Junta

Praise for JUNTA

JUNTA examines the politics of a nation as only a skilled storyteller like Ken Puddicombe can. Rich with local flavour and characters that live and breathe on the page. -Karen Fenech, author of The Protector Series.

Junta takes you on an historical journey…with rhythm and tone that is tastefully weaved with lots of conflict and drama…from the opening pages throughout the end -Marita Berry, author of Red September.

After a first novel—Racing in the Rain" (2012)— introducing a Caribbean, steaming in post-colonial turbulence, Ken Puddicombe follows up with Junta, another suspenseful tale of churning political chaos.–Frank Birbalsingh author of Novels and The Nation: Essays in Canadian Literature.

The diverse characters in the book become enmeshed in the struggle and the tension between them builds increasingly from page to page… –Enrico Downer, author of There Once Was a Little England.

Ken Puddicombe’s JUNTA is…culturally vibrant while keenly insightful of general human nature under duress, portraying both the purer and darker desires of a mixed bag of empathetic characters…worth a read. -Margaret Sisu, author of Nathaniel Myer

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JUNTA

a novel

By

Ken Puddicombe

Published by MiddleRoad Publishers

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Ken Puddicombe

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. While certain incidents are taken randomly from historical records, the names, characters, places and for the greater part, situations, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Puddicombe, Ken, author
          Junta : a novel / Ken Pudicombe.

Includes index.
ISBN 978-1-4975-3558-9 (pbk.)

TTitle.

PS8631.U44J86 2014           C813’.6          C2014-902399-5

Cover photograph courtesy Photo WO2 Fiona Stapley MOD

APPRECIATION

SUPPORT FROM FELLOW WRITERS

My appreciation to Peel writers, without whose patience in suffering through several edits, this book would not have been possible: Debra Porter, Gary Reist, Judith Gelberger, Karen Fenech. And to writers of New Voices From The Caribbean: Marita Berry, Rico Downer and Margaret Sisu.

However, the author takes responsibility for all errors of omission or commission

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DEDICATION

For my father William Richard, who lit the first spark with his vast repository of books; for my mother, Rahieman who nurtured me as no one else could at a time most needed,

and for my wife Rohini, daughters Karen and Kathryn, granddaughters Emma and Dana, the loves of my life who give me hope.

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JUNTA

Junta: n. body of persons acting towards common aim, esp. political clique or faction after revolution or coup d’etat.

Every revolution evaporates, leaving behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy, –Franz Kafka (1863-1924)

CONTENTS

Praise For the Book

Copyright

Appreciation

Dedication

Chapter 1 –Beginnings

Chapter 2 - Encounters

Chapter 3 – Coup D’Etat

Chapter 4 – Good and Bad Tidings

Chapter 5 – Some Will Disagree

Chapter 6 - Nonconformists

Chapter 7 - Sanctuaries

Chapter 8 - Secrets

Chapter 9 – Close Calls

Chapter 10 – Decisions Decisions

Chapter 11 – Stop The Press

Chapter 12 – Uncertain Times

Chapter 13 - Harbingers

Chapter 14 – Different Roads

REFERENCE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1 –BEGINNINGS

Professor Jacobson, your first week—what do you think of our university so far?

Marcus hesitated. One week was hardly adequate for him to form, much less voice an opinion to Everton, a long established member of the hierarchy. A bit too early to say, he replied.

Marcus was surveying the crowd. It was large, and getting boisterous by the minute. Someone far across the hall had drawn his attention. She was in a small group of guys—an East Indian, a Chinese, a Portuguese and a Black—and it was her constant shifting of locations that made him notice her. The amount of times she turned around enabled him to make a full three hundred and sixty degree observation and it stirred his interest. There was something familiar about her and he was trying to determine what was locked away at the back of his memory. Where had he seen her?

But surely you’ve already made some observations? Everton persisted. He held a drink in his left hand and his right hand was engaged in an endless caress of his bushy sideburns. How do we compare with the North American universities, for example?

Marcus was not about to take the bait. Two weeks back in Saint Anglia, one week at the university, and already he’d heard rumours of Everton’s bitter disappointment at being passed over for the job of Dean of the Faculty of Humanities and Education. And now, as Professor of West Indian Literature, the man was reporting to Marcus.

