“That’s not funny.”
“Right. What does this guy look like?”
“I wouldn’t know. What will he say to you?”
“You remembered my birthday. Got it.”
“Here’s your money. Don’t come back to me when you’re done – I’ll know anyway. If it doesn’t get delivered, my friends will find you and take three things – the first two will be the parcel and the money, get it?”
“Jesus H. Christ.” Shanks handed the parcel back. “Find some other stooge for this – we’re bums, but we’re not fucking idiots.”
The Wretch turned his back and the two of them walked quickly away.
“What’s it to me?” Hoss said, barely raising his voice. “I could train a monkey to do this job.”
“Monkeys are good at throwing shit, I hear,” Shanks called back to him without breaking step.
As the two of them hit the nearest main street The Wretch turned to Shanks.
“What the hell is this city coming to?”
* * *
Mrs Hatfield accompanied Mr Watson through Havana. He had passed through only once before, on his way to Paradise, and that had been years earlier, so he didn’t know the lay of the town – not any of it. He held her arm and soon the stares irritated her. The man was old. The man was clearly blind. What would they have her do? The staring seemed to increase as she looked for a place. They stopped and rested now and then as they carried her bags, his and Rosti’s, and the search was adding to Mrs Hatfield’s sense of tension. Watson chatted with her cheerfully because he didn’t see all the blank, dead-eyed disapproving or, worse still, concerned faces. A policeman started towards them and she urged Watson on, their rest abruptly halted to avoid giving the bored uniformed thug his daily fix of imposing his will.
Further down the main street and she heard the word ‘nigger’ whispered in a sentence she partly missed but understood enough to know it cast some question over her virtue. For God’s sake.
She knew that Watson had heard it too and felt the blood rushing to her face. Here her self-education felt like a veneer about to crack under the weight of the fierce mountain girl she had never stopped being. This place, this stupid shit-eating place, she thought, filled with sharp-faced moral morons absolutely convinced of the righteousness of their primate hatred.
They walked on and she knew the old man was tiring but he bore it with stoicism. He was a proud man, she thought, and remembered the black men who were brought in to work the mine back home who’d risked their lives to join the strike. She had some idea what he may have been through, and could only hope he’d had a fortunate life.
Mrs Hatfield suspected trying their luck with a white clerk would have been nothing more or less than ritualised humiliation for them both. When she saw a young black man behind a hotel reception desk, she led the way. The clerk, absurdly young in fact, perhaps about 17, did not bat an eyelid. If he was surprised he did not show it, merely informing Mrs Hatfield of the rates as he emerged from his counter to take as many of the bags as possible. Before long Watson sat on the thin steel framed bed that took up almost one third of the room. Mrs Hatfield sat on the other, and between them was a tiny dresser, a Gideon’s Bible and scarcely a yard of wooden floor. Their bags slid under the beds, Watson laid down and fell asleep almost instantly. ‘Poor man,’ Mrs Hatfield thought. ‘He must have been exhausted and never even a suggestion of complaint’. She watched him sleep for a while before sinking into the stiff bed, listening to the creak of the springs and examining the ceiling – low and yellowed and home to a thousand fine fractures visible where the brown water stain rings were not. Her plans had gone about as awry as they could have, but for the first time she questioned whether it had ever been much of a plan.
*
Watson and Mrs Hatfield were awake at sunrise, both victims of the habits of a lifetime. She hurried wordless from the room and returned within moments.
“The gentlemen’s washrooms are to the right when you exit the room, and about 30 paces down and on the left. There’s a square plaque on the door at eye level, while all the others simply have numbers,” she said.
Watson smiled.
“That was fast.”
She saw on his face that he understood her reasoning, and they both appreciated a grown man does not want anyone walking him to his ablutions, no matter his state or location.
He was swift but dignified in his swiftness, the man’s poise a marvel to her, a woman who’d seen poise, and sense and strength, in the bravest souls. In Watson she saw the courage of the men she knew in Matewan, in the way he walked and in his unwavering voice. When he returned, she waited some time to recover before she spoke, but he heard it in her voice and asked if she was well.
“I am fine,” she lied and he knew it, but knew enough to leave it be for the time being.
They paid for the room and walked out together with their bags, not giving a damn for the stares and making their way confidently. The sun was up and there was no guard in place, so they continued. The young nurse at the front counter was rattled at first but, seeing Watson was blind, softened and even looked ashamed at having first been afraid. ‘You’d have had no reason to fear if he could see’ Mrs Hatfield thought and not without anger. They asked after Rosti and were advised he was sleeping.
“Did you save his leg?” Mrs Hatfield asked bluntly. The nurse looked startled.
“I, I believe so ma’am, that is to say, I certainly haven’t heard otherwise.”
They were relieved and Mrs Hatfield took the time to inspect the hospital, its walls half off-white, half powder-green, rust stains, grey floors, whining door hinges. The smell of the place reminded her of the big cool room where she’d twice said last goodbyes, the whispered squeals of the meal trolley’s wheels unnerved her just a little, and she was glad for Watson taking her arm.
