274 George Street

It was the first time I’d set foot in the house, and that first foot had not been well-placed. It stamped down on a carpet of dust, sending a swarm of motes swirling upwards from a long-undisturbed solitude.

I had to step outside for some time, coughing and sneezing as the dust invaded delicate passages, threatening to trigger off my asthma. I didn’t have my inhaler with me just then, so I decided to wait outside in the warm sunshine till the spirits had settled. I found a stone in the driveway, next to my baggage, and sat down, peering through the half-opened door with an air of despondency.

I couldn’t believe that I was going to have to spend the next few weeks – or months – in this house. It was bad enough because I wasn’t used to living alone, but what made it worse was that the house was in Goa and I hated Goa.

Mum had bought the house two months ago, and before she could even settle in, had keeled over in the back of an auto-rickshaw. By the time the driver noticed, Mum was gone, dead of a coronary.

I myself had come down from Kuwait – as the only direct surviving relative, I’d had no choice – arranged the funeral, and after attending it and other various legal matters, pocketed the key to 274, George Street without so much as having seen the place, then rushed back off to Kuwait, unable to stick the Goan way of life any longer. Things would have been fine if Saddam Hussein hadn’t invaded. I fled with whatever I could get my hands on. Sad to say, Goa had been the only logical destination. Mum had sold her ancestral lands to pay for the house, located in the city.

I had made no long-term plans, because, within all reason, I would be back in Kuwait quickly. I had reason to be optimistic. George Bush and his allied confederates were stockpiling troops and armour inside the Saudi border, and I was confident Old Saddam was going to be sent packing before the month was out.

Having no other place to go to, I’d stopped the taxi here, then found the key, slipped it in and turned the handle. The only thing I’d seen was the pile of utility bills, and then the dust rose to consume me.

* * *

My second foray into the interior was a more cautious one. I’d tied a hanky around my nose and mouth, then entered the cool darkness.

The house was a Portuguese-type construction, with a hall, two bedrooms and kitchen, smaller than its counterparts. The windows were shuttered, likely by the last occupants, and I padded through the dust to open them, letting in air and light. As I had expected, the power had been cut but after an inspection I realised it wouldn’t have mattered: there were no fans, tube-lights or bulbs. After the luxuries back in the promised land, this was a letdown. I suspected that getting the power reconnected was going to be a trial, and I didn’t think Saddam would last that long. Plus there was no water either. I ran a finger through the sink with a sigh. This house was drier than some parts of Kuwait.

There was nothing I could do here today. Better to book myself into a lodge, grab some lunch and then return in the evening to make the most of a disheartening situation.

* * *

I returned at a quarter past three, armed with pen and paper.

Wandering through the sitting room, I listed things I’d need to make this house a home. The Iraqi invasion had been a shock, bringing me alive to the fact that Kuwait was only a temporary haven. I would convert 274 into my own El Dorado and keep it ship-shape for my eventual return.

I walked into one of the bedrooms. Like the other, it was empty, save for the cobwebs. I cast a final departing glance about, depressed by the landscape, and noticed the box.

It was a shoe box, half-crushed and stuffed into a corner, hidden under a curtain of webs and dust. I reached into the heap with my leg, and gingerly edged it away from the wall. I guess there aren’t any tarantulas in Goa, but why take a chance – maybe the shoes had been imported from South America. A gentle nudge and the lid came off and I peered within; inside was a plastic-covered book.

I lifted it out of its sanctuary, wiped away the dust and whistled in surprise. Diary 1962 was emblazoned on the front. I opened to the front page and saw: Samuel Serao. The name meant nothing to me. I turned to January 1st 1962 – empty. So was the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th. I flipped on and through February, and into March and stopped. Wedged into March 5th was an envelope.

