[English Story] The Chapel

She was walking lazily, for the fierce April sun was
directly overhead. Her umbrella blocked its rays but
nothing blocked the heat - the sort of raw, wild heat that
crushes you with its energy. A few buffalo were tethered
under coconuts, browsing the parched verges.
Occasionally a car went past, leaving its treads in the
melting pitch like the wake of a ship at sea. Otherwise it
was quiet, and she saw no-one.
In her long white Sunday dress you might have taken
Ginnie Narine for fourteen or fifteen. In fact she was
twelve, a happy, uncomplicated child with a nature as
open as the red hibiscus that decorated her black, waist-
length hair. Generations earlier her family had come to
Trinidad from India as overseers on the sugar
plantations. Her father had had some success through
buying and clearing land around Rio Cristalino and
planting it with coffee.
On the dusty verge twenty yards ahead of Ginnie a car
pulled up. She had noticed it cruise by once before but
she did not recognize it and could not make out the
driver through its dark windows, themselves as black as
its gleaming paintwork. As she walked past it, the
driver's glass started to open.
"Hello, Ginnie," she heard behind her.
She paused and turned. A slight colour rose beneath her
dusky skin. Ravi Kirjani was tall and lean, and always
well-dressed. His black eyes and large white teeth
flashed in the sunlight as he spoke. Everyone in Rio
Cristalino knew Ravi. Ginnie often heard her unmarried
sisters talk ruefully of him, of how, if only their father
were alive and they still had land, one of them might
marry him. And then they would squabble over who it
might be and laugh at Ginnie because she was too
simple for any man to want.
"How do you know my name, Ravi?" she asked with a
thrill.
"How do you know mine?"
"Everyone knows your name. You're Mr Kirjani's son."
"Right. And where're you going Ginnie?"
She hesitated and looked down at the ground again.
"To chapel," she said with a faint smile.
"But Ginnie, good Hindus go to the temple." His rich,
cultured voice was gently mocking as he added with a
laugh: "Or maybe the temple pundits aren't your taste in
colour."
She blushed more deeply at the reference to Father
Olivier. She did not know how to reply. It was true that
she liked the young French priest, with his funny accent
and blue eyes, but she had been going to the Catholic
chapel for months before he arrived. She loved its
cheerful hymns, and its simple creed of one god - so
different from those miserable Hindu gods who
squabbled with each other like her sisters at home. But,
added to that, the vulgarity of Ravi's remark bewildered
her because his family were known for their breeding.
People always said that Ravi would be a man of honour,
like his father.
Ravi looked suddenly grave. His dark skin seemed even
darker. It may be that he regretted his words. Possibly he
saw the confusion in Ginnie's wide brown eyes. In any
case, he did not wait for an answer.
"Can I offer you a lift to chapel - in my twenty-first
birthday present?" he asked, putting his sunglasses back
on. She noticed how thick their frames were. Real gold,
she thought, like the big, fat watch on his wrist.
"It's a Mercedes, from Papa. Do you like it?" he added
nonchalantly.
From the shade of her umbrella Ginnie peered up at a
small lone cloud that hung motionless above them. The
sun was beating down mercilessly and there was an urge
in the air and an overpowering sense of growth. With a
handkerchief she wiped the sweat from her forehead.
Ravi gave a tug at his collar.
"It's air-conditioned, Ginnie. And you won't be late for
chapel," he continued, reading her mind.
But chapel must have been the last thing on Ravi's mind
when Ginnie, after a moment's hesitation, accepted his
offer. For he drove her instead to a quiet sugar field
outside town and there, with the Mercedes concealed
among the sugar canes, he introduced himself into her.
Ginnie was in a daze. Young as she was, she barely
understood what was happening to her. The beat of
calypso filled her ears and the sugar canes towered over
her as the cold draught from the air-conditioner played
against her knees. Afterwards, clutching the ragged
flower that had been torn from her hair, she lay among
the tall, sweet-smelling canes and sobbed until the brief
tropical twilight turned to starry night.
But she told no-one, not even Father Olivier.
Two weeks later the little market town of Rio Cristalino
was alive with gossip. Ravi Kirjani had been promised the
hand of Sunita Moorpalani. Like the Kirjanis, the
Moorpalanis were an established Indian family, one of
the wealthiest in the Caribbean. But while the Kirjanis
were diplomats, the Moorpalanis were a commercial
family. They had made their fortune in retailing long
before the collapse in oil prices had emptied their
customers' pockets; and now Moorpalani stores were
scattered throughout Trinidad and some of the other
islands. Prudently, they had diversified into banking and
insurance, and as a result their influence was felt at the
highest level. It was a benevolent influence, of course,
never abused, for people always said the Moorpalanis
were a respectable family, and well above reproach. They
had houses in Port-of-Spain, Tobago and Barbados, as
well as in England and India, but their main residence
was a magnificent, sprawling, colonial-style mansion just
to the north of Rio Cristalino. The arranged marriage
would be the social event of the following year.
