Caribbean (110 page)

Banarjee said years later: “When I got off the airplane in Miami for the fall semester, my lungs expanded, as if responding to the freedom in the air, the excitement. Those were the years when the free-wheeling Cuban émigrés were converting a sleepy playground for rich people into an international capital. Ah! It was so vital to be in Miami in those days.”

Fortunately for Ranjit, when he deplaned at Miami a young black man who had sat next to him in the plane saw him casting about, not knowing where to go, and he called: “Hey, Jamaica! Looking for the university?” and when Ranjit nodded, he said: “Stay with me. My
girlfriend has my car waiting.” When they reached the sports car, Ranjit saw that the very attractive young woman waiting in the front seat was white, and he was surprised when she embraced his guide ardently, then slid over to let him take the wheel, saying gaily: “It’s your car, mister.” Then, turning back to face Ranjit, she explained: “When you can run the hundred in nine-four and catch a football over your left shoulder, admirers arrange for a car like this.” Kissing the driver again, she added: “And Paul can do both.”

Finally she asked: “And where are you headed?” and Ranjit replied: “Miami University.”

Screaming in mock horror, she pointed at Ranjit and cried: “That’s a no-no! You said the dirty words!” and she asked Paul to explain.

“Miami University is a nothing little place in Ohio. It produces football coaches. The University
of
Miami is down here in paradise, and it produces football players. And you get both arms broken if you ever call it by its old name, Suntan U.”

“At the beginning,” the girl added, “it was a school for rich kids who couldn’t make it up North. All scuba diving and tennis. Scoffers dubbed it Suntan U. Now it’s a great place. Fine professors, tough courses.”

“What’s your field?” Ranjit asked, surprised that she should be so knowledgeable, and she said: “History and philosophy. All A’s and B’s.”

When Paul broke in to ask: “Where you gonna live, Jamaica?” Ranjit said: “I’m from Trinidad, and I haven’t a clue,” and the athlete explained: “Rule of thumb: Dixie Highway, otherwise known as U. S. 1, runs from Key West to the Canadian border in Maine. It divides the sheep from the goats, and you look like goats.”

“Meaning?”

“If you have money and a car you live west of Dixie, on the campus, in a new dorm. If you have no money and no car, you huddle in a batch of crowded housing east of Dixie so you can walk to classes. I know a real great bunch of houses. Lots of Caribbean kids live there. You’d like it.”

Ranjit found the university just as exciting as the city of Miami. It was in transition from having been Suntan U. to becoming a first-class center for studies in oceanography, medicine, law, music, Latin
American studies and general liberal arts. It was accumulating a major library and attracting energetic faculty members. It was not yet a Duke, but it was not an East Podunk State, either. And it was an ideal place for a bright student like Ranjit.

Although he was only eighteen when he began his studies for the doctorate, Ranjit was so naturally intelligent and so painstakingly organized that he sailed through his obligatory courses and quickly leaped headfirst into the most advanced work on campus. As before, at U.W.I., he had the advantage of working right through the calendar year—fall, winter, summer semesters—with no time out for vacations; students from the North groaned when the Miami summer approached with its fierce heat and wilting humidity, but Ranjit actually blossomed, as if his dark skin fended off the sun’s rays. “It’s simply that Miami in summer is so much cooler than Trinidad,” he explained to other students, who stared at him, and one said: “Warmer than here? You must boil down there,” and he said: “We do.”

But the speed with which he was working and the approval he received from his professors were catapulting him toward a singular precipice over which foreign students often plunged. And Ranjit would have remained blissfully ignorant of the danger toward which he was galloping had he not been accosted one day in 1974 by a tall, cadaverous Ph.D. student from Pakistan who took him aside for a fatherly warning.

Mehmed Muhammad was in his mid-thirties, and for some time Ranjit had been vaguely aware of him puttering about the library, extremely deferential to anyone in authority and with a perpetual half-smile that could not be dislodged, regardless of the day’s disaster. Ranjit supposed, from the man’s name and origin, that he must be a Muslim Pakistani, and that was the case.

“I’m from Lahore. My late father was a moneylender in a small way.” Speaking in a whispering, confidential voice, he added: “I had an uncle who paid for my first seven years at Miami. But he is dead now.”

“You’ve been here seven years?”

“Yes. Let me see what immigration papers you have.”

