(The following story was first published in THE GUYANA CHRISTMAS ANNUAL in 1998, the year the magazine was resuscitated by Dr Tulsi Dyal Singh.

The Christmas Annual was launched in December, 1915 under the title, ‘The Chronicle Christmas Annual’.
Revisiting the story after fourteen years, I was tempted to modify it in order to make it a better read, but decided against it. It was a challenge, and too time consuming to retrieve it from a floppy disk of my discarded Brother word processor on which it was saved.)

THE city was filled…
…with traffic prodding along like cattle in a herd; one and two, stopping now and then to nibble at every other green shrub.  Holding up the others.  Then, suddenly, to surge forward.  A ripple of movement turning into a wave.  With scores and scores of brake-lights working overtime.  Red, bilious yellow, broken white…

…with blind shoppers willing themselves to be conned into a bargain.  Window-shoppers getting in the way; slowing the human stampede that was jostling and elbowing, huffing and puffing.  Ready to blow down the man of straw.  Thieves, pickpockets and cut-purses carrying on their trade in brisk and efficient manner.  To them everything was ideal at the workplace. Even though they were buckling under the workload, even though they were working overtime, they will never complain to the union…

…with trees decked in lights burning furiously, unable to make the ideal imprint, jealous of the advantage the neon signs bore. … With decorations, revelling in the sunshine, sitting snugly – sometimes haughty, sometimes friendly…

…with its incessant level of noise.  Impatient tooting of horns.  Vicious boom-boom boxes rounding corners leaving ringing ears behind.  Holiday music reminding all and sundry of the meaning of the season but the peace and goodwill not harkened to.  Then the sudden burst of a fire-cracker.  Two. A string of exploding noise makers.  Bringing a haunting hush upon the city.  Faltering steps.  For an instant.  Then the bedlam and humdrum flooding back.  With a deafening roar.  Leveling off to an acceptable hum.
It was Christmas Eve.  It was a Saturday.  Man and wife had decided to meet for lunch.  The man was working all day today because of the extended Yuletide.  This year, there were two Christmas Days, Sunday and Monday.

It was the last shopping day before the holiday.  With its blistering pace.  So much ground to cover.  It was the final shopping hours before the big day. With its pregnated prototype. Too many things to be done in time.  This concocted joy was in frightening reservation.  Man and woman clutched each other like courting couple watching jumbie picture.
“Don’t know what to get you for Christmas.”  Lamented the husband as they stopped at a stall on the pavement exhibiting framed photographs.
“Same here,” enjoined the wife as she examined a piece of art showing Brian Lara and Shivnarine Chandrapaul with saluting bats like crossed swords.
“Looks like both of us in the same boat!”
Her mind played upon the pun with intent to match wit: “Let’s rock the boat this year!”
The husband was taken aback.  This is not my woman.  Surely, not the one I’m familiar with.  But yes it is, my own sweet, gentle wife.  As the startled look on his face faded, he recalled how good marriage life was to both of them.  Too good.  No ripples, no waves.  For twenty-eight years every aspect of their life together was planned and sustained. Like a public relation campaign.  Yet enjoying what each occasion had to offer. Birthdays, christenings, anniversaries, religious festivals…. Exchanging gifts on special days was a must between them. Frugal, orderly, presentable.  A pretence of thrill.  A show of satisfaction.  And they were happy to be with each other. Would want it no other way.  A solid, workable relationship. Tried, tested;  withstanding the ravishes of time.

