The sharp stitches subsided. Instinct guided her mind. She glided close to the hole and used her hands and feet to sweep the sand, packing it down over the opening until the thing was covered. Gaiutra rested for a few minutes. The last bit of light filtered from the moon onto the land. The wind picked up. It filled the air with those hairy leaves from the mile trees. Soon, a figure rose out of the sand until it was shrouded in foliage. Gaiutra looked on in fascination. She imagined this was how her auntie had come into existence. The presence walked over to where Gaiutra lay on the ground and placed a hand against her face. It was then that Gaiutra realised this was her Auntie Cowrie.
“You’re back,” she said to the woman.
“Yes. Because of your sacrifice, I am needed again.”
“I’m glad.”
Gaiutra crawled into the cool waters. She dipped her head below the surface of the Atlantic Ocean. When she emerged, a gilded carapace clung to her back and fins propelled her further out from shore. She looked back at Foul Bay and saw her Auntie Cowrie excavating the nest where she had delivered her newborn. She could see the sand blowing around in the wind. The digging stopped and Gaiutra guessed her Auntie Cowrie had uncovered the caul. She smiled at this. Gaiutra gazed into the sky. The last light vanished; the super moon was now bludgeoned red. She glanced at the bay one last time, dipped her head into the sea, and swam away.
Summer Edward
The Passing Over of Zephora
Trinidad & Tobago
Zephora awoke with a start. She rolled over and switched on the lamp. On the bedside table, next to the lamp, the skeleton watch lay face up, the moving parts mechanically counting down the ninth hour.
Three minutes past three.
She stared at the wardrobe that stood against the wall across from the foot of the bed, its doors locked. A huge oak wardrobe, like the one in the hall she remembered. Again, she wondered what was inside it, when last it had been opened, how long it had stood there, a piece of furniture as heavy and ominous as a coffin.
The window blinds were closed. Were it not for the watch, she would have no idea of the time. How long was it since she had left the plane? Groggy from the pills she had taken, she dug in her purse for the ticket. Good; a few hours remained until the next flight. She had a first-class ticket. She frowned; it was all wrong, she always flew coach . . .
All day, she had lain cold and stiff in the dim, air-conditioned room. While she had slumbered deeply, outside the island had grown golden with tropical afternoon light. Now, she warmed in the glow of the bedside lamp, (an unusual lamp, both base and shade golden, with a silver cord) and restlessness began to stir her blood. She showered and changed in the marble ensuite where the fragrance of Mediterranean countrysides, myrtle and aloe, drifted from a yahrzeit candle someone had left in the little alcove above the bath. Minutes later, after leaving the hotel lobby, she desperately longed for a glass of wine. A taxi was parked under the porte-cochère.
I’ve been waiting for you, the driver said in English, his Puerto Rican accent shaded with the formal quality of Canarian Spanish. He was dressed in black morning dress. Three initials gleamed from the monogram on his waistcoat: J.R.J. She stared at him for a moment, finding his appearance odd. There was no other taxi in the frontage of the hotel.
I only have an hour, she said. What do you recommend?
An hour? You must see Old San Juan then. You haven’t been there? I’ll take you . . .
Then they were breezing down Baldorioty de Castro Avenue, past the high-rise hotels of the Isla Verde. Then the taxi jounced along the cobblestoned streets of the Old World.
* * *
In Old San Juan, she sat at a table outside the Caficultura in a quiet, shaded corner of the Plaza de Colón. Through the tall, wood-framed windows of the old, Spanish-style building, windows with fanlights like doors, she could just make out the figures, but not the faces, of people dining in the dim interior.
A few empty públicos were parked on the south side of the square, their drivers idling in the shade. People crossed the plaza in groups or alone, scattering the pigeons as they went. She watched a man and woman pause by the fountain to take pictures of their children, twin boys wearing matching fisherman hats. An old woman dressed in mourning clothes sat on a bench, staring into space and fanning herself. These figures scattered about the plaza were just ordinary island people crossing a timeworn, familiar square, and yet to her they looked like players on a stage.
