But tonight he was surrounded by his own men—Balbosa, Manickchand, and Teemul the Trini Indian—who had quietly entered the inner cavern with Vasquez, along with a band of haughty figures, their weapons hoisted overhead, their foreheads banded, their eyes clouded by the dark undertones of evil. The unsmiling strangers, together with his own men, seized Sabagal. The ruffians’ coarse calloused hands were too abusive for Sabagal, who stood surprised at the sudden violence.
“What wrong with you?” Wordlessly, they grabbed his shoulders and tied his hands behind his back. “Aye, what you doing?” he protested.
A hand slapped his face. He felt a stunning blow on his neck and his eyes dimmed. He pushed and twisted, stumbled over rocks, but they kept him pinned. They seized him around his waist and grabbed his collar. Each time he resisted, they punched his stomach, slapped his face and ears. His heart beat rapidly. Balbosa had betrayed him. He had tricked him into coming to this mainland cave. He had promised new deals with strange underworld figures, these Spaniards with warahoon guards who stood with their sharpened blades of steel pinned on their waistbands. Sabagal had been kidnapped.
Despite his outcries and struggling, they ignored him and dragged him to a wall of unhewn rock. They lashed his wrists together and tied him to the wall, hands high overhead. They removed his boots, dropped his pants, and Sabagal stood on cold ground, a figure of desolate hope. They brought him papers to sign, promissory notes, pages of information quantifying his enormous wealth in cash and real estate which they had scrawled on his notepad. They twisted his thumbs, lowered his hand, and proffered him a pen to sign, but he refused. Slaps rained on his head, and they struck his shins with a steel rod. He resisted, prayed and yelled, cursed in the darkness as the men continued to torture him. The lashes on his feet brought more pain. He screamed in agony as they bent his fingers back. Then a finger snapped. He began to breathe heavily, then he became unconscious. He hung limp and wet, eyes closed.
Suddenly terrifying growls, painful groans erupted around him and he awoke. Primordial beasts with red unblinking almond eyes surrounded him. Gray monstrous animals—bears? wolves? mountain beasts? or denizens of the cave? He cringed at the long white fangs and the slabbering tongues of blood. But where were his enemies, the mute band of terrorists who had tortured him? Confronted by this disastrous sight, body and mind once more collapsed to nothingness.
Hours later, days, or was it a week? He had lost all sense of time. He remembered people from whom he had taken money and not delivered garments and household articles. What about the old woman whose cash he had confiscated? Bundled one-hundred-dollar bills tied with vines. The couple who had saved all their cane-cutting money accumulated for years. And the papers, the land transaction deeds he had secretly convinced illiterate people to sign. The stolen jewelry, the numerous frauds and crooked deals all flashed before him. Until now he had not realized to how much his evil deeds had amounted.
He was hungry and thirsty. The men were prodding him. He opened his eyes and snapped to his senses—they were unshackling him. He crumpled before them. The proffered bowl of food and frosty drink was tempting. Mumbling, pleading, he stretched out his hand, but each time he reached for the bowl, Vasquez presented the pen. “Sign and you will get all you want to eat.”
“Quick or you go dead right here, minute by minute,” Balbosa threatened. “Snake go crawl all over you.”
Sabagal saw it then—the huge reptile unwinding itself in the bamboo cage. Python or macajuel? He trembled, then reluctantly grasped the papers and signed where he was told. Balbosa placed the pages in a black leather bag and zipped it. Sabagal was raised up. Several hands grasped his feeble body and dragged him out of the cave.
It was night. A palpable calm hovered over the still sea. Only the glittering stars gave the scene a sign of life. The black racer was tied under the jetty. But the men lowered Sabagal’s beaten body onto the floor of another power craft specially constructed and outfitted for the high seas.
Across the bay the stuttering engines came to life. Salty sprays flew over the heads of the crew as the boat sped over the water, the shoreline lost in the darkness as the ocean opened up before them. No one tended to the prisoner lying on his back, groaning at the bottom of the boat. Minutes later a light appeared in the east, a dazzling beam that grew brighter. Then they heard the unmistakable drone of a powerboat.
