The Magpie Trap: A Novel (42 page)

Drawing Straws

Ever since
Danny had seen that terrible gleam of malice in Chris’s eyes when he’d
mentioned Cheryl’s name, he had taken to sleeping with the bag of money under
his head. Or rather, he had taken to lying awake all night with an
uncomfortable, bulky, canvas bag sticking uncomfortably to his skin and hair
through the glue of the atmosphere’s sticky heat.

They had discovered another luxurious hotel and moved away from the
boarding house of their first night, but both had agreed that they didn’t want
to let the other out of their sight, so they’d opted for a twin room.
Sometimes, Danny would turn his head and look at Chris through the gloom. Once
he had been genuinely scared when he’d looked over and saw Chris’s cat-like
green eyes staring right back at him.

           
Every morning, they would order room
service and eat a cooked breakfast on the balcony overlooking the luscious
green hills and towering mountain panorama, but both felt trapped by their
paranoia. They hardly even set foot out of the room for fear of what the other
would do with the bags. Nothing had ever been spoken between them about this
sudden loss of trust; it just simply appeared between them like a massive
barrier. A week of inertia passed in which they were frozen by fear. No longer
were they watching over their backs for flashing blue lights; instead, they
were looking for the flash of a blade held by the other one.

           
Every afternoon, they would draw
straws to decide what to do next; should they make their way to the coast and
try to track down the elusive Dodo there, or should they pay another visit to
the huge colonial house, and try to glean some more information out of that
strange owl-like creature that was house-sitting for his master there. In fact,
they would draw straws about everything; it was the only way to stop sneering
argument. It left everything to chance rather to the other’s wickedly subtle
plans.

Dark rings had begun to appear around Danny’s eyes. As he stared into
the distance, off the balcony, his eyelids flickered and trembled like a
light-bulb that was about to burn itself out. He would sit for hours in the
bathroom, his bag by his feet, simply watching the water disappear the wrong
way down the plug-hole in the sink. Chris apparently kept himself going by
chain-smoking; virtually lighting his next cigarette off the one he ground out
aggressively in the ashtray.

The cleaner would come into their room every morning, and unable to
speak English, would simply gesticulate at the beautiful view from the balcony,
as if she couldn’t understand how they could stay in their room. Chris would
wave his hands right back at her, unsubtly telling her to mind her own business
in the universal sign-language of swearing.

Sometimes, though, when the straws demanded, they had to leave their
comfort zone. They had to walk back through the narrow, confined streets, where
anyone could simply jump out and attack them, making off with their bags. Where
once they’d seen the wonder and magic of the candle-light in the trees, they
now saw madmen in the flickering shadows they cast. Where once they’d been
delighted by their inconspicuousness within the crowds, they now felt as though
they stuck out like a pair digits which had had thumb-screws applied to them.
Danny favoured a head-down approach, choosing not to meet anyone’s eyes. Chris
was clearly trying to blend in with the locals by wearing one of the ubiquitous
white linen suits.

Every day, they would stride down to the Dodo’s colonial house; every
day, they would amble back again, the toll of no news ringing in their ears.

‘When are we actually going to
do
something?
We’ve been here for over a week now,’ said Chris as they were walking back
under another cloud of disappointment.

‘We keep picking the straws, and that’s what they keep telling us to do,
we have no choice in the matter,’ replied Danny.

‘Well I’ve had enough. I say that we turn around, go back there, and
shake that little owl thing from his roost. We’ll find out where the bloody
Dodo is, and we’ll go and pay him a visit. I’m sick of this island,’ snapped
Chris. He had stopped on the side of the road and was spitting out vehemence to
accompany his every word.

‘Okay then, cockeroo,’ Danny agreed. ‘But this is the last time that we
make any decision which we don’t justify by drawing straws.’

           
They marched back down the road,
lugging their hefty bags behind them again. Danny reflected that perhaps the
locals thought they were salesmen, carrying their wares in the bags. They must
have been spotted on a daily basis, walking up and down the road, never once
setting up their stall. They knew every bump in the road, every crack in the
pavement, every doorway. When they finally approached the house, they could see
that, for once, the shutters on the windows were open. Danny felt a surge of
anticipation.

‘Perhaps the master of the house is back. Look, they’ve put the
sprinklers on in the garden too.’

The baby owl man crept around the corner, wearing what looked like
gardening overalls.

‘Back to the old, routine chores now the master’s back, is that it?’
sneered Chris.

‘I see that
you’re back again. You must really want to see him,’ replied the baby owl,
politely, as he rested a spade against the stone pillar of the entrance.

Chris just laughed at him, ‘I’ve had enough of your games. Is M
r. Ramnawaz
back then
?’

A flicker of a smile appeared on the little
man’s face, tufts of his puny beard danced in the breeze. ‘He came back, sirs,
but he has left again, just this minute.’

