The Expatriates

By Henry Toledano

It is 1966 and Mike Upjohn is offered a job with the Nassau Telegraph. What seems, at the outset, a wonderful posting soon turns into a complex of Bahamian culture tugging at the tail-end of colonialism. And stuck in the middle is Upjohn's new colleague, Poldi Stein.
A budding author, Upjohn decides to put down his journal of the ensuing events in book form, covering Stein's descent from easy-going journalist and property owner to scandal-ridden westerner at odds with the changing balance of power.
In The Expatriates, Henry Toledano weaves together a Rum Diary type cultural collision which fizzes along at quite a clip.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528909716

Henry Toledano

HENRY TOLEDANO was born in Egypt and spent his childhood there. At 14 he was sent to Public School in England. Then University in London and New York. Subsequently he traveled around the world for two years doing various jobs. He moved to The Bahamas in the mid sixties and became Associate Editor of the local paper in Nassau. Ten years later he relocated in San Francisco and for the last 35 years has been in the retail book business. First, as a partner in a new book store, then, for a longer period, in a used one. Now he sells Out of Print books online, is presently single and lives with two cats. He enjoys bridge, dabbling in the Stock Market and plays bad golf for exercise.

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Epilogue

About the Author

Henry Toledano was born in Egypt and spent his childhood there. At 14, he was sent to public school in England, then went to university in London and New York. Subsequently, he traveled round the world for two years doing various jobs.

He moved to The Bahamas in the mid-sixties and became associate editor for the local paper in Nassau. Ten years later, he relocated in San Francisco and for the last 35 years has been in the retail book business: first, as a partner in a new book store; then, for a longer period, in a used one. Now he sells out-of-print books online, is presently single and lives with two cats. He enjoys bridge, dabbling in the stock market and plays bad golf for exercise.

Copyright Information ©

Henry Toledano (2018)

The right of Henry Toledano to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781787104310 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781787104327 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™

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Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Preface

If you want to learn about something, write a book about it, is an old saying. This is the situation I find myself in. An old friend of mine, Poldi Stein, has been charged with offences I simply cannot believe he did. I first met him in The Bahamas four years ago. At the time he was a dynamo of activity: friendly, generous and quite reasonable. He was of medium height, slender with black hair and a long nose. Now, since the charges, he’s a changed man: gloomy, mean and constantly complaining, especially about the government which he raves about almost non-stop. Paranoia? He is losing money, he claims and is also a flop with women—all due, he maintains to the black government. Pushing it, I think. Government is doing its damdest to rob me, kill the boom, produce a depression, persecute whites and break the laws made by the previous government. Then he would add as a complete non sequitur: How can I be jolly and amusing with a girl when I feel at any moment I might go bankrupt or worse?

Poldi grumbled about the black government as soon as it came to power. To start with we didn’t see eye to eye on the matter. I’m something of a liberal and I thought the new government should be given a chance. He, on the other hand, didn’t agree. Inevitably, he thought, it would screw things up. He’s extremely right wing, almost fascist I think. But I don’t want to talk about politics. I’m more concerned with Poldi’s mental state: his obsessions, bleak outlook, particularly for himself as well as his delusions that they want to get him.

I think you’re exaggerating, I said. The blacks want the country and its people to prosper. They’re not anti-white. They know that hurting expatriates will backfire; they need the foreigners’ money. They’re not stupid. They’re not going to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.

They’re against the whites, he insists as though I hadn’t spoken. They’re determined to avenge themselves for ills, real or imagined, the previous party (mostly white) has done them. They want to get me in particular. None of the other expatriates have the guts to stand up and say what they think: they bow and scrape, flatter the bastards, succor favors from them. It’ll all end badly.

At first I would just laugh, say he was exaggerating, things would work out all right: cool it, I would tell him. You’re living in a foreign country. They haven’t done anything to you yet. They could deport you if they wanted, but they haven’t.

