barracudas they had caught, and tapirs that had swum out straight from the Amazon River and manatees that looked like pregnant mermaids. The most interesting stories, though, were about the smugglers who chose the nights and the rough coves to drop off their drugs and guns and tons of money.
When my mother heard from my fourth-form history teacher, Mr. Chotolal, that I was skipping school to hang out with the fishermen, she got in a real bad mood and said I was following my father’s wayward path, good and proper. Before he disappeared completely, my father had been briefly a fisherman who spent many nights and weekendsat sea. And when I mentioned the fishermen’s stories to
mamaguy
her, she said that I was becoming an “ole-talker” just like my father.
But after a while, she had stopped complaining, even the few times I came home later than usual after a crab-catching trip in the mangrove. Maybe she was just busy with her sewing and watching her Bollywood movies from the video player Uncle Boysie had given her.
Just thinking of my Mayaro friends and the fishermen and the drunkards who would wake up the whole village with their loud greetings when they came home late in the nights from the rumshops made me sad. I wondered what Uncle Boysie was doing the same instant I was entering the housing complex, and all of a sudden, I recalled my mother’s funeral service at the Mayaro Presbyterian church and the crowd of villagers who surprised me by showing up at the cemetery half a mile from the church. These thoughts, especially of my mother sitting by the front window and sewing her clothes in the old Singer with the mournful Hindi song broken up by the machine’s clapping pedals, caused a little shock to crawl down my back; and all of a sudden, the place seemed colder and the air heavier and the traffic slower than usual. On my way to our apartment I wondered why my steps seemed so heavy and the distance so long. This mood lasted the next day and thankfully the old couple was not there in the coffee shop because I was in no mood for their scattered happiness.
They showed up the following day, though, and I think the lady must have noticed the new strain on my face becausefor the first time she lost her smile as her companion was joking around in one of his strange languages.
“Do you have a minute, friend?” The Christopher Plummer man gestured to an empty chair. When I sat, he let loose some foreign words in a fast shouting accent like these Japanese from
Bridge over the River Kwai
. The red cap man sitting with them was wearing a green blazer that made him look like an ugly macaw. He looked at me crankily before he got up with his Zane Grey western and walked shakily to the door. “Don’t mind Roy,” Christopher Plummer said. “He hates all young people. So?”
“So what?”
“You accepted my invitation. I suppose I should say,
“Mum-moon
. That’s ‘thank you’ in Persian.”
“How do you know all these words?” I asked the question that had been on my mind since I first heard him speak.
From his reaction, I think that was a smart question. He pulled his chair an inch or so closer to mine. “I listen to people all the time. And when I begin a conversation in their own language, they open up just like this.” He snapped his fingers. “
Ja-tory!
” he shouted to the orange-coloured girl who was wiping a nearby table, and when she waved to him, he told me, “See. It’s a special talent.”
“So they are all different languages?”
“You must try it sometimes.”
“First, I have to learn English properly.” I didn’t tell them how much I hated Spanish and French classes at school or of a conversation with Pantamoolie. I had told him therewas nothing better than comic-book English with the gulping and sighing and constant threatening. Still, I wished I knew some of these languages now so I could impress the girl but the Plummer man didn’t give me much time to reflect on this. First he
When my mother heard from my fourth-form history teacher, Mr. Chotolal, that I was skipping school to hang out with the fishermen, she got in a real bad mood and said I was following my father’s wayward path, good and proper. Before he disappeared completely, my father had been briefly a fisherman who spent many nights and weekendsat sea. And when I mentioned the fishermen’s stories to
mamaguy
her, she said that I was becoming an “ole-talker” just like my father.
But after a while, she had stopped complaining, even the few times I came home later than usual after a crab-catching trip in the mangrove. Maybe she was just busy with her sewing and watching her Bollywood movies from the video player Uncle Boysie had given her.
Just thinking of my Mayaro friends and the fishermen and the drunkards who would wake up the whole village with their loud greetings when they came home late in the nights from the rumshops made me sad. I wondered what Uncle Boysie was doing the same instant I was entering the housing complex, and all of a sudden, I recalled my mother’s funeral service at the Mayaro Presbyterian church and the crowd of villagers who surprised me by showing up at the cemetery half a mile from the church. These thoughts, especially of my mother sitting by the front window and sewing her clothes in the old Singer with the mournful Hindi song broken up by the machine’s clapping pedals, caused a little shock to crawl down my back; and all of a sudden, the place seemed colder and the air heavier and the traffic slower than usual. On my way to our apartment I wondered why my steps seemed so heavy and the distance so long. This mood lasted the next day and thankfully the old couple was not there in the coffee shop because I was in no mood for their scattered happiness.
They showed up the following day, though, and I think the lady must have noticed the new strain on my face becausefor the first time she lost her smile as her companion was joking around in one of his strange languages.
“Do you have a minute, friend?” The Christopher Plummer man gestured to an empty chair. When I sat, he let loose some foreign words in a fast shouting accent like these Japanese from
Bridge over the River Kwai
. The red cap man sitting with them was wearing a green blazer that made him look like an ugly macaw. He looked at me crankily before he got up with his Zane Grey western and walked shakily to the door. “Don’t mind Roy,” Christopher Plummer said. “He hates all young people. So?”
“So what?”
“You accepted my invitation. I suppose I should say,
“Mum-moon
. That’s ‘thank you’ in Persian.”
“How do you know all these words?” I asked the question that had been on my mind since I first heard him speak.
From his reaction, I think that was a smart question. He pulled his chair an inch or so closer to mine. “I listen to people all the time. And when I begin a conversation in their own language, they open up just like this.” He snapped his fingers. “
Ja-tory!
” he shouted to the orange-coloured girl who was wiping a nearby table, and when she waved to him, he told me, “See. It’s a special talent.”
“So they are all different languages?”
“You must try it sometimes.”
“First, I have to learn English properly.” I didn’t tell them how much I hated Spanish and French classes at school or of a conversation with Pantamoolie. I had told him therewas nothing better than comic-book English with the gulping and sighing and constant threatening. Still, I wished I knew some of these languages now so I could impress the girl but the Plummer man didn’t give me much time to reflect on this. First he
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