[English Story]Butterfly Wings

Nazir had been sitting in the park since morning. He
was staring at the flowers, they were in full bloom, a
welcome sign of the spell cast by spring. These
brightly coloured flowers with their heady fragrance
were enticing all the tiny creatures who had made their
homes in the shrubs, trees, flowers, and grass.
Among these creatures, there were butterflies, all with
brightly coloured wings, flitting among the flowers,
each trying to outdo the other with their aerial
acrobatics.

He had always been fascinated by the sights and
smells of the park, here he reminisced about the past
where it had seemed that there was peace, love, and
prosperity all around. He was particularly attracted to
the colourful wings of the butterflies, and from time to
time, he actually tried to catch one, but he never
succeeded, they were simply too fast and too agile.
The area he was growing up in was impoverished,
basically a slum, and the constant, unrelenting poverty
not only stunted his body, it suffocated his soul.
Being the youngest of eight siblings, he was often last
in the queue for any attention or care from his parents.
He would leave his tumble down home every day, with
empty eyes that held no hope. With his clumsy,
hobbling gait, picking his way through the rubbish
strewn street, he always chose the longest path to
reach the school gates.
He had no intrinsic motivation to attend school, the
poor condition of the school building and slanderous
behavior of the teachers meant he often bunked off,
and whenever possible he delayed his arrival for as
long as possible. He was often physically punished by
his teachers, but that held no fear for him, and his only
regret when he was caught was that they would be
watching him for a while. The only thing that made his
life worth living was the park near the school. It was a
well known refuge for many lost souls.
He would be drawn to the park at least once or twice a
week, and he spent many hours there. It was a refuge
from the piles of rubbish, the filth, the polluted air, the
clamor of vehicles, the stench of poor drainage and the
appalling news of bomb blasts and terrorist attacks.
Apart from the peace and quiet it afforded, he was
fascinated by the colourful butterflies. He longed to
hold one in his palm and to be able to touch its jewel
like wings.
He was never interested in going home either. He felt
there was nothing there for him but disappointment,
and deprivation. After leaving the park, he felt cheerful
and energetic, his heart was lifted, but as soon as he
neared his home, it was always the same, his feet
began to feel like lead weights; he knew what awaited
him: The vicious arguments between his parents about
money upset him the most, the constant shifting of
blame and the abusive language, it was mortifying.
With the passing of time, he was slowly becoming
immune to the upset, and able to filter out the raised
voices. He tried to keep busy, but ended up
spending most of his time trying to keep out of
everyone's way; daydreaming, or playing with the other
barefoot urchins. His parents seemed to have no
interest in his studies, they were too tangled up in the
labyrinth of meeting the basic needs of their family.
He had been taken to the welfare school by his older
brother, who had really been projecting his own
desires; as the eldest he had been expected to
contribute to the family finances and as a result had
been unable to attend school himself and was
determined that Nazir would succeed where he had
failed.
Nazir’s mother often scolded him for his untidy
appearance, and scruffy uniform, but it was impossible
to keep it clean and tidy. He did not really mind or feel
bad about his mother’s behavior towards him, he
accepted it as part of his life. The only things that he
truly feared were the bomb blasts. He had never
experienced one at close hand, but he had heard a
number of stories from his elder brothers and other
street boys. He felt they must be exaggerating, but
they terrified him nonetheless.
One day, on his way back from school after a
particularly arduous day, he suddenly decided to follow
one of the colourful butterflies, to see where it went
and find out where they lived. It was getting late, so
he ran towards the park, hoping the butterflies would
still be there. Entering the park, he whooped for joy as
he saw a few butterflies were lazily flying over the
flowers. He targeted one and instead of running around
trying to catch it, he followed it until suddenly it
seemed to disappear. He found himself standing under
a huge, old Banyan tree, its long, twisted roots like a
kind of mystical writing, as if the tree were trying to tell
him something really important. Suddenly, he felt
mentally and physically exhausted. All thoughts of
catching his butterfly forgotten, he lay down under the
tree and fell asleep.
He awoke all of a sudden, for a moment he forgot
where he was, a loud sound had driven him from his
deep sleep, a sound that had also shaken everything in
the park. He thought there might have been an
earthquake, it seemed as if everything was moving
around, but then as if through a fog, he heard the
sound of sirens, and a cacophony of human voices
yelling, crying, and screaming for help.
He stood up and ran towards the main gate of the
park. There he found a large crowd of people on the
main road watching volunteers and rescue teams
rushing around. He walked in a daze through dust and
smoke, until he found himself in the affected area:
smoke and ashes were billowing around burning
vehicles. Everything he had heard about terrorist
attacks came back to him. He felt as if all the blood
had drained out of his body, and he had a feeling of
being, elsewhere. He had never thought that he would
be a witness to one of his brother’s stories.
He only came out of his trance when a pair of hands
suddenly grabbed him, pulling him backwards. He
realised he had been walking towards waves of fire. He
looked around, but couldn’t see who had grabbed him
in the chaos all around.
Stumbling, he rushed back to the refuge of the park,
but that too was full of smoke from the blast. With tear
filled eyes, he began to touch each flower, as if he was
trying to comfort them, consoling them before they
wilted in the toxic air. Near the old Banyan tree, he saw
something moving in the grass. It was one of the blue,
shiny butterflies, but it was dying in the thick smoke,
one wing hanging loose.
Tenderly, he picked it up, and held it on his palm,
caressing it with his fingers, but he felt no excitement
at having achieved his goal to hold and touch the
wings of a butterfly. Slowly the wings stopped moving,
and he dug a small hole under the Banyan tree with his
fingers. As the tears rolled down his cheeks, he placed
its small broken body inside, and covered it, stroking
the earth into a small mound.
With a heavy heart he headed back to the main gate of
the park, staring at his fingers where the earth and
butterfly’s wings had left the mixed colours of death
and grief.