Her wrist felt naked without the skeleton watch; she had left it at the hotel. What was it about being here that made her feel uneasy about time? Perhaps it was the architecture. Tiled roofs, wrought-iron balconets, and solistruncos were familiar enough relics of the Spanish colonial past, yet these architectural relics seemed an irregularity in contemporary time. They made her presence in the old city seem like a form of déjà vu. These very thoughts, as she brooded beneath a patio umbrella in a Caribbean city, seemed like a glitch in the time-zone system. She could be in Córdoba, Granada, Seville. She could be timeless.
She craned her neck, looked upward at the red tile roofs. She had read somewhere that the tiles, the warm colour of a clay found in certain Mediterranean regions, were a Roman invention. Her eyes moved over the pastel-coloured walls of the buildings. Then it was she saw the man.
He stood on the balconet of the upper floor of the café across the street, hands resting on the ironwork balustrade. He was obviously a foreigner. He sported neither the traditional guayabera, nor the muscle shirt, bling, baggy jeans and chancletas of the healthy Puerto Rican male. His clothing was a nod to the American hippie of the sixties: Moroccan-style kaftan shirt, cotton gauze slacks, Birkenstock sandals. Except for the red gorro cap on his head, he was dressed coolly in white, even the Birkenstocks.
She noticed two things. First, that the man rested his hands on the balustrade with the palms facing upward. Was it a gesture of surrender or the relaxed posture of meditation? She noticed, too, that he had shut the balconet doors behind him. Why would someone come out onto a balconet and shut the doors? A mystery, like the shut doors of the hotel wardrobe. The man did not look at her.
A slight breeze ruffled the patio umbrella, then a large cloud drifted across the sun, deepening the shade. What time was it anyway? Some instinct caused her to reach into her pocketbook, and her fingers closed around the skeleton watch. So she had not left it at the hotel after all. Now she looked at the timepiece and found that the moving parts were frozen.
Time had stopped in the Plaza de Colón.
* * *
The sun came out again, brightening the world.
Excuse me, but would you believe me if I said you have saved my life?
The man was sitting across from her. He had been standing on the balconet only seconds ago it seemed, yet here he was. Now that he was closer, she could see he was older than she had thought. Old enough to be her father, almost an ancient air to his presence.
Look, she began. I am afraid I am not interested.
I saw you sitting here and I knew you were waiting for me.
Something about his speech stilled her. Somehow it was familiar to her. Like the taxi driver, he had a Puerto Rican accent but spoke easily in English.
How did you get down here so fast?
The man smiled. It did not seem to take forever then? My coming down to you?
No. I was not waiting for you. I did not even know you were watching me.
But you were watching me.
Zephora examined his face closely. There was a softness in his dark eyes that held her. It radiated to the high, flat brow and unsharpened the effect of the hollow almost deathly cheeks, assuring her of the man’s beneficence. His straight, fair hair was cut short at the front and longer at the back, covering the ears. His face was clean shaven.
Well . . . I was wondering why you shut the doors behind you.
The doors?
Yes. The balcony doors. You came out onto the balcony and shut them behind you. It seeme
d a strange thing to do.
Yes, well I came out on that balcony to die, or rather, to kill myself. It was to be the final act. No, the curtain close, or is it curtain call? I don’t know what it was that made me shut the doors. He spoke calmly, contemplatively. No, I do know. I wanted to shut out life, that is what. Yes, that is it. A symbolic gesture then. Let us say I wanted to shut out any possibilities that I would not go through with it. Shut out doubts and hesitations. Do you think that is true?
I don’t know what is true for you. But you would not have fallen to your death. The balcony is not high enough.
A high death? A death not high enough? A high death, yes . . .
He seemed to be considering certain options, turning them over in his mind.
Is that what you wanted?