They sat in the waiting room and Mrs Hatfield picked up the morning newspaper. She asked, absently, if Watson enjoyed sports and a moment later suppressed a gasp. He beamed.
“No one asks me that, and the thing is – I love sports. Ma’am, I was not born blind. I enjoy the wireless broadcasts of the baseball, and the hockey.”
“Ice hockey?”
“Is there any other kind, ma’am?”
“How did you come to follow ice hockey?”
Watson smiled, he smiled so broadly Mrs Hatfield couldn’t help but smile back.
“I spent some time in Canada in my youth. Such a beautiful place.”
He halted, but Mrs Hatfield saw his pleasure and prompted him - it took little to procure a lot and she was happy not to interrupt. It proved his story raised few questions; so comprehensively did he share it in loving detail.
He had, in fact, been born in Toronto – his father had been taken across the border as a boy by his parents; escaped slaves. His father was so young at the time as to have never really known slavery, and so the burden he carried in his soul in regards to his colour was that manufactured by years of a more informal hatred; that kind people embrace more out of the desire to kick beneath them, than in strict observance of the law.
As a boy in Canada the young Watson learned to read and read as much as he could about the United States, he marvelled at some of it and was horrified by the rest.
He came to learn something very important over time; the law is the law – but unjust laws need the enthusiastic support of unjust people.
Mrs Hatfield was happy to mostly listen as Watson held forth; he had a strong voice, warm and kind, and as his enthusiasm built the need for her to punctuate with questions vanished.
“And after my parents passed, when I was 17, I came to these United States.” He stopped quite abruptly, and Mrs Hatfield shifted in her seat. She had heard his voice tighten towards the end, and did not push him on those things he had not discussed freely. She felt the quiet on them both heavily, and thought about Mr Watson’s world. She paid attention to the groaning of the hos
pital, the creaking doors and squeaking shoes on polished floors and wondered what the world was like for Watson when it fell silent. She thought of purgatory – a state of being devoid of anything but one’s own consciousness (not hell, with all the gratuitous and institutionalised suffering) - and she felt ashamed at thinking such a cruel thing. The man was alive and in tune with the world – sightless in only the strictest, most technical sense. He was more in tune with the world than most, Mrs Hatfield thought, and she became angry at herself.
To alleviate her shame she started to talk; about nothing in particular at first, which is the custom of ashamed people in general, and then made her way with merciful speed to the topic of her own home town – a town built on solid ground that was made hollow until the hollow became a hole that swallowed almost everyone. Of this she told Watson nothing, as she could see he was already hurting from his own tale and the worry for Rosti. She spoke only of her childhood, her many siblings, her parents, and only of the happiest of times - which made her story short. She wondered at one stage if she should go for coffee and realised Watson was likely to be turned out the moment she left the room.
The nurse approached them and said Rosti could take visitors. He was in a large room shared with five other men. It was winter but the room was still suffocating warm, Mrs Hatfield found, and Rosti’s forehead had a sheen of sweat glistening. A blanket covered him mostly but for his leg – plastered and in traction. He was exhausted, but grinned at them.
“What a situation. Where were you headed again, lady? Are you late?”
“I was always late.”
Watson stood by the narrow bed, holding the rail and smiling.
“How are you Mr Rosti?”
“They shot me so full of morphine, Mr Watson, you could break the other one and I would still be smiling. Apart from that I am quite well. I have good company (he waved towards the mostly sleeping room mates) and this morning I had beans and grits. Beans and grits. And coffee. Would you believe we got coffee? It wasn’t particularly good coffee, especially compared with that to which I have become accustomed.”
Watson laughed.
Rosti sat upright and turned to Mrs Hatfield.
“If we are late, Mrs Hatfield, and I mean we – I would like to know what we are late for. Where are you going?”
She looked to Watson, then to Rosti again.
“Only the end of the line. From there, I had no plan.”
* * *
Tino Romero stretched to his full height and opened the family’s mail box, pulling out a bill and a letter from his grandmother. Sticking the bill in his back pocket and holding the letter in his hand, the seven year-old bound up the stairs grinning widely. He burst through the door he’d left unlocked and cried out to his father, who was readying for work. He handed the letter to his father, who smiled back. It was addressed only to him, whereas on every other occasion it was for the entire family.
“Why don’t you read it to me?” He asked in his native tongue, the only language permitted in their home. ‘Isn’t it better he learn English from someone who speaks it as well as you?’ his mother asked those local patriots who commented on it.
She called out to him to get ready for school like his sisters, but there was no budging him once the letter was opened.
“It is in Spanish,” he said excitedly, looking at the slow, deliberate script of his grandmother – who had learned to read and write in adulthood and took great pride in her writing.
“Of course it is.”
And Tino began to read.
Romero arrived at the yard five minutes after Robert and wasted no time approaching him.
“It is coming sooner than I thought. Tell Aldous Comely.”
Robert liked and trusted Romero, but wanted more with which to work. Romero was reticent at first.
“I am not a superstitious man, but I have seen enough to know when to listen.”
Robert looked to the entries, watched the men he knew bore arms and turned back to Romero. He looked for Romero’s wedding ring and, for the first time, noticed it.
“Do you want to leave?”
Romero smiled.
