Caribbean: a novel Part 38

'But it's in the final paragraph that he really delights me. This lad of fifteen feels obliged to pa.s.s judgment on the governor of St. Croix, and we see the future politician displaying his capacity and willingness to intervene: "Our general has issued several very salutary and humane regulations, and both in his publick and private measures, has shewn himself the Man." There spoke the rigorous taskmaster of the early 1800s.'

He ended his lecture with the information that Hamilton, as a result solely of having written this letter, was invited at the expense of older men who saw in him a touch of genius to come to their America, where he would receive a free education at a school in New Jersey and later at King's College in New York. With a flourish Professor Carpenter said: 'So if you write good term papers, there's no telling what good things might happen,' and his students applauded his bravura performance.

The story of Alexander Hamilton so inflamed Ranjit's imagination that for some days he moved about the pleasant campus of the university picturing himself at the heart of a hurricane whipping about Jamaica, and then as a colonel fighting alongside Lafayette and Kosciusko, and finally orating in Philadelphia at the Const.i.tutional Convention and serving as the Minister for Finance who saved his fledgling nation.

But insistently in his daydreaming he came back to the famous Hurricane of 1772 and the boy Hamilton caught in the mighty whirl but still taking mental notes of what was happening, and the event became so vividly real that he dropped out of cla.s.ses for a full week to compose a heroic poem of a hundred and sixty-eight twelve-syllable lines. When finished, he typed out three copies, delivering one to each of his professors, with the curt explanation: 'I've been engaged. Please forgive my absence.' And each of the three read his poem with the conviction that Ranjit had spent his arbitrary vacation working on ideas promulgated in his or her cla.s.s: TO ALEXANDER HAMILTON.

STRUGGLING IN THE HURRICANE OF 1772.

The hurricane that swept me from my island home Was benedicted with no clever name like Bruce.

Its cognomen was Ridicule or Racial scorn, Justice deferred, The death of hope or Poverty, Those sinister arrangements that good nations make To drive their favored sons to exile in strange lands ...

The first fifty lines of his poem summarized the reasons why a man like Hamilton in his day, or Ranjit in his, would feel driven to emigrate; some of the reasons were fatuous, most were real and inescapable, and their impa.s.sioned recitation by this Indian lad from Trinidad demonstrated how much he had matured since leaving the relative calm of Michael Carmody's cla.s.s at Queen's Own two years before.

The next sixty lines depicted the kind of Caribbean area that might have kept Hamilton at home, a utopian society in which the races and the social cla.s.ses cooperated in managing their wealth in sugar, cotton and bananas without the necessity of calling upon Marxism to lead the way. And the last fifty-eight lines were sardonic explanations of why the necessary cooperation was not possible, not now, nor ever in the future.

In these closing lines he reviewed bitterly the poor performances of the leaders in the painful period of 19581961 when the British islands of the Caribbean came tantalizingly close to federation, only to be frustrated by the personal vanities of three men: Alexander Bustamante, the flamboyant Jamaican leader; Eric Williams, the vain and scholarly Trinidad spokesman; and the gentle old fellow from Barbados, Sir Grantley Adams, who accepted the prime ministership of a federation that no longer really existed, and who tried heroically but in vain to hold the fragments together. Ranjit's final lines were mournful: The hurricane returns, the ship is driven far But who like Hamilton can find a fresh new land Which needs his talents and his vision of a world That could rebuild itself in discipline and hope?

Today our exile is to lands worse than our own Where greed prevails, hate thrives, force rules, and hope is flown.

As Michael Carmody had done in Trinidad, Ranjit's three professors saw to it that his poem was read in various places, and recommended him for various fellowships. And then, just as in Hamilton's case, as if good actions as well as hurricanes repeat themselves, he received three offers of fellowships leading to the doctorate. And he had a choice of three different fields of specialization, depending upon which local professor had put in the recommendation to that particular university: Chicago wanted him for history, Iowa for writing, and Miami for sociology.