Abruptly, Chris grabbed the tiny figure by the
shoulders and roughly shook him as though he was mixing a cocktail.

‘You little shit. This is not a game; this is
very important. Let us in the house; I’ll check if he’s there.’

Danny tried to restrain Chris, ‘Leave him
alone; he’s not a child.’

Chris finally released his grip on the man, and
apologetically brushed some dirt away from his child-like shoulders. ‘I’m
sorry, but you tell us the same cock and bull story every day we come here. Did
you even pass on our message to your master?’

Finally,
with a great, heaving sigh, the baby owl replied, ‘Why did you not ask that
question first? Of course I did. He is at a place called Goodlands, on the
North side of the island, near the beautiful reef. He will meet you at a hotel
- the Hotel Vasco Da Gama - in exactly two day’s time. He has business he needs
to attend to first. Why not take the time to look around our magnificent
island? You have spent so much time coming back and forth, up and down that
road, that you have surely appreciated none of the island’s true qualities.’

The
baby owl began to look wistful, a faraway expression glazed over his eyes. ‘Did
you know; the great American writer, Mark Twain, visited
Mauritius
.
Maybe it’s his fault that all the tourists now flock here. He said, “
You gather the
idea that
Mauritius
was made first
and then heaven, and that heaven was copied after
Mauritius
.’”

Danny tried to respond to
the baby owl’s enthusiasm and obvious pride, ‘You’re right; this is a special
place. It’s just that we’re in purgatory at the moment, not heaven. All we need
is your master’s help, and then we’ll be able to relax and enjoy the natural
wonder of
Mauritius
. I’d like to
thank you for arranging our meeting.’

Danny almost bowed at the
baby owl, not really understanding the correct etiquette. Chris, however, had
already walked out of the gate and was standing in the road, waiting.

The
Sea

Mark had always
secretly loved the sea, but the waters around
Mauritius
were something
else. In his childhood, he’d been overwhelmed by the murky, grey mystery of the
North Sea
, but now he was swept away by the clarity and depth
of the
Indian Ocean
. He could stare into its
extreme depth and wonder at the profundity that it inspired in him. It made him
want to write poetry, to somehow describe the flirtatious fish, the wondrous
underwater landscape of the coral reefs and the sheer amount of different
shades of blue which it contained. The ocean’s vast volume had the power to
dwarf his personal problems, to wash them away with the tide. He could lose
himself, become a castaway in a place where he felt somehow renewed.

           
Mauritia sailed the small boat; she
had learned the family trade so well over the years that it was second nature
to her. They weren’t particularly going anywhere. If they fancied eating, they
would cast nets over the side and catch fish, then they would land on a nearby
beach and build a fire, and cook their catch. The fish always had the tangy,
slightly charcoal taste of freedom. If they fancied sleeping, they’d simply
drop the anchor and let the waves lull them into a peaceful slumber; all of
their cares simply drifted away.

           
Mark thought of his mother
sometimes, with regret, but otherwise, he never gave
England
another
thought. That would be like looking back; all he wanted to do now was look
forward. He sometimes questioned Mauritia about why she liked him, but deep
down, he knew that she felt, like him, that it was simply right. She still
liked to joke with him though, betraying a terrible array of jokes which Mark
still had to humour.

‘Mark, when you’re asleep one day, who’s to say I won’t just throw you
over the side? You don’t really know me… I could be a murderess!’

And then she would laugh uproariously, that same snorting, donkey-bray
laugh, and Mark wouldn’t know where to look.

‘Nobody knows you’re here with me. What if I were to sell you into
slavery? My revenge against the old colonial masters! Ha, ha, ha!’

And she’d slap her thighs, almost losing control of the steering of the
boat.

           
They sailed around the Southern tip
of the island, past the coastal town of
Souillac
. At one point,
their small boat was accompanied by a school of dolphins that would race ahead
of the boat, and then, about a hundred metres away, they’d stop, as if to say,
‘catch up!’ Their sleek, aerodynamic bodies would, as though part of a display
team, acrobatically spring out of the water - almost flying - putting on a free
show for Mark and Mauritia. Then they would sink back into the clear ocean,
twisting and turning; swimming under the boat and then magically reappearing. Mark
loved their playfulness, their lack of fear, their agility. Finally the
dolphins tired of their game, and swam off in search of newer, quicker
playmates. At night, they would hear the mournful songs of the whales, their
sad, lonely lament to the stars.
 

           
Finally, after a week’s sailing and
fishing, Mauritia asked him the burning questions.

‘How long are you planning to stay in
Mauritius
? What do you
want to do now?’

Mark looked up from the careful job of untangling the fishing net and
smiled, ‘I’m here for good if you’ll have me? I could try to get some kind of a
job here. Maybe something in the tourism industry; I’m still a qualified
electrician.’

