not open her eyes. She lay listening to unfamiliar birds, the soft clack clack of the overhead fan, the rhythmic scratching of a handheld twig broom, voices in the street, the cheerful lilt of an unfamiliar accent. There was the drag of a metal gate across concrete, then it slammed shut.

‘Good day, Singh.'

‘How be it, Hy'cinth?'

‘Adeh, man.'

A dog barked. Other dogs in the street chorused and Singh bellowed at them to hush up.

Madison rolled over. She opened one eye and saw the jug of flowers through the veil of mosquito netting. Sunlight streamed into the room and a breeze wafted the perfume of the
ginger towards her and faintly rattled a glass louvre.

The rich perfume of the white ginger brought back memories of the previous night and Connor, damp from the rain and wet garden, handing her the heady flowers. That gesture had shaken her first impression of him as a confident, slightly cynical, career-oriented achiever. The fact he was prepared to drive an hour in the rain late at night to meet his friend's sister meant he and Matthew must be good friends. She supposed he was typical of the kind of man Matthew mixed with overseas—ambitious, adventuring types working their way up the international ladder of business. He was good-looking in that open Aussie kind of way, red gold hair and frank blue eyes, not so tall but with a broad chest and shoulders. She had no doubt he'd have a killer charm with women.

Madi sat up and ducked out from under the mosquito net, annoyed with her straying thoughts. She was here to see her brother, experience a very different country and she was certainly not looking for any kind of relationship. Connor Bain was one of her brother's friends, and she hoped they'd all get along without him or anyone else making sexual overtures.

The shower was a mere trickle and cold so Madison decided against struggling to shampoo her hair. She walked into the kitchen to find a
buxom black girl with an electric frizz of curls busy kneading dough on a floured bench. She wiped her hands on her apron and gave Madison a happy smile.

‘Welcome, mistress. I be Hyacinth. You sleep good?'

‘Yes thank you, Hyacinth. I'm Madison Wright.'

‘Ah, you sister to Mr Matt. You want I show you how tings work?'

‘Yes indeed. What's wrong with the shower? It was fine last night.'

‘Oh my, you have to learn ever'ting.' Hyacinth unpinned her apron. ‘Come, I show you.'

Forty minutes later Madison had washed her hair and mastered the diabolical routine of the Georgetown water supply and a few other domestic complexities. Her mind was buzzing with the water pump instructions: when to turn it on, off; how to prime and start the diesel generator that provided electricity when the public power system collapsed, which was almost daily; where to find the large portable gas bottles for the stove; and how to unlock the padlocks on the gates.

Inside the house she understood why Connor had referred to Fort Knox. Folding metal grilles were pulled across the bar area that housed liquor and the stereo and CD player. With a ringing clank Hyacinth showed her how the hallway to the bedrooms was sealed off at
night by yet another grille. In the bedrooms, safes held personal effects. ‘Mr Matt and Mr Kevin got the numbers for the dials, I no know dem.' And with a flourish Hyacinth produced a bunch of keys from her pocket. ‘Dese be keys to pantry and food stores. And doubles for gate and so on.'

‘I see, I think. Why so much security in the house? It makes me a bit nervous.'

‘Teefs no can take away tings, eh? All dis Guyminco company idea. Other houses same way.'

‘Who lives around here? Are all the people from the mine?'

‘No. Down road
reech,
very reech, Portugee and Indian people. Business people. But some of dem one time just simple folk like me.' Hyacinth headed to the kitchen.

‘So how did they get so rich?'

Hyacinth leaned down and pulled a tray smothered in freshly roasted coffee beans from the oven. ‘Well, I couldn't say anyting 'bout dat.'

‘That coffee smells delicious. Could I make some? Where does it come from?'

‘I do for you. Dis be local coffee.' Madison was shooed from the kitchen.

Matthew rang a short time later. ‘So you're really here, sis. I can hardly wait to show you this amazing country.'

‘I'm sitting on the balcony with fabulous coffee and homemade coconut cookies. When am I going to see you?'

‘Tell Hyacinth not to bother with lunch for me. I'll be there about three. I have a meeting. See you then. You get settled in. Has Hyacinth shown you the water pump and so on?'

‘God yes! Rather quaint.'

He laughed. ‘Local colour, Madi. We'll hit the town tonight, okay?'

‘Sounds fun. See you when you get here.'

Madison unpacked and Hyacinth hovered. ‘You got some washing, ironing?'

‘Not really, thanks Hyacinth. Only my travelling clothes.' Though with the heat and humidity already high, Madison could tell she was probably going to change outfits more than once a day.

‘Primrose come and do wash and iron, help me. She my sister. She work for Mr Bain so she have only one person to look after.'

Madison was almost going to ask just how many more servants were going to materialise but thought better of it. ‘Oh, I look forward to meeting her. Do you have brothers too?'

‘No, just be me, Primi and Rose.'

‘Your mother liked flowers I think.'

‘She like English tings. She give us girls fancy names, but we no turn out English!' Hyacinth laughed at her joke. ‘Guyana not England, dat's for sure,' she added as she turned, swaying her hips, giving a saucy laugh and singing a snatch of a calypso ditty as she went to the kitchen.

Later in the morning Madison marched downstairs carrying a shoulder bag and wearing a hat and sunglasses. Hyacinth introduced her to Singh who was sitting on a shaded bench outside the kitchen in his singlet and shorts. He rose and shook her hand, giving her a warm smile, not at all uncomfortable about his informal attire. ‘You going somewhere, mistress?'