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[Story] The metro

The discovery of a body in the Paris Metro early one
morning was not particularly unusual. That it was
headless sent a frisson through the sixth arrondissement ,
but the incident went unnoticed outside Paris.
Yet there was clearly something strange about the case.
It was hardly as though the body had been decapitated
to frustrate identification, for it was fully clothed and
none of the owner's personal effects had been removed,
save of course for his head. The Paris police soon tied
up the contents of the dead man's wallet with forensic
evidence from the body. Added to that, Madame
Charente, the dead man's wife, could positively identify
the body in the most intimate ways. (She had already
reported her husband as missing.)
A few men were despatched to poke around in the
warm, dark tunnels on either side of Odéon station,
where the body had been found. Above ground another
search was made, equally fruitlessly, and to Inspector
Dutruelle it looked as though the case would linger on
unsolved.
Two weeks later, four kilometres away in the west, a
headless body was found at Courcelles station, again in
the tunnel not far from the platform. As in the earlier
case, the cause of death was apparently the severing of
the head, which appeared to have been done with some
precision. Again, the body was fully clothed and easily
identified, and nothing but the head had apparently been
removed.
"What can I tell these blessed reporters?" Inspector
Dutruelle said as he handed his wife the two sticks of
bread he usually bought on the way home. "They want
answers for everything. And it's not just the papers now,
the politicians are getting worried too. I'm reporting to
the Préfet on this one."
"If there were instant answers for everything, mon petit
chou, they'd have no need of you," said Madame
Dutruelle. "And where would they be without you? Who
cleared up that terrible Clichy case last year, and the acid
bath at Reuilly Diderot?"
The little inspecteur divisionnaire-chef pulled in his
stomach, puffed out his chest and rose to his full height.
A smile spread across his round face. In his smart dark
suit and gold-rimmed glasses you could have taken him
for a provincial bank manager rather than one of Paris's
most successful policemen.
"Just think," he said wryly, "they were actually about to
close the file on Dr Gomes before I took charge of the
investigation."
"They're fools, all of them."
"All the same, my dear, I don't know where to go on this
one. There're no leads. There's no apparent motive. And
it's a bizarre pattern. Assuming, of course, it is a pattern.
We can't be sure of that until there's been another."
Inspector Dutruelle did not have long to wait for his
pattern to emerge. A telephone call at half past five the
next morning dragged him from his bed.
"It's another one, sir," said the voice at the other end.
"Another what?"
"It's identical. Another headless corpse, just like the
others - male, middle-aged, white."
"Where?" asked Inspector Dutruelle fumbling for a
cigarette.
"Château Rouge."
"In the Metro?"
"Yes sir, just inside the tunnel. In the anti-suicide well
between the tracks."
"Close the line - if you haven't already. I'll be with you
soon. And don't move it, d'you hear?"
Inspector Dutruelle replaced the receiver with a sigh as
his wife padded into the room.
"I hate these early morning cases," he muttered. He lit
his cigarette.
"Have a coffee before you go. Another dead body will
keep."
"But we've closed the line. And it's the other side of
town, my dear. North Paris."
"All the same."
He sat down heavily and watched his wife sullenly as she
made the coffee. Madame Dutruelle was a simple woman
of forty-six whose long, thin-lipped face was framed by
stern grey hair. Her strong, practical hands were country
hands, and she had never got used to city life. She lived
for the day when she and her husband would retire to
their home village in Les Pyrenées. Inspector Dutruelle
sighed to himself again. Poor Agnes. She tried so hard to
please him. How could she know that he longed to be
free of her? How could she possibly know of Vololona,
the young Malagasy he had met while on the Clichy
case? For him it had been love at first sight.
"And for me too, my darling," Vololona had been quick to
agree, her large brown eyes welling with tears as they
gazed at him through the smoke of the Chatte et Lapin
where she worked, "a veritable coup de foudre ." She
spoke French well, with a Malagasy accent and
huskiness that left you with a sense of mystery and
promise. Inspector Dutruelle was a happy man; but he
was careful to tell no-one except Monsieur Chébaut, his
closest friend, about the source of his happiness.
"I've never felt like this before, Pierre. I'm captivated by
her," he said one evening when he took Monsieur
Chébaut to see Vololona dancing.
It was a rare experience, even for the jaded Monsieur
Chébaut. In the frantic coloured spotlights of the Chatte
et Lapin Vololona danced solo and in her vitality you
sensed the wildness of Madagascar. Her black limbs
lashed the air to the music, which was raw and sensual.
"You know, Pierre, in thirty years of marriage I was never
unfaithful. Well, you know that already. There was always
my work, and the children, and I was happy enough at
home. It never occured to me to look at another woman.
But something happened when I met Vololona. She
showed me how to live. She showed me what real
ecstasy is. Look at her, Pierre. Isn't she the most
exquisite thing you ever saw? And she adores me. She's
crazy about me. But why, I ask you? What can she see in
me - three times her age, pot-bellied, bald . . . married?"
Inspector Dutruelle leaned back in his chair and swung
around to look at the other customers applauding
Vololona from the shadows. He smiled proudly to
himself. He knew exactly what was on their minds. Life
was strange, he thought, and you could never tell. Some
of them were young men, tall and handsome and virile,
yet none of them knew Vololona as he knew her.
Monsieur Chébaut finished his whisky.
"I can see," he said, "that a man in your position might
have certain attractions for an immigrant without papers
working in one of the more dangerous quarters of Paris."
Monsieur Chébaut was a lawyer.
"You're a cynic, Pierre."
"And after thirty years in the force you're not?"
"Personally, I believe her when she says she loves me. I
just don't know why. Another whisky?"
"Well, one thing's for sure, Régis, it can't go on like that.
One way or another things'll come to a head. But I must
agree, she's exquisite all right. Like an exquisite Venus