If they throw me out I’ll damn this place to kingdom come in every bloody newspaper in the world. Not entirely an empty threat, I thought, since he’d published articles in both the New Yorker and the Economist. And so he went on: loud and vituperative, not missing any opportunity to be critical, abusive and disparaging. What’s more he seemed to prefer haranguing when he had an audience, black or white, foreign or local. The authorities ignored him. Then, one day it happened: the axe fell.

Poldi is now in jail pending trial. He is charged with (i) keeping a bawdy house; (ii) procuring women for the purposes of prostitution; (iii) living off immoral earnings. There are several counts to each indictment.

Now, why I am putting this down on paper? I’m struggling with myself: I want to know whether there’s any truth to these allegations. Frankly, I can’t believe them. Then, at other times I have my doubts. Is there any substance to the charges? Are they in character? What’s the evidence? Is the government really trying to get him? Is the economy going to hell, as Poldi maintains. Does the new black leadership really want to push the country over the cliff? Many questions, but no answers. That’s why I’m writing this: getting something down in black and white, cold print and hoping it’ll clear my mind, help me be objective, learn the truth. This is what I’ve been chewing over in my mind since his arrest. I’ve been wanting to write a novel for ages. I’ve started several times, but never got it off the ground. I didn’t know what to write about, but since I’ve been here a seed has planted itself in my head. The Bahamas fascinates me as does Poldi. Why not write about both? To begin with I’ll jot down what comes to mind: fact and fiction—what’s happening in the colony, Poldi, me and other expatriates. This then will be a collection of anecdotes, observations, descriptions, character sketches, opinions, feelings and whatever else comes to mind. After Poldi’s trial, or if he perhaps skips the island, I’ll try and put everything together, give my notes order, structure and continuity; filter what I think is irrelevant. You might say this is the first draft of my novel and so that the notes may be quickly referenced I’ll give each, what I think, is an appropriate head.

Poldi is now in jail pending the arrival of his bail money.

Part I

Nassau

1. A Letter

      The Telegraph, Box 244, Nassau, Bahamas

August 12, 1966

Dear Mr. Upjohn,

While rummaging through the editor’s desk, and under a stack of old newspapers, magazines, clippings and other junk, I found a letter from you. Normally I would have thrown it straight into the trash, but for some unknown reason I didn’t.

So you want a job here? I don’t think you have any idea what you’re letting yourself in for. Incidentally I’m not the editor so if you’re getting all excited forget it: I can’t give you a job. I’m just a stooge here, a subeditor: I go through the reporters’ work, select the leading stories, give them heads, and decide where to put them—all the while the editor screws around with his latest piece of arse. I think that’s what he’s doing now.

Anyway, for a little while I’ve got nothing to do, so here I am answering your letter and you’ll thank me for it. I can appreciate you wanting to get out of England, but for God’s sake there are plenty of other places to go to besides The Telegraph. Have you ever read Parkinson on moribund companies? This is it---the real thing.

You mention in your letter your experience and qualifications. Christ man you don’t need any qualifications for this dump, other than a taste for arse licking. The editor is a real creep. If you know nothing about journalism you’ll know more than him. He only got the job because he and the president like the same tail—bare black bottoms. The editor is more of a pimp than an editor. If you have any talent for pimping you might fit in here.

There are six typewriters in the editorial office. Three don’t work. The one and only office equipment store in town won’t even take them as salvage. The other three machines are at least fifteen years old: they clang, clink and bang, keys are missing, the space shift jumps or doesn’t respond. Somebody is always going to oil the typewriters and put new ribbons in them, but nobody ever does. More than once I’ve typed a whole page before realizing I’d typed nothing at all. We are always about to get new machines, but for one reason or another, never do.

But the typewriters are in fact the better equipment at The Telegraph. I’m not exaggerating. The printing press, I think, is an original Caxton worth its weight in gold as an antique if the powers that be knew it. The linotype machines are constantly going wrong. The paper is a morning one, but often it isn’t out before lunch. However, that doesn’t matter as the news is always stale. The Telegraph is more or less a carbon copy of the evening paper. Why people buy the rag I don’t know.

