Racing With the Rain by Ken

Author:Ken
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cia, british, caribbean, guyana, west indies, west indian, guiana, british empire, mi5, british colonialism, british guiana, caribbean fiction, british american relationships, british guyana, mi5 and mi6, cia involvement, british colonies, caribbean writer, caribbean diaspora, caribbean literature, west indian literature, caribbean historical fiction, british espionage, british colony, guyana disturbances, guyana pre independence conflict
Publisher: Ken

CHAPTER 12 –The Wake

TUESDAY 25TH NOVEMBER 1980

It was all over.

Father Martin had come around, extended his sympathy to Carl and quickly left for another function. The undertaker left in his hearse, leaving a gravedigger to complete the job. People started to make their way out of the cemetery. Carl watched them carefully pick their way across the ground that had turned into a soggy morass. The procession was slow. Some were carrying umbrellas opened up against the drizzle that had started again, others had a variety of items held over their head: a printed copy of the service, a Bible, a handkerchief.

That was it, Carl thought. The underlying attitude at the end of every funeral he’d attended: it was over and time to move on to something else. A cemetery was the last place people wanted to linger and socialize on a wet day. Carl remained standing in the same position, watching the gravedigger shovel the last of the dirt. The man was taking his time. He would scoop and throw it on the mound, pause, scoop and throw, puffs of smoke rising from the cigarette dangling between his lips. How many graves had he done for the day? What number was Carl’s father? Was this something that a gravedigger kept track of?

The cigarette was down to a stub by the time the last of the dirt was thrown in the grave but the man still would not let go of it –he held the butt between his thumb and index finger and dragged out the last few stimulating puffs before he threw it on the ground. He was a thin man, his back stooped, his clothes hanging by threads on his emaciated body, his face grizzled and grey, and he looked for all the world like someone who approached his profession as if time was on his side. Why would he have to hurry? His clients were the least to complain about the way he approached his job. He took his time, tamped the mound with his shovel, stood back and looked at his handiwork, twisting his head right and left as if he were checking the mound for its symmetry.

This is what a man’s life finally comes down to in the end, Carl thought: Ownership of a six feet deep plot of land that would eventually be marked by a headstone commemorating his coming and going. In the final analysis, life was for the living. The dead already had their place in the sun when they were entities and once you’ve moved on, a plot was waiting for you someplace, somewhere.

In a few weeks, after the site had settled, a dome would be cast and the headstone installed. In accordance with Augusto’s wishes, Uncle Jules had selected a marble headstone to be carved with the words: Augusto Dias 30 August 1910 –24th November 1980. Died as he lived. No more, No less. Would it be something that he might see one day, Carl wondered. He doubted it. He

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