Niyati Keni - Esperanza Street

Coming to the front of the stage, Jonah held his hands up to hush the crowd. Pastor Levi said, ‘Let’s start things off right,’ and he led the crowd in the Lord’s Prayer. All around caps came off, heads lowered and eyes closed, voices swelled with the familiar words, so familiar that I uttered them while looking about me to see who’d come, to sneak glances at Suelita, who stood beside her mother near the front, her hands dug into the back pockets of her jeans, her chest pushed out like a seabird’s. I watched her mouth the words tiredly.

When the prayer finished, Pastor Levi said a few words to introduce each speaker. One by one they came forward, their gestures eager, animated, passing the microphone on but lingering still at the front as the next speech started. Jonah urged my father to come up onto the stage and have his say too, but my father crossed his arms tightly, his eyes searching out mine as he turned away.

Jaynie, Johnny Five Course’s sister, climbed onto the stage and took the microphone. I’d expected her to speak but instead she started to sing ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’. Her voice, distorted slightly by the PA system, was fine and light. It filled the covered hall and the crowd started to clap along, laughing when the whine of feedback on the high notes set a pack of street dogs howling an accompaniment from beyond the market hall. Jaynie held the last note for a long time. When at last she fell silent, the air, already swollen with the heat of the breathless afternoon and the assembled bodies, continued to buzz. There was an extended round of applause and calls for an encore, but Jonah put his hands up again for quiet.

I turned to see that my father had been joined by America and Aunt Mary. Benny and I pushed our way through to them. Aunt Mary seemed startled momentarily at the sight of me, of my bruises. We carried the cartons of food that I’d helped to prepare that morning from Jonah’s office to the side of the stage, where we stacked them, ready to give out. A space had been cleared for us there, the children already being herded into a line.

Cora stepped out now at Jonah’s behest to take applause for the mural. ‘Of course I had help,’ she said. I glanced at Benny. He was watching Suelita and she was smiling back at him. She slipped over to where we stood. I felt my face grow hot. ‘Some of these panels are the work of Benny Morelos, a very talented young artist,’ Cora continued, beckoning to him. ‘Can you give him a big hand, please.’ I thought how like a TV talk-show host she sounded, how unoriginal. Young love . Suelita put a hand on Benny’s shoulder and pushed him forward gently. I looked away. She was never so familiar with me.

Aunt Mary’s voice was low and clipped in my ear, ‘When she’s finished showing him off, fetch him back to help us, Joseph.’

Electrified by the excitement of the crowd, Jonah called down to Aunt Mary to come and speak. Aunt Mary stared back at him severely. I thought for a moment that he might persist; he was enjoying himself, wanting to stretch out the occasion. But America raised her finger and wagged it at him and he abated.

A commotion arose towards the back of the crowd. I heard my father and the jetty boys whistle a signal as they sometimes did to an incoming boat, or to each other while working. I craned to look but, over everyone’s heads, I couldn’t see anything. Aunt Mary touched my shoulder lightly and we started to hand out the food. ‘Let him through,’ Jonah said from the stage. ‘Let’s hear him out. Though of course, Mr Casama hasn’t made it in time to hear what we think.’ At which there was a low rumble of discontent.

Eddie Casama had no need to push; people moved aside for him. He came forward with Cesar in his wake and, while Eddie seemed almost to saunter, Cesar moved stiffly, gazed straight ahead. As Eddie neared the stage, he spotted Aunt Mary and cried, ‘Mary! What a pleasure to see you and your son again so soon.’ Aunt Mary nodded at him coolly. He beamed at America. ‘The rumours were certainly true about your cooking,’ he said. America reddened. Eddie looked in my direction but didn’t seem to register either my presence or my appearance.

On the stage Eddie was relaxed, a natural at addressing crowds. He looked like anybody’s uncle at a wedding. ‘You see,’ he said calmly into the microphone, ‘change is inevitable.’

Aunt Mary placed the last of the food in America’s hands and pushed the empty boxes under the stage. She straightened up, studied the crowd. Eddie said, ‘I’m not doing this for me . Eventually this project will bring prosperity to the whole town.’ Aunt Mary turned back to the stage, frowning. Eddie continued. ‘It’s a short-term sacrifice that’s asked of you. I assure you, no one will be left homeless, but you will be relocated. It’s a generous offer. Remember, this is not your land. Officially, this settlement is illegal.’ I thought of Uncle Bee building his house with his own hands, of the Espiritista chapel built by an entire congregation, of the Spanish who, centuries ago, cleared the land for themselves by force of arms, giving it away again only to those who served their purpose. There had been a time, long ago, when our people had spread across the islands, settling and building and growing their food in a simpler relationship with the soil. I thought about Aunt Mary and her family, for whom the mere fact of birth had been so fortuitous. Once established, the lines of entitlement preserved themselves. I felt cold suddenly, distant. I closed my eyes and imagined myself alone, staring out at an unfamiliar sea.

When I opened my eyes again Aunt Mary was climbing the steps to the stage. She looked calm as she accepted the microphone from Eddie and turned to face the crowd. I was sure she couldn’t have been enjoying the scrutiny. Yet, her voice when she spoke didn’t waver, ‘Mr Casama is right about one thing,’ she said. ‘The sacrifice will be yours. Not his.’ She handed the microphone back to Eddie.

From the back of the crowd, someone yelled, ‘Not yours either.’ There was a murmur of agreement, though muted, perhaps in deference to the regard in which she was held. She nodded, for she knew it too. I turned to America, caught the smile that moved across her face like the shadow of a cloud. Eddie shook the microphone good-naturedly in the direction of the heckler, his expression mildly reproachful. Despite myself, the gesture made me smile; he looked as if he was sprinkling holy water. He cleared his throat. Aunt Mary moved to the edge of the stage but instead of stepping down, she stopped now to examine the mural. Behind her, Eddie started to speak again. Aunt Mary studied each panel in turn. When she came to the centre one she seemed, just for a heartbeat, to hesitate. She continued her inspection for several more seconds, her profile impassive, and then moved smoothly down the steps to rejoin us. She didn’t look at Benny at all. She set off without a backward glance. Benny flashed me a look as he fell into step behind his mother. The crowd parted to let her through and we followed in a line.

As we broke through the skin of the crowd we saw Eddie’s Mercedes. It was parked abreast of the hall on the other side of Esperanza Street. His driver sat behind the wheel, tapping an unlit cigarette against the dashboard, frowning out of the window at the crowd. Behind him a figure took up much of the back seat and for a moment I hoped it might be BabyLu. Then the back window slid down and a man’s suited arm came out and waved at Aunt Mary. ‘Judge Robello,’ Aunt Mary smiled, ‘how unexpected.’

‘Mary,’ the judge replied, pleasantly enough, ‘you must come to ours for dinner soon.’ I wondered if he looked a little embarrassed. ‘You really must. If Alice were here she wouldn’t let you escape without setting a date.’