flytrap. And at the germane moment, you know, those
soft, succulent petals will close around you like a vice."
The normally placid Inspector was piqued by his friend's
unreasonable attitude.
"How can you say that?" he snapped. "When you haven't
even spoken to her."
"But all women are the same, Régis. Don't you know
that? You should be a lawyer, then you'd know it. They
can't help it, they're built that way. Believe me, it can't
go on without something happening."
Inspector Dutruelle glowered at his old schoolfriend and
said nothing. Monsieur Chébaut could see he had
touched a raw nerve. He grinned amicably and leaned
across to slap his friend playfully on the shoulder.
"Look Régis, all I'm saying is, be careful, you haven't got
my experience."
Of course, that was true. When it came to women few
men had Monsieur Chébaut's experience. Or his luck, for
that matter. He was one of those people who go through
life insulated from difficulties. He crossed roads without
looking. He did not hurry for trains. He never reconciled
bank accounts. Tall, slim, with boyish good looks and
thick, black, wavy hair, he was the antithesis of
Inspector Dutruelle.
"Look, you've got two women involved, Régis," Monsieur
Chébaut continued, "and women aren't like us. Agnes
isn't stupid. She must know something's going on."
"She hasn't said anything," said the Inspector brusquely.
He lit another Gauloise.
"Of course she hasn't. She's cleverer than you are. She
intends to keep you."
"Mind you," said Inspector Dutruelle grudgingly, "she has
had some odd dreams recently - so she says. About me
and another woman. But anyway, she just laughs and
says she can't believe it."
"But Régis, you must know that what we say and what
we think are seldom the same."
"Sometimes I wonder if I ought to tell her something, if
only out of decency."
Monsieur Chébaut nearly choked on the fresh whisky he
had just put to his lips.
"No," he cried with a passion that surprised the
Inspector, "never, you must never tell her. Écoute Régis,
even if she did mention it, you must deny everything.
Even if she caught the two of you in the act, you must
deny it. You can only tell a woman there's another when
you've definitively made up your mind to leave her, and
even then it may not be safe."
"So much for logic."
"It's no use looking for logic in women, Régis. I told you,
they're not like men. In fact, I've come to the conclusion
that they're not even the same species as men. Men and
women aren't like dog and bitch, they're more like dog
and cat. C'est bizarre, non? In any case, I do know you
can't keep two women on the go without something
happening. I don't know what, but something."
Now the European press had picked the story up and the
little Inspector did not know how to deal with the
international reporters who hung around like flies outside
the old stone walls of the Préfecture de police. Their
stories focussed on the bizarre nature of the killings, and
the idea that there were three severed heads somewhere
in Paris particularly excited them. They wanted
constantly to know more. So of course did Inspector
Dutruelle.
"I assure you, gentlemen," he told a press conference,
"we are at least as anxious as you to recover the missing
parts. We are doing everything possible. You can tell
your readers that wherever they are, we'll find them."
"Can we have photographs of the victims for our
readers?" asked one of the foreign reporters.
"So as we know which heads we're looking for," added a
journalist from London.
It was a joke that was not shared by the people of Paris.
Suddenly the normally carnival atmosphere of the Metro
had evaporated. Buskers no longer worked the coaches
between stations. Puppeteers and jugglers no longer
entertained passengers with impromptu performances.
Even the beggars, who habitually hung around the
crowded stations or made impassioned speeches in the
carriages, had gone. And the few passengers who
remained sat more long-faced than ever, or walked more
hastily down the long corridors between platforms.
Inspector Dutruelle despaired of ever clearing the case
up. His mind, already excited over Vololona, was now in
a turmoil. Vololona had suddenly, and tearfully,
announced that she was pregnant. Then, having
accepted his financial assistance to terminate the
pregnancy - but refusing his offer to take her to the
clinic - she told him one day on the telephone: "I thought
you were going to ask me to marry you." Inspector
Dutruelle was stunned.
"But you know I'm married, ma chérie ," he said.
"I thought you'd leave Agnes," she replied. "I wanted to
be with you. I wanted to share everything with you . . .
my child . . . my life . . . my bed." Inspector Dutruelle
could hear her sobbing.
"But darling, we can still see each other."
"No, it's too painful. I love you too much."
Inspector Dutruelle could not concentrate on his work at
all. Day and night his thoughts were on Vololona; he
longed to be with her. If only Agnes would leave him.
And if only Vololona would be satisfied with what he
gave her already - the dinners, the presents, the
apartment. Why did women have to possess you? It
seemed that the more you gave them the more they
took, until there was nothing left to give but yourself.
Perhaps Pierre was right after all, when you thought
about it.
The investigation into the Metro murders was proceeding
dismally. Inspector Dutruelle had no suspect, no leads,
no motive. His superiors complained about his lack of
progress and the press ridiculed him without pity. "It
appears," commented France-Soir , "that the only thing
Inspector Dutruelle can tell us with certainty is that with
each fresh atrocity the Metro station name grows
longer." The detectives under him could not understand
what had happened to their normally astute Inspector,
and they felt leaderless and demoralised. It was left to
the security police of the Metro to point out one rather
obvious fact: that the three stations where bodies had
been found had one thing in common - their lines
intersected at Metro Barbes Rochechouart, and it seemed
that something might be learned by taking the Metro
between them.
Inspector Dutruelle did not like public transport, and he
especially did not like the Metro. It was cramped, smelly
and claustrophobic at the best of times, and in the
summer it was hot. You stood on the very edge of the
platform just to feel the breeze as the blue and white
trains pulled into the station. It was years since the
Inspector had used the Metro.
"I can't take much more of this, Marc," he said to the
young Detective Constable who was travelling with him,
"it's too hot. We'll get off at the next stop."
"That's Barbes Rochechouart, sir. We can change there."