The vessel grew in size, a double hull with intense search beams. Twelve men stood on deck, strapped on the bow. The craft drew alongside, cautioning them to stop. Sabagal wondered if his men were involved with the crew of the other boat. On that watery stage of the ocean theater, the two boats floated against an inky sky, their crews facing each other silently. Ra tatta tatta ta! The marine stillness was shattered by rapid explosions of machine guns erupting into smoke, flames, and splattered blood, shots ringing out as bodies heaved and fell.
Sabagal remained motionless as the men dropped around him, his attackers who moments earlier were full of energy. Total massacre onboard—except for Sabagal, lying motionless on the bottom of the boat. Then, from the invading craft, a long pole loomed and lifted the black bag out of the gore, plucking the treasured documents with Sabagal’s signature scrawled by his cramped hand only moments before. The double-hulled craft awakened to new life and headed toward a horizon tinged with a hint of dawn on rose-pink clouds, leaving a trail of frothing foam gradually dissipating to nothingness.
White herons suddenly lifted off from the mangrove, its branches relieved from the weight of the birds as the cargo of the dead floated past. The spectral sight of death was disturbingly macabre even to the birds perched in clusters. Soon the sky was alive with whirring white wings and chattering herons, as if their cries protested the invasion of their roost. Below, the floating vessel grimly displayed ruptured bodies strewn across the bow, blood-soaked and exposed, as water seeped through the holes of the bullet-punctured boat.
A lone fisherman, casting his net in the bay from a rock, was curious when the noisy gulls hovered over him. Then he saw the boat, drifting listlessly. He assumed there was no one in it until he waded out and discovered the gruesome cargo. Two bodies, shattered by powerful machine-gun fire, were without limbs. A third had its chest ripped open. The others, lying lopsided across the cockpit, were unrecognizable. The horror was too much for the fisherman. He splashed ashore and, leaving his fish and cast net behind, ran to the road yelling like a madman. At the center of the road he waved his hands until he was picked up by a passing motorist. The driver was stunned, thought the fisherman was insane, could not understand why he was behaving in such a manner. But when he looked in the direction of the mangrove where the frantic man was pointing, he saw the place coming alive with a growing crowd.
At the St. Christopher Nursing Home, Sabagal lay still like a white log. Shaven, wrapped like a mummy, he hovered between life and death. Because painful wounds all over made eating or drinking impossible, plastic tubing harnessed his body—protruding from his mouth and nostrils, drips slowly entering his veins, his eyes closed. His family gazed at him and wished he would open his eyes, bring some hope to their yearning to see him live.
His wife Nicola was thankful to the inspectors for hiding her husband from public scrutiny when they escorted the bodies from the boat at the Godineau mangrove. Sabagal had not been identified in that mass of human remains because policemen had kept the crowd away from the bodies.
Still, Scobie and Habib, his home-based trusted men, feared that Sabagal’s enemies might return to kill him. Overcome with the horror of Sabagal’s suffering, they pleaded with the doctors to let them stay late nights in the ward and keep watch, their firearms concealed under their coats. Always on the alert, the two men guarded the steps, watched the elevators open and close, even scrutinized the nurses and maids in their starched white uniforms as they came with their trolleys and trays. Scobie and Habib took no chances. In the past, men had disguised themselves as women and killed patients who had survived prepare
d executions. The drug-and-gun game of power and death had become a dangerous calamity in districts where the youth were daring and careless. Automatic weapons and more sophisticated rapid-fire Lugers and Smith & Wesson handguns were available, smuggled in in plastic kegs strapped under the hulls of fishing boats and even in the bellies of groupers and sharks.
For weeks, Sabagal remained unresponsive, and except for a faint heartbeat, became an unknown casualty since, fearing his attackers, his family had kept his identity secret. A specialist was brought in from overseas, and later a team of experts. Sabagal’s broken ribs had healed, but the blow to the back of his head still caused a severe throb. He constantly envisioned horrific monsters tormenting him as he drifted between dream and total unconsciousness. Those at his bedside felt despair but prayed the rosary as Father Ignatius repeatedly crossed Sabagal’s forehead with holy oil, invoking the spirits and holding his hand as if to lift him out of the throes of Hell.