I picked it up and got a faint whiff of perfume. It was addressed to Samuel Serao at 274, George Street. I shook out the contents: two folded papers, along with a faded photograph of a woman who looked as beautiful as she did regal. I unfolded both sheets and saw immediately that they were letters; one was to Samuel, dated January 10th 1962. The other was a letter from Serao, dated January 31st 1962 which was incomplete. Obviously, the second letter had never been sent. Burning with curiosity, I began to read.

My Darling,
How quickly the time has flown! It seems like only yesterday when we met at the wedding reception back in April. And yet, we have spent together countless, treasured moments like that glorious night. My love for you has, if nothing, grown deeper, and your life, I see now, inextricably twisted into mine. At every waking moment, your image is the first on my mind, your name the first on my lips. Oh, how I long for you, dearest! How fervently I pray for the day when your training in Lisbon will be complete, so that you may return to end my suffering. I enclose within, my photo, taken outside my house. With it, I send a part of my heart and pray for your quick and safe return.
Eternally yours,
Mary.

 

Dearest Beloved,
How my heart did beat, like an imprisoned beast within closing walls, when your letter came to me. Your photo does you no justice, for how can such divine radiance be captured upon paper? I shall treat it as though it were my only worldly possession. I urge you to be strong, to see through each day bravely till I can bid farewell to this wretched place. The work is hard, the days are long, but it is you, shining through like a redeeming star, who keeps me going. Hold your shoulders high, and endure, for this cannot last forever; one day I shall come back to you, and I know that you will be waiting.

I closed the two letters and placed the whole envelope back inside the diary. All of a sudden, I didn’t feel like cleaning up anymore.

* * *

Sitting in the hotel balcony, I listened nonchalantly to BBC over the SW2. The deadline for withdrawal had expired, and as promised, George Bush had launched Operation Desert Storm. The BBC seemed to be covering nothing else, and there was clear excitement in the voices of the correspondents. From the air, over the seas of the Gulf and from inside Saudi borders, relentlessly and ruthlessly, the Iraqi war-machine was being hammered by everything in the arsenals of American forces and their Allied partners. Military analysts were hinting at a swift victory.

Strangely enough however, my mind was on those two letters. Two plain sheets of paper filled with words. That’s all they’d been when I first opened them; that’s all I’d expected them to be. But I’d been wrong because reading them had been like entering another dimension. It was like I’d intruded into two private lives. The simple and clear message in both those letters had left me moved. More than anything, I wanted to know what had happened to them. Wanted to walk into someone’s house and see Mary and Samuel looking into the others’ eyes, clasping hands, united in their love for each other – and then rejoice that despite the terrible things that were happening all over, miracles still occurred.

* * *

I breakfasted early the next day. I wanted to begin my shopping today, and needed my list for that. The previous evening, lost in thought after reading the letters, I had forgotten my notepad in the house.

I took a rick out to the house, told the driver to wait and dashed in to get my notepad. I locked the door then hurried out to the rickshaw. Just as I was about to climb in, someone called out my name.

Peering through the window of the rick, I saw a man on the other side of the road, his arm raised. And even as I turned, meaning to get out, he jumped off the pavement onto the road, looking with anxiety at my rickshaw. I understood later that he was rushing forward to stop the rick, evidently thinking that I hadn’t heard him.

His anxiety to meet me must have been extreme for it swamped all his caution, and with an overpowering sense of shock, I realised that he never had a chance.

The big interstate goods carrier braked hard. I saw the terror spring into the eyes of the driver, heard the sudden screech of brakes applied in panic, and closed my own eyes as the man who had called my name died out there on the road.

I don’t know how movement was possible, but I dashed over to where his shattered body lay. The man was dead; one minute after he had mysteriously come into my life, he was dead, and now I would never know why. His face, bloodied and grotesquely crushed, defied description, even recognition, and I bent back, bitter. The difference, I thought savagely, between life and death – one minute, and one error in judgement. I saw the card in his hand then, and drew it out, smoothing the edges.