He oscillated among the three, inclining first this way, then another, but the first to be eliminated was the writing program, because he still felt that this was not his forte. Writing came easily to him, obviously, but not with the all-consuming force that he believed necessary to sustain a career in that calling. 'I love words,' he explained to his literature professor, who had arranged for the fellowship at Iowa, 'but truly, I have no conviction,' and from her long experience with Third World writing, she said in local lingo: 'If you ain't got that fire in the gut, Ranjit, you ain't got nuttin,' and she wished him well: 'Maybe you have something even bigger, Ranjit. You have a burning integrity. Maybe that's what we need in the Caribbean more than anything else.'

Now as his soul-awakening years at U.W.I. drew to a close in the final Trinity Term in the spring of 1973, with any decision regarding his future still floating aimlessly above the beautiful hills of Jamaica, he sought counsel from Norma Wellington: 'What's to do? What would you do, Norma?' and they wandered over the low hills lying east of the campus, discussing her future and his. 'I have this invitation to the best nursing school in the United States,' she said, and he asked: 'Why would they do that for a young woman from U.W.I.?' and she explained: 'Because the American hospitals have found that girls from the Caribbean make the very best nurses in the world. Take away the Caribbean nurses, and half the hospitals in the eastern states would shut down.' Then, aware of her own boastfulness, she added: 'They want to train me for hospital administration. In Boston.'

'Are you going to take it?'

'I really don't know. I'd not feel safe so far from home. Besides, there's that color problem in the States.'

'Come on! You're as good-looking as Lena Horne. She's fought your battle for you.'

'You always think in historico-sociologic terms, don't you.'

'I do. I want to antic.i.p.ate how the various mixes are going to work out.'

'Dammit, Ranjit! You've got to make up your mind. Historical approach? Sociological?'

'I simply don't know.'

With that melancholy kind of self-indulgence for which only the French word tristesse is appropriate, the two young people, a dark Hindu from Trinidad and a beautiful light-skinned girl from St. Vincent, strolled among the low hills that rimmed their university, each aware that with their graduation, even their ephemeral, barely stated friendship was ending. It would have been impossible for him to take a girl of color, no matter how lovely, back to his circle of Indian friends and family, especially since she was also an Anglican, while for her to take a Hindu, educated though he was, into her family would be equally unthinkable.

As they walked beneath tall trees, he asked with a sense of urgency: 'Straight answer, Norma, if you were me, what would you do?' When she hesitated, he added: 'You've known me for over a year.'

'As between Chicago and Miami as universities, I'd take Chicago by a slight margin. Between them as cities, I'd choose Miami by a very wide margin.'

'Why?' Ranjit asked, and her reply, which came in short clear sentences, revealed what many young islanders who had considered the subject believed: 'Whether we approve or not, Miami is destined to be the ipso facto capital of the Caribbean. Our trade is with Miami, not with London. Our money comes from there. When islanders want first-cla.s.s dental or medical service, we fly to Miami, we do our shopping there, and for our vacations we go there and not to Paris or London. To put it briefly, most of our workable ideas come from there, so if you have a chance to get your doctorate in Miami and don't grab it, you're not thinking straight.' She hesitated, for what she had to say next was painful, especially for a young woman from an extremely British island like St. Vincent: 'And most of all, I suppose, because inch by inch the Caribbean has to fall under American domination. Know the enemy. Go to Miami.'

Abruptly she stopped walking, stood beside a tree, and looked at him: 'It's awful, really, so G.o.dd.a.m.ned awful.'

'What do you mean?' Ranjit asked.

'I mean that you'll go to Miami, find a teaching job in the States and never come back to help Trinidad. And I'm worse, because I know better. I'll go to Boston, lead my cla.s.s in nursing school, and get four job offers to help manage the best hospitals in the states. Maurice will work for DuPont in Delaware, never for some firm that needs him in Grenada.' She looked away, and said softly: 'The waste, the waste is so deplorable. Year by year the Caribbean is robbed of its best, and how in h.e.l.l can a region survive if it allows that?'

When they returned to the campus, there was no sense of a tragic Romeo-and-Juliet parting; they were two sensible young people from the highest levels of Caribbean intelligence and deportment who understood that their two contrasting cultures would never mix, and there was no sense of loss about the impossibility. Norma appreciated the opportunity she'd had to probe the thinking of a Hindu, while Ranjit was grateful for this escape from the confinements imposed upon him in Trinidad, and when they parted back on the campus, they did not even kiss, for although Norma might have wanted to do so as her gesture of farewell, Ranjit was far too self-conscious.