The foreign news isn’t any better either. We have an old UPI machine, which is constantly going wrong and even when it works that doesn’t much help as most of the stuff is in Spanish! (The machine was bought on the cheap). The top brass seemed to think that what English came through was sufficient for the paper. Often it isn’t and some poor bastard, usually me, has to listen to the six o’clock news from London, tape it, then get it down on paper. A hell of a job. The one and only radio here is an electronic valve affair, almost prehistoric with reception nearly unfathomable. I consider it my day off when there’s no foreign news.

The office I work in is a huge grey room with one small window, which lets in about as much light and air as the black hole of Calcutta. Of course, as far as I’m concerned this isn’t important as I work at night. The temperature during the day is around 85 with the humidity over 90%, There is a huge air-conditioner under the window, but it doesn’t work and hasn’t all summer. The President has told me at least fifty times that it’s going to be repaired, but so far it hasn’t though one guy did come and look at it. Meanwhile I roast and sweat.

The desks are old, but sturdy. The drawers have locks, but they don’t work. The desks are always in a mess and each reporter is meant to have his own. However, it doesn’t quite work that way as the desks are shared between the day and night staff and one is constantly accusing the other of not clearing up the mess at the end of his or her shift.

I was going to tell you something about the filing system, but to say that we have one is grossly misleading. Theoretically a secretary is in charge of filing. But most of the time we haven’t got one. When we do she’s usually employed because the editor likes her anatomy. If I complain that the files aren’t in order I get a rocket from the editor: the girl is new and I should give her time to learn the job. Christ what job? The only job she has to learn is to kiss arse.

But being short of a secretary isn’t our only staff problem. If it was my life would be a ball. Most of the time we are short of reporters. This, I believe is company policy as it keeps the wage bill down. Foreign reporters are worked like slaves. The few Bahamians who are employed are hired for political reasons, to show that the paper is progressive and doesn’t discriminate. The Bahamians do little to nothing. A new girl, with a fancy piece of tail turned in two lines today—a day’s work. No exaggeration. What’s more they didn’t make sense and I couldn’t use them.

However, you mustn’t think the picture is all black. I do get a few laughs now and again. Browsing through some back issues of the paper I’ve come across a few gems: ‘Rape at Dick’s point’. ‘Governor’s wife to open policeman’s balls’. ‘Bahamian shit kills American’. ‘Tourist cunt up’ and no doubt there are others. There’s one more which I particularly enjoyed. This was a picture of the Prime Minister’s plump wife with the caption reading: `Canadian catches two hundred pounder’!!! The exclamation marks are mine.

Well, the evening paper has just come in, so I had better start rewriting it for tomorrow’s paper. With the amount of copy the reporters have turned in I’ve got about just enough stuff to fill half a page. Still, the paper will come out. It always does. I’ll fill it with Ann Landers, Andy Capp, the horoscope, comics, a crossword, canned stories. There’s plenty of garbage around. As I said above the editor’s desk and others are piled high with it.

No more for now. If you decide you want to come here, drop me a line and I’ll pick you up at the airport. In the meantime good luck with your job hunting. I’d love to meet you, but hope you land up with a better job than here.

Yours sincerely,

Poldi Stein

P.S. If you are wondering where I got my name from: I’m a Polish Jew who managed to escape Hitler’s ovens. I was educated in England, Public School and all that. I speak the Queen’s English.

2. Three Telegrams

ARRIVING SATURDAY BOAC FLIGHT 44 STOP WIFE TO FOLLOW STOP PLEASE FIND ACCOMODATION AND MEET M E AT AIRPORT IF POSSIBLE UPJOHN STOP

DELAYED ONE WEEK STOP HOPE TO MAKE IT NEXT SATURDAY BOAC 44 STOP PLEASE MEET ME AT AIRPORT UPJONN STOP

FURTHER DELAY ONE WEEK STOP SICK HOPE TO M AKE IT NEXT SATURDAY BOAC 44 STOP HOPE NOT TO HAVE INCONVENIENCED YO U TOO M UCH PLEASE T RY AND MEET M E UPJOHN STOP

3. Arrival in Nassau

Stein was waiting for me. The plane was an hour late and it was dark.

