Swimming in the Volcano (47 page)

Even in the emptiness and cruel quiet you could always count on people being around nearby, somewhere, even if you couldn't see or hear them. When the girl made too much fuss, he stuffed her mouth with her own grimy, stink-pot pair of panties, and when she kept acting up, even though he told her over and over,
No, no, listen, me like you, hush
, he took the stick that she had used to draw in the dirt and, prying it between her teeth, pushed the panties far back in her mouth to quiet her down, and she quieted down. He remembered that, he would always remember that—the calmness that passed into her, like sweetness. Then he went and stayed by the police station, because he was afraid, and that was the end of the part of the restlessness that walked him all over the island, like a duppy who can't seem to locate his own grave. After that, he behaved better; he knew not to stray too far from his own yard and master.

Then Selwyn Walker came and said he had a proposition for him, and took him on the boat where he was sick, and Walker thought it was his first time at sea, but when they reached St. Catherine and stepped ashore on the quay he felt like he had been set free from a movie he had somehow gotten trapped in, a captivity that was infinitely more mysterious than it was unjust. And Selwyn Walker never asked him to confess.

“In my office,” Selwyn Walker said, and Ibrahim followed him in. “Close the door,” said Walker, and he did. “Sit down,” and Ibrahim did as he was told, and Walker informed him that this was a situation of the highest gravity. Ibrahim knew exactly what the lieutenant commander meant when he said
gravity
: objects, people, dreams, everything, falling into place. Gravity was like the law—it wouldn't let you escape, not for long, unless it wanted you to escape, like going underwater.

Selwyn Walker hesitated, seemingly distracted, and Ibrahim knew that look from the years on the reef spent with Collymore, when Collymore was trying to get his bearings, looking for a hole or a cut
or a passage. Walker studied the wall behind Ibrahim's head, full of more certificates, commendations, such things as big shots collect—
On Her Majesty's Service
: We thank you for your years of subservience, et cetera. Walker's joke. Then his attention returned to his desk and he fingered through a pile of papers, pulling one out from near the top. Ibrahim recognized the format, glossy and smeared:
dem cable business
, meaning, important message, pay attention. Selwyn extracted a second sheet from the pile and pushed it across the desk for Ibrahim to see. A copy of a picture of a woman was printed on it, hard to make out—just a woman, white; or maybe a man with long hair—and then typing below that: name, age, date of birth, place of birth, 110 pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes and such, scar on knee. Then the story:
drugs
...
in connection with
... His eyes slid off the page.

“You recognize she?”

“No.”

Walker pushed the other sheet forward. “Him?”

Roberto Antonio Fernandez
. Age, date of birth, place of birth:
Cienfuegos, Cuba
...
U.S. Marine Corps, 1968-70. Discharged honorably: 9/1/70. Wanted for importation of narcotics into the United States of America; wanted for questioning in the death of Katherine Byrd Mason, 3/3/77, in Honolulu, Hawaii. Indicted 3/13/77; warrant for arrest issued, Pacific District Federal Court. Whereabouts unknown, believed to be in Thailand, Mexico, Latin America
.

“No.”

Walker rapped the first cable with his knuckles and sat back. “People in Miami very curious about this girl, eh?”

Ibrahim scanned the cable concerning the woman again:
Whereabouts unknown, believed to be in Thailand, Mexico, Latin America
. But at the bottom of the page he read an update:
Attn: St. Catherine National Police: Please confirm arrival of suspect at Brandon Vale International Airport, 3/30/77. Notify
—“If them boojies want she,” Selwyn said, “why they drag feet and let she pass through? Them always have
reasons
, you know.”

“Something goin on?” ventured Ibrahim.

“Something goin on
always
, is what I know.”

“True, true. Me see it.”

“Funny business starting up on this island, bwoy. Airport catch afire, Kingsley stirrin up the coalition, disrespect, nuh? interference, all manner of nastyism up north, opportunism, reactionary thought, hostile moves against the masses, and uneasiness.” To punctuate his message, Selwyn sucked his teeth, looking disgusted. “If we have
something them Miami big shots want, I must know, eh? And if the woman come this way, I want to know why. What we got here that interest she, nuh? She have negative reasons, eh?”

