How to Escape from a Leper Colony: A Novella and Stories

How to Escape from a Leper Colony: A Novella and Stories

by Tiphanie Yanique

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Overview

An enthralling debut collection from a singular Caribbean voice

For a leper, many things are impossible, and many other things are easily done. Babalao Chuck said he could fly to the other side of the island and peek at the nuns bathing. And when a man with no hands claims that he can fly, you listen.

The inhabitants of an island walk into the sea. A man passes a jail cell's window, shouldering a wooden cross. And in the international shop of coffins, a story repeats itself, pointing toward an inevitable tragedy. If the facts of these stories are sometimes fantastical, the situations they describe are complex and all too real.

Lyrical, lush, and haunting, the prose shimmers in this nuanced debut, set mostly in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Part oral history, part postcolonial narrative, How to Escape from a Leper Colony is ultimately a loving portrait of a wholly unique place. Like Gabriel García Márquez, Edwidge Danticat, and Maryse Condé before her, Tiphanie Yanique has crafted a book that is heartbreaking, hilarious, magical, and mesmerizing. An unforgettable collection.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781555975500
Publisher: Graywolf Press
Publication date: 03/02/2010
Edition description: Original
Pages: 240
Sales rank: 621,701
Product dimensions: 5.90(w) x 8.90(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Tihpanie Yanique is from St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. An assistant professor at Drew University, she lives in Brooklyn, New York, and St. Thomas with her partner, Moses Djeli.

Read an Excerpt

How to Escape from a Leper Colony

A Novella and Stories


By Tiphanie Yanique

Graywolf Press

Copyright © 2010 Tiphanie Yanique
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55597-550-0



CHAPTER 1

HOW TO ESCAPE FROM A LEPER COLONY


* * *

Introduction

Babalao Chuck said that when they found the gun it was still in the volunteer's pulsing hands. The child was covered in his mother's blood and body. Her red sari redder. The volunteers at the leper colonies were young Trinidadian doctors and British journalists and criminals trading time in jail for time among lepers, and sometimes young people who carried tiny Bibles in their pockets. No one ever told me which kind killed Lazaro's mother. The volunteer was asked to leave and that was to be the end of it.

What evil thing Lazaro will do later we will forgive him for without remorse, because we know his past and because we know he is one of us. For a leper, many things are impossible, and many other things are easily done. Babalao Chuck said he could fly to the other side of the island and peek at the nuns bathing. And when a man with no hands claims that he can fly, you listen. He would return and tell us about the steam in the nuns' showers. About how they had soap that lathered. How they had shampoo that smelled like flowers.


1st Burn the dead

When I came to Chacachacare it was 1939 and I was only a girl of fourteen. I came for two reasons. The first was to bury my father who had lived there for three years and only just died. The second was because I had become a leper. It was in my arm. The same arm my mother held with her own hands, said a prayer over, before leaving me on the dock. Her cotton sari swishing the ground as she ran back to the junction to catch a wagon that would take her to the train that would take her the whole day to get back to Siparia, way down South in Trinidad. I thought of her sitting for hours, her face against the glass, the hole in her nose empty because she had sold the gold to buy me a used red sari and a bag of sweets as a gift to my new caretakers.

I also sat that whole day. I was waiting for the nuns to come get me. I pretended I could hear the sounds of the junction where the wagon driver had dropped us off. The junction wasn't San Fernando or Port of Spain, which we had only rushed by in the train, but it was the biggest loudest place I had ever really been. It was like a wedding in my village with all the food laid out for me to stare at. Men crowded around a small stand that sold raw oysters. They dipped the shells in hot pepper sauce before slurping the meat down their throats. Women reached up for brightly colored buckets and brooms that hung on display. My mother and I rushed by, avoiding getting close to people. We only stopped once to stare at an automobile that roared by in smoke and shielded an African driver who wore bright white gloves. I could not see his passenger. Besides the big work equipment on the plantation, I had never seen an automobile before.