Until now, with the wife’s utterance to rock the boat. Playing along, he went overboard, “That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard in a whiles.”
“That just slipped out, darling, I didn’t mean….”
“Your slip’s showing, mum.  And it looks good.”  He smirked at his own by-play.
“You mean you like the idea?”
She tried to get hold of his ear to twitch it in playful retaliation but their world was interrupted. For a Masquerade Band was cutting a continuous path for its mobile stage to operate.  Forcing  them to seek refuge from the onslaught and crunch of displaced bodies.  They straddled a concrete drain, facing each other.  The question still on the wife’s face; waiting to be answered.
“Sure, sure, I like the idea,” the husband replied, “surprise me.”
“Let me get this straight,” she righted herself to a more ladylike posture, “we’re to go out to buy gifts without either of us knowing what neither is getting for the other?” She gesticulated appropriately.
“Something like that.  Anything nicely packaged.  Even an idea – handsomely wrapped up.” He said this slowly like he was already grappling with a plan.
“Like in Sherridan’s School For Scandal?”
Suddenly, there was an ominous roar.  Increasing in volume as it got closer.  There was an almost imperceptive halt to all activities.  A lull.  Then a flurry of movements as the streets and the pavements began to clear.  Emptying of human presence.
The wife pressed a button and the umbrella shot open and up just in time to save the couple from a drenching.  But seconds later, when the downpour became a deluge, the frail contraption proved futile.  So they were forced to join the rest of the throng trying to fit into Guyana Stores.
In the building, it was a crunch of human bodies. Constantly shifting.  Fidgeting.  Rearranging.  Settling. Settling down.  The wife made herself as small as possible by standing erect, eyes front.  As she slipped her hands into her pockets, one of her elbows made reassuring contact with warm flesh close behind her.  Her husband was always there, she closed her eyes and smiled.  No need to look behind.  He was ever always there – solid, stable, dependable.  It was a good feeling. A most comforting thought.  She relaxed. However, in the time it took to marshal a pasted smile, the torrents abated.  Just like that.  Switched off.
Life returned to the city.  Just like that.  Switched on.
“Let’s go, dearest,” said the wife, carried by the drift of irate buyers and exasperated sellers.
When there was no responding voice or reassuring touch, she glanced over her shoulder.  No husband.  She turned her body, creating space, forcing herself against the flow of traffic.  Nothing familiar.  She became alarmed.  He was here. Just here. Just now.
Deeper into the store, she pushed herself.  Adrenalin flowing.  Like a tigress pursuing a prey.  A wife hunting her husband.
Bursting out from the eastern doorway, the vicious glare of sunlight startled her.  Shading her eyes, she slowly examined the area.  The avenue crowded as usual.  The taxi-drivers rowdier than usual.  The Tower bustling.  The National Library almost empty. Bank of Guyana bursting with money but closed.  Museum dead.  Her mind settled on The Cenotaph. And the thought of death.  Of MIA – missing in action….
“Nonsense.” She blurted out, startling her neighbours. Turning, she retraced her steps.  Hurrying now, almost at a run because of a new train of thoughts:  That she made the wrong move by moving.  Her move was not to move – the best thing to do upon loosing contact in a crowd.
The longer she lingered with no success in the vicinity of last contact, the more worried she became.  But she stood her ground.  Eventually, she was returning nods and greetings like a hostess or front house manager to all and sundry using the store.  Especially to men – haughty youths and naughty grandfathers.  By the by, it dawned on her that her hospitable position was being misinterpreted as a prostitute-soliciting-pose.
Smarting with embarrassment, she forthwith marched out of the area.  Until a “Police Checkpoint” caught her attention. Causing her to collect her wits.  To discipline her thoughts. And formulate a plan of action.  She decided on two telephone calls before reporting the matter to the police.
The instrument at home kept on ringing.  The one at her husband’s office informed her that her husband has over-stayed his lunch-break.
Fear gripped her as she headed to the nearest police outpost.
How may we help you, ma’am?
I’ve lost, missed, ahm-ahm, I’ve been separated from my husband in the crowd.
No crime, ma’am, happens all the time around this season.  Don’t worry.
But I am;  I’ve searched, I’ve double checked, I’ve phoned and no luck.  That’s why I’m here.  I need help.
Just a minute, ma’am, one question:  is your husband a…is he handicap in any way?
No. Then, it can’t be that bad, ma’am, he will turn up eventually.  Just you wait and see.  Tobesides, we can’t be of much help to you – you see a person can’t be deemed missing until after twenty-four hours have elapsed.  We can’t entertain a report of a missing person until after twenty-four hours!
But I don’t have twenty-four hours.  The tears came readily with this new bit of information.  And the hurt increased. I don’t have twenty-four hours.  It’s Christmas Eve.  By then…Christmas Day will be gone.  I can’t wait until Christmas to make a report.  I’ve got to find him now.  I must find him now.  Or there’ll be no Christmas this year.  For me.

