bout de papier, Vol. 14, No. 1 (1997) — Spring 1997 // Printemps 1997, p. 41
It was about 9 a.m. and already hot outside. Strong Guyanese coffee had not yet stoked my metabolism when the telephone rang. It was Baltasar, the short, urbane Ambassador from a neighbouring country.
“John,” he said, “my country has been insulted by one of your banks”, his voice rose, “and I have been personally irrespected.”
“You have been what?”
“Listen to me. You know Lennox Mortimer, the Manager of the Bank of Nova Scotia?”
“Yes, of course. You mean Three Piece,” I said, unsuccessfully trying to lighten the conversation.
“Mortimer, Three Piece, whatever — sheet! He should be chopped into pieces!”
“Good God! What has he done?”
“He has been attempting deliberately to destroy the decorum of my Embassy … To prevent us from working and to detricate our dignity. You know, the Embassy is up against the wall of the bank. One week ago he placed loudspeakers by this wall – the wall of my office — and turned on his disgusting music. Yesterday afternoon, he pushed them to the top.”
“You mean, full volume?”
“Yes, full volume. It was terrible, unspeakable. It was … it was uprageous! Of course I went immediately to the Bank and insisted on speaking to Mortimer.
“Did Mortimer not apologize?”
“Apologize! I was received rudely and told to leave. As Canadian High Commissioner, you must speak to Mortimer.”
On the surface there appeared to be a dichotomy between the conservative appearance of Mortimer, or Three Piece, and his behaviour. Three Piece almost invariably wore a three piece suit. For a senior bank manager this would have been unremarkable. In Guyana, he was unique. Not even Vladimir, the Soviet Ambassador, who liked to parade his Brooks Bros. suits, would wear a vest in Guyana’s Turkish bath climate. Apart from Three Piece and the Soviet Ambassador, almost no-one wore a jacket. Apart from these two and George, the American Ambassador, almost no-one wore a tie. The custom which Three Piece regularly defied had been set by President Burnham and was one of the few sound policies imposed by this leader on a much abused and increasingly impoverished nation.
As Baltasar and his entire Embassy had learned, Three Piece was a jazz and reggae fanatic. He had been a musician in his native St. Lucia. His corpuscles were syncopated with jazz and West Indian rhythms. Three Piece was also our neighbour in Bel Air Gardens — separated from us only by Mr. and Mrs. Greathead and Laura, their 35-year old parrot. When his wife was away, he gave parties. They were the liveliest parties on our side of town. The outdoor amplifiers outboomed the tree frogs until about 4 a.m. and antagonized all of us who weren’t invited.
Before I could collect my thoughts and call Three Piece, the phone range again. It was Three Piece calling me.
“John, how well do you know Baltasar, the Ambassador?”
“Pretty well. Why?”
“Man, you will not believe this…,” and he paused “Believe what?”
“The meatball is a bloody maniac!” “What do you mean?”
“You know — well, you wouldn’t know. To perk up the staff I set up a recreation room in one of the empty offices upstairs. We use my tapes. Yesterday, after work, about six of us were relaxing and listening to music, when the fellow burst in. You know we share a wall with the Embassy.”
“Yes, I know.”
“We were playing Bob Marley, when he came in. Man, he got red in the face and started to shout. I turned the machine off and told him that if he was going to insult me in front of my staff, he could get the hell out. The little squirt gets more red in the face, reaches into his pocket, takes out his bloody great pistol, and points it at me — in my own bank!”
Two days later, Baltasar and Three Piece met in my office. Three Piece said he would move the recreation room and Baltasar apologized. Soon after, Three Piece invited Judy and me to his next party.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 14, No. 1 (1997) — Spring 1997 // Printemps 1997, p. 41. Read the rest of this issue →