"No, Marc. We can get out there. Someone else can take
a sauna, I've had enough. Anyway, we need to have a
look around." Inspector Dutruelle wiped his brow. He
sounded irritable. "God knows what it's like normally," he
added.
When the train pulled in they took the exit for Boulevard
de Rochechouart.
"At least we can get through now," said the Detective
Constable as they walked up the passage towards the
escalator.
"How d'you mean?" asked Inspector Dutruelle.
"Well, normally this station's packed - beggars,
passengers, buskers, hawkers, plus all their tables and
stalls. It's like a damn great fair and market rolled into
one. You can get anything here, from Eiffel Towers to
cabbages and potatoes - not to mention a spot of
cannabis or heroin."
"Oh, yes," said Inspector Dutruelle, vaguely. "I
remember." He passed a handkerchief across his brow
again.
At the turnstyles a man was handing out publicity cards
and he thrust one into Inspector Dutruelle's hand.
Glancing down at it and squinting in the bright sunlight,
the Inspector read aloud: "'Professor Dhiakobli, Grand
Médium Voyant can help you succeed rapidly in all areas
of life . . .'"
He broke off in mid-sentence with a snort.
"What a lot of mumbo-jumbo! Headless chickens and
voodoo magic."
"It may be mumbo-jumbo to you, sir," said the Detective
Constable with a laugh, "but round here they take that
sort of thing seriously. And not only round here - after
all, we use some of these techniques in the police, don't
we?"
"Oh really? Such as?"
"Well, graphology for a start - you can hardly call basing a
murder case on the size of someone's handwriting
scientific, can you sir? Or what about astrology -
employing people on the basis of the stars? Or
numerology."
"Yes, Marc," said Inspector Dutruelle, pushing the card
into his top pocket, "maybe you're right, and maybe
when you're older you won't be so sure. Now get on the
blower and call the car."
The hot July turned to hotter and more humid August.
No more bodies were found in the sweltering tunnels of
the Metro, and the media, bored with the lack of
developments, left Inspector Dutruelle to his original
obscurity. Paris, deserted by its citizens in the yearly
exodus to the coast, was tolerable only to the tourists
with backpacks who flocked to the cheap hotels and
began again to crowd the Metro. Then, in September, the
Parisiens came back and life returned to normal.
But Inspector Dutruelle's passion for Vololona did not
cool with the season. Vololona had at last agreed to see
him, occasionally; but she always managed (with tears in
her eyes) to deflect his more amorous advances. For
Inspector Dutruelle it was beneath him to observe that he
continued to pay the rent on her apartment, but he was
growing increasingly frustrated. The notion that she had
another lover obsessed him, and in the evenings he took
to prowling the broad Boulevard de Clichy between her
apartment and the Chatte et Lapin. Sometimes he would
stand for hours watching her door, as locals strolled past
with their dogs or sat on the benches under the plane
trees. Now, denied the one thing here he wanted, the
scene filled him with dismay. Money and music were in
the air. Lovers sipped coffee in the open and watched
the whores in their doorways. Pigeons fluttered as girls
in tight mini-skirts hurried to work. Tourists with their
Deutschmarks arrived by the busload and the touts in
dark glasses worked hard to coax them into the
expensive sex shows and neon-lit video clubs.
Somewhere deep below ran the Metro; but Inspector
Dutruelle had no more interest in that. His superiors had
given up hope of solving the Metro murders and had
moved him on to other things. Sometimes he would stay
all night, leaving to the tinkle of broken glass as
workmen swept up after the night's revelries.
Occasionally he would see Vololona leave her apartment
to buy cigarettes, but he never once saw her on the arm
of another man, or saw a male visitor take the lift to the
seventh floor.
One night, late in October, he returned from the
Boulevard de Clichy just after midnight. Madame
Dutruelle, having been told that her husband was
working on a case, and perhaps believing it, was already
asleep. Had she been awake she would surely have been
surprised to see him throw his jacket over a chair, for
Inspector Dutruelle had always been meticulous with his
clothes, the sort of man who irons his shoelaces. But the
jacket missed and dropped to the floor. Muttering to
himself, the Inspector bent and picked it up, and as he
did so something fell from the top pocket. He gazed at it
blankly for a moment. Then he realised it was the card he
had been given at the metro station, a little the worse for
having been once or twice to the cleaners, but still
legible. He picked it up and slowly started to read:
PROFESSOR DHIAKOBLI
Grand Médium Voyant can help you succeed rapidly in all
areas of life: luck, love, marriage, attraction of clients,
examinations, sexual potency. If you desire to make
another love you or if your loved one has left with
another, this is his domain, you will be loved and your
partner will return. Prof. Dhiakobli will come behind you
like a dog. He will create between you a perfect rapport
on the basis of love. All problems resolved, even
desperate cases. Every day from 9am to 9pm. Payment
after results.
13b, rue Beldamme, 75018 Paris
staircase B, 6th floor, door on left
Metro: Barbes Rochechouart
Inspector Dutruelle stood in his socks and braces reading
the card over and over again. "All problems resolved . . ."
It was preposterous. And yet, it was tempting. What
harm could there be in a little hocus pocus when
everything else had failed? After all, everyone knew that
even the police used clairvoyants when they were really
up against it.
Rue Beldamme was a backstreet of tenement buildings in
Paris's eighteenth arrondissement , an area popular with
immigrants from francophone Africa. It lay close to the
busy crossroads straddled by Metro Barbes
Rochechouart. Inspector Dutruelle parked in the next
street and walked the rest of the way, cursing because
he had not brought his umbrella. The door to number
13b was swinging in the wind, its dark paint peeling
badly. He stepped through into a narrow courtyard and
found his way to the sixth-floor door on which a brass
plaque read: "Professor Dhiakobli Spécialiste des travaux
occultes Please ring". He stood there, breathing heavily
from the stairs, and before he could press the bell the
door opened and a man appeared.
"Please enter, my dear sir," said the man with an elegant
wave of the hand and exaggerated courtesy. "I am
Dhiakobli. And I have the honour to meet . . . ?"