Slowly the festivities disappeared. The busy road turned into a dusty path where there were odd crisscross markings in the dirt that my mother said were from an automobile, like the one we had seen. After hours of walking, and my mother telling stories of her young life in Namakkal, we could more than smell the ocean, we could hear it. And then we were walking along a wood dock with the sea beneath us. My mother sat me down with my legs hanging over the side and pointed to the small mound many miles out into the ocean. That would be my new home, she told me, where the nuns would take me in and bless me with the sacrament of Confirmation when I was older. She did not say, if I lived to be older. Instead she kissed me on the mouth and made me promise not to eat the sweets. And she left. And then it was so quiet, with only the waves and the breeze as sounds of life, that I closed my eyes and pretended that I was back in the junction, eating oysters in pepper sauce, putting them in my mouth with my good hand.

My arm was wrapped and in a sling. When the wagon driver had asked, my mother told him I had broken it and she was taking me to an obeah man. I was ashamed that she had been made to sin, to tell a lie, because of me. Even in my mind I could not forget how my elbow was hurting me in a funny way that wasn't about pain. Even alone on the dock I was too afraid to touch it, to give that arm the healing power of the other one. I was afraid to touch places on me that weren't even private. And I was going to die for it. Die for having those places. My mother held my hand, then left.

It was not a parade of white nuns who came for me. It was a lay volunteer, all wrapped in cloth. Someone doing community service for a crime committed or someone doing penance for a sin confessed. "Get in the boat," he directed. In his voice I knew that he was a man, for nothing in his gauzed body revealed it. I could not tell if he was Indian or African or French. The skin around his eyes was covered in a dark protective salve. We did not speak as we motored the five miles to Chacachacare.

At the Chacachacare dock he told me to go, go. I tucked the sweets under my arm and heaved myself — one-handed — out of the boat. The boat sped off to the safer, healthy side of the island. I faced the intake house. It was a welcoming hue. Not the color of sores or withered limbs. The walls were blue, a mother's color, and the trimmings were green, the color of life. I did not think I would be unhappy here.

I presented the bag of sweets to the young nun who greeted me. She cradled it with her gloved hands and smiled. Then she sent me to bathe in the sea. "Hurry," she said. "Before it gets dark." I did as I was told. I knew that the Caribbean Sea could heal many things. If you have a cold, go bathe in the sea. If you are melancholy, go bathe in the sea. If you are a leper, go bathe in the sea — but on the lepers' side.

He was there on the beach when I came out of the water. Lazaro was not the name he was born with. He was given that name because he refused to die. He was sixteen when I met him that first day, older than me by two years but much smaller in size. I stood a head above him. I had some softness in places, chest and cheek, where he seemed hollow. He had been born in the colony and still showed no signs of leprosy and no signs of leaving. The world would not have him. Surely the leprosy would show soon. In truth, he had nowhere to go. His mother, a dougla, had passed on her mixed genes. One could not tell if Lazaro was African or Indian — there was talk that there was French in him, too. That his father was French. That his father was one of the French priests who came over once a week to celebrate the Mass. Who is to know? The dougla, the mixed race, might be a type of chameleon. They can claim any heritage they desire. They can claim all if they like. Though it is true that not all will claim them in return.

"Is your father they burning tomorrow?" he asked me as he skipped stones into the water.

The sun was almost down. My sari, a lovely red but frayed in places, clung to me, and I felt cold. He wore only a pair of children's short pants. I hadn't thought about my father all day. "I been thinking they would bury him, even though he Indian."

"You thinking wrong. Here we all Indian, no matter how much African we have in us."

We began to walk back to the surgery, where I would spend the night. The nuns, who were our nurses, hadn't decided yet on my treatment. I looked over Lazaro's small body. "Where your leper part?"

"I all leper."

"Where?"

He tugged at the crotch of his pants. "In my head." I expected him to pull his thing out and show it to me shriveled. I waited anxiously. "The next head, rude girl." He laughed loud enough that I grew ashamed I had been staring. He pointed to his temple. "It's in my mind."

On my second day I watched them push my father's wrapped body into the crematorium. The nun who had sent me to the sea, Sister Theresa, stood with her many replicas. Their white faces pink with the heat, their hair covered in veils with blue bands about the forehead. They were all young enough to be my mother — not like the old dogs at my school in Trinidad who wore huge winglike headdresses. I didn't understand why they cremated the lepers when they seemed to have so much bare land on the island. When I asked Sister Theresa she told me that this was okay because so many of the lepers are Hindu anyway.