My name had been written in black on one side, along with 274, George Street. I turned the card and my breath caught.

On it was embossed: SERAO ELECTRICALS.

Serao… Serao! My mind went back to the letters instantly. Samuel Serao... He had wanted to meet me. But why? Could it be for those letters? There was no way I could know – not now. The only thing evident to me was that Serao must have considered the matter quite urgent. I’d been in Goa for only a day when he’d tried to make contact. It was the letters, I decided suddenly; it had to be the letters he was after. He’d found out that the new owner of 274, George Street had arrived in town, and had made a frantic attempt to retrieve the letters. And for his efforts, Serao now lay dead. What was I to do now? Throw them away? Keep them? Or try to return them to their rightful co-owner, Mary?

I spent a fitful night thinking it over, trying to convince myself that it was none of my business. By morning, my course of action was clear. Mary would get those letters from me, personally, with my sympathies. Doing anything else would haunt me for the rest of my life.

* * *

With the envelope in my pocket, I went to the local cop house. My work got me no positive results except for one thing: Serao’s funeral was to be held that evening, here in town. I decided to attend.

* * *

I trudged through the cemetery, no bounce in my step, and approached the small group gathered around the coffin. The atmosphere was morose, and there wasn’t even a breath of wind to make the leaves in the nearby trees rustle. Even the traffic beyond the ancient walls seemed stilled. Only the drone of the priest could be heard, along with the occasional sob.

I stood at the back, next to a youngster who was standing alone. He looked up, and I gave him a brief nod before studying the individuals in the assembled group.

A veiled woman in black was crying softly, held by a young man who was staring at the ground.

I nudged the guy beside me. “Who’s she?” I whispered.

“Serao’s fiancee.” He whispered back. “They were supposed to be married next week.”

My pulse quickened. “What’s her name?”

“Roseanne D’Lima.”

My pulse died.

“Damn.” He said suddenly. “Why did he have to go off and get himself killed? I was to be the best man for their wedding.”

But I wasn’t listening. I was looking at a couple standing away from Roseanne, old and distinguished they looked, but there was no mistaking who that woman was.

“Mary.” I whispered, and the youngster turned, nodding. “And who’s the man with her?”

“Her husband.”

I felt a steel hook bite into my heart.

“How come you don’t know that? Aren’t you a family friend?”

I took out the visiting card. “He had it with him at the accident, my name and address was on it. I’ve no idea why.”

But apparently he did, because he nodded again. “Oh yeah; he told me about it. He wanted to buy that house.” He shrugged. “Sentimental value, I guess.”

It was as if a weight had been placed on my back. Serao was to be married to Roseanne D’Lima. He had come to 274 to buy it, because of the old memories, and to retrieve the love letters – and dispose of them. And I had come here today, with letters that if brought into the open could affect two relationships. It felt like a burning coal in my pocket.

Roseanne would cry for the man she loved, but it would be in the knowledge that he’d loved her. And Mary, now happily married to another man, had been gracious enough to turn up for the funeral of the man she’d once loved. The letters could destroy all of that.

With startling clarity, I recalled my thoughts from yesterday: wishing, after having read the letters, that I knew how the fairy-tale had ended, longing to see that love had triumphed, bringing Samuel and Mary together. But it hadn’t, I thought angrily. Damn you, Samuel, I thought bitterly and crumpled the blue envelope – it shouldn’t have ended this way.

I walked up to the edge where the coffin had been lowered into the grave. Already, mud was being shovelled into it. Standing at the edge, I muttered a prayer, and tossed the blue envelope into the grave, watching as it got covered with mud.

I looked up at Roseanne and Mary one last time and there was a tear in my eye, awash with grief that this was how it would end. Then, as I turned to leave, I looked at the Cross at the front of the grave.

Here lies Matthew Serao (1968 – 1993)
Beloved Son of Samuel and Mary Serao.
May His Soul Rest in Peace.