‘Why don’t you come to stay at my house? Just on a temporary basis at
first, and then we’ll see what happens. We should put no time limits on things;
just let fate decide for us…’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Mark, pensively. ‘I’m not at all
sure about the whole
fate
business. I
think it has more to do with choices; whether we make the right decisions for
us. To be honest, if I had have been
fated
to meet you, and if I’d have known that, it would have completely tongue-tied
me. I would have concentrated on what I was supposed to say, rather than what I
chose to say. Do you know what I mean? As though there was a script I was
supposed to be reading from, but I didn’t know where it was… instead I met the
real you. And on my own terms.’

‘You don’t know how happy that makes me,’ said Mauritia, a smile gleaming
across her face. ‘I was worried that I was just becoming part of your mystical
exploration of eastern thinking, and not a real person.’

‘No, Mauritia,’ said Mark, taking her hand. ‘I love you because you are
the most three dimensional person I have ever met- your dancing, your laughter,
your bad jokes, your eyes…
you
are
the key to my door, and through that door, I’ve found happiness. And I also
love you because you saw the real me.’

Mark then burst out laughing. Mauritia was accompanying his attempts at
a romantic speech by pretending to stick two fingers down her throat to make
herself sick.

Mauritia and
her family lived in a row of shack-like houses arranged in a haphazard fashion,
strung out along the coastline, not far from the town of
Mahebourg
. As she led
Mark towards her house, she seemed a little embarrassed at the poverty of the
place. Small chickens ran in and out of their feet, abandoned fishing vessels
were simply left to rot away into the grass and sand was everywhere. But Mark
loved it; after the damp walls and decaying carpets of his house in Wortley,
this place was a step-up.

She led him through the flimsy plastic front door and into the main room
of the house. It was covered with flotsam and jetsam from the sea; gaping sets
of shark’s teeth, name plaques from long-dead ships, the ubiquitous
ship-in-a-bottle. There was a tired looking sofa, which she’d tried to brighten
up with a colourful throw, and there was also a table, constructed out of what
was seemingly a ship’s wheel with a pane of glass welded onto the top of it.

To Mark, it was a treasure trove of delights.

           
The bedroom had a huge panorama
window which made it seem like the bed was actually on the beach. And from the
amount of sand on the floor, it might as well have been. The walls were again
filled with maritime memorabilia; there were beautifully drawn old maps,
sketches of crashing waves, and old paintings of unlikely-looking sea monsters.
Mark threw himself onto the bed and started a strange, jerky dance - his ankle
no longer hindering his movement. It was the only way he could express the wave
of happiness which had swelled up in him.

He thought of Danny dancing on the silk sheets of the King-sized bed at
the Midas Hotel; an image which seemed to come from another era. For once, he
didn’t feel that stab of anger. No, Mark felt pity for the man whose happiness
was dictated to him by a stash of bits of paper.

That night,
Mauritia telephoned seemingly all of her family to come round and enjoy the
fruits of their fishing expedition. She laid out a vast array of dishes on the
ship’s wheel table; Sounouk, Octopus stew, Daube de poisson and a fish Biryani.
At first they had seemed a little wary of Mark, but soon, as the powerful local
coconut rum started to flow, the laughter and chatter had started.

And the questions; suddenly it seemed as though everyone wanted to know
something about this mysterious guest at Mauritia’s house. They wanted to know
about
England
, about his
family, about why he was there.

‘Is it true that in
England
it rains every
day?’ asked Mauritia’s father, a tall, austere-looking man. ‘Is it true that in
England
nobody speaks
to each other?’

Mark was flabbergasted by his interrogation, but was also enjoying the
attention, the interest in him.

           
Finally, and courteously, they all
started to eat. The food had started to go cold, and it seemed that they were
all waiting for Mark to make the first move. As soon as he reached for that
first portion of Sonouk - for which he had developed a real taste - suddenly,
everyone’s hands were tucking in. For once in his life, Mark was not scared of
eating in front of somebody else. He felt at home; he even began asking
questions himself, despite the fact that his mouth was still full.

‘I really like your house and all of the others too. Having said that,
can you tell me why all of the houses around here still have steel poles
sticking out of them? It’s as though they are still in the process of being
built.’

Mauritia laughed. So did her father; they both had exactly the same,
uncontrollable whooping-cough chuckle. ‘Mark, have you not seen that most of
the houses on this side of the island are like that. You see, we don’t have to
pay any tax for unfinished buildings, and therefore everyone leaves theirs in
semi-derelict states. It’s not just the foreigners coming here who are on a
tax-dodge!’

           
They talked the night away,
sometimes everyone talking over each other, sometimes there’d be periods of
quiet reflection. Mark reflected that it couldn’t have been more different from
the last time he’d sat down to eat with a large group of people; the Last
Supper at Di Maggio's. Here, there was none of that affectation, that showing
off verbal skills as if they were the dolphins training for their one great
display. Mark felt secure here.