But it wasn't okay, not really. Because my mother is a Christian and she told me that if I went to Chacachacare the nuns would feed me better than she could, and give me medicine that she could not, and that I would be buried under a stone like Jesus.

There were two churches. One for the Catholics where the nuns joined us on Sundays and one for the Protestants — who were thought of as exotic. There wasn't any place for Hindus. Though my parents were both Indian, only my father had been Hindu. From him I knew that the Hindu god wasn't so different from the Christian god. One manifestation came in many dozens of forms while the other version came in only three. But the same god. The same jealous god, the same god who fell in love. The Christian god even sometimes fell in love with men, like King David. "God loved King David the way a woman loved a man." My mother would slap my father in the face when he said things like that. Then she would accept his cuffs as her martyrdom. When he showed the first signs of leprosy in his fingers she told him that it was God's punishment. But he would not repent. For me, it was easy to chant about Jesus Christ and slip in a Lord Krishna here and there.


2nd Go to the cinema

For many days the nuns did not know where to put me. I slept in the surgery where they took blood and logged my wounds into a tablet with only my given name, Deepa, in block letters. One option was an Indian woman who had left her child behind with family when she became a leper. She wanted me, but the nuns thought that this might be bad for us both. I, an Indian child, had left a mother behind. It was too perfect to be healthy. The nuns were not keen on putting me with a young man or even with a man and his wife. I could be temptation. Nuns knew about temptation.

They put me in a one-room house with an old African woman. "This your bed," she said. "Yours against the wall and mine besides the door. This so if there is a fire my old leper legs will have less distance to go. Is also so I can keep my eye on your comings and goings. There's all kind of talk of a cure for the leprosy and if you go back to your mother I don't want she to think I been raising you poorly." Her name was Tantie B. I had never known my grandparents, since my mother had sailed over from Madras in southern India before I was born. I knew only southern Trinidad. Tantie B was my grandmother in Chacachacare. And Lazaro was my brother.

For the first months after I arrived Lazaro would take me for walks. The island was green with palm and sea grape trees. It was loud with the howler monkeys that snored all day and mated all night. Lazaro and I often went beyond the fence that kept the lepers to the leper side. We would climb under it, through a gorge deep enough for a body. It had been first dug out by an iguana and now maintained by Lazaro. We would climb trees. We would eat green fruit and spit the seeds out, aim for lizards and fire ants. One day Lazaro took me farther than he had before.

"There," he said, pointing down the hill to a clearing with spots of gray. "The nun burial ground. That's where they put the nuns' bodies. That's where I want to be buried."

"But you ain a nun."

"Who say?"

"You a boy. You couldn't be a nun."

"Why I can't be a nun? Didn't Peter take over the family after Jesus dead, like widows does do? Peter get to be buried under some rock. I want a rock over me."

We climbed down the hill to look at the burial site. The grounds were clean but sharp with ankle-high grass. When we walked we made a swishing sound like waves. The stones over the graves were marked: Sister Marie, Lover of the Lord; Sister Margaret, Lover of the Word; Sister Ann, Lover of the poor and the wretched. We sat among the stones. Lazaro patted my arm gently.

"Soon they going have to chop some of it away."

"I know."

"You afraid?"

"Yes."

"You brave?"

"Yes."

"What you love?"

"My mother."

"And who she?"

"She ..." I paused. I had not seen or heard from my mother in months. I had not expected her to write because she had had very little schooling. But what was she now? Was she a new wife? Was she going to be someone else's mother? "She a woman who works in the cane field. She does pray to Saint Anne to send her signs." I pushed some dirt around with my toe. "Who was your mother?" I already knew of Lazaro's tragedy from the little things Tantie B had whispered to me at night, and the stories Babalao Chuck told in the clearing when Lazaro was off helping haul in the goods from the delivery boat. I knew, but it still seemed the right thing to ask. I lowered my head so Lazaro would know I did not mean to be bold.

"My mother is the woman who tell me that I was her miracle. I was her sign." With his hand he raised my face so that our eyes met. I felt my skin grow warm and loose. "She tell me a island could be like a world." He spoke softly and I could see that his eyes were heavy with their water. "Try a next thing," he breathed out, so that I realized there had been a long silence. "Everyone love their mother. What else you love?"