Ranjit produced an F-1 form he had acquired from the American Consulate in Trinidad that permitted him to visit America in a Non-Immigrant Status, meaning that he could not work or later count this time toward eligibility for citizenship. At the airport a Form I-94,
Duration of Status, had been stapled into his passport, warning Ranjit and any official who examined his credentials that his presence was valid only so long as his status as a student continued. And finally he had from the university an I-20 verifying that he was a legitimate student working for a degree, in his case a doctorate in sociology.

“Well, papers in good order, but, my friend, you’re sitting on a time bomb.”

“What do you mean?”

“Taken together, these papers mean only one thing. You’re legally in the United States only so long as you maintain your student status. The minute that ends, out you go.” He spoke in that beguiling Irish lilt that Indians and Muslims from the subcontinent had acquired centuries ago from the first teachers of English who came to India, a group of needy Irishmen; it was musical, Elizabethan in a way, and totally charming. “The problem is, my young friend, if you sprint through your courses the way you’re going, in two years you’ll have your doctorate, and then what? You lose your classification as a student and back you must go, to Trinidad.” He shuddered. He had never seen Trinidad, knew little about it except that it was crowded with Hindus.

“But I want to go back,” Ranjit said. “To work with my people.” When he saw the look of astonishment on Muhammad’s face, he asked naïvely: “Don’t you want to go back to Pakistan?”

Mehmed looked at him as if he were an idiot child whose question was incomprehensible but forgivable. Very slowly he asked, while staring at his knuckles: “Who would go back to Pakistan if he could remain in the United States?”

“So why don’t you stay here?” Ranjit asked, and Mehmed explained: “I want to. Ten thousand Pakistanis want to. But the minute I get my Ph.D., home I must go.”

“Then why get it?” Ranjit asked, and he was astounded by the duplicity of Mehmed’s answer: “I’m not going to get it. I’ll complete all the course work, write about half my thesis, then switch my major to something else. Maybe your sociology.”

“With your background, why not history?”

“Three years ago I was six weeks short of my Ph.D. in Asian history. Switched just in time to philosophy.”

“You could stay here forever. Who pays for your registration, your room?”

“I have another uncle.”

“Why do you do this?” and Mehmed replied: “Because sooner or later something will come up … a new law … an extension of privileges.”

“Do you ever intend to go home?”

“America needs me, and believe me, Mr. Banarjee, when you’re six weeks short of your Ph.D. and face the prospect of returning to Trinidad, you’ll realize that America needs you, too.”

Some weeks later, in the spring semester, he met Mehmed Muhammad again, and the Pakistani had good news: “I’ve been accepted in your department. Sociology of the Muslim-Hindu conflict. I could write my thesis this weekend if I had to.”

“But how do you have the course work to qualify for such a switch?” and Mehmed said: “I spent seven years in the colleges and universities of Bombay. I have enough undergraduate courses to qualify me for graduate work in almost anything … even calculus.”

In the summer of 1976, Ranjit interrupted his headlong drive for his Ph.D. to take an inexpensive Greyhound bus trip through the tier of American states fronting on Canada, and he was enraptured by Glacier National Park and the cool beauty of its mountains, but when a fellow traveler who enjoyed his company suggested they go into Canada to see that extension of the park which was supposed to be even more rugged, Ranjit drew back in visible fright.

“What’s the matter?” the traveler asked, and Ranjit explained: “Once I get out of the States, I might have trouble getting back in.”

“That makes sense. You being so dark, some horse’s ass on the border would delight in holding you up. Well, it takes all kinds to make a world and the pluperfect horse’s ass is never in short supply.”

When they parted, Ranjit remained in the American half of the park, and as he trudged through the lower levels, looking up at the Rockies wearing their white bonnets, he realized for the first time how enamored of the United States he was becoming. He especially appreciated Miami and was now prepared to accept Norma Wellington’s judgment. “It’s the ipso facto capital of the Caribbean.” He conceded that she had been correct when claiming that most of the workable ideas circulating in the Caribbean filtered through Miami, and he thought, somewhat ruefully: The Caribbean’s a fine group of little islands. America’s the real world. And now, for the first time, here among the towering Rockies, he actually contemplated remaining permanently in the States: Here’s where the decisions will be
made. Spain, England, France … all had their chance and failed to maintain supremacy. Now, for better or worse, it’s America’s turn. Then, cynically: It might last fifty years, or even seventy-five. After that? He shrugged.