Observations yes, but no conclusions, Marcus said.

Students were at one end of the hall, the faculty at the other. The demarcation line was still there, even though it was ostensibly an off-campus party to bridge the gap between professors and students at the start of the term. Marcus figured the girl was somewhere in her early twenties, although she looked as if she hadn’t left her teenage years behind. Her lighter complexion was outstanding in the crowd of brown, not so brown, and black faces, and while he realized she was mixed, on the surface she looked no different than a North American tourist who’d been in the sun for a few days. She was almost the same colour as the sapodilla he’d eaten earlier in an attempt to reawaken his palate to the island’s tropical fruits. He could still savour the juice.

Gladstone, Dean of the Engineering faculty was at Marcus’ left. At close to six feet six, he was at least six inches taller than Marcus, a deep furrow marking his brow from years of frowning at students’ inadequate responses. He came to Marcus’ rescue. Everton, you’re placing Professor Jacobson in a tight spot. Give him some time to catch his breath before we engage him in campus politics.

Everton shrugged; he went off to other faculty members.

Now, the girl was in the centre of the group, turning and swirling, throwing her head back and laughing as she teased the East Indian about something he’d said. Every now and then she reached over and touched him slightly on his arm, leaning precipitously closer to him and whispering something in his ear. Every time she did this, the East Indian blushed and looked at the floor. It was amusing to see a brown man turning red in the face. Then, the three others in the group started laughing and prodding the East Indian until he could take no more and beat a hasty retreat to the bar. She was the loudest of them all, though, and Marcus could hear her laughter even above the constant din from the crowded hall and the pulsating beat of the bass on the loudspeakers blasting away the Soca music. She was having a grand time tonight.

Richardson, Dean of the Law faculty came over with two glasses. He said: Don’t know if you lost your taste for our rum, Marcus, but the first sip of this will reacquaint you.

Will even grow hair on your chest, Gladstone said.

Marcus nodded his appreciation, took the glass and sipped the contents. He’d been much too young to drink strong liquor up to the time he left the island at the age of seventeen, but had his share of whisky when he was in England. Richardson had concocted a heady mix of rum and cola, and it was strong.

Anyone heard the news this morning? Richardson asked. He had a way of blinking rapidly as he spoke, as if his eyelids were sending a coded message.

If you’re talking about the trouble in the Northern Region, Gladstone said. I heard the military is rushing troops up there to put it down.

The girl had a bottle of beer in her left hand—Marcus could see it when she held it up to take a sip; but her right hand was concealed at all times. As she leaned forward slightly and straightened up, she tilted her head at an angle and an almost imperceptible whiff of smoke curled up to the ceiling.

Marcus smiled. What he was seeing, he realized, was one of those closet smokers, afraid of being caught in the act, trying her best to conceal the habit. He wondered how many times she’d done the routine, the number of occasions she’d been caught by her parents and the amount of promises made to give it up. He could remember when he was the same age.

How long’s this been going on? Marcus asked.

Richardson’s eyelids fluttered. What, do you mean, the insurrection or the government corruption?

Gladstone interjected, his eyebrows arching even higher than usual: The corruption, ever since independence. The insurrection, no one’s too sure about, but based on recent reports in the media, it seems as if it’s now escalating. We even had a couple of bombs exploding in Port George the week before you came in.

Sounds serious, Marcus said.

Richardson said: The way this government losing support, I’m actually surprised it didn’t happen earlier.

Marcus took another sip. He felt giddy. The flow of alcohol seemed to be flowing in the opposite direction—to his brain instead of his stomach. I heard in the news this morning that the conference of Caribbean heads is being held in Barbados and one of the items on the agenda is some kind of a regional self-defense force. The prime minister and the inner cabinet are attending, I believe?

Richardson said, That’s true. The story is that our PM is running scared right now, since the coup in Grenada.

The girl took another sip of her beer and returned to the Portuguese. As she turned, her dress twirled around her legs and slowly straightened itself out. It was a light, pink dress and while the lower section hung loosely around her legs, the upper part clung to her torso as if it were designed solely for her body. Marcus had the feeling she would have looked great in anything she wore. There was something else—every male passing within ten feet of her noticed her striking good looks.