As she departed, the police man and the police woman laughed at the wife’s plight:  De man mussy ketch a fress-hie.  Or som ole fiah wood tun up.  Or gane wid  de boys….
The tearful wife reached home to the incessant ringing of the telephone.  That must be him.  Poor fellow, trying to get on to me.  She sprinted for the instrument.
Her hysterical scream into the mouthpiece was cut short by a curt command, ‘Stand by for a message’.  End of transmission. Dumbly, she stared at the equipment.  She started to finger a familiar number then decided against it.  The system must be free for the message.
It was a long wait with day greying into night.  But she stayed put resolutely. Until the mosquitoes reminded her to turn on the lights.  Everything was set for Christmas:  fresh carpets, new curtains, loud streamers and a lovely Christmas Tree.  With no gifts.  With no gifts, with no gifts….
Late that evening, the telephone told her that her husband was being held hostage in exchange for all his writings.  Stand  by for further instructions.
Coldly, she appraised the situation.  No problem to the request of the kidnapper. She didn’t think much of her husband’s writings.  And so did many publishers.  Her husband had more rejection slips than his age. No need to alarm and involve relatives and friends;  she can handle the situation by herself. Only the waiting will bother her.
Straightway, she went to her husband’s study.  A compact,  neat room.  Each item, every bit of work catalogued.  Orderly. Just like the man.  She had no need to look for the materials- they were all there in neat piles.  All unpublished manuscripts:  A History Of Guyanese Sports.  Games Played By The Amerindians (and their modern counterparts).  The Contribution To Guyanese Sport By The East Indians.  Five Hundred Years Of Guyanese History (1498 – 1998).  Race In Sports.  Balgobin  – The genius of a dunce….
As she packed the books that would bring her husband back, she thought about his present state.  How was he treated, was he given food….And the pangs of hunger led her to the kitchen. Where she packed a sumptuous meal – two helpings – for her husband.
On the stroke of midnight, the telephone rang:  Join the taxi outside, don’t forget the books.
On reaching the hotel in Main Street, the driver placed an envelope in her hand.  In it was a room number.  Before knocking, she patted herself down and straightened her impeccable outfit. She was dressed to match the staid, business-like quality of the attaché case in her left hand.
A familiar voice matching the one making the ransom demand commanded her enter.
She pushed the door wide.  Leaving it ajar, she eased herself into the room.  Neat.   Appropriately decorated to match the mood of the season.  Cozy.  A table in the alcove was laid out for two.
On seeing no one, she noisily cleared her throat to indicate that she was on the inside.  That she was intent on putting an end to this bizarre business.  Exchange the manuscripts for her husband and be gone.  To get back to her normal life.  And back to Christmas.
A profile in the bedroom doorway caught her attention. It was her husband.  Her heart began pounding.  As he turned to face her, she saw he was freshly shaven.  And dressed in an elegant blue suit.  Sedate and quiet.
Dropping the case, she rushed to his open arms.  Snuggling up to him, she closed her eyes to savour the warmth of reunion.
“You OK.?”
“Yes.  Better now that you’re here.”
“They hurt you?”
No answer.
“Where’re these people?”
Still no response. Causing her to open her eyes.  To see into the bedroom. Leaning against the bedhead was a huge oblong object with a flysheet… that revealed its message whenever the wind lifted the flimsy cover.  The greeting read:  Merry Christmas to a Wonderful wife.
“Is this your idea of a gift?”  She expostulated.
“No, it was your idea.”
“My…?”
“Rocking of the boat!”
“Oh no,” two shakes of the head, “oooh nooo,” two nods as the revelation arrested her.  “But, but….”
He put his index finger to her lips to silence her.  She fended it off with her own index finger.  Fingers locked at long range.  Wedding bands rubbing together, magnetizing, shortening the gulf.  Rekindling the emotion.
“But-but, I love it –  holding me to ransom over Christmas. Sounding softer and weaker.  “You do?”
“Yes.  And I love you too.”
“Merry Christmas, honey.  This gift,” his outstretched arms encompassed the complete suite, “is just for you.”
“Thank you, darling.  And Merry Christmas too.  But – but something tells me that I will have to share this gift with you!”
“That’s not such a bad idea.”
(To respond to this author, either call him on (592) 226-0065 or send him an email: oraltradition2002@yahoo.com)