On a Saturday, six weeks later, Sabagal’s eyelids fluttered. Nicola was seized with happiness. She laughed and shouted, “Sabi opened he eyes! He is alive. Gosh—he eyes open.”
She had been rooted at his side, only moving to whisper in his ear, wipe his forehead, or kiss his pale cheeks. Now Nicola only cared about the new life given to her dead husband.
During the six weeks Sabagal had been a patient at the prestigious nursing home, the underworld believed that he had been kidnapped and taken to some remote village in Venezuela. And then the secret came to light as the story unfolded in the dailies. Journalists arrived with popping cameras and wrote their front-page blasts in heavy print. Sabagal—the Cloth Merchant, Entrepreneur, Drug Lord—Has Survived His Ordeal.
So Sabagal was removed to a safe house far from his own mansion, perched high atop the hills overlooking the city, where he peered down at the numerous properties he owned and the lands that stretched to the coastline. A sense of belonging was impinged upon by a feeling of lost hope and uselessness creeping over him. His arms, his whole body was still sore and he could not breathe properly. The neck brace kept him uncomfortably immobile as he sat in his special chair. His head kept shaking, and the fever kept his teeth chattering. He was alive, but hopelessly drained of strength and deprived of the will to live.
Memories filled him with remorse or angered him. Balbosa, Teemul, and Manickchand were never dead in his mind. Their falling and covering him on the floor of the boat had saved him the night they were mowed down by the marauders in the double-hulled craft, but he could still hear their voices in the cave when he hung like beef against the rocks, tortured and despised.
Only Nicola’s patient understanding brought him hope. She encouraged him to pray for his wrongdoings, to be grateful for new life. The beatings he had suffered were lessons, though painful, that should bring him back to his senses. She fed him pablum, crackers, and fruit juices, changed his clothes, and powdered his face. She untied the pit bulls in the yard, and added locks throughout the premises.
Slowly Sabagal regained his strength and began to walk unassisted. He assessed his position with his dear wife Nicola, who was consistently at his side, a devoted caring nurse bringing him comfort. She cooked his favorite meals which he still had trouble eating, washed his clothes, answered his calls, and read him the daily newspapers. Both maids were sent home temporarily because she wanted absolute privacy for him. But she kept the two armed guards, dependent and loyal Scobie and Habib.
One afternoon while Nicola was in the kitchen, Sabagal called both guards. He briefed them about the documents he had signed in the black pouch which had been taken by the men in the black double-hulled boat.
Scobie and Habib began their investigation, which eventually led to a boat at Carenage. Assuming the roles of repairmen in the gulf, they rowed their pirogue between the yachts anchored in the shallow bay. They tied the pirogue to an empty yacht, swam to the boat, and climbed aboard. At once they were confronted by a man who emerged from the cabin. He was tall and naked to the waist. He rushed at the trespassers with a piece of pipe. But Scobie was prepared. He swung the heavy chain that lay on the bow, knocking the man flat on his back. At first he seemed unconscious, but then he rose and fought like a beast. Muscles swelling, he grabbed Scobie’s arms, but Habib struck him again with the swinging chain. Finally, they subdued him and taped his mouth and eyes, the deep gash on his forehead splattering blood. Habib searched the boat while Scobie nursed a sore hand which he suspected was broken.
Sabagal was impressed with his two men. They had recovered the urgent documents. He did not question his men about the details—the return of the precious documents was heartwarming enough. But Nicola was perplexed that her husband did not ask for details.
“We had a hard time, boss,” Habib said. “That man in the boat gave us hell. Lucky Scobie was with me.”
“My hand and shoulder in pain, boss,” Scobie said. “If that man had a knife we woulda be dead.”
“You did a good job, men. Thanks. I get plenty licks in the cave too. I passed out. My own men, Balbosa and Teemul, nearly killed me. Imagine that your own friends are your worst enemies. But I don’t want to think about that. I have to thank God that I did not die.”