Three days later he told her as they pa.s.sed in the hall: 'It's Miami,' and he started to move on, but she reached out, grasped his arm, and said: 'I'm really happy you chose Miami. It's where the action will center from here on. I envy you.'

'Come down and see the place when it snows in Boston,' he said, and she replied: 'I just might do that.'

But his departure from Jamaica was not destined to be as placid as that. Two days before he was scheduled to fly back to Trinidad before enrolling for a doctorate in sociology at the University of Miami, he was in the center of Kingston having a kind of farewell dinner at a low-cla.s.s eating joint when a riot erupted. A gang of terrifying black men, with long streamers of braided hair reaching almost to their waists, roared through the streets shouting incomprehensible cries. Some carried machetes which they swung wildly. Others dashed up to any white tourists they spotted, shouting in their faces: 'Go home, fat white pig!' and in the confusion Ranjit saw two white people, a man and a woman, fall to the street with blood gushing from their wounds.

At the height of the melee he thought of stepping forth to shout: 'They've done nothing wrong,' but he was deterred by fear of what the rampaging blacks with the terrifying visages might do to someone like him-a Hindu who had no privileged place in Jamaica and was disliked by many islanders, black or white.

So he stayed motionless at the door of the restaurant, trying to make himself invisible, and when the rioting pa.s.sed to another part of town, the Jamaican students who had accompanied him to the restaurant explained: 'They're bogus Rastafarians. Thugs frightening people.' But next day when he flew homeward the Kingston paper carried bold headlines: FOUR SLAIN IN RASTA RIOTING.

Banarjee said years later: 'When I got off the airplane in Miami for the fall semester, my lungs expanded, as if responding to the freedom in the air, the excitement. Those were the years when the free-wheeling Cuban emigres were converting a sleepy playground for rich people into an international capital. Ah! It was so vital to be in Miami in those days.'

Fortunately for Ranjit, when he deplaned at Miami a young black man who had sat next to him in the plane saw him casting about, not knowing where to go, and he called: 'Hey, Jamaica! Looking for the university?' and when Ranjit nodded, he said: 'Stay with me. My girl friend has my car waiting.' When they reached the sports car, Ranjit saw that the very attractive young woman waiting in the front seat was white, and he was surprised when she embraced his guide ardently, then slid over to let him take the wheel, saying gaily: 'It's your car, mister.' Then, turning back to face Ranjit, she explained: 'When you can run the hundred in nine-four and catch a football over your left shoulder, admirers arrange for a car like this.' Kissing the driver again, she added: 'And Paul can do both.'

Finally she asked: 'And where are you headed?' and Ranjit replied: 'Miami University.'

Screaming in mock horror, she pointed at Ranjit and cried: 'That's a no-no! You said the dirty words!' and she asked Paul to explain.

'Miami University is a nothing little place in Ohio. It produces football coaches. The University of Miami is down here in paradise, and it produces football players. And you get both arms broken if you ever call it by its old name, Suntan U.'

'At the beginning,' the girl added, 'it was a school for rich kids who couldn't make it up North. All scuba diving and tennis. Scoffers dubbed it Suntan U. Now it's a great place. Fine professors, tough courses.'

'What's your field?' Ranjit asked, surprised that she should be so knowledgeable, and she said: 'History and philosophy. All A's and B's.'

When Paul broke in to ask: 'Where you gonna live, Jamaica?' Ranjit said: 'I'm from Trinidad, and I haven't a clue,' and the athlete explained: 'Rule of thumb: Dixie Highway, otherwise known as U. S. 1, runs from Key West to the Canadian border in Maine. It divides the sheep from the goats, and you look like goats.'

'Meaning?'

'If you have money and a car you live west of Dixie, on the campus, in a new dorm. If you have no money and no car, you huddle in a batch of crowded housing east of Dixie so you can walk to cla.s.ses. I know a real great bunch of houses. Lots of Caribbean kids live there. You'd like it.'