When Ranjit returned to Miami in the fall, a new man determined to find a place for himself in America’s academic life, he awakened to the fact that he was perilously close to obtaining his Ph.D. in sociology before he had nailed down an appointment to some American university faculty. His right to continue as a student imperiled, he hastily switched his field of concentration to history, and this time he did not take his required courses in a rush. He spread them out during four semesters and took long vacations in the summers, finding cheap excursions to places like Yellowstone and Grand Canyon. By spacing his work meticulously and spending cautiously the funds his grandfather sent him, he felt sure of at least three more years of student eligibility.

It was in a barbershop on Dixie Highway that his life both as a student and a human being took a dramatic turn in 1981. Having managed to delay his doctorate in history, he had slipped into the gratifying routine of the scholar, pecking away in the library, drafting a learned paper now and then, and serving as substitute without pay when his professors had to attend the yearly meetings of their specialty groups. It was quite obvious to him, and to many of his fellow students, that he knew far more about the subject matter of the various courses than the regular professors, and infinitely more of the subtle interrelationships between the various fields. Also, he had managed to soften his sharp Trinidadian pronunciation so that he was now completely understandable to his American students.

Ranjit had to wait while two Hispanic students had their interminable haircuts, and when he finally reached the chair the barber, a tall man who had migrated to Miami from somewhere in the North, was actually glad to see him. “Where you from, young feller? Some sunburnt country out there, I’m sure.” When Ranjit said he was from Trinidad, the barber was delighted: “Isn’t that where they have the lake of asphalt? My teacher in the sixth grade told us that, and us fellows who’d seen roads being built and knew what asphalt was thought she was a liar.”

“That’s Trinidad.”

“Now, in Trinidad are they all your color?” From the way he
asked this, it was apparent that he had no prejudice. He was merely seeking friendly information.

“I’m a bit unusual. I’m a Hindu.”

“Now wait! Aren’t they from India? Cobras and Gandhi and all that?”

“You’re right again.” Ranjit was beginning to like the warmth and interest of this barber, but then the man said: “Well, I’m glad you’re not another damned Cuban.”

Ranjit froze, for life in his grandfather’s Portugee Shop, where customers of all colors had to be treated with respect, had taught him tolerance. “I like Cubans,” he said quietly.

“Hey there! So do I,” the barber said with honest excitement. “They’ve remade Miami. Best thing that’s happened to us is the Cubans.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Cubans as a group I like. Very much. But the individual Cuban gentleman sitting in my chair I dislike. Very much.”

“What do you mean?” As Ranjit asked this question he was vaguely aware that another man had entered the barbershop to take his place in the line of ordinary chairs used by waiting customers, but what kind of man he was, Ranjit could not have said.

The barber resumed: “You come in here. A nice-looking Hindu. You say ‘Elmer, give me a haircut,’ and fifteen, twenty minutes later you get out of my chair and pay me. But you take a Cuban man, especially a young one, your age, more or less. He sits in my chair and spends maybe four minutes instructin’ me in how to cut his hair. He wants this, he wants that.” The barber mimicked a Cuban dialect; it was obvious that he had rehearsed his complaint against Cuban men.

Leaving Ranjit for a moment, he addressed the other men in the shop: “One of those Cuban fellows you just saw leavin’ my shop, he instructed me for five, six minutes. It had to be just so. And when I showed him the mirror … stand back! It’s always the same. ‘Could you take a little off here? Just a little more off there? Taper the side just a touch.’ He gives me ten more minutes of advice, and he stays in my chair at least thirty-five minutes. The last fifteen with the mirror in his hand, a little here, a little there. He doesn’t want a haircut, he wants a masterpiece.”

He stopped his imitation and addressed Ranjit in particular: “You know why he does this? Because to a Cuban young man of
your age, the most important thing in the world is how he looks. Because he believes in the bottom of his heart, without the slightest doubt, that if I give him the world’s perfect haircut at ten-thirty this morning, and he walks out smellin’ great, some girl from the university driving a Cadillac convertible is goin’ to see him, be swept off her feet, pull over to the curb, and ask sweetly: ‘Hey. Can I drive you anywhere?’ He’ll get in the car, and his day, his entire life on earth will be changed for the better.” With a flourish he finished Ranjit’s haircut, allowed him a fleeting glance in the mirror, and said: “That’s what one of my haircuts can do for a Cuban man. For a dumb slob like you, from God knows where, it’s just a haircut. You were an ordinary jerk when you came in. You’ll be an ordinary jerk when you leave,” he said jokingly. “You expect no miracles.”