When Scobie and Habib left, Sabagal sat in his rocker gazing down at the bustling city of Port-of-Spain, deep in thought. Nicola brought him a drink and sat next to her husband. “Drink the juice, medicine after,” she said. She wondered why he kept so quiet, so thoughtful. “Well, things work out nice. Those murderers don’t have no hold on you again.”
Sabagal said quietly, “Call Father Ignatius. I want to see him.”
“You still not well . . .”
“Call Father,” he insisted. Nicola felt his forehead and pulse, then handed him his drink, but he refused.
Father Ignatius, a tall spectacled man, white-gowned, his crucifix displayed on his chest, arrived the next day. It was drizzling and the winds were strong. Nicola was saying, “You not eating anything. I had to dump all the food yesterday. You not even drinking. Don’t you want a sandwich?”
“No. Look, Father coming up the stairway.”
Sabagal attempted to stand as he greeted Father Ignatius, but the priest pushed him down gently.
“Father, I am happy that you have come. Look, Nicola. We have to pass these properties to Father. If they don’t sell, Father, you can auction them. The money coming from the sales I want you to keep it. So many people in the parish are poor. You have organizations, do what you like. All my life I have been a wretched soul, and I want to be relieved of the burden. I thought money would bring happiness. Now I realize that material things are temporary. I feel happy to give to charity.”
Father Ignatius sat amazed as Sabagal handed him the papers. Slowly he smiled and said in his Dutch accent, “God will bless you. Immensely. But you look pale and so thin. Have plenty rest now. Nicola will tend to you. You are lucky—she is good to you.” He stood to leave and thanked Sabagal. Sabagal remained motionless in his chair, his eyes riveted on the scene below.
“He not eating and drinking at all,” Nicola worried, walking with the priest toward the door. “He was only asking for you. Nothing was on his mind but you.”
Father Ignatius patted her shoulder. “I’ll see you at Sunday Mass,” he said and blessed her.
She locked the front door and returned to her husband. His head was down over his chest, his hands tightly clamped onto the chair. Nervously she felt for his pulse. She frantically placed her hand over his breast. She threw her head heavenward and bawled out, “OH, GOD!”
BURY YOUR MOTHER
BY JAIME LEE LOY
Palmiste
When a holy person dies, black butterflies float like ash to tell the heavens of their coming. When someone like you dies, my mother confides, gray vultures dig to their death in the soil. You will never make it to God, she hisses. Children pay for the sins of their fathers.
Unearthing years of rubbish from my mother’s cupboard, we find a rotting crib, my fat
her’s wedding tie, his Playboy magazines, his underwear. After nineteen years the widow shows me her wares.
“What de ass I keeping all this here for? Dead and gone.” She speaks of things I will never have. She insists he never loved me. “If I didn’t have you,” she mutters, “Parker woulda marry me long time. And to think I was the one who wanted a girl.” Distracted, she thumbs the pants my father wore the evening of his death.
Sudden and violent, crashing to the bedroom floor.
Aneurysm.
“Stop it!” a little girl screams. She is sitting on a chair, her fingers scissoring the ears of her stuffed rabbit, needling at its fur with her nails. Like a tree being felled, a big man died, leaving his little girl screaming. Everyone else on the porch having a Carib, telling stories of strongman Dennis pulling up a devious kingfish with ease. Everyone beginning to ask, “But where Dennis gone, man?” “Dennis man! But where he gone?” When they find her she is turning purple, hitting her head methodically, her mouth opening and closing like a choking fish. Her mother appears, moaning like a wounded dog, scraping at his clothes. At the funeral they have to hold May back. She is bawling like someone is cutting her open.
Unlike the fuzzy-rimmed nature of dreams, distinct memories of my father resurface in the corners of late evening. I remember fussing from my crib and his insistence that she deal with the problem. I remember him beating me and my fragile, then soft-spoken mother sweeping me away to their room. I remember her crying, the sound of the rocking, and the colors on her dress. I remember what she has told me to remember.
Yet when people speak of him, their voices break. They recount their version of strongman Dennis with the gentle heart . . . You can think you know a man when he doesn’t live in your house or share your bed. Women are more transparent. May can smile through cracked lips and caking lipstick, squint joyfully through scraggly eyeliner, but people see the scowl.
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