“Do you know what I was doing before I came to work here?”
They both let the question hang in the air.
“What do you want me to tell him?”
“To be ready.”
“And you won’t tell him yourself?”
“You’re the foreman.”
“Don’t you think he already knows? Don’t you think he is already ready?”
Romero looked at Robert.
“You’re calm – it is better for him to hear it from you.”
“You are calm too Mr Romero.”
“You are not as observant as our employer, it would seem, but rest assured I will keep my nerve when it is called upon.”
Robert felt fear creeping into him and looked to push it back.
“You know, you do speak English elegantly Mr Romero.”
“I learned from one of the best.”
Robert felt sick with an increasing intensity as the day went on. He knew Anna would not be able to see him that night and tunnels are most abjectly dark when there is no light at the end of them. By the time his work was done he wanted nothing more than to sprint for the gate but walked slowly, looking for Romero as he went. He was gone, but Chen, McCulloch, Viroslav and Johnson remained – now standing together, talking quietly and smoking; thinking it too late in the day to bother with looking like ordinary employees. McCulloch and Johnson nodded to their foreman as he walked by. ‘They know I know,’ Robert thought. ‘I’m one of them.’
He knew it couldn’t last. Cadre school was over and he’d stayed on and on. He was sure there would be a message soon, a call to Mr Jones at the block – the block at which Robert now lived with a rolling fortnightly lease, or a telegram, or a letter… Perhaps it was pinned to his door already. Perhaps they would send someone to find him and put him on a train to Coyoacán – the height of indignity.
He walked through the open dark green French door wedged between the two stores and towards the stairs at the rear of the ground floor, noticing for the first time that the apartment building was of very strange design, past the apartment of Mr Jones who had left his door open despite the cold. Robert had glanced in as he went and, seeing Jones asleep in an armchair with a book on his belly, pulled the door shut. He paused for a moment, trying to remember the name of the book which had been embossed on the spine in uncommonly large type.
Moby Dick.
He took the stairs two at a time and at the first landing saw Mrs Cottlebridge standing by her door, looking out to the stairs. He saw a fleeting hopeful look on her face fade instantly; then be replaced with a genuinely warm smile. He walked towards her – noticing she was dressed, once again, in her Sunday best.
“Good evening Mrs Cottlebridge.”
“Oh good evening Robert, how are you?”
“Very well ma’am, and you?”
“Oh quite well, quite well. Working hard again, it seems?”
Robert looked to the window at the end of the hall and saw night had well and truly fallen. ‘It was just on dusk when I left’, he thought. ‘I am sure of it.’
“Not too hard, ma’am.”
She wore her engagement ring today, and Robert was sure he’d only seen her in her wedding band before.
“Have you had a nice evening, Mrs Cottlebridge?”
“A wonderful evening.” She hesitated. “It was always a wonderful evening.”
“I’m glad it was a wonderful evening,” he offered and she smiled.
“Is it too late for that coffee and biscuits you mention the other night?”
“Oh no not at all!” Robert found her delight both warming and acutely sad, and he realised; it’s their anniversary.
Inside, Mrs Cottlebridge’s apartment was maintained in immaculate condition. Her glistening wireless set took pride of pla
ce alongside two beautiful green velvet and dark oak arm chairs set off by a small matching round table.
“It’s a nice model,” he offered, pointing to it.
“Oh Gregory picked it up the day before The Crash. We heard about it virtually, virtually within minutes you know. Terrible business, so many men thrown out of work… But, he was still so very impressed by the wireless, very excited. As a young man he had read Jules Verne you see – when I first met him he asked me what I thought the future would hold for all of us… Gregory is nothing if not an optimist.”
She moved into the kitchen but continued talking. Robert, unsure if he should follow her but also reluctant to sit on either of the fine chairs remained standing in the sitting room. She returned and set a tray down with two cups of coffee, a plate of biscuits, sugar cubes and a tiny silver pitcher of cream.
“What a fantastic set,” Robert smiled, genuinely impressed.
“Oh do sit down, and don’t worry – these chairs can take plenty of weight.”
Robert gingerly lowered himself on to the seat and relaxed when it did not so much as creak.
“Did you hear the broadcast by that young Welles fellow last year?” She asked with a chuckle.
“I heard about it ma’am, quite a stir.”
“I listened to it and found it most entertaining, but I really could not see why so many people flew into a panic. Was it too authentic? I think older ladies, and older gentlemen, are a little more discerning than most, would you agree?”
He agreed, and mentioned Welles had done some very good theatre. Mrs Cottlebridge said she was not surprised by that at all, and asked Robert if he was fond of Paul Robeson – a question that elicited great enthusiasm from the young man.
Their conversation went well into the night; Mrs Cottlebridge drawing great energy from the company more so than the coffee, and Robert more than happy to provide it. She spoke often of Gregory, and Robert saw that by speaking of him – sharing him – Mrs Cottlebridge brought him into the room and into the world of the living. As they parted Robert told her “we must do this again soon” and meant it; and, having seen her love – still as strong as ever - untouchable by all things and irrevocably immortal, he knew beyond all doubt what he needed to do as soon as possible.