As Inspector Dutruelle had imagined, Professor Dhiakobli
was black. He had a short yet commanding figure, and
was dressed in a well-tailored grey suit. A large, silk
handkerchief fell from his top pocket.
"For the moment," said Inspector Dutruelle, "my name is
hardly important. I've only come in response to your
advertisement."
"Monsieur has perhaps some small problem with which I
can help? A minor indiscretion? Please be seated, sir,
and let us talk about the matter."
Inspector Dutruelle handed his coat and gloves to the
Professor and sat in the large, well upholstered chair to
which he had been directed. Professor Dhiakobli himself
settled behind a large mahogany desk, on top of which a
chihuahua hardly bigger than a mouse was lounging, its
wide, moist eyes gazing disdainfully at the newcomer.
"Ah, I see that Zeus approves of you," said the
Professor, stroking the tiny dog with the tips of his
manicured fingers, his own unblinking eyes also fixed on
Inspector Dutruelle. "Poor Zeus, mon petit papillon, he is
devoted to me, but he must remain here whenever I
leave France. And you are fortunate, monsieur. It is only
now that I return from Côte d'Ivoire. It is my country you
know, I return there for a few months each summer.
Paris in summer is so disagreeable, don't you agree?"
Professor Dhiakobli glittered with success. The frames of
his glasses, the heavy bracelet on his right wrist and the
watch on his left, the gem-studded rings on his fingers -
all were of gold. From his manner and cultured French
accent it was evident that he was an educated man.
Around him the large room was like a shrine. Heavy
curtains excluded the daylight (the only illumination was
a small brass desklamp) and the dark, red walls were
festooned with spears, costumes, photographs and other
African memorabilia. There was a sweet smell in the air,
and in one corner of the room the feathers of a
ceremonial African headgear lay draped inappropriately
over an enormous American refrigerator. You could not
help being struck by the incongruity of this bizarre scene
in the roughest quarter of Paris.
"As I say," began Inspector Dutruelle, ignoring the
Professor's question, "I saw your card and I wondered
just how you work."
"And may one enquire as to monsieur's little difficulty?"
Inspector Dutruelle cleared his throat and tried to adopt
as nonchalant an air as he could.
"Well," - he coughed again - "first of all, I wondered what
sort of things you can help people with."
The Professor's eyebrows rose.
"Anything," he said slowly, his smile revealing a set of
large white teeth that shone brilliantly in the dimness
against his black skin. "My dear sir, anything at all."
"And then, I wondered, how do you operate? That's to
say, what exactly do you do . . . and how do you
charge?"
"Ah monsieur, let us not talk of money. First I must learn
just how I can help you. And for that a consultation is in
order."
Inspector Dutruelle shifted in his seat.
"And what would a consultation involve? What does it . .
. cost?"
Professor Dhiakobli wrung his hands and shrugged
amicably.
"Mon cher monsieur , I do understand how distasteful it is
to you to discuss so vulgar a matter as money. I too
recoil at the mere thought of it. It has been my mission
in life to help those who have suffered misfortune. And if
some donate a small token of their gratitude, who am I
to refuse their offering? They pay according to their
means, to assist those who have little to offer. But for a
preliminary consultation, monsieur, a nominal sum, as a
mark of good faith, is usually in order. For a gentleman
of your obvious standing, a trifle, a mere two hundred
francs. And let me assure you, monsieur, of my absolute
discretion. Nothing you may choose to tell me will go
beyond these walls." He paused. Then he threw out his
hands and added with a grin: "They have the sanctity of
the confessional."
"I'm glad to hear it," said the Inspector.
"But monsieur still has the advantage of me . . ."
continued Professor Dhiakobli.
Inspector Dutruelle decided that he had nothing to lose
by talking. He adopted the name of Monsieur Mazodier,
a Parisien wine merchant, and began to tell the Professor
of the dilemma that was tearing at his soul. He told him
of the young Malagasy girl he had met while entertaining
clients; of their instant and passionate love for one
another; of her sudden irrational refusal any longer to
give herself to him; and of the wife he now knew he
should never have married but whom he had not the
heart to leave. Monsieur Mazodier was at his wits' end
and now even his business was suffering. He feared that
if he did not find a resolution to his problem he might do
something that he or others would regret. The Professor
listened intently, asking appropriate questions at
appropriate moments. Finally Inspector Dutruelle said:
"Well, Professor Dhiakobli, I think that's all I can tell you.
I don't think I can tell you any more. From what I have
told you, do you believe you can help me?"
For a long time there was silence. The Professor
appeared to be in another world. He stared at Inspector
Dutruelle, but seemed to be looking through him.
"My dear Monsieur Mazodier," he said at last, very
slowly, almost mechanically, "the story you have told me
is most poignant. Each of us has a hidden corner in his
life, a jardin secret . Yet it is rare indeed for men to come
to me with problems such as yours. Perhaps it is natural
that most of my lovelorn clients should be women. At
the mercy of their complex physical structure, is it any
wonder that women are such emotional creatures? I help
them find their lost ones, their partners of many years,
to recreate again the rapport of their youth. You will
understand that it is not easy. But this is my work. My
domain."
"So you can't help me?" said Inspector Dutruelle, adding
despondently: "Perhaps what I really need is a
headshrink."
The Professor gave a start. Again, for a long time he did
