Assam’s Iron Chest

by Willi Chen

Mayaro

(Originally published in 1988)

A dull moon glowed in the country-night darkness. They came out of hiding from behind the caimette tree, avoiding the crackle of dead leaves underfoot. Into the pale light stepped big, loudmouthed Mathias, Boyo with his matted dreadlocks wrapped up in a “Marvingay” hat, and laglee-chewing Sagamouth, so nicknamed because of his grotesque lips and the smattering noises they made.

In the little clearing overlooking Assam’s shopyard, they waited patiently behind large tannia leaves that shielded them from the light of passing motorists. They waited for the last bus to rattle by on its return journey to town and for the soft glow of Assam’s Coleman lamp, whirring moths and beetles striking against the lampshade, to go out.

Boyo puffed at the carmine-tipped stick of ganja that brightened his face as he slapped at mosquitoes. Sagamouth’s lips continued slurping noisily.

“Keep quiet, man. Christ! You goh wake up the whole damn village,” Mathias hissed between clenched teeth.

“Look, the light out,” Sagamouth whispered excitedly.

“Yea, but keep your flapping mouth shut. I could see. Who in charge here? Boyo, put out that weed. Whole place stink ah grass,” Mathias warned.

At the galvanized paling surrounding the shopyard, a flimsy steel sheet suddenly loosened in the moonlight and fell aside, allowing three figures to squeeze through the narrow space into the shopyard. They were confronted by stacks of empty soft drink crates, discarded cartons, pitch oil tins and, against the shed, bundles of stacked crocus bags.

Remembering the action in the motion picture Bataan, and with the dramatic invasion in Desert Fox still fresh in his mind, Mathias crouched on all fours, leading his platoon across the yard.

“Sssh,” he cautioned them as he sat on his buttocks before the big door. They paused in the darkness. Mathias’s hands felt for the door frame. He inserted a pig foot into the crevice. With both feet against the wall he pried the door, throwing his whole weight on it. A slow cracking noise erupted as the nails lifted off the hinges and the door came up. A dank odour of wet oilmeal, soap and stale mackerel greeted them. They crawled in, feeling their way between the stacks of packaged goods. Further inside, they saw a table with a lighted lamp and a red spot of mosquito coil under it. A big square mosquito net hung over a four-poster bed out of which floated Assam’s snores in grating spasms.

Convinced that Assam was sound asleep, Mathias struck a match and immediately shadows jumped across the walls, on the shelves of bottles and over tinned stuffs. On the floor, crowding the aisles, was the paraphernalia of jumbled haberdashery, pots and pans, and bags of peas and beans. Moving in the crowded interior, Mathias came to the room where, over a small table, bills hung pinned to the wall, next to a Chinese calendar. Cupping the lighted match in his hand, Mathias tiptoed farther inside. More bags, packed in rows, and bales of macaroni and cornmeal. Flagons of cider and an old rum cask stood on the floor. In the corner, the square block of metal stood on a rough framework of local timber; a squat, dull hunk of iron with a circular dial of brass. It was the iron chest. Mathias came up to it and tested its weight. Boyo braced himself in readiness.

With Sagamouth holding the light, Mathias and Boyo heaved at the heavy hulk of iron. They pushed until the wooden stand inched along the floor.

“Damn thing must be full,” Boyo said.

“Cane farmer pay, choopid,” Sagamouth replied, spraying them with his spittle.

“All you keep quiet,” Mathias entreated.

Pitting themselves against the heavy load, they worked with caution. Twice they heard Assam cough. Their hands glided, slipped over the smooth surface of the chest. After some strenuous efforts, they managed to push the chest to the doorway. Finally the whole bulk of metal was heaved outside, catapulting, digging into the yard with a dull thud.

The cool night breeze invigorated their bodies. The sight of the chest inspired their minds with the promise of new things in life. Sagamouth disappeared into the bushes and returned with a crocus bag containing a crowbar, a sledgehammer and a flambeau. Behind him he dragged a large piece of board, the underside of which was lined with plain galvanized sheeting. At one end was tied a long piece of rope. They eased their cargo onto the wooden contraption. Mathias again directed the operations. Standing before the metal chest, he tied the end of the rope around his waist and leant forward. Boyo and Sagamouth were pushing at the rear.

They hauled the makeshift sledge along the grassy side tracks. With the heavy iron chest strapped to it, it skidded and scuttled across the bare ground. Their backs shone like their faces, which steamed with perspiration. Boyo puffed like a mule. Sagamouth’s mouth continued its feeble movements. They halted behind a silk cotton tree. Mathias swung the axe in long, measured strokes against the chest. The sounds echoed deep into the woods. The heavy blows ricocheted over the door. Now and then he stopped to inspect the shallow indentations. The brass handle had fallen off, the dial long warped under the punishing blows. Yet the door remained sealed. They persevered, taking turns with the sledgehammer and crowbar, until Mathias, bringing the heavy hammer from high overhead, struck the chest with such force that they heard a loud cracking noise.

Instantly they sprang forward, their eager hands reached out for the door. Three pairs of hands churned inside the chest, as their eyes opened wide in anticipation. Then Sagamouth withdrew, exclaiming, “Empty.”

“Christ, you mean the damn thing en’t have a cent, boy?”

“All dis damn trouble,” Boyo said.

Mathias stood up wearily and looked at the others, his arms sore and wet, as he whispered, “Dat damn Chinese smart like hell! Ah never cud believe it. You mean he move out all de damn money, boy?”

Sagamouth’s dribbling stopped. Boyo looked up at the sky.

* * *

One day, some three months afterwards, when the notorious episode was almost forgotten in the little village and the blue police van had long completed its trips to Assam’s on investigation, Sagamouth came into Assam’s shop. He stood at the counter and called for a pound of saltbeef. There was no one in the shop except for a well-dressed man. A briefcase was on the counter and he was busily scribbling on a pad.

“Yes, please sign on this, Mr. Assam,” the man said in his mellow voice. Assam, spectacles tied to his ear with a piece of flour-bag string, leant over the counter and scrawled on the pad.

“Have everything dong, Mr. Blong?”

“Yes, all that you have told me,” Mr. Brown replied. “$1,000 in US, $15,000 in Canadian and $2,100 in TT cash. $89 in silver and that solid gold chain from China. But as I said, I’m not sure that the company will pay the foreign money.”

Assam placed a large brown paper bag containing two bottles of rum on the counter before Mr. Brown.

“Well, check all in TT dollars then,” Assam said, taking out another brown bag from below the counter.

Mr. Brown smiled and pointed to the last item on the list. “Ah—that is the iron chest, Mr. Assam. The company will pay you the $8,000 you have claimed.”

“Yes sah,” Assam said smiling, “velly goot,” his eyes two narrow slits behind thick lenses.

Sagamouth stood dumb, rooted in front of the counter, unmoving, as he listened to the conversation. His lips had suddenly lost all sense of movement. They hung droopily over the counter, nearly falling into the shop-scale pan.