Tropical fish

African American Review, Winter, 2003 by Doreen Baingana

"No, no that can't be. I got this from Sunjab Patel--you know him--over in Industrial Area." Very fast, impatient.

"Yeah, but I'm telling you it's not worth anything. Look here--" and they compared it to another, straining their necks from note to note. Finally, Peter picked up the false note, and with his usual smirk, slowly tore it in two, his eyes steadily watching Jagjit's face. He was too shocked to protest, his large brown eyes fixed on the half-notes in each of Peter's raised hands. Peter held the torn pieces over the dustbin and let them float down slowly into it. All of us watching. "You've got to be careful. Anyone can cheat you around here," he said, and shrugged.

Peter turned to his safe, snug in a corner, and pulled out a canvas bag, which he emptied onto the table. Jagjit counted the many bundles of weary-looking notes. He was flustered; whether embarrassed or annoyed, I couldn't tell. Out he rushed, after one last look at the torn note, as if he wanted to grab it from the rubbish. Poor him, I thought, but then again, he deserved it for giving me the once over and deciding I didn't count.

Peter shook his head slowly. "The bastard."

"I don't think he knew."

Peter reached over and took the half notes from the dustbin, patted them off, and laid them together on the table.

"Peter!"

He smiled to himself, then looked up. "What if I gave it to you?"

"What!? What would I do with it?"

"My little Christian Christine," and he chuckled some more.

This time, Peter was busy with a group of men who were loading a pickup parked on the street. I was startled again by the way he was at work: stern and controlling, giving directions in a loud voice, striding up and down. Then he saw me.

"What are you doing here?" Brusque and impatient.

"I was just passing by." I felt horribly in the way.

"I'm busy."

"But--I--I have something to tell you."

"Okay, okay. Wait."

He waved me on into his back office. After a short while he followed. But, somehow, I couldn't say it, so I asked him for a piece of paper and biro, which made him even more exasperated. I wrote down, "I have just had an abortion."

Peter took the paper, smiling impatiently, thinking I was playing a childish game. His usual smile got stuck for an instant. A hint of what looked like anger flickered across his boyish face. He didn't look up at me. He took the biro from me, wrote something down, and passed the note back across the table. It read, "Do you want some money?"

I read it, glanced up at him quickly, then away, embarrassed. Back to his five little words. I shook my head no, my face lowered away from him. No, not money. I had nothing to say, and he said nothing back. After a bleak silence, like the silence while we made love, far away from each other, I got up to leave.

"I'll call you, okay?" Always kind.

"Okay." Always agreeing. Yes, okay, yes.

The men working for him moved out of my way in that over-respectful way they treat whites, but with a mocking exaggeration acted out for their black women. As usual, I ignored them, but shrank inside as Peter kissed me dryly on the lips, in front of them all, before I left.