not answer. Then his teeth flashed in the dimness.
"Écoutez monsieur, this is my work, my domain," he
repeated. "Certainly I can help you. But you must
understand that it will not be easy. It calls for a special
ceremony. In the first place, you are married, and I shall
be required to work my influence on not one but two
women. In the second, we are both men of the world,
monsieur, and you will not be offended if I remark upon
the extreme disparity in your ages. And finally, it is clear
to me that this young girl has chained your heart with
her magic. You know, the magic of Madagascar is very
strong. No, monsieur, it will not be easy. Enduring love
cannot be bought with money alone. Sometimes . . ." He
hesitated and looked Inspector Dutruelle straight in the
eye, his own eyes suddenly cold and vacant.
"Sometimes," he said, "we must make sacrifices."
"What sort of sacrifices?" asked Inspector Dutruelle dully.
"Oh, my dear sir, you must leave that to me. But one
cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs." His
cold eyes remained fixed on the Inspector and he spoke
in a monotone without pausing for breath. "You must not
concern yourself with technicalities, monsieur. Your mind
must be fixed on the future, on the life you have
dreamed of. You must envisage your wife - happy in the
arms of another. You must picture the fragile young child
you so yearn for . . . secure in your arms . . . sharing
your life . . . your days . . . your nights. The perfect
solution to all your problems. Is it not worth a
considerable sum?"
"It certainly would be worth a lot . . ." Inspector Dutruelle
muttered as the Professor's words came to life in his
mind.
"Shall we say thirty thousand francs?"
"I'm sorry?" muttered the Inspector.
"Let's say fifteen thousand before and fifteen
afterwards," the Professor went on as though his visitor
had not spoken. "Do you see, monsieur, how confident I
am of success?"
Inspector Dutruelle did not reply. He was confused. He
had not expected the Professor to be so blunt, or to
propose quite so generous a token. But it did not seem
to matter. After all, what was thirty thousand francs to
achieve what he craved so desperately? And, in any
case, at worst it was only fifteen thousand.
The Professor's eyes were still fixed on Inspector
Dutruelle.
"Of course, monsieur, I have faith in your gratitude. I
know that you will not forget, in your delight, that what I
have done, I can undo. And now, monsieur, you must
not allow me to detain you further. We have much work
to do. In eight days you will return with photographs and
details of Madame Mazodier and the Malagasy. And with
some little articles of clothing, something close to their
thoughts, say a scarf or a hat. You can arrange this?"
Inspector Dutruelle nodded blankly.
"Excellent, monsieur. I must know them in every detail -
if I am to have a spiritual tête-à-tête with each of them.
So, in fifteen days, you will return for the ceremony. It
will take place beyond those curtains, in the space
reserved for the ancestral spirits. Nobody but I and my
assistants may enter there, but nevertheless it is
imperative that you be present on the day. It must be at
dawn, and you must come without fail - the ceremony
cannot be deferred. Can you manage six in the morning,
shall we say Monday the sixteenth?"
Inspector Dutruelle did not sleep well on the night of the
fifteenth of December. At four o'clock in the morning he
got out of bed. Though his wife stirred she did not wake.
He showered and dressed. His nerves were on edge as
he fiddled around in the kitchen, boiling water for his
coffee. He drank two cups, strong and black, but he
looked helplessly at the croissants he had spread
clumsily with jam. He lit a Gauloise and paced the room.
Then he pulled the windows open and leaned on the
railing, finishing his cigarette. Below him the courtyard
was dark and silent, and above him the sky was black.
But away in the east, through the open end of the court,
a violet hue was creeping over Paris. He glanced at his
watch. It was a quarter past five and time to fetch the
car. It would seem strange, leaving at that time of the
morning without an official car and driver. He wondered
what the concierge would make of it all - she was bound
to be polishing the brasses by the time he reached the
ground floor. He gave a shiver and pushed the windows
shut.
Then he put the keys of the Renault in his coat pocket
and checked that he had everything. He looked into the
bedroom. Gently, he drew the duvet back and looked at
his wife as she slept, her arms clasped about her knees.
He leaned over and touched his lips to her cheek. Then
he closed the bedroom door silently behind him,
switched the lights off in the living room and kitchen,
and opened the front door. As he did so the telephone
rang. It startled him and he cursed aloud. He closed the
front door again and hurried to answer the phone so that
his wife should not wake.
"Inspector Dutruelle?" said the voice at the other end.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Sorry to disturb you at this time of the morning,
Monsieur l'Inspecteur . It's the Préfecture."
"Never mind the time," said Inspector Dutruelle with as
much irritation as his whispering voice could convey.
"I'm off duty today."
"Well, that's the point, Inspector. The Préfet's ordered us
to call you specially. He appreciates you're not on duty,
but he wants you anyway."
"It's quite impossible."
"I'm afraid he insists, sir."
"Why?"
"He insists you come on duty immediately, sir. We're
sending a car round for you."
"Yes, yes, I understand, but why?"
"It's the Metro again, sir."
"The Metro?"
"Yes, sir. They've found another corpse on the line,
decapitated again."
Inspector Dutruelle did not reply. He was cursing to
himself. He was cursing the Préfet, the police, this
homicidal maniac, his wife. Why today? Why ever today?
"Sir? Hello sir? The car'll be with you in five minutes."