Ibrahim automatically agreed. Walker picked up the phone and began to dial, his way of dismissing a subordinate he had called into his office. Selwyn Walker was very cheap with instructions to the corporal. He depended on him to use his imagination. Iman Ibrahim stood and backed out the door, saluting. He knew without being told what information the lieutenant commander wanted him to provide. The
who-see-who
. Connections. In a place like St. Catherine, it was a simple job, because everybody was connected to everybody else, either by blood, money, or misfortune. Except someone like him, Iman, who was a fellow born motherless in hell and brought to earth by burning angels to occupy a place where connections broke, and then began again on the other side of him, transformed.

He went for his lunch.

Selwyn Walker spoke to his secretary, requesting his car and driver to be stationed out front, to take him to his own lunch with the foreign minister and the minister of information—a last briefing of Archibol before the man put himself back where he was most useful, in New York, fund-raising and hell-raising. The United Nations was a place you could get things done, these days. President Carter had appointed a black man from Atlanta to the U.N. seat; also, these men were conducting formal negotiations with Havana for the first time since 1961. People were listening, you could assert yourself, your cause. Human rights were on the agenda; whatever that meant, it raised possibilities. Lists were made, lists were unmade.

He would supply Archibol with plenty of evidence: evidence was a foregone conclusion, a wild crop that only need be selectively harvested, then pruned and shaped. Really it was only a matter of using the talent at hand, like a school play. Students would rise to the occasion, given the necessary direction. The boy Cassius Collymore, for instance. He had simply brought him to St. Catherine to be a shadow, to menace and prowl, to be a haunting reminder of Walker's own power, and now his Cotton Island foundling had remade himself into the spirit of the times, a mascot for all the change that was coming—Iman Ibrahim, revolution's smoke. And now Selwyn Walker had accidentally acquired another, though less gifted actor, being readied for service.

This was a very interesting game of dominoes—that was another way to see it. He had been curious about Crissy Knowles' son, had
meant him no harm, but had been forced to throw him into jail for being rude, for being a smartmouth, to teach him manners. This was the correct way to proceed. Then he began to think, Why was the boy so quick to be rude, unless he had an axe to grind? He asked one of his men to provide a memo on the Knowles boy, his family and friends, his activities. The results were very interesting. Kingsley's name came up in an unexpected way. Also, the name of an American attached to Kingsley's ministry. And now this girl, Johanna Fernandez, whom Walker already had learned was somehow associated with Kingsley's American.

It boiled down to scurrility, one way or the next. It was a process, this business, not a policy. Two plus two plus two plus two. What it all meant, he didn't know, but they trusted him to figure it out—all the more because the process was mental, an exchange of intuition and vibrations, and he had to puzzle it out himself from the evidence.

They lunched on steak and chips, upstairs in the old Seaman's Union Hall on the waterfront down toward Scuffletown. Selwyn Walker probed Archibol about Crissy Knowles' boy.

Crissy was a patriot, said Archibol, but his friends betray him—just like his friends betrayin us. Crissy's boys were good boys, he believed. His wife had been involved recently in a minor traffic accident with the eldest. Archibol had spoken to him, discussed the way things were with the boy, and had the impression that the boy was a sympathizer and might be willing to help. Crissy Knowles' boy could be an advantage, a reminder of how Kingsley had played coward and fucked up the country, put all them peasants out of work. Someone from the party should contact the boy.

Were Kingsley and his clique still supporting the family, Walker asked? Archibol said he didn't know. Lloyd Peters listened intently, wondering where all this talk about a damn boy was leading.

They talked about the businessmen on the island, most of whom favored Kingsley. They talked about tourist revenues, money that did not spread through society, but funneled back into the same old pockets. They talked about the difficulty in reforming an agricultural economy based on exports, and they talked about the indifference of the United States of America, and then, without feeling they were contradicting themselves, they talked about sabotage. Just because an enemy was aloof made him no less your enemy.