Marcus sighed, looked at his watch and realized it was already ten-thirty. I’m going to call it a night and head out, he said. He turned to take one last look at the girl. It was then she noticed him.

In a sweeping motion she dropped her cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. Then, she broke away from her friends and elbowed a path through the crowd.

As she came closer he noticed details he had not seen before: Long, shoulder length, light brown hair; small ears visible only when her hair moved from side to side as she bobbed along; a nose that complemented her face, with only the merest hint of black features at the slightly broad base. And, it was her eyes that held him transfixed. They seemed to change colour as she passed from the bright overhead light by the door to the dim atmosphere of the room and then into the open floodlight by the bar; from a light-green to dull grey and then to a combination of both.

They came upon each other half way towards the door and she stood in front of him, blocking his exit.

Why, Professor Jacobson, leaving so soon? she said. The party’s only just begun. It goes until early morning.

She took another swig of her beer and braced her hand on her hip. There was an impish grin on her face and when she smiled it revealed a dimple in her right cheek. As she waited for a response, she rocked her hip slightly to the right and left, the way he had seen her do with her friends.

I’m at a disadvantage, he said. He looked her straight in the eye. Have we met somewhere before?

I’m disappointed. You don’t remember me…

He chuckled. Ah, yes, the unabashed libertarian at my lecture this afternoon. Well, have you found a way to resolve all the world’s problems since we last debated…Miss?

Sanderson. Melanie. And no, Professor I have not solved all the world’s problems since your class, but I’m working at it. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before she continued. It’s just that, I don’t see us getting anywhere fast in the West Indies and that was the point I was trying to get over to you when you were talking about how far we have come since independence in the seventies. I didn’t mean to interrupt your lecture and I hope you didn’t take offence.

No, I didn’t take offence Miss Sanderson. Healthy debate and different opinions are always welcome. That’s the role of a university, isn’t it?

But you do agree with me, don’t you? It’s just that we seem to be forever stuck in perpetual stagnation in the islands. That, even though we’re nearly fourteen million people occupying an area much larger than England, the rest of the world seems to ignore us all the time. She shrugged her shoulders. It’s as if they still think we’re colonies and can’t make our own decisions or determine our own destiny.

Her face was flushed and he wasn’t sure how much the beer had contributed to it. He moved his spectacles up and down on his nose bridge. His eyes were tired. Are you sure it is they who still think we’re colonies?

He could see that she was taken aback by his question. He grew concerned. Was he about to re-ignite the debate from the lecture?

Even with the wide scowl on her face she was still attractive. He wondered which side of the family she’d got her looks from.

What do you mean by that, Professor? Are you saying that we have not matured as a region as yet? That even though we have gained freedom, we don’t act like it? In other words, we’re the cause of our own downfall?

The music seemed to have grown much louder and it had almost drowned out her words and placed a mental fog on his brain. The crowd seemed to be closing in on him and ever so often he was touched, brushed or braced from the back. Someone bumped against him and sent him catapulting over to her. He managed to stop just before he ended up in her arms but he noticed she hadn’t budged an inch in the opposite direction. In that instant of the near collision, he had a whiff of an intoxicating aroma—one of a heady blend of perspiration, perfume and alcohol.

What I am saying, Miss Sanderson…

Please, call me Melanie.

You have to admit, Miss Sanderson, that we still think along insular lines and have hardly come to terms with the fact that we can gain much more clout as a region.

And whose fault is that? Isn’t it our colonial masters who ran things by divide and conquer? Aren’t they the ones who created that problem?

Could be. But how much longer are we going to blame our present condition on others? Isn’t it time we took responsibility for our future?

Oh, so now you’re saying that we’re not responsible people? Maybe you’ve lived too long in England, Professor. You’ve started thinking like our ex-masters.

He chuckled. Look, all I am saying is that every island is only interested in its own present condition and does not realize that it’s part of a region. That, there is much more power if we negotiate from a united front. Tell you what, have you read up on the Confederation era back in the sixties when Trinidad, Jamaica, Barbados and Guyana were striving for independence? I realize that was long before your time, but you should take a look at it. He looked at his watch. I’m sorry, but I have to go.