When Ginnie heard of Ravi's engagement the loathing
she had conceived for him grew into a sort of numb
hatred. She was soon haunted by a longing to repay that
heartless, arrogant brute. She would give anything to
humiliate him, to see that leering, conceited grin wiped
from his face. But outwardly she was unmoved. On
weekdays she went to school and on Sundays she went
still to Father Olivier's afternoon service.
"Girl, you sure does have a lot to confess to that whitie,"
her mother would say to her each time she came home
late from chapel.
"He's not a whitie, he's a man of God."
"That's as may be, child, but don't forget he does be a
man first."
The months passed and she did not see Ravi again.
And then it rained. All through August the rain hardly
stopped. It rattled persistently on the galvanized roofs
until you thought you would go mad with the noise. And
if it stopped the air was as sticky as treacle and you
prayed for it to rain again.
Then one day in October, towards the end of the wet
season, when Ginnie's family were celebrating her only
brother's eighteenth birthday, something happened that
she had been dreading for weeks. She was lying in the
hammock on the balcony, playing with her six-year-old
nephew Pinni.
Suddenly, Pinni cried out: "Ginnie, why are you so fat?"
Throughout the little frame house all celebration
stopped. On the balcony curious eyes were turned upon
Ginnie. And you could see what the boy meant.
"Gods have mercy on you, Virginia! Watch the shape of
your belly," cried Mrs Narine, exploding with indignation
and pulling her daughter indoors, away from the prying
neighbours' ears. Her voice was loud and hard and there
was a blackness in her eyes like the blackness of the
skies before thunder. How could she have been so blind?
She cursed herself for it and harsh questions burst from
her lips.
"How does you bring such shame upon us, girl? What
worthless layabouts does you throw yourself upon?
What man'll have you now? No decent man, that does be
sure. And why does you blacken your father's name like
this, at your age? The man as didn't even live to see you
born. Thank the gods he didn't have to know of this.
You sure got some explaining to your precious man of
God, child."
At last her words were exhausted and she sat down
heavily, her weak heart pounding dangerously and her
chest heaving from the exertion of her outburst.
Then Ginnie told her mother of the afternoon that Ravi
Kirjani had raped her. There was a long silence after that
and all you could hear was Mrs Narine wheezing. When
at last she spoke, her words were heavy and disjointed.
"If anybody have to get damnation that Kirjani boy'll get
it," she said.
Ginnie's sisters were awestruck.
"Shall we take her over to the health centre, Ma?" asked
Indra. "The midwife comes today."
"Is you crazy, girl? You all does know how that woman
does run she mouth like a duck's bottom. You all leave
this to me."
That night Mrs Narine took her young daughter to see
Doctor Khan, an old friend of her husband whose
discretion she could count on.
There was no doubt about it. The child was pregnant.
"And what can us do, Dr Khan?" asked Mrs Narine.
"Marry her off, quick as you can," the lean old doctor
replied bluntly.
Mrs Narine scoffed.
"Who would take her now, Doctor? I does beg you.
There's nothing? Nothing you can do for us?"
A welcome breeze came through the slats of the surgery
windows. Outside you could hear the shrill, persistent
sound of cicadas, while mosquitoes crowded at the
screens, attracted by the bare bulb over the simple desk.
Dr Khan sighed and peered over the frames of his
glasses. Then he lowered his voice and spoke wearily,
like a man who has said the same thing many times.
"I might arrange something for the baby once it's born.
But it must be born, my dear. Your daughter is slimly
built. She's young, a child herself. To you she looks
barely three months pregnant. Don't fool yourself, if the
dates she's given us are correct, in three months she'll
be full term. Anything now would be too, too messy."
"And if it's born," asked Mrs Narine falteringly, "if it's
born, what does happen then?"
"No, Ma, I want it anyway, I want to keep it," said Ginnie
quietly.
"Don't be a fool, child."
"It's my baby. Ma. I want to have it. I want to keep it."
"And who's to look after you, and pay for the baby?
Even if that Kirjani does agrees to pay, who does you
hope to marry?"
"I'll marry, don't worry."
"You'll marry! You does be a fool. Who will you marry?"
"Kirjani, Ma. I's going to marry Ravi Kirjani."
Doctor Khan gave a chuckle.
"So, your daughter is not such a fool as you think," he
said. "I told you to marry her off. And the Kirjani boy's
worth a try. What does she have to lose? She's too, too
clever!"
So Ravi Kirjani was confronted with the pregnant Ginnie
and reminded of that Sunday afternoon in the dry
season when the canes were ready for harvesting. To
the surprise of the Narines he did not argue at all. He
offered at once to marry Ginnie. It may be that for him it
was a welcome opportunity to escape a connubial
arrangement for which he had little appetite. Though
Sunita Moorpalani indisputably had background, nobody
ever pretended that she had looks. Or possibly he
foresaw awkward police questions that might have been
difficult to answer once the fruit of his desire saw the
light of day. Mrs Narine was staggered. Even Ginnie was
surprised at how little resistance he put up.
