Niyati Keni - Esperanza Street

‘I saw Ignacio,’ I said.

‘He was wearing gloves like I told him?’

‘Sure, I think.’ I dropped my eyes.

‘You think, eh?’

‘So where’s this famous mural?’

‘You’re looking right at it,’ Cora pointed to the nearest panel with her foot.

‘Magnificent,’ I said.

‘That’s the back of it.’

‘I know.’

She smiled crookedly, made as if to jab a finger into my chest, stopping just short of me even as I recoiled. ‘Only bad jokes till it stops hurting, huh?’

‘What still needs doing?’

‘Oh no,’ Cora pulled a face, her hands waving a vigorous protest. Benny started shaking his head. But I was insistent; to do something physical was a kind of defiance. Cora’s eyes gleamed at me.

Under her direction, I steadied each panel as Benny drilled holes in the frame. We bolted the panels together, screwed in a line of hooks along the top edge, threaded through a rope. The mural was to be hauled upright and suspended from the rafters just above the stage. I was keen to get a look at it. I ran a finger along the frame, over the line of staples that secured the rolled edge of the canvas, rubbed the tip of my thumb gently against a familiar mark on the fabric. ‘Gold Cup,’ said Benny. I peered closely at the mark. The panels were constructed from rice sacks stitched together and stretched over wooden pallets, the Gold Cup brand on the cloth just visible in places between the slats or emerging through the paint at the very edges.

When we were done I got to my feet slowly, like an old man, conscious of Cora and Benny’s eyes on me. Cora wagged a finger at me first, then at Benny. ‘Stay put,’ she said. She stalked away, glancing back over her shoulder more than once.

Benny relaxed back against the stage. He pulled out a peso and started playing with it, doing sleight-of-hand tricks. I smiled as I watched him; he wasn’t very good, fumbling the peso several times. The circle of kids watching him drew in closer, their eyes on the coin. After a minute or two of bending to retrieve it, Benny stopped and, studying the gathered children, handed the coin to the smallest before turning his back decisively. The kids didn’t pester him. They moved away to try their hand at palming it just as he had done and with little more success. Benny, here without his sketchbook, watched them for a while.

He turned back to me and, smiling, started to roll his shirt-sleeve down, shaking the cuff over his hand. There were paint stains on his sleeve, a crust of colour on the stiff edge of the cuff. He bunched the fabric in his fist and, reaching up, wiped my cheek carefully. I blinked at him, surprised. He didn’t say a word but carried on and when he was done, he rolled his sleeve up again, thumbing the red chalky smudge into the cloth before he folded it. I eyed his sleeve and wondered how easily I might get the paint and the chalk dust out of the fabric when it came to laundering it.

Benny took out a Marlboro and lit it. I stared at him. The whole of Esperanza might be about, any number of people who knew his mother, but he relaxed back against the stage, smoking. I pictured the man in the cigarette ad, the blond woman’s eyes on him. Aware of my gaze, Benny turned to me, puzzled, and opening the packet again, slid a cigarette towards me with his thumb. I looked at it, thought about Rico on the bench outside the Bukaykays’ store, a cigarette sloping in his fist, waiting for the day Suelita might board his train. I shook my head.

I glanced about the market hall. In every corner, someone was working away. From the direction of the jetty, I saw Missy Bukaykay coming towards us. I sank down to the floor of the market hall, the cement cool against my legs, as if the change in level might render me invisible.

‘Oh boy,’ said Missy. Even though I was expecting it, her voice made me jump. From behind her mother, Suelita looked down at me, both hands pressed to her mouth.

I got to my feet as lightly as I could. Missy snorted. I glanced at Suelita. ‘Joe,’ she murmured.

‘Come back to our place. Bee can find you something for those bruises,’ Missy said.

‘I’m ok.’

‘Ok? Stones are softer than your head. Just like your father. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who did it? And why?’ She studied Benny as she said this. I looked at Suelita. ‘Why are you looking at her when I’m talking to you? You know something about this?’ Missy narrowed her eyes at her daughter.

I knew from the set of her mouth that Missy would have persisted then had the sound of Cora’s voice not cut through the surrounding noise as she swept back towards us, a line of jetty boys trailing in her wake. Cora broke into our circle and rearranged us, making me stand aside as the boys tightened the bolts and looped the guide ropes over the rafters. The promise of the mural distracted Missy and she stood quietly beside me as the boys hoisted it up and secured it in place.

We stepped back to take a look. Cora’s hand could be seen readily enough in the composition, the smaller images of Greenhills and its people around a central image of a man, woman and child: the poor . The woman seemed familiar. I stepped forward to inspect her more closely. It was the girl under the yellow bell tree. I shot a look at Benny but he avoided my eye. I turned back to the mural. On another panel, a man in a suit stood beside a Mercedes. Next to him a child begged while he looked the other way. There was no mistaking the figure; Cora had painted Eddie, though she’d made him look fatter than he really was.

Suelita stepped forward now too, and I felt the warm skin of her arm brush mine as she turned to Benny. ‘I hear you painted half of it,’ she said. He moved to stand beside her and they fell easily into conversation, their voices soft as though for privacy while they discussed brushstrokes, chiaroscuro. His long fingers played in the air as he pointed out one figure or another. Suelita, watching his hands, smiled to herself. I cleared my throat heavily. They paused and she turned to me, frowning as she took in my injuries afresh, laying, though only briefly, a hand on my arm as she turned back to Benny. As they started talking again, her hand fell away. ‘Young love,’ Cora whispered, and she winked at me.

‘You’re really good ,’ I heard Suelita murmur. Benny reddened and dug his hands into his pockets.

Missy beamed at Cora, spoke loudly. ‘Suelita writes poems,’ she said, and I was astonished because I hadn’t known this. ‘She’s a good cook too. Smart. Strong.’ I felt hot suddenly. Missy laughed like she was joking but her shrewd eyes appraised the back of Benny’s head.

I stepped away from the group. My eyes scoured the mural, hoping to find fault with his work, and of course found none. Desperately, I appraised the whole composition until at last I decided, with a cold satisfaction, how like Cora it was, how obvious . And, for several moments, I didn’t care if Esperanza was to be lost or not.

The rally, scheduled to start mid morning, finally got under way just after midday, so that by the time the speakers stepped onto the stage to take their seats the crowd spilled out along Esperanza as far as the Espiritista alley, and stretched along the coast road for half a kilometre in both directions. Within the market hall, Cora moved around greeting people, like a hostess at a party. On the stage, his hand cupped over the microphone in front of him, Uncle Bee leaned forward in his chair to speak to Jonah and Pastor Levi. My father hung back, well away from the stage, with the rest of the jetty boys. I would have preferred to stand with him out in the sun but Dil was there and, once, I looked round to see the Barracuda nudge my father cheerfully as he addressed him, saw my father laugh in response. I stayed close to Benny. Aunt Mary and America, having taken a hasty merienda at the Bougainvillea, would be about by now and searching for us.