She did not move and there was no way around her with the crowd still closing in on them.

What about CARICOM—the Caribbean Community initiative? Are you familiar with it? she asked.

She obviously did not think he’d kept abreast of political and other social developments in the Caribbean. Yes, I know all about CARICOM. I will say that it’s a step in the right direction, but so far, it’s just an extension of the old Caribbean Free Trade Area. There is still nothing going on for political union and regionalism. He looked at his watch. But, I’m sorry, I have to go. We can continue this discussion some other time.

She looked at the watch on her right hand. It’s early yet. Leaving already?

Yes, I have an early morning appointment, he lied. Plus, it’s way past my bed time.

She took another sip from her bottle and looked back at her group. My friends and I are going to the Bamboo Grove for a few drinks, will you come with us?

You mean, for a few more drinks, I assume, He hadn’t meant for it to come out as a rebuke and he started squirming even as he said it.

If she had detected any acrimony in his voice she seemed to ignore it. She smiled and held her bottle up. Okay, for a few more drinks. Will you join us?

She was leaning close to him as she spoke, the way he had seen her do with the East Indian earlier. He was at least six inches taller than her and from his vantage point he could easily see down the front of her dress without tilting his head. The pink dress seemed to hug her youthful body even more provocatively and the thought of spending a few more hours in her company was tempting.

No, really I must go. Can I take a rain check?

Suit your self, she said, as she shrugged and went back to her friends.

He watched her go, her hips swaying, her legs taking her along in an effortless glide across the floor.

***

Captain Glen Stevenson was sucking on the first cigarette of a new pack when the unmarked car pulled away from head quarters in Port George.

Stevenson was wearing a white t-shirt with markings that had bled with so many washings that they were no longer decipherable. He thought there might have been an eagle there at one time, but he wasn't sure. Faded blue jeans completed his outfit and his driver was wearing a plain black shirt and corduroy pants.

As the driver turned left into Lombard Street the captain glanced at the thick, red accordion folder lying on the seat next to him. A cover-page stapled to the top of the folder showed a list of items and updates and he could see that nothing new had been added to the folder since he last borrowed the file from his contact at Army Intelligence Bureau. But over a weekend, two months ago, he'd familiarized himself with the file and memorized the contents of the documents.

There was hardly any traffic on Lombard Street—not many people came to the block of Government buildings on a Saturday when offices were closed, but as the car turned left into Main Street and the downtown core, the driver was caught in stop-and-go traffic. There seemed to be every conceivable type of vehicle on the road this morning—taxis plying passengers from cruise ships to the shopping area, trucks conveying building material for the current renovation of Fort George, rickshaws and horse-drawn buggies creeping along, and mini-busses packed with people heading for the beaches. An occasional motorcyclist and bicyclist negotiated his way through the traffic.

Stevenson took another drag on the cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke upwards and to his left, towards the small crack he had opened in the window.

The folder was about six inches thick, one of the largest he had seen since he had managed to obtain access to documents. A four-inch square yellow tab was stapled to the front of the folder. At the top of the tab the word CONFIDENTIAL was written in large, bold letters: Then, NO COPYING –ACCESS RESTRICTED below it.

Stevenson knew there were five sections in the folder, all labeled with colour tabs at the top, and each section contained either a file or an envelope. The first tab on the accordion was labeled Profile, the 2nd—Background, the 3rd—Activities, the 4th—Visuals, and the 5th—Miscellaneous.

In the Profile section was a one-page memo produced on the Army Intelligence Bureau letterhead. There was no signature on the bottom and no indication of who had written it, but in the Subject field was typed: Thomas Jefferson Freeman, also known as The Reverend.

Someone had underlined sections of the memo:

The subject is not known to have committed any illegal activities since his arrival as a visitor on January 8th, 1978, but could be a potential state security risk in the near future and needs to be monitored closely.