Ranjit found the university just as exciting as the city of Miami. It was in transition from having been Suntan U. to becoming a first-cla.s.s center for studies in oceanography, medicine, law, music, Latin American studies and general liberal arts. It was acc.u.mulating a major library and attracting energetic faculty members. It was not yet a Duke, but it was not an East Podunk State, either. And it was an ideal place for a bright student like Ranjit.

Although he was only eighteen when he began his studies for the doctorate, Ranjit was so naturally intelligent and so painstakingly organized that he sailed through his obligatory courses and quickly leaped headfirst into the most advanced work on campus. As before, at U.W.I., he had the advantage of working right through the calendar year-fall, winter, summer semesters-with no time out for vacations; students from the North groaned when the Miami summer approached with its fierce heat and wilting humidity, but Ranjit actually blossomed, as if his dark skin fended off the sun's rays. 'It's simply that Miami in summer is so much cooler than Trinidad,' he explained to other students, who stared at him, and one said: 'Warmer than here? You must boil down there,' and he said: 'We do.'

But the speed with which he was working and the approval he received from his professors were catapulting him toward a singular precipice over which foreign students often plunged. And Ranjit would have remained blissfully ignorant of the danger toward which he was galloping had he not been accosted one day in 1974 by a tall, cadaverous Ph.D. student from Pakistan who took him aside for a fatherly warning.

Mehmed Muhammad was in his mid-thirties, and for some time Ranjit had been vaguely aware of him puttering about the library, extremely deferential to anyone in authority and with a perpetual half-smile that could not be dislodged, regardless of the day's disaster. Ranjit supposed, from the man's name and origin, that he must be a Muslim Pakistani, and that was the case.

'I'm from Lah.o.r.e. My late father was a moneylender in a small way.' Speaking in a whispering, confidential voice, he added: 'I had an uncle who paid for my first seven years at Miami. But he is dead now.'

'You've been here seven years?'

'Yes. Let me see what immigration papers you have.'

Ranjit produced an F-1 form he had acquired from the American Consulate in Trinidad that permitted him to visit America in a Non-Immigrant Status, meaning that he could not work or later count this time toward eligibility for citizenship. At the airport a Form I-94, Duration of Status, had been stapled into his pa.s.sport, warning Ranjit and any official who examined his credentials that his presence was valid only so long as his status as a student continued. And finally he had from the university an I-20 verifying that he was a legitimate student working for a degree, in his case a doctorate in sociology.

'Well, papers in good order, but, my friend, you're sitting on a time bomb.'

'What do you mean?'

'Taken together, these papers mean only one thing. You're legally in the United States only so long as you maintain your student status. The minute that ends, out you go.' He spoke in that beguiling Irish lilt that Indians and Muslims from the subcontinent had acquired centuries ago from the first teachers of English who came to India, a group of needy Irishmen; it was musical, Elizabethan in a way, and totally charming. 'The problem is, my young friend, if you sprint through your courses the way you're going, in two years you'll have your doctorate, and then what? You lose your cla.s.sification as a student and back you must go, to Trinidad.' He shuddered. He had never seen Trinidad, knew little about it except that it was crowded with Hindus.

'But I want to go back,' Ranjit said. 'To work with my people.' When he saw the look of astonishment on Muhammad's face, he asked navely: 'Don't you want to go back to Pakistan?'

Mehmed looked at him as if he were an idiot child whose question was incomprehensible but forgivable. Very slowly he asked, while staring at his knuckles: 'Who would go back to Pakistan if he could remain in the United States?'

'So why don't you stay here?' Ranjit asked, and Mehmed explained: 'I want to. Ten thousand Pakistanis want to. But the minute I get my Ph.D., home I must go.'

'Then why get it?' Ranjit asked, and he was astounded by the duplicity of Mehmed's answer: 'I'm not going to get it. I'll complete all the course work, write about half my thesis, then switch my major to something else. Maybe your sociology.'

'With your background, why not history?'

'Three years ago I was six weeks short of my Ph.D. in Asian history. Switched just in time to philosophy.'

'You could stay here forever. Who pays for your registration, your room?'

'I have another uncle.'

'Why do you do this?' and Mehmed replied: 'Because sooner or later something will come up ... a new law ... an extension of privileges.'

