Or, you might try finding out where a soucouyant conceals her disguise of skin when out on her raids as a flaming ball. Cover her skin with plenty of salt and …
Old skin,’ kin,’ kin,
You na know me,
You na know me.
… is what she’ll chant as she tries to pull on her disguise. The burning of salt under her skin. A guise now strange and painful. The suffering of a monster that deserves no pity at all.
Mother never explained any of this to me. She told me over and over again of her encounter with the creature. That time when she was very young, when the sun was only a stain on the edge of the earth and the moon hadn’t yet gone under. When she was fleeing upon a path so old that none could remember its origins. An out-of-the-way path, her ankles painted cool by the wet grasses. (‘The creature. It using water in a rusted oil drum as a mirror. It putting on she skin, syrup sounds and soft snaps. It gloving on she fingers when she roll she eyes toward.…’) Mother told me other things too, especially later, when she couldn’t help herself. When the scenes and secrets were spilling out of her involuntarily. The fighter plane crashing into the Chaguaramas harbour. The smells of the soldiers who visited her mother’s home. The thin blue fire on the day of the accident. She told, but she never explained or deciphered. She never put the stories together. She never could or wanted to do so.
Miss Cameron helped me. She ordered me history books on the Caribbean and especially Trinidad. She offered me meanings when they were lacking, though sometimes these meanings became riddles unto themselves. One of the books that she ordered was in full-colour and published by the Oceanways Cruiseship Company. The cover bore a picture of a black man playing a steel pan, an impossibly huge smile on his face. Impossibly cheerful colours. A white family looking on, cameras around their necks, impossibly huge smiles on their faces too. Inside, the book had pictures and genuinely helpful advice for people who planned on visiting this tropical getaway. Near the end of the book, there was a glossary of sayings, customs, and legends from that curious land. And if you were to flip through it, you’d find entries for such words as saga boy … Shango … sorrel.…
Soucouyant. Touch the cool gloss of that word on the page.
‘Your history is a living book,’ Miss Cameron once told me. ‘Your history is your blood and flesh. Your history is your grammar for life.…’
My history is a travel guidebook. My history is a creature nobody really believes in. My history is a foreign word.
I WAKE THIS time without fear, without the sounds of a passing train. A still night, the digital clock showing half past two. I push off my covers and walk down the hall to check Mother’s room. She’s not in bed among the ambiguous lumps of blankets and pillows. I don’t panic, not yet. I look in the upstairs bathroom before heading down the stairs and calling out once. I notice the door leading to the basement slightly ajar.
Of course.
The light hasn’t been turned on and there’s no need to change this. There’s enough moonlight coming through the basement window to show it all. Mother is lying at the foot of the stairs. When I step down a bit more, I can see that she’s reclining back uncomfortably, her leg in an absurd position beneath her and her head propped upon the last stair. I descend carefully and touch her. Cold. When I lift her head I see a spot of blood. Not very large at all.
There’s no need to rush. I sit beside her with the crescent moon framed in the narrow basement window, a thin scar of light. It’s so clear and immediate, the moon, that you feel you could just reach out and touch it. A cold thin scar.
‘So here we are.’
I’M UNNATURALLY CALM during the preparations. I call an ambulance and watch it drive up with lights flashing but no sound. I ask if I can ride with Mother in the back and they agree. We glide silently through the streets of Port Junction at a very responsible speed. During the trip I lift the edge of the sheet to see a wrist with blue veins. Just to make sure.
At the hospital and the morgue, I’m afraid of stepping on the floor. A nurse breaks a five for me and tells me where the coffee machine is. I’m alert to every noise, every sensation. The fall of coins into the chrome slot of the machine and the cup that falls at a bit of an angle before the watery brew rights it. With my second cup of coffee, I try the non-dairy whitener without sugar. With my third, both whitener and sugar. I risk leaving the hospital for a moment to find a convenience store that will give me some more change. I almost miss the mortician when she arrives.
I have at least a dozen cups of coffee that night and yet sleep through to noon, without fitfulness or dreams.
THE NEXT DAY, Mrs Christopher arrives to help organize the viewing and funeral. She makes arrangements with the bank to unfreeze Mother’s account and to settle her finances. She has strong views on what’s appropriate and doesn’t share many of her decisions with me. At the viewing, I see her leaning over Mother’s casket, wetting a tissue with the tip of her tongue and gently working at some blemish on her friend’s forehead. Most of the people in the room are women from the church whom I don’t recognize. Each greets me politely but firmly and, after that, do their best to ignore me. There are a few people from the neighbourhood too. An elderly couple that lived for a while down the road. A young woman, perhaps my age. She’s brown and she’s wearing a head scarf. I look at her, wondering who she is. She asks me if there’s anything she can do.