"Perhaps," she thought with a wry smile, "he's not really
so bad."
Whatever his reasons, you had to admit Ravi acted
honourably. And so did the jilted Moorpalani family. If
privately they felt their humiliation keenly, publicly they
bore it with composure, and people were amazed that
they remained on speaking terms with the man who had
insulted one of their women and broken her heart.
Sunita's five brothers even invited Ravi to spend a day
with them at their seaside villa in Mayaro. And as Ravi
had been a friend of the family all his life he saw no
reason to refuse.
The Moorpalani brothers chose a Tuesday for the outing
- there was little point, they said, in going at the weekend
when the working people littered the beach - and one of
their Land Rovers for the twenty mile drive from Rio
Cristalino. They were in high spirits and joked with Ravi
while their servants stowed cold chicken and salad
beneath the rear bench seats and packed the iceboxes
with beer and puncheon rum. Then they scanned the sky
for clouds and congratulated themselves on choosing
such a fine day. Suraj, the eldest brother, looked at his
watch and his feet shifted uneasily as he said:
"It's time to hit the road."
His brothers gave a laugh and clambered on board. It
was an odd, sardonic laugh.
The hardtop Land Rover cruised through Rio Cristalino to
the crossroads at the town centre. Already the market
traders were pitching their roadside stalls and erecting
great canvas umbrellas to shield them from sun or rain.
The promise of commerce was in the air and the traders
looked about expectantly as they loaded their stalls with
fresh mangos or put the finishing touches to displays of
giant melons whose fleshy pink innards glistened
succulently under cellophane.
The Land Rover turned east towards Mayaro and
moments later was passing the cemetery on the edge of
town. The road to the coast was busy with traffic in both
directions still carrying produce to market, and the
frequent bends and potholes made the journey slow. At
last, on an uphill straight about six miles from Mayaro,
the Land Rover was able to pick up speed. Its ribbed
tyres beat on the reflector studs like a drumroll and the
early morning sun flashed through the coconut palms.
Suddenly a terrible thing happened. The rear door of the
Land Rover swung open and Ravi Kirjani tumbled out,
falling helplessly beneath the wheels of a heavily laden
truck.
At the inquest the coroner acknowledged that the nature
and extent of Ravi's injuries made it impossible to
determine whether he was killed instantly by the fall or
subsequently by the truck. But it was clear at least, he
felt, that Ravi had been alive when he fell from the Land
Rover. The verdict was death due to misadventure.
Three days later Ravi's remains were cremated according
to Hindu rights. As usual, a crush of people from all over
Trinidad - distant relatives, old classmates, anyone
claiming even the most tenuous connection with the
dead man - came to mourn at the riverside pyre outside
Mayaro. Some of them were convinced that they could
see in Ravi's death the hands of the gods - and they
pointed for evidence to the grey sky and the unseasonal
rain. But the flames defied the rain and the stench of
burning flesh filled the air. A few spoke darkly of murder.
Did not the Moorpalanis have a compelling motive? And
not by chance did they have the opportunity, and the
means. But mostly they agreed that it was a tragic
accident. It made little difference that it was a Moorpalani
truck that had finished Ravi off. Moorpalani trucks were
everywhere.
Then they watched as the ashes were thrown into the
muddy Otoire River, soon to be lost in the warm waters
of the Atlantic.
"Anyway," said one old mourner with a shrug, "who are
we to ask questions? The police closed their files on the
case before the boy was cold." And he shook the last of
the rain from his umbrella and slapped impatiently at a
mosquito.
You might have thought that the shock of Ravi's death
would have induced in Ginnie a premature delivery. But
quite the reverse. She attended the inquest and she
mourned at the funeral. The expected date came and
went. Six more weeks elapsed before Ginnie, by now
thirteen, gave birth to a son at the public maternity
hospital in San Fernando. When they saw the baby, the
nurses glanced anxiously at each other. Then they took
him away without letting Ginnie see him.
Eventually they returned with one of the doctors, a big
Creole, who assumed his most unruffled bedside manner
to reassure Ginnie that the baby was well.
"It's true he's a little pasty, my dear," he said as a nurse
placed the baby in Ginnie's arms, "but, you see, that'll be
the late delivery. And don't forget, you're very young . . .
and you've both had a rough time. Wait a day . . . three
days . . . his eyes'll turn, he'll soon have a healthy
colour."
Ginnie looked into her son's blue eyes and kissed them,
and in doing so a tremendous feeling of tiredness
suddenly came over her. They were so very, very blue,
so like Father Olivier's. She sighed at the irony of it all,
the waste of it all. Was the Creole doctor really so
stupid? Surely he knew as well as she did that the pallid
looks could never go.