'Do you ever intend to go home?'

'America needs me, and believe me, Mr. Banarjee, when you're six weeks short of your Ph.D. and face the prospect of returning to Trinidad, you'll realize that America needs you, too.'

Some weeks later, in the spring semester, he met Mehmed Muhammad again, and the Pakistani had good news: 'I've been accepted in your department. Sociology of the Muslim-Hindu conflict. I could write my thesis this weekend if I had to.'

'But how do you have the course work to qualify for such a switch?' and Mehmed said: 'I spent seven years in the colleges and universities of Bombay. I have enough undergraduate courses to qualify me for graduate work in almost anything ... even calculus.'

In the summer of 1976, Ranjit interrupted his headlong drive for his Ph.D. to take an inexpensive Greyhound bus trip through the tier of American states fronting on Canada, and he was enraptured by Glacier National Park and the cool beauty of its mountains, but when a fellow traveler who enjoyed his company suggested they go into Canada to see that extension of the park which was supposed to be even more rugged, Ranjit drew back in visible fright.

'What's the matter?' the traveler asked, and Ranjit explained: 'Once I get out of the States, I might have trouble getting back in.'

'That makes sense. You being so dark, some horse's a.s.s on the border would delight in holding you up. Well, it takes all kinds to make a world and the pluperfect horse's a.s.s is never in short supply.'

When they parted, Ranjit remained in the American half of the park, and as he trudged through the lower levels, looking up at the Rockies wearing their white bonnets, he realized for the first time how enamored of the United States he was becoming. He especially appreciated Miami and was now prepared to accept Norma Wellington's judgment. 'It's the ipso facto capital of the Caribbean.' He conceded that she had been correct when claiming that most of the workable ideas circulating in the Caribbean filtered through Miami, and he thought, somewhat ruefully: The Caribbean's a fine group of little islands. America's the real world. And now, for the first time, here among the towering Rockies, he actually contemplated remaining permanently in the States: Here's where the decisions will be made. Spain, England, France ... all had their chance and failed to maintain supremacy. Now, for better or worse, it's America's turn. Then, cynically: It might last fifty years, or even seventy-five. After that? He shrugged.

When Ranjit returned to Miami in the fall, a new man determined to find a place for himself in America's academic life, he awakened to the fact that he was perilously close to obtaining his Ph.D. in sociology before he had nailed down an appointment to some American university faculty. His right to continue as a student imperiled, he hastily switched his field of concentration to history, and this time he did not take his required courses in a rush. He spread them out during four semesters and took long vacations in the summers, finding cheap excursions to places like Yellowstone and Grand Canyon. By s.p.a.cing his work meticulously and spending cautiously the funds his grandfather sent him, he felt sure of at least three more years of student eligibility.

It was in a barbershop on Dixie Highway that his life both as a student and a human being took a dramatic turn in 1981. Having managed to delay his doctorate in history, he had slipped into the gratifying routine of the scholar, pecking away in the library, drafting a learned paper now and then, and serving as subst.i.tute without pay when his professors had to attend the yearly meetings of their specialty groups. It was quite obvious to him, and to many of his fellow students, that he knew far more about the subject matter of the various courses than the regular professors, and infinitely more of the subtle interrelationships between the various fields. Also, he had managed to soften his sharp Trinidadian p.r.o.nunciation so that he was now completely understandable to his American students.

Ranjit had to wait while two Hispanic students had their interminable haircuts, and when he finally reached the chair the barber, a tall man who had migrated to Miami from somewhere in the North, was actually glad to see him. 'Where you from, young feller? Some sunburnt country out there, I'm sure.' When Ranjit said he was from Trinidad, the barber was delighted: 'Isn't that where they have the lake of asphalt? My teacher in the sixth grade told us that, and us fellows who'd seen roads being built and knew what asphalt was thought she was a liar.'

'That's Trinidad.'

'Now, in Trinidad are they all your color?' From the way he asked this, it was apparent that he had no prejudice. He was merely seeking friendly information.

'I'm a bit unusual. I'm a Hindu.'

'Now wait! Aren't they from India? Cobras and Gandhi and all that?'