In the Background section was a three-page document also produced on the same letterhead. He remembered the details…

"Thomas Jefferson Freeman, born 20th November, 1935, in the small rural town of Windsor Forest, about twenty-five miles south of Savannah, Georgia, USA…oldest child of Jonah Freeman and Winifred Jones, sharecroppers by occupation…Four brothers, five sisters, all back in Georgia…no contact since he left Georgia for Harlem, NY…No female attachment known of…Attended the local Church school in Windsor Forrest and later was ordained a Baptist Minister in Harlem…Strong church supporter until he broke off due to disillusionment with his low standing in the hierarchy of the church…

"Became an ardent admirer of The Reverend Jim Jones and his creation of an independent church that would cater strictly to the poor and underprivileged. Left to join Jim Jones' flock in California… rose in the ranks of the hierarchy and eventually became one of Jones’ chief lieutenants.

"Went to Guyana with Reverend Jim Jones in summer of 1977 and was one of the architects of the creation of the Jonestown commune deep in the Guyana jungle. Was personally involved and led the negotiations with the government of that country to set up the commune. No explanation given as to his reason for leaving the commune early 1978, before the mass suicide/murders but he left along with a few of his own followers and relocated to the capital, Georgetown. There, he was appointed spiritual consultant to the government but it is suspected that he organized certain underhand activities leading to suppression of the population.

Reason given for his departure from Guyana: creation of his own ministry to enlighten, educate, and relieve the burden of those in the West Indies who continue to suffer from the ravages of a slave dominated economy. The Reverend’s chief henchman who follows him around is an American by the name of Jackson, a former security guard with a severe case of Strabismus—crossed-eyes. It is believed that The Reverend relies on Jackson for enforcing his will. The Reverend now runs his ministry in the Tiger Bay section of the Old City.

The Activities file contained a detailed account of when The Reverend arrived on the island, along with a short biography of the key members of his ministry. Then, a section was highlighted in yellow: Suspected of but no evidence accumulated to date of coordinating a gang of street children from the Tiger Bay area. These children are engaged in petty theft, house breaking, snatch and grab tactics and other criminal activities.

They reached the intersection of Fort, Main and Bay and the driver made a left turn. A plywood wall had been temporarily erected around the fort on the right side of the intersection but high above the wall, the ramparts and turrets of the old fort stood out against the midmorning sunlight reflecting off the calm waters of the Atlantic. There was a crowd gathered outside the entrance to the fort, awaiting its opening for visitation.

The street broke off into two branches divided by a narrow swathe of turf with a gutter in the middle. The left branch was Fort Street and led to Tiger Bay through Columbus Circle and the Old City. The right branch was Bay Street—this ran smack-bang into the worst section of Tiger Bay and was rarely used by vehicular traffic. This section of Port George had mushroomed around the Old City over the last few years when people had flocked to the city with the collapse of the rural agriculture-based economy. What had started out as a trickle became a flood of émigrés and before the government could act, the landscape was littered with hastily erected sheds. Bay Street itself ran north from Main Street for a couple of miles, then ended abruptly in the middle of nowhere since the extension connecting with the Old City had been eventually squatted on. As a result, that section of Bay Street was now a series of narrow lanes and alleyways, some of which were crisscrossed by intersections; a few were still dirt roads; many were simply pathways made by many feet tramping their way to and fro innumerable times. It was the most densely populated area of all Saint Anglia. The last census had omitted the area completely—no one dared enter to count the residents and the area was crammed: an overcrowded, putrid blot on the landscape.

Stevenson did not have to tell the driver which way to go—he chose the Fort Street route, away from Tiger Bay.

On the left, they were passing the National Assembly. The huge building with its high portico supported by thick pillars, almost blocked the Prime Minister’s residence to the left. The National Assembly had already received its annual cleanup, tourists were coming and going around the grounds, taking pictures, posing with the building in the background.

The car left Fort Street and merged with traffic in the Columbus Circle roundabout. They passed High Street and Park Avenue. The shops along the circle were all busy—tourists entering or leaving stores and cluttering the sidewalks. In the centre of the circle was a huge statue of Columbus, erected on a high concrete base and encircled by steps leading up to the statue itself. The statue showed the great discoverer with his right hand pointing east.

They turned left into University Avenue. The traffic had thinned on the Avenue—cars heading to and from the university, a few pedestrians on the sidewalks; not much more going on at this time of day. They turned right into Heritage Trail, leading to the Old City. Stevenson stamped out his cigarette butt in the overflowing ashtray at the back of the driver’s seat.