‘Yes, I thought I'd go downtown, change some money, get orientated. I need a map of the place. When I asked the cambio money change lady in Miami for Guyana dollars, she hadn't heard of them. So much for international money exchange.'

‘How you go, mistress? You have a friend coming to drive you?'

‘No, I called a taxi. There are a couple listed in the phone book.'

Hyacinth looked concerned. ‘You go to town in a taxi? Why you don't wait for Mr Matt? What taxi yo ring up?' she asked, a cautious note in her voice.

‘I don't know, the first one I saw. Speedy Taxi, I think.'

‘Ee-eio, ooh, ma'am!' Hyacinth wailed and clutched her head and Madison stared in astonishment. ‘Eeah, dem is
bad
men. Bad men. Dey cheat you, dey take you bad place. No good taxi.'

Madison found it difficult to share the flamboyant concern. ‘Dear me,' she said with a smile as a car pulled up at the gate. ‘Well, it can't be
helped now. Here it is. Singh, open the gate please.'

‘You take care, mistress. Hang on to yo purse,' Hyacinth warned.

Madi walked boldly to the car but underneath she felt intimidated and nervous as she reached the driveway. She slid into the back seat of an elderly, forlorn Hillman. Calypso music blared and the driver hid behind large dark glasses. A striped T-shirt was pulled tightly across muscular shoulders which rippled as he glanced up at her in the rear vision mirror, with a look that was a question. ‘Where yo go?'

‘I want to go to the bank, and then a bookshop, I guess.'

‘Which bank?' He reached over and turned the music lower as he pulled away.

‘Oh, I don't care.' She hesitated to give her reasons.

‘Yo want to change money?'

‘Why do you say that?'

There was a flash of white teeth. ‘Yo look like yo be a new visitor.'

‘You mean I look like a tourist?' Madison had hoped she looked like an expatriate wife.

‘Are yo from Australia?'

Madison sank back in the seat. ‘I guess my cover is blown, huh?'

The driver chuckled. ‘I've met a few Aussies here. I recognise the accent. So, yo want me to wait at de bank and den take yo to de bookshop?'

He glanced at her over his shoulder and
Madison saw that his smiling face was a mixture of Indian and African. Like so many people here he was ‘all mix up' as Hyacinth had put it during the tour of the domestic arrangements. The driver was a handsome and tidily dressed man and he exuded a cheerful confidence. She felt her fears melting. Certainly she had no experience of this strange country yet, but this local didn't look ‘a
bad
man'.

Madison couldn't believe how long it took to change her money even though the bank had the outward appearance of a modern financial institution. Its efficient architecture belied the languid approach to the business of banking by its earnest multitude of staff. Madi went through three different queues before reaching the cashier. She was finally handed a slip of pink paper. ‘Where's my money?'

‘Go to the teller. Give them this.

She sighed. Four people in four different sections had calculated on four different pieces of paper the exchange rate for US to Guyanese dollars. At last the teller finished counting the notes and handed her a giant wad of money. Madison burst out laughing. ‘Good grief. Have you given it all to me in one dollar bills?'

The lady teller gave her an icy stare. ‘No.'

Madison peeled off the top five hundred dollar bill. ‘Can I break this? Give me some small change.'

‘We do not have coins in our currency.'

Madison gave up. The newsagent or bookshop assistant would have to cash the bill so she could pay the taxi.

Outside she looked up and down the street before spotting the taxi with the driver waving to her from halfway down the block. Clutching her bag she hurried along the footpath. When she reached the car she was already perspiring freely, the humidity and heat seemed to have soared while she had been inside the air-conditioned bank. The driver was leaning against his cab, chatting to a man whose head was crowned with dreadlocks and a coloured beanie, and who was carrying a string bag of wooden carvings. The driver waved. ‘Sorry I couldn't park close to de door. No space. But I watch out fo yo.'

Madison held her shoulder bag close to her body, feeling she was carrying a fortune.

‘Yo want to buy a carving? Dis friend of mine, he do good work.'

‘No thanks.' But then glancing at the carvings through the string bag she was struck by their craftsmanship. She fingered one the artist held out and glanced at the carver with admiration that was not just for his work. He was a giant African who looked as if he too had been carefully carved from the finest ebony.

‘All Guyanese wood, me do de work ma'self,' he said, offering another carving to her to examine.

‘It's very good. But I'm not ready to start buying anything yet.'

‘But dis de best. I no come t'town. I be in de bush. Dis mean is good time fo yo to buy from me,' he cajoled.

‘No. Not today.' She shook her head.

He slapped his head with his free hand. ‘Man, yuh 'ard ears.'

Madison glanced at the driver, who chuckled. ‘He say yo is stubborn, ma'am.'

‘You don' even ask de price. I make very good price. Listen, I have something I know I mek it jist fo yo.' He delved into the string bag looped over his shoulder.

‘No, really,' Madison reached for the taxi door which the driver opened and she slid into the seat. The wood carver thrust his hand through the window and opened his palm. A small frog nestled in it. Madison glanced at it, then looking more carefully she picked it up as if it were a fragile treasure.

It was made of pale polished wood, gleaming like gold. Its legs were neatly tucked beneath it and the texture of its skin was hinted at in the artist's fine strokes. But there was a strength and a liveliness to it and for an instant she felt it could leap from her hand. Its wooden face was expressive, a slight grin lurked at the wide mouth, a faint amusement in its round carved eyes which surprised her. It appealed to Madi immediately. She looked into the quizzical dark eyes of the artist through the window. ‘You
know dat I mek dis fo you. Dis be yo luck. Dis frog be yo destiny.'