“Here now, Selwyn, just what is it you surmise taking place up north?” Archibol asked, looking less troubled than imperious.

“Counterrevolutionaries.”

“You jump ahead of yourself on that one, Selwyn,” remarked Lloyd Peters, amused. “We ain't as yet have a revo for anyone to counter.”

“No?” said Selwyn, mockingly. “No?” he taunted, and, smiling at their laughter, told them he was preparing a case. He was gathering evidence. The evidence would show that the Americans were conducting a covert operation on the island, financing pro-Kingsley reactionaries with illegal funds laundered from drug sales.

“Fuck me in the ass, bwoy!” said Lloyd Peters. He was duly impressed. Selwyn had a busy imagination. He was a pioneer, a fucking pioneer.

As the working day ended, Ibrahim returned to headquarters to make his report. He had been to Immigration: the woman had arrived on St. Catherine two days ago. On her immigration form she had written Mitchell Wilson, c/o Min. of Agriculture, as her place of residence. Selwyn Walker listened stony-faced for details that he didn't already have from his tiring discussions with Crissy Knowles' boy.

Still, this was how a hunter trained his dogs to hunt, introduce them to the scent of the quarry, wipe their muzzles with it, and then unleash them, but not until you'd pictured in your mind the chase and its possible routes, foreseen the outcome and the alternatives to the outcome, so that at the end you'd be there, waiting, to know if your instincts were correct, your art impeachable, and you could step forward, finally, in control.

He was working it out, trying to fathom the design: Here was a truth that proved itself daily—when you were right-thinking and positive and poised for change, then history grew translucent, you could see your face in its reflection, the design spiraled with a life of its own toward convergence, and every passing moment favored you with something new. Corporal Ibrahim had nothing for him, but he had something for Corporal Ibrahim. Minutes ago he had taken a phone call from one of his recruits at the airport, someone in Customs, the same recruit whom he had called for investigation regarding the overseas cable yesterday, when it had been received by Communications. The message this afternoon was that the woman and two others had just taken a charter down to Cotton. Very interesting: why was she not with her man?

Selwyn Walker had not satisfied himself as to Iman Ibrahim's potential, and there was no better time to do it. He had not yet tapped the corporal's sanguine moods, not truly encouraged whatever dark knowledge lay beneath the youth's scars, behind the chilling,
roaming psychopathy of the eyes, had not quite utilized the coiled tension of his posture, so that he might better understand how to manage and enjoy Ibrahim's special gift, to find for it a role that was not yet fully apparent, for he would not have it wasted, as the boy's guardian on Cotton Island had wasted it, spent on frivolous craving.

He believed he knew Iman Ibrahim, but he did not yet understand Cassius Collymore. Which was exactly his motive for sending him—
them
—to Cotton Island.

Mek some new friend, eh? Some gy-url friend. You see?

Sah
.

Also. Marcus still movin ganj, eh?

Ibrahim shrugged, not knowing.

Mek him stop, nuh?

Cool
.

Daht fella exploit de masses, nuh?

Sah
.

I am authorizin you to mek him stop as you see fit, nuh?

Sah
.

He explained further about how the corporal should approach the woman, then dismissed him, and, remembering another angle of pursuit, wrote something on a piece of paper, a reminder to himself to send his own cable, not to Miami, where the first one had originated, but to the Cuban embassy in Mexico City.

He sat meditating upon his pursuit of Kingsley, and through Kingsley, the colossus to the North, from which he could not be deterred, until the phone rang. It was Eddy's secretary, informing him the prime minister wished for five minutes of his time, within the hour. Government House was only three blocks west but not since he had been promoted to this office had he taken that walk, like a street patrolman. He called in his own secretary and told her to order ready his car and driver.

In the prime minister's office, Edison Banks greeted Walker with courtesy. He stood up from his paperwork to shake the lieutenant commander's hand, then came out from behind his ornate desk and invited Walker to sit with him on the sofa. Before he spoke again, he poured them both glasses of ice water, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on what he was doing. The meeting was brief. The glasses stayed where the prime minister had poured them, on the coffee table, untouched.