The driver parked at the municipal lot just outside the Old City. Stevenson locked the orange folder in a briefcase in the car and took the key with him. He left the driver taking a smoke inside the car. Stevenson didn’t say where he was going or how long he would take—he expected the man, like any good soldier under his command, would curb his curiosity and remain in the car, like he did on all the other occasions when Stevenson had gone off on assignations or meetings.

***

Clarence Baptiste was late for the Gleaner mid-morning conference.

There were many things for which Clarence had a very low tolerance and tardiness was on top of the list. He felt that employees who were not punctual for work contributed to inefficiency due to the impact on every other interconnecting function, and, they were in effect also stealing from their employer. Since Clarence was the owner of the Gleaner, it was from him they were stealing.

In all his years at the Gleaner, Clarence was never late—not during the time when he was a reporter or since he took over as Managing Editor. He realized the importance of setting a good example. Not that he ever felt the need to explain his actions to anyone, since even if he were late, they could hardly accuse him of stealing from himself. But tardiness was a luxury that could not be afforded in the newspaper business. He always told his staff that being late for a meeting was as bad as publishing stale news.

He checked his pocket watch as he walked through the front door of the building. It was ten-fifteen. He was one hour and forty-five minutes late for work, fifteen minutes late for the meeting. If he hadn't stopped at the furniture store he would not have been caught in rush hour traffic. If the store had reasonable hours and was opened from nine instead of nine-thirty, he would have been able to make it on time for the meeting. If his order didn't have to be custom-made in the first place, he wouldn’t have had to go to the store. It all peeved him and a craving for nicotine exacerbated his agitation. At times like this he questioned his resolve to quit cold turkey. Three months: not too long, long enough that it felt like ages.

Clarence shook his head and replaced his watch in the right fob of his vest.

He passed the receptionist and nodded as she looked his way and wished him Good mawning Mister Baptiste. The receptionist sat behind a crescent shaped desk, her back to the wall, switchboard in front of her, and a small shelf unit with trays for Incoming and Outgoing to her right. Just above her head was a large ledge with a brass bust perched on it. The receptionist, who occupied half the width of the space behind her desk, would be the first person visitors noticed on entering the sparsely furnished lobby as she greeted them. The bust would most likely be the second.

A nametag, also brass, was affixed to the base of the bust. The tag was labeled: The Honourable Mister Thomas Wilson, founder of the Gleaner. 1949. Thomas Wilson had been overlooking the comings and goings of everyone at the newspaper since his bust was placed there. Clarence could remember seeing the bust when he came for his first interview back in 1962. At that time he had been offered and accepted a job as a reporter. But it was only when he took over the Gleaner in 1969 he had to decide whether to retain the bust or get rid of it. He had found no reason to change the layout or the structure of the lobby since he was convinced the juxtaposition of Wilson and the receptionist presented a more than imposing enough impression on everyone entering the building, so much that they were sure to remember the encounter. Anyhow, changing things around cost money.

Clarence headed for the stairs.

From the base of the stairs he could see the double-doors at the rear of the lobby. There was a notice on both sections of the door: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. He could not figure out why someone had placed an identical sign on the doors—signs that sent exactly the same message, contrary to one of his basic principles in newspaper publishing: avoid duplication and redundancy. It was as if the person felt a double emphasis on the same instruction would guarantee its observance. Clarence had always considered it a revolting waste of money. It irked him every time he saw the signs and he often thought of having one of them removed, but to remove one would just add to the cost.

The double-doors led to the printing plant on the ground floor.

Clarence unbuttoned his jacket and mounted the first flight of stairs. As he paused to catch his breath, he felt tremors on the rail and steps. At around this time of day, Fitz Johnson and his teams of machine and press operators would be running the weekly magazine along with the advertising flyers for the weekend edition and preparing the Web-offset presses for the overnight run of the newspaper. Everyone in the building knew when the machines were running—from the ground floor where the vibrations were heaviest, to the second floor where the sickening stench of the various inks permeated through the floor vents. At times, Clarence was sure he could detect a trace of the odour as far up as the third floor, and along with it, came the suppressed grumbling of the employees. Clarence was sure there were only two people who were pleased with the location of the printing presses in the building. One was Fitz Johnson, who Clarence at times thought had red ink instead of blood flowing through his veins. The other was Clarence himself: One of his greatest accomplishments so far had been the installation of the offset presses just over a year ago in an upgrade project to transform the Gleaner into the world of colour.