I only wanted to jump and get a little hurt. Scare myself a little perhaps?
I think so. Without knowing why, she felt deeply sorry for him. What is it? A woman?
Well . . . they will say it all started with the woman, yes. But no, it is much more. Much, much more. If you only knew.
Well, let us talk about something else. You look so sad. You are not from here?
I am from here in a way. Just like you are from here in a way.
In what way am I from here?
You are from a region where the nations share an overarching history. You belong more to a region than you do to a nation. You can travel anywhere along this chain of islands and find customs and traditions that remind you of your own. You recognize yourself in others, and everyone recognizes you.
She remembered the déjà vu that had disturbed her upon entering Old San Juan. Yes, I suppose you are right.
I, on the other hand–his gaze shifted outward, lingered on the taxi that was parked across the plaza, waiting to carry her back to the hotel in Carolina, in the New World–I am not very recognizable to most people here.
There was truth to his words. Looking at him, she could only guess at his background. The African-Caribbean paradox that wrestled in her own features did not make an appearance in his. He was not of a European cast. Was he Berber? Arabic perhaps? Those were the two races she associated with Moroccan people.
You are leaving soon.
She followed his gaze across the plaza. Her driver had gotten out of the car. He was leaning against the hood, smoking and staring passively in her direction.
Yes, I have to go soon. She realized she was still holding the skeleton watch. The gold-plated bezel had grown warm in her hand. Do you have the time?
You still have time, he said calmly. Do not worry. I would not keep you here if you did not have time.
She stared at him again, wondering why he seemed so familiar.
You were waiting for me, he said, returning to his earlier train of thought and here I am. I was waiting for you too. I see that now.
She did not know how to respond to this mysteriousness. She had realized she was connecting him with Morocco partly because of his kaftan shirt. Yet the kaftan could mean nothing at all. Funny, she thought, how the mind works. She could feel the delicate ratchets, bridges, and wheels of the timepiece pressed against her palm. Yes, the mind works mechanically, like clockwork or an engine. But the mind, like clockwork and engines, could fail without warning.
You are smiling. The foreigner’s voice interrupted her thoughts. Now she realized it was his voice, not his manner of talking, that she recognized.
Your voice, she said. I seem to have heard it somewhere before. It rises and falls like the ocean waves . . .
That is nicely said. His eyes smiled at her from across the table. You speak very poetically. And I am a man of the seas, so that is fitting.
Oh, I thought you looked like a yachter! She laughed, pleased with herself. Is that what you are? Or are you a ship’s captain?
I am a captain of souls, I am a master of fates . . . something like that . . . but you smiled just now. Why?
Was I? Oh, I was just thinking about assumptions, how funny they are. Your kaftan . . .
Yes, the kaftan meant something, she thought. Didn’t everything? It was something she had first understood years ago, as a child, when she used to hide in the half-darkness beneath her sister’s bed, or sit on the earth beneath her mother’s oleander trees until she fell into a trance amidst the dragonflies that flew across the yard like little airplanes that never once collided.
I myself don’t really have a style, she found herself saying.
I think you have style.
No, a style. I just mean . . . well. Her fingers fiddled with the watch. It’s just that . . . I don’t really know who I am.
I see. He fell silent then. He stared out at the sky and seemed to be carefully considering the matter. It is important to ask questions, he said finally. You are very good at that, yes?
She laughed again. I suppose I am.
And the answers do not always satisfy you?
I suppose they don’t. Come to think of it . . . She sighed, suddenly feeling gloomy despite the brilliance of the tropical afternoon. I suppose they never do.
