Dada 104

I didn’t know what to say. The policeman wiped his forehead and repeated the question in a slightly quieter tone.

‘Why, I must insist you tell me, why. ‘I remained silent and felt the slight breeze; it is always like this before the rain.

He stood again suddenly and went to his desk at the other end of the room. He opened a drawer and there was a rustle. I thought he had gone for the knife that the prison guards had told me would be covered in a cellophane plastic to keep the evidence free from contamination. Instead he took out a set of holy beads and brandished them in front of me as he came closer. In a completely different voice, the notes almost a quaver in his throat he asked.

‘Do you know what these are “ 

Yes of course’ I said.

Before I could finish, he was shouting, ‘’these beads are the symbols of the faith of all the religions that have crossed this island.’ He told me quickly and quietly that he believed in the great and worshipful Buddha, the Christ and the Prophet Mohammed and he was positive that no man, no matter what his source could not ask nor seek forgiveness; but in order for that search, a man must repent, must bow his head and become once more like a child who soul is bare. He must prepare himself to accept the judgements of the world. His entire body was leaning towards me over the table. The beads were almost directly above me, they smelled like sandalwood and the colour of the day, I saw the light s in the waterfront club, the disco ball, spinning through the darkness.

Behind me, in a great silence of anticipation or fear I sensed that the clerk had seen this show before. His presence was like a wall behind me. The policeman was holding the beads above me like a child holds a necklace before a prostrate grandfather. His almond face was no longer calm.To tell the truth, I had great difficulty in following his reasoning. He asked if I had anything to say, anything different to his accusations.

I was hot and yet a shiver of cold ran through me as it always does with the coming rain. I remembered the walk at Dada’s funeral when I was so jumbled and furious inside myself. There were flies in the office that circled above me in the heat and with the beads dangling and clacking together. I was losing a sense of coherence. The detective was starting to scare me, the machine behind me had ceased to click and even the whirr of the fans seemed listless and dull. This was ridiculous. I was the criminal, the accused not an appellant at confession before God.