He made his way up a suspended stairway that twisted and turned from the lobby and the reception area, spiraling upwards past the second floor, ending up on the third. At the second floor, occupied by Finance and Administration—Personnel, Billing, Receivables, Payables, Marketing and Sales—he paused in the hallway, wheezing, his breath coming in gasps. His right hand moved to his jacket pocket in a reflex action built up over years of doing the same thing. For a few seconds, he poked around for a pack, until he realized he no longer carried cigarettes. What he found was a stash of mints. He had mints in his jacket pockets, mints in his pants pockets, mints in his hip pockets. He pulled out a mint and unwrapped it, popping it into his mouth and placing the wrapper in his pocket. Perspiration was running down his forehead and fogging his glasses. He fumbled for a handkerchief in his hip pocket, pulled it out and started to wipe his lens.

The offices of the second floor were enclosed behind a glass wall. A glass door in the centre of the wall provided access for both employees and visitors. Clarence replaced his glasses. Inside the enclosed office was a beehive of activity: the office boy was making his way around with his cart, dropping off the first mail run; the people in Finance and Accounting were busy at their work stations while the cashiers were receiving payments from customers. The door to the inner sanctum opened and closed incessantly as people came and went about their business. Sounds of the office filtered out: typewriter carriages clacking, the clap-clapping of footsteps as people scurried back and forth along the wooden floor, voices and shards of conversation as people tried to make themselves heard above the din.

…Calling about your overdue payment…you can get a much cheaper rate if you run it for several days, sir…very sorry sir, the deadline for ads in the weekend edition was yesterday at two pm…

Clarence walked across the hall to the final flight of stairs. The sounds were unabated. He thought it was impossible for his employees to be working so diligently on a continuous basis, but he could never catch them slacking off. He had a fixed pattern of arrival and departure during which the activity in the office never varied. Today, was no different. He suspected there was an internal alarm system at work. From the moment he entered the front entrance and started up the stairs, somehow, whether by dint of stealth or telepathic means, a message was flashed around that he was in the building. It was as if they were always one step ahead of him and could sense his every move and action. For a while, he had imagined the receptionist was the main instigator of the signal, but he had dismissed this after pausing on the stairs a few times, out of sight, to listen for a phone call she might be making to announce his arrival. He had heard nothing.

The top floor was dedicated entirely to the newsroom and editorial offices. It was where he was heading. He clenched the mint between his teeth and sucked vigorously.

In the redesign, after he bought the newspaper, lock, stock and building, Clarence had kept an open concept for the entire top floor. There were two exceptions: the conference room in the middle of the floor, and his office at the corner of the building, overlooking the junction of Fort Street and Water Street. But even these rooms were not considered enclosed, since they had both been built with glass walls, something that enabled Clarence to see goings-on outside his office.

Clarence hadn’t phoned about his delay since he was anxious to see if his staff would have started the meeting without him. The weekend edition of the Gleaner, the largest of the week, both in terms of volume and advertising space, was not something he took lightly, and this had added to his discomfort.

The ceaseless clatter of typewriter keys, the whirring sounds of photocopiers, one-sided conversations from telephone interviews, all embraced him as he walked down the centre aisle. On the third floor, there was a constant hum in the air, something that continued well into the night. There was something about the racket—it rode the air pockets and filtered into his office, blending as background noise, in an imperceptible way. Over the years, the clamour had even been imbedded into his subconscious, to the point where he was able to read subtle changes in tone and pitch in the sounds, the way a conductor can detect the slightest change in pace in an orchestral rendition. Many times he’d detected such a change, left his office and found that there had been a decrease in the intensity, caused perhaps by reporters who had just reached a deadline, a few people having a drink around the water cooler, or a malfunction in a photocopier.

He passed several empty chairs—Kishore Simboo would have handed out the day’s assignments to reporters in the early morning news-desk meeting and they were probably out pursuing leads. There was a momentary break in the buzz as he proceeded down the aisle, but by the time he reached the door of the conference room, the recital on the floor had resumed.