I will tell you this. Now, he leaned forward earnestly, as if he was about to take her into his confidence. Are you listening? It is most important to question everything. Be aware of your assumptions and question everything. Your life depends upon it, do you understand? You are young in a young world, and the young always assume; that is to be expected. But I tell you, the time is coming when your youth will seem like a dream. Perhaps you have begun to feel that way even now? That you are waking up from a dream? Yes, I can see it in your face! I want you to understand what I am saying. Do not worry too much about the answers. The answers are in the questions, you see? I saw you sitting below me, and I was about to perform my final act. You did nothing, just looked at me, and yet you saved my life. Do you see what I am saying? Look closely! The world is not what it seems. See these people? Since we have been talking, so many of them have left this stage. So it is, so it is. I am just saying, pay attention. That is all. Do not worry about the answers, they are illusions. It will make sense to you when you are my age. But I am telling you now, only to save you from so much misery. This is not easy to accept, I know. But you understand, don’t you? Tell me, am I making sense to you?
I think . . . I think I do. But you are right. It is not easy.
Yes, well . . . He reached into a pocket for a silk handkerchief and wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead. It is what is required of us.
She looked around the plaza. It was almost empty now. Out in the middle of the square, the Discoverer towered above the world on his marble pedestal, his sceptre raised to the sky, a cross finial poking through folds of marble banner.
Is it me or is it getting darker?
It is only a trick of the eye. He gazed into the café windows, and the look of sadness she had seen earlier returned. Like seeing through a dark glass . . .
She followed his gaze. Inside the cafe, made dim by the tinted pane, the faceless diners carried on their pantomime. She looked at him again. But you haven’t told me much about yourself. Your name . . . ?
My name? What does it matter? I am who I am. As for the rest, I am a seaman without a home. I set sail from Andalucía many years ago . . .
* * *
Zephora awoke with a start. Something had jolted her out of her dream, and now there was a strange smell, the smell of something burning. Troubled, she glanced across the aisle, looking for the mother and child. Earlier, when she had entered the plane, she had smiled at the child and exchanged pleasantries with the young mother. But now they were gone. What would become of them? It felt like a sign, their disappearance. Always the symbols to taunt her, the archetypes, the omens. Her own mother was dead to her, in the metaphorical sense of the word.
Suddenly, she felt sick. Maybe it was the turbulence, or perhaps she was sick with understanding. She could only cradle herself and lean over in the seat. Emergency position. She recalled that there was nothing beneath her, only the f
ar-fetchedness of air.
When, after a while, no one commented on her position, not even the first-class stewardess, an angel of a woman who hovered above her with a smile, Zephora gingerly raised her head. She took the glass of wine, although she had not asked for it. A strange sort of relief, this sense of not having made a choice. She took a few sips then gripped the armrest and stared out the porthole at the giant silver wings.
Her eyes felt heavy. The light inside the cabin began to take on a warm, vinaceous glow, and like so many times, when she had peered through the haze of dreams in the half-darkness beneath her sister’s bed, the world around her began to seem unreal. The shutters on the airplane windows were sliding up and down, so they seemed to be blinking like eyes, and an unnatural light slowly filled the cabin, as if they were literally flying off into the sunset. Maybe I am a bit touched in the head, she thought ruefully. It was what her mother had said to the doctor when she was a child, and they had found her sitting on the ground beneath the oleander trees in the yard, eating the poisonous leaves.
She thought she heard a child screaming.
She remembered she was going to a new country, that things would be better there. To calm herself, she started humming the Disney song, the one about the magic carpet: a whole new world.
The blinding light grew brighter, brighter, then cooled to a most pleasant glow.
* * *
She is flying on the back of the giant dragonfly high above the valley, flying through the warmly glowing sky. With each lift of the creature’s silver wings, there is a sweet fragrance, like the scent of oleander filling the air beneath her mother’s trees.
They are heading for the grand mountains just ahead. From the central mountain, the tallest, a majestic waterfall hangs like a long white veil, stretching on and on into the wide river valley.
This is the loveliest place Zephora has ever been in all her flights and dreams. After what seems like centuries, but must really only be minutes, they reach a high, grassy plateau. There, the creature alights.
New Worlds, Old Ways Page 2