Free The Meeting Point by Austin Clarke Page A

brought obedience.
“Please.”
The six or seven passengers behind reacted with impatience, shuffling their thawing feet on the snow-polished floor. Somebody further back said, in a soft voice which carried more than he had expected, or intended it to, “ … hope Canada don’t get like Britain!” No one commented. Estelle was still digging deep down into her valise for the passport. “Lady,
please
!” This time, the immigration officer’s voice was tired. “Would you mind stepping aside till you find it, so’s I could attend to these ladies and gen …” But the man of God had raised his hand, signifying a different kind of authority; and the hand caught Estelle in the act of leaving the line. “Continue, my dear,” he said to Estelle; and to the immigration officer and the others, “I don’t mind waiting my turn, sir.” He was a middle-aged man, with grey spreading round his temples. Underneath his white scarf, worn neatly under his coat, was the parson’s collar, barely visible. The immigration officer hadn’t seen it.
“Please
, lady!” This time, there was more of a threat than a plea in his tone. “There’re others in the line.” He gave the others (allexcept the man of religion)
that
look. They returned the look. The nervousness of trying to locate the passport, rushed from Estelle’s hands and erupted through her lips. She swung round and faced the immigration officer; and when the words,
But who the hell you think you is?
spewed out of her mouth, she realized with terror, that she was not in Barbados. And she said, in a more respectful manner, “But don’t you see me looking for the passport, please. I won’t be too long.” She then lifted her valise and placed it on the counter, in front of the officer. And when she did this, when he realized that it was blocking his vision of her, he shouted,
“Lady!”
He was coming round in front now, off his stool; but Estelle remained undaunted, outwardly: inwardly, she was terrified.
    “My dear man, please attend to her,” the man of God said. He too was becoming anxious.
    “But sir!” the immigration officer pleaded, both to the minister and the other passengers. The man of God was firm. He said it did not matter; there were others in the line, he admitted; but right was right; and it was the lady’s turn to be served … and Estelle, finding it impossible to locate the exact corner in which the passport might have been placed by Mammy, not knowing in which corner she had last seen it, whether in the Seawell Airport in Barbados, or in the Main Guard police station where she had got it, where where where the hell did Mammy put the thing, now? when Mammy puts down something, she really puts it down for good! Lord, the last time I saw the thing was … I wonder if Mammy put it in the left hand corner that was my left, or if it was Mammy’s left! But where the hell is my passport, could it be that the plane shifted the thing in the valise, while the plane was moving about over Boston.…
    “You will have to stand aside, lady.”
    … you, listen to me, Mister White Man … everybody in the room was listening and watching; and the black woman, and the black family were looking, with
that look
; and they were more embarrassed than the others, because it was one of them causing all this disturbance. It made them very uncomfortable in front of all these white people. The other immigration officers stood idle for a while, to watch and listen; and a few of them smiled. The minister of God was enjoying himself … Christ! you think that because I am a stranger in this damn country, you could treat me like dirt! Let me tell you, I am a Bajan, a Barbadian by birth, and we don’t treat foreigners so! I looking for the passport, so wait a minute, please, Mister Man … and just as the minister laughed, and as the scene was becoming tense, Estelle found the passport. It was in her bosom. She held it up, in the air, triumphantly. But before she