Members of the editorial staff were all in the conference room, seated around the oval table.

Clarence moved the mint around several times in his mouth. A rattling sound made its way to his ears every time the mint grazed against his teeth. He opened the door to the conference room. The first thing that hit him was a compelling rush of grey tinted cigarette smoke seeking a way out of the room. The unleashing of the smoke almost staggered him. He could see the day was going to be just as rough as it had started. The mint was down to the size of a bird’s egg—he snapped it in two and ground the sections between his molars. He felt the grit stealthily making its way into the spaces between his teeth and a sharp jolt of pain shot upwards to his brain. Water came to his eyes.

***

From his position, perched on a stool outside the rum shop, Wilfred Whyte kept an eye on the progress of a game of dominoes his three friends—Fat Boy, Shorty and Minh were playing on the patio deck. His head was tilted back against the wall, cigarette clenched between his teeth, hands tucked into the waist of his pants.

Wilfred found the game tiring and monotonous.

In the stillness of the early morning, every time one of his friends slammed a bone-ticket on the table, the sound echoed across the plaza. Wilfred didn’t understand why anyone would waste so much time with the game. It did not appeal to him—he didn’t see what was so difficult about matching one ticket to another. His friends kept telling him though, there was a lot more involved if there were only three players, since it meant seven tickets were out of circulation at any one time, making it difficult to figure out the cards of the other two players.

There was a flame tree in the middle of the courtyard. Wilfred had seen the tree blossom every year, its scarlet flowers blooming after the rainy season ended, finally shriveling up and falling a few weeks into the dry season. At this time of the year, the blossoms had long since dropped from the tree and been blown away. Most of the outdoor activity in the Market Plaza revolved around this tree, everything geared specially for the tourists, designed to put them in a relaxed state after a taste of island life. Vendors knew if tourists were relaxed enough they would be willing to open their wallets before they headed back to the cruise ship and, in the brief span of time between arrival and departure, vendors had to extract as much as they could from people they would never see again. Wilfred thought he and his friends helped to contribute to this effort of extracting money from tourists’ wallets.

The courtyard was crammed with people. They seemed to have come in waves, their appearance carefully orchestrated to coincide with the bright sunlight streaming into the courtyard.

Under the flame tree, a band had started playing. Two limbo dancers, one male, the other female, were performing behind a cordoned-off area. The man was shirtless and wore tight, skin-fit red pants. The woman wore a leopard skin outfit: a halter-top; the bottom part as skimpy as the top, but with short frills dangling between her legs. Muscles rippled around her mid-rift as she gyrated to the music and moved her stomach muscles in and out.

One of the many things Wilfred loved about the tourists was their ability to loosen up in their tropical surroundings. All the right ingredients were present today—a warm, cloudless day; palm fronds swaying gently in the cool breeze blowing off the bay; calypso music coming from the band. In addition, vendors had an abundant supply of tropical drinks the tourists loved—Rum and Cola, Gin and Coconut water, or beer to quench their thirsts. People not sipping some liquid from a glass or bottle were either fully engrossed with the limbo dancers or doing something that would imbed a long lasting memory of their visit—whether they were posing for pictures, or having their hair braided, or simply standing there swaying to the island rhythms.

Everywhere he looked, Wilfred could see the type of activity he liked—people pulling out wallets, dipping into handbags, peeling off bills from wads of notes, counting change.

Stupid people, he thought. They come here and half o’them act as if they own the place, and the other half o'them think this is paradise. They think they belong to the first band of explorers seeing the West Indies for the first time. They think they’re like Christopher Columbus and we all natives. When will they learn?

Wilfred knew it was time to go to work, that opportunity was now knocking and he would answer it. His friends were still playing their insipid game of Dominoes.

Time to end the game, boys, Wilfred said.

***

General Septimus Ignatious Marks stirred when he heard the soft tap on his bedroom door. He sat up in bed, slowly swung his legs over and slipped his feet into his bedside slippers. When his houseboy entered the room the General was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes closed, body propped up with his long arms.

He didn't move from the bed until he heard the water