Why the hell did you come? he greeted me. Didn’t you get my letter? I thought your cables meant you were having second thoughts.

I laughed. No. They were true. I didn’t believe a word you said in your letter. No place could be as bad as that. Actually you intrigued me: I wanted to see for myself. Besides, you told me the editor wouldn’t reply and he did. If you were wrong about that I reckoned the rest of what you said could be equally suspect or anyway a gross exaggeration.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Immigration and customs were no problem.

Stein was about five foot seven, stocky, swarthy, and spectacled and with a receding hairline which accentuated his high forehead. I placed him in his mid- thirties. He wore brown trousers and a dark green short-sleeved shirt. I was wearing a dark blue blazer and grey flannels. It was certainly hot. I followed him to his car. He carried one of my suitcases and I took the other. He left the heavier one to me.

The editor is hopping mad with you. He thought you weren’t coming. Like me he thought you were having second thoughts. We had bets at the plant as to whether you’d send another telegram. `GREAT AUNT DIES STOP DELAYED ANO THER WEEK STOP ARRIVING BO AC 44. STOP’

I interrupted him: Those telegrams were perfectly legitimate. I wasn’t dillydallying if that’s what the editor thought.

Forget it, the nit barely thinks at all.

We put my luggage in the boot. Then we were on our way, windows wide open with a hot breeze smacking our faces. I was excited. I’d taken the step. The Bahamas. The words had a certain magic. Everybody had heard of the place: its wonderful beaches, its sun drenched tropical trees, the beautiful azure green sea; the playground for the rich and famous; the tax haven for evaders and crime syndicates. `Are you big enough for the Bahamas,’ the ads asked? Yes, I could quite truthfully answer. I felt my whole inside swell with enthusiasm and wellbeing. You’re lucky not to be able to see the view, said my companion.

I laughed. I thought he was being facetious. I’ve seen the brochures, I said. I’m looking forward to seeing the island tomorrow."

You think I’m joking, but I’m not. Nassau is goddam ugly. It’s only surpassed by Freeport, a cement jungle, as flat as a doormat, the ugliest place on earth—an ideal setting for Dante’s Inferno.

Again I laughed. I didn’t know what to say. Stein, I had come to the conclusion liked telling stories, embellishing them. An aspiring fiction writer like me realizes that truth is boring---you have to exaggerate, tell lies, and let your fantasy run if you want to be interesting.

I suppose you’ve got to go back to work, I said.

No, no, not tonight. It’s my day off. There’s no paper tomorrow, Sunday. In fact, at noon Saturday the plant closes. If I had a key I’d show you around. On second thoughts it might be a good thing you’re spared seeing your prison before you absolutely have to.

Tell me if you hate the place so much why do you stay on?

"Good question. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment? No, the truth is I’m buying some property here and it’s easier to get a loan if you’ve got a job and look respectable. The Telegraph is respectable, no doubt about it: it’s almost, you might say the ICI of The Bahamas. When I say that I work for The Telegraph, the in paper, straight UBP ticket (United Bahamian Party) I get reverential attention. Of course everybody knows the paper is a rag, but nobody says so, the whites carry it around as though it was a badge for their party affiliation. That, in short is why I continue to work here."

I was flabbergasted. Is that all? I said.

Not quite. I like writing. I’m an author manqué. I’ve written scores of short stories, several novels, a travel book, numerous articles, sketches and stuff for the paper, though editing is less to my taste.

I too want to write fiction, but I find it difficult to fit in the time.

He laughed. "A genuine writer finds the time. Fortunately most people don’t, thus saving themselves the agonies of rejection and