"Yes, all right. I'll be ready in five minutes."
The big black Citroen was soon speeding away from Rue
Dauphine and heading north across Pont Neuf. Inspector
Dutruelle looked at the winter mists rising from the
Seine. His dreams, it seemed, were evaporating just as
surely.
"You'd better brief me on this as quick as you can," he
said wearily to the Detective Sergeant he had found
waiting for him in the car. "Where was the body found?"
"Barbes Rochechouart, sir."
A cold shiver passed through the Inspector.
"I presume it's the same as the others?" he asked.
"Well, in as much as there's nothing to go on, it's the
same, sir. Otherwise it couldn't be more different. For a
start, we've just heard they've found two of them now.
And this time they're women. One white, in her forties,
and one black. A young black girl - still in her teens, by
the look of things."
But Inspector Dutruelle was not listening. He was staring
blankly through the glass to his right, and as they turned
at Place du Châtelet the empty streets were no more
than a cold, grey blur to him. The car swung onto the
broad Boulevard de Sébastopol and accelerated
northwards to cover the three kilometres to Metro
Barbes Rochechouart. It was the route he should have
been taking in his own car.
Outside the station, now closed to passengers, people
were standing around under the street lights with their
collars up. Inspector Dutruelle got out of the car. He
hesitated. He glanced towards Rue Beldamme (just a
stone's throw away across the bleak Boulevard de
Rochechouart) where the Professor would be waiting for
him. He shrugged and went down the station steps.
Underground, on the number four line, there was an air
of gloom. Both bodies lay where they had been spotted
by the first train drivers through that morning. Inspector
Dutruelle looked impassively at the first one. It was the
body of a middle-aged woman, quite unexceptional,
coarse and wiry, like his wife.
"She's forty-seven, Monsieur l'Inspecteur ," said somebody
beside him. "French. Name of Madame Catherine Dubur.
Not like the other one."
"The other one?" said the Inspector blankly.
"I told you in the car, sir," said the Detective Sergeant at
his ear, "there's two of them."
"You'd better show me."
They strolled in their overcoats to the other end of the
platform and went down the little steps that led to the
track. A uniformed policeman pulled back the blanket
that covered the second body, which lay on its back.
Inspector Dutruelle stared dispassionately at the stiff,
black limbs that stuck out awkwardly across the railway
lines. Suddenly he shuddered in alarm. Even in the dim
lights of the train that was pulled up beyond you could
see the resemblance to Vololona.
"Identity?" he asked. He tried to control his voice.
"We don't know, sir - this is all we found," said a
policeman, handing him a tattered greetings card. Inside,
in large, green handwriting, were the words: "Happy
Nineteenth Birthday, from Everyone in Antananarivo."
"D'you think she's Malagasy, sir?" asked the policeman.
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders, then held out an
open hand.
"Your torch, please," he said.
He played its beam over the body, up and down the
long, slender legs, across the clothes. At least he did not
recognise the clothes. Yet the body's size, its build, its
colour, everything pointed to Vololona. He bent down
and flashed the light onto the fingers of the left hand
and laughed weakly to himself as he saw the tawdry
rings that glinted back at him. He stood up in relief. That
was certainly not Vololona. Yet it was uncanny how this
body reminded him of her - and the other of Agnes, for
that matter. Even the ages were the same.
He smoked as he stood staring at the headless corpse.
He could not understand. Was the magic of Madagascar
really so strong that now he saw Vololona everywhere?
And what of Agnes? How would Professor Dhiakobli
explain that? How could he explain it, when you came to
think of it? When you came to think of it, he had
explained very little. He had been happy enough to take
the money, and free enough with his words - all those
grandiose notions of mission and sacrifice and spiritual
tête-à-têtes . . .
Inspector Dutruelle gasped.
"The devil," he muttered to himself. Suddenly he
understood everything.
"The what, sir?" said somebody beside him.
"Never mind," he answered quietly, putting his hand to
his breast pocket. His heart had started to pound with a
sense of danger and his head suddenly ached with
questions. He took out his cigarette case and lit another
Gauloise. Through its curling blue smoke, back-lit by the
lights of the train, the black limbs were splayed out in a
grotesque dance, while beside him men's voices were
thrumming in his ear. Why was there no time to think, to
extricate himself from this nightmare? He cursed himself.
How could he have been so stupid? He cursed his wife
and Vololona. And Professor Dhiakobli. What madness
had driven him to this? Then he cursed himself again,
and turned abruptly to one of the men babbling at his
side.
"What time is it?"
"Six-fifteen, sir."
For a moment, he hesitated. Then he called for the
Detective Sergeant who was with the photographer at
the other body.
"Écoute Guy, when he's got his pictures they can move
the bodies and fix things up," he said. "Now get me the
Préfet."
The Préfet was beside himself with rage at this further
disturbance to his sleep, and he exploded with
indignation when Inspector Dutruelle offered his
resignation.
"Are you insane, man? You're in the middle of an
investigation!"
"The investigation is over, Monsieur le Préfet ."
"So, you have the killer at last!"
"In fifteen minutes, monsieur, in fifteen minutes."
"Then why in the name of God are you asking to be
relieved from duty?"
"Monsieur le Préfet , my position is impossible. On this occasion it was I that paid the killer," he answered calmly as he took another cigarette from his silver cigarette case.