I thought about this. I let my good hand run through the sharp grass, feeling the tiny cuts opening on my fingers. "My own-self," I answered at last.

"Then on your grave it will say 'Sister Deepa, Lover of She-self.'"

"What your stone going say?"

"Brother Lazaro, Lover of Deepa."

I sat on a stone with markings that were clear and fresh. I felt the curved coolness though my clothes. It wasn't smooth. It was rough and the thin cloth of my sari did not do much to cushion me. I lifted my feet to try to balance. To try to press the cold stone onto me. "Don't fall," he said.

"I won't." But I got up anyway. "Why we here?"

"Because we lepers."

I nodded. "But why here-here?" I spread my arms wide to mean the world.

Lazaro shrugged. "You don't listen to the priest on Sunday?"

"I never understand what he does say."

"We here because God want somebody to know him."

"Like a friend?"

"Like when someone know you it make you real. Like the tree that fall in the forest when nobody was around. God had want to be heard."

"A tree fall in the forest?"

"All the time."

I could not help myself. Suddenly my body felt heavy. Suddenly I felt alone. I walked over to him and bent into his small chest. I cried loudly. I cried for my mother. "I'm here," Lazaro said. And he said it over and over again.

The doctor dressed in white. He covered his hair and face. Only his eyes showed and I couldn't tell if he was French and tanned, or African but light, or Indian even. I imagined he was my father, whom I couldn't really remember. I imagined this as he leaned into my face and his face turned hazy and then disappeared. I slept as he carved out the muscle around my elbow, which wasn't much muscle to begin with as I was still only fourteen and quite skinny. "They didn't cut your arm off," a nun said to me and smiled when I awoke. And I knew that was something to be thankful for.

I was allowed to watch a movie two nights later at the small cinema that had been built for the volunteers and the nuns. Once a month was leper night — for those of us who had gone to Mass every Sunday and for those of us who had been to hospital. I invited Lazaro and they allowed him to come even though neither the Protestant nor the Catholic church could claim him in their congregation. And he was not ill. He was never ill.

The lepers sat in the front rows. The nuns sat in the very back, like chaperones. The movies that were brought were old movies. Movies that were already old in Trinidad, where my mother was. They weren't even talkies, most of them. Silent things with caresses so passionate they made even the nuns giggle loudly.

Movies are like so much art. They can start a revolution. This was not a movie about war. Or about race and oppression; no one talked about those things in 1939. A man loved a woman. A woman loved a man. They were willing to do bad things for that love.


3rd Kill a nun

I was not yet sixteen when we made the biggest decision of our lives. Lazaro was almost eighteen. Appropriate ages for independence. We went into the jungle of the island to build it. We stole wood meant to steady the leper houses. This was more important. Tantie B did not know what we were doing. I was still alive. She was still alive. Babalao Chuck was dead. I did not go to see him cremated. I believed his stories. I believed he had flown away. He said his Orisha had taught him. I told Tantie B that Lazaro and I were going to build us a house, separate and away from the other houses. And because all every leper wanted was a world that was the same as Trinidad, just with limbs that were fragments of the big island's, a vacation home in leper town didn't seem unbelievable. "Every young couple need some privacy for when they wed," Tantie B mused. And I imagine she thought that Lazaro and I were in love. I cannot blame her. I thought the same.

But we were not building honeymoon quarters. We were going to build an altar to the goddess Kali. Kali who dances and spins this Kaliyuga world. Bringing the destruction we asked for when we didn't know what we were asking. "Dear lordess," I said as I nailed and Lazaro carved. "We is your servants. I drag this wood on my back to show you that we ain no better than dust." For by then I was resigned to the fact that when I died I would not be buried.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from How to Escape from a Leper Colony by Tiphanie Yanique. Copyright © 2010 Tiphanie Yanique. Excerpted by permission of Graywolf Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents

Contents

How to Escape from a Leper Colony,
The Bridge Stories,
Street Man,
The Saving Work,
Canoe Sickness,
Where Tourists Don't Go,
The International Shop of Coffins,
Kill the Rabbits,

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