Chapter 6 Five Hertens

The moment I saw him, the papaya in my hand slipped from my palm, the orange-pink flesh shattered on my feet, and the oval black seeds splattered around my legs.He rode a bicycle too small for his long legs, forcing his knees to bend like a frog.Unfamiliar with the machine, he wobbled dangerously and rang the bell to warn passers-by of his approaching menace.I ran so as not to lose track of him, the sticky papaya pulp oozing into my shoe in the bliss of taking me flying across the street.I yelled: Michael, wait a minute.Many pairs of eyes looked at me, but he didn't turn his head.He got up off the bike mat and accelerated while standing.

I turned the corner, and the bicycle, the wheels still spinning, was thrown about in the road, as if its owner had gotten off at breakneck speed.He passed through the crowd: a motley crowd of snakes, crowding each other across the street, craning their necks in anticipation, craned their necks to see better, begged for silence, breathed in between their teeth, spit on the ground, among the bullets. push each other lightly.He shoved the crowd away with his shoulder because he wanted to take a steady path through the chaotic assembly.As if there was a thread holding us, I followed his footsteps and walked forward.Soon, I was behind him.When I stretched out my finger, only an inch from his shoulder, I saw a chair that was part of a chair, the cushion and two feet rolled towards me in the air.Suddenly I was looking at the ground, with a heavy weight on my back, and a dull pain in my knees.Someone shielded me, the weight of a hand on my head, and the stench of sweat filled my mouth.With a resonant growl from that protective chest, a hand wrapped around my waist lifted me off the ground.

Riots erupted in the street.A group of niggers who were orderly one moment ago are now yelling, cursing, jumping, throwing stones, rocks, logs high into the air, then dodging and jumping to avoid returning colors, slamming bottles and sharp shots body.A man with flowers on his head, indifferent to the blood flowing from his torn shirt, bent down to pick up the tinned remnant of the bottle, and threw it away as if playing a ball game.Above the riot, loudspeakers boomed out into inaudible discourse so loudly and inflected. I was carried through this chaos.Feet desperately want to find a foothold to run on the road.But I was bound like a knot.After rounding the corner, everything suddenly returned to calm.Pedestrians come and go on their own, unaware of the hustle and bustle that can be glimpsed along the next street.In this harmonious place, it is a spectacle for a dirty man covered in dust to carry a grown woman with blood dripping from her knees.So he put me down gently, and I saw his face.It's him.I thought it was Michael's guy.But he wasn't Michael, he was a stranger.

He said: What are you doing at this rally?It's not safe here. I replied: let me go.He was darker than Michael, had a wider nose, thicker lips, and rounder eyes.His mustache is thicker, and his smile is not tilted to one side. Are you hurt?He said, noticing my bleeding knee. His open mouth revealed a gleaming gold tooth.I could have screamed.When he reached out to touch my leg, I told him to move his hand away.I didn't expect that I would take this rough man for Michael.roberts.What's going on with this whole commotion?I found myself shaking.These words did not come out with the force I required, but trembled.

Basta's speech.I don't know what this man is talking about.I just came to see what he had to say.But every time we gather, there are such rough things. I'm not interested in his explanation. Your feet, he cried, his face changing.Your foot is crushed. I calmly told him: that is papaya. For a split second, he stares at me as if I'm insane.He asked: Papaya? right.I replied without explaining to the man. His gold teeth shone when he smiled.Didn't your mother tell you that you should put papaya in your mouth, not on your legs?He smiled first, then chuckled a little at his own joke.

At this time, a young man ran to the front line, holding two big rocks and several branches with both arms, fell down in front of us, and spilled the things he was holding.Curses poured out of his mouth like a cannonball, and even the air became rancid.The man who wasn't Michael grabbed the cursing man by the throat, and the noses of the two were only a few feet away.He said: Don't you see that there is a lady here?shut your mouth.I am afraid that another dispute will break out in front of me.The man who wasn't Michael let go of the cursing man's throat and gave him a push, and for a moment the two confronted each other like savages, and finally the cursing man backed away in fear and ran away.

The man who wasn't Michael took a calm breath, looked at me and said, "I'm sorry, Miss, for making you hear such foul language."Then he turned his attention back to the commotion in the next street. I said: You go, I'm fine. Are you sure?can i leave you hereYou won't come back and throw the bottle to make those people look good, will you?He laughed again at his own joke as he left.When his back was turned around the corner, I had to shake myself awake not to believe I was seeing Michael again. For a long time after the war, I sat quietly, waiting for Michael to appear.Festive balloons deflated, bows tarnished.

People stopped talking about rice shortages, alas, and those times when there wasn't even condensed milk.On the high hillside, the boats are moored below.Even at that distance, if Michel landed from the boat among the crowd, I could still see him like a dot of light on the cave wall.Those who left home for the war with joyful hearts looked around as prisoners when they returned home.Wearing ill-fitting suits or uniforms that will soon no longer belong to them, they survey their surroundings as if they were in a foreign land, their feet tremble and hesitate slightly when they step onto the pier.Mothers embracing their sons, shamed wives watching their returning husbands with guilt.But he still didn't show up.

What will Michael look like on the plane?I don't have a picture to imagine.Does he love to explore, doing all he can just to see the far, winding coastline far below?Or do you stare at the sky, counting the clouds that slide across your vision, shielding your eyes from the sun?I was told that houses in England are so densely built that it is possible to see neighboring and opposite houses.Did anyone stare out the window and see Michael sucking on a mug full of hot tea?With the window open and a breeze brushing his cheek?Or are the window panes closed and barely see through from the rain?What does Michael do when he's cold?Would he shiver like a dog when it comes out of a stream, or would he stand upright, wrapped in a heavy coat and warm?Michael in my heart.Roberts, with his thin mustache and sideways smile, belongs to this Caribbean island and nowhere else.