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[Story] Dew drops tragedy on EID Morning

Drop by drop.... Dew gathered...

Grass of roadside" shined by mornings sunshine ........grass of garden are also...

Dew of grass gradually show the world best beauty..

A boy (natural beauty lover) enjoy this world best beauty scene.......everyday...

Day by day eid day knock at the door...

The Boy leave his won house for see mornings beauty

that displayed on the grass by dew.....

He stayed at garden side for enjoy scene... Then he captured by snake bite..

That morning was eid day morning..that scenery covered by dew drops...

That was a tragedy for his family....

(eid day ,festival of muslims)

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[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.

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[English Story] A Haunted House

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting.
From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here,
opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.
"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here
tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden,"
he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake
them."
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking
for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so
read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would
be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then,
tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the
house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood
pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the
threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I
come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands
were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples
were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as
ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one
could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples,
reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If
they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned
its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was
opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls,
pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty.

The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the
deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble
of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat
softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse
stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden
then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam
of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface
the beam I sought always burned behind the glass.
Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to
the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the
house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were
darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw
the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house,
found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe,"
the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours."
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend
this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in
the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the
window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering
through the house, opening the windows, whispering not
to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without
number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the
trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer
came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far
in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls,
the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken,
we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her
ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he
breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they
look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives
straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of
moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain
the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that
search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly.
"Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here,"
she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing,
rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--"
Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe!
safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking,
I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the
heart."

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