'You're right again.' Ranjit was beginning to like the warmth and interest of this barber, but then the man said: 'Well, I'm glad you're not another d.a.m.ned Cuban.'

Ranjit froze, for life in his grandfather's Portugee Shop, where customers of all colors had to be treated with respect, had taught him tolerance. 'I like Cubans,' he said quietly.

'Hey there! So do I,' the barber said with honest excitement. 'They've remade Miami. Best thing that's happened to us is the Cubans.'

'Then what did you mean?'

'Cubans as a group I like. Very much. But the individual Cuban gentleman sitting in my chair I dislike. Very much.'

'What do you mean?' As Ranjit asked this question he was vaguely aware that another man had entered the barbershop to take his place in the line of ordinary chairs used by waiting customers, but what kind of man he was, Ranjit could not have said.

The barber resumed: 'You come in here. A nice-looking Hindu. You say "Elmer, give me a haircut," and fifteen, twenty minutes later you get out of my chair and pay me. But you take a Cuban man, especially a young one, your age, more or less. He sits in my chair and spends maybe four minutes instructin' me in how to cut his hair. He wants this, he wants that.' The barber mimicked a Cuban dialect; it was obvious that he had rehea.r.s.ed his complaint against Cuban men.

Leaving Ranjit for a moment, he addressed the other men in the shop: 'One of those Cuban fellows you just saw leavin' my shop, he instructed me for five, six minutes. It had to be just so. And when I showed him the mirror ... stand back! It's always the same. "Could you take a little off here? Just a little more off there? Taper the side just a touch." He gives me ten more minutes of advice, and he stays in my chair at least thirty-five minutes. The last fifteen with the mirror in his hand, a little here, a little there. He doesn't want a haircut, he wants a masterpiece.'

He stopped his imitation and addressed Ranjit in particular: 'You know why he does this? Because to a Cuban young man of your age, the most important thing in the world is how he looks. Because he believes in the bottom of his heart, without the slightest doubt, that if I give him the world's perfect haircut at ten-thirty this morning, and he walks out smellin' great, some girl from the university driving a Cadillac convertible is goin' to see him, be swept off her feet, pull over to the curb, and ask sweetly: "Hey. Can I drive you anywhere?" He'll get in the car, and his day, his entire life on earth will be changed for the better.' With a flourish he finished Ranjit's haircut, allowed him a fleeting glance in the mirror, and said: 'That's what one of my haircuts can do for a Cuban man. For a dumb slob like you, from G.o.d knows where, it's just a haircut. You were an ordinary jerk when you came in. You'll be an ordinary jerk when you leave,' he said jokingly. 'You expect no miracles.'

As he brushed Ranjit with the whisk broom he said warmly: 'But I will concede this. Fine-looking fellow like you, it would be nice if, when you stepped out there, a rich girl from the university came by in her Cadillac convertible, pulled over to the curb, and asked you to hop in. Because if you married her, you wouldn't have to go back to Trinidad when you finished your education here.' Two of the listeners applauded as he concluded his monologue and he added: 'Cubans in general, yes, yes! Cuban men in my chair, no, no!'

As Ranjit left the barbershop, heartened by the owner's jovial banter, the unknown man who had entered during his haircut rose and followed him out. The barber, unhappy at losing a customer, called: 'Only two ahead of you,' and as the door started to slam shut the man called in a husky, rasping voice far deeper than most: 'I'll be back.' And that was how Ranjit first encountered Gunter Hudak.

He was not a man to be taken lightly. About forty, with a hunched-up muscular torso, powerful-looking arms and a jowly dark face framed in very black hair that covered much of his forehead, he appeared to Ranjit to be a man accustomed to getting his own way.

Then came the rasping, ominous voice: 'Could I speak with you a minute?'

In that first moment Ranjit knew that he ought to have nothing to do with this man, but he felt that he might be in greater danger if he rebuffed him, so in a weak voice he said: 'Yes.'

'Name's Gunter Hudak. Yours I know. Ranjit Banarjee, Jamaica and Trinidad.'

'How could you know that?'

'It's my business. Whenever an alien graduate student working on a Ph.D. switches majors, people notice and they call me.' He spoke in a conspiratorial tone, his accent indicating that he too might have been an alien.