Distant+Whispers

Indian, of medium height with skin a shade lighter than Denmark’s brown, was finishing up a story, his
flailing arms accenting the finishing touches of some college remembrance. His naturally black hair
was heavily moussed and rose stiff upon his head like the spines of a porcupine. The ends were
highlighted and sparkled under the reception area’s lighting.
“—and so I told the chap, ‘Sir, Trinidadians speak English, not Spanish!’ You shoulda see he jaw
drop!” the East Indian ended his story with a flourish. More laughter erupted from the three.
Denmark’s face showed no emotion. He coolly measured each one.
The secretary shook her head. Raj was ‘makin style’—showing off for his friends. She clenched
her teeth, showing all of her anger through her glowering eyes.
Another door opened to the left of Denmark and two East Indian males strode into the office. They
were dressed simply in dark slacks and white shirts. One was a large, pudgy-faced man. The other
was thinner and lighter than the other two. He had narrow eyes that always seemed to be in observant
mode. He was the first to enter. He eyed Denmark and then Shanti and nodded politely to both. The
pudgy-faced man wore large round spectacles that gave him the image of a man-child. He grinned and
slid up behind Raj and gripped him in a bear hug, lifting him easily off of the floor.
“Raj! Stop spreadin’ yuh lies pahtnah,” the big man said as he released Raj.
A deep throaty laughter rumbled out of the non-plussed CEO as he pulled himself from the manchild’s
grasp.
“Manoj! How yuh keepin’?” Raj shouted as if he was on the other side of a football field.
“Ah good! Ah good!” the man-child boomed back at Raj.
“Yuh ready, pahtnah? Project Blue start today!” Raj slapped the man-child on the shoulders.
“Yes, Raj! Ah ready.”
“Rizwan, we go’ do it? How de systems? Dey runnin’ good?”
“Dey runnin’ good,” the one called Rizwan said softly. “All of the claims from the States come
through jus’ now.” His eyes shifted to the three white men with his boss.
Raj turned and stared proudly at the three young white men. “These are mih friends from de
States. Dem jus’ reach. Dey gonna put Project Blue together for us.”
“Dis boy here with the big belly is Harold. That one there, the skinny one is Irwin. Hey, Irwin! We
go’ fat’n yuh up, boy! We go fix some real Trini food fuh yuh. We go mek yuh fat and chinkee like
Harold.” The two Americans laughed uneasily. Harold, the one with the big belly clearly was not
handling Trinidad’s tropical heat very well. His sweat-drenched shirt was plastered to his body.
Raj placed his hand on the shoulders of the third man, a well-built New Englander with aquiline
boyish good looks and blow-dried hair. “Allyuh! Dis Patrick! The leader of these scoundrels! Patrick
dem, go’ make de presentation to de big boys from Blue Cross in t’ree weeks. Okay, pahtnahs, we
gotta look good fuh dem! Ah need allyuh to help them.”
It was apparent why Raj was the CEO and founder. He had charisma, a deep, resonating voice
and penetrating eye contact. He used these to good advantage, working the introductions like a coach
exhorting his players for the big game.
Denmark was the forgotten player on the bench. He remained near the desk of the secretary,
quietly observing the two groups. Except for the young Indian male who had nodded politely, no one
paid him any attention. That is, except the secretary, who kept him in her gaze.
Denmark bided his time. He was used to being the odd man out. He thought of the trying times in