‘No,’ I answer. ‘But thanks.’
‘I’m Amina,’ she says. ‘I was a couple years behind you at school.’
I still don’t recognize her. Did she really live around here? I’m suddenly conscious that I’m staring.
‘Um … yes. Thanks again, Amina.’
The boy I met at the beach shows up with his mother. She wears a black dress that’s slightly too small for her. She speaks carefully, holding before her a knitted purse with a hole in the corner.
‘I want to thank you,’ she says in an accent I can’t place, maybe Eastern European. ‘I want to thank you for what you did at the beach for him. Some children are so cruel. They call him names. It hurts him so much. You were kind to help.’
‘It was nothing,’ I say.
‘Your mother, she is a beautiful woman,’ she says. ‘Bohdan tells me how much he misses her.’
‘Bohdan,’ I say, looking at the still expressionless boy.
‘She helped us,’ she continues. ‘I was working all the time. She helped us and took him in. And she never take any money for this. When I offer, she pretended. Like she did nothing. Like she never understand. She so generous this way. She so open. She was a lesson to us all. Imagine everyone house, everyone community and nation so open.…’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, interrupting. ‘I really have to go somewhere.’
I step into the hallway and lean for a while against the wall. Amina joins me.
‘Can I get you some coffee?’ she asks.
‘Have you seen a coin-operated coffee machine around? You know the kind? The type that gives you options and dispenses sugar and artificial whitener and so on?’
She looks at me for a second.
‘Maybe at the school across the street?’ she says.
‘I really appreciate this.’
‘You alright?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’
I exhaust my pocket change after three cups but make a trip to the supermarket that evening. At home, I lay out several different brands of coffee whiteners. I also lay out several ‘brewed’ cups of instant coffee and a bowl of sugar. This way, I’ll be able to figure out how it’s done. How the taste in the machine is achieved. I keep working late into the night, my head ringing with caffeine, never quite getting it right.
The secret must be in the way it’s prepared. The preparation and not necessarily the combination of ingredients. What’s first, and what’s second, and how it comes together that way. That’s the riddle of everything, you see. That’s the art and the trick.
I WAKE HUNG over and jittery for the f
uneral. I look into the bathroom mirror and decide that I don’t have to shave. There’s a mysterious bruise on my forehead. I touch it and wince at the sharpness of the pain, a dark brown egg. I have no other suit to put on, and the only one of my father’s that even remotely fits me is his embroidered cowboy suit of gold stitching and glittering rhinestones. I put it on and crazily convince myself that with a plain tie it’s alright for the funeral. That it’s a tribute of some sort.
The sun is up, but it has rained hard throughout the night, and the parking lot of the little strip-mall church is muddy and treacherous. Two women stand as guardians at the entrance and inside the front door. They warmly greet me, failing to recognize me as the son of the deceased. I see two more people from the neighbourhood, and Bhodan and his mother already in the pews. I manage to catch glimpses of Mrs Christopher and others from the church, each so clearly veterans at this sort of event. They are chatting away and don’t seem particularly serious or sad.
I’m dazed throughout the service itself. I notice a boy lighting candles at the beginning of the ceremony and having considerable difficulty doing so. I awake from some vague thoughts to the entire congregation joining together in song. Some sorrowful enthusiasm, though not altogether in synch and thus making it difficult to catch all of the words. I phase out again during the oration, this time paying attention to the neat cornrows on a woman’s head. I’m awakened by another song and the service is over.
There appears to be little room in the hearse for me, and I insist on taking a bus to the cemetery, a gesture that angers Mrs Christopher. I end up arriving late, just as the pallbearers are making the last steps towards the graveyard. The rain has stopped but the grass is waterlogged and muddy, so the pallbearers are walking upon an impromptu road of planks that is supposed to prevent them from slipping. All are strangers to me, acquaintances of Mrs Christopher or else the sons of acquaintances. Each possesses completely different heights and body sizes, and together they seem ludicrously ill-suited for the task. They end up slipping the entire way, stumbling wildly at one point and fighting to keep their balance. I follow behind, keeping my distance, fearful of some final catastrophe.
I see it only when I’m closer, a young man wearing a kanga hat cocked to the side of his head and bearing a steel pan. Someone actually brought a steel pan to Mother’s funeral. A panic comes upon me. Is the young man going to belt out ‘Copacabana’ as the coffin is lowered? Is nothing sacred anymore? I hate pan, and I can’t ever remember Mother listening to it. I’m still staring at this man when Mrs Christopher steps forward and puts on some horn-rimmed glasses and unfolds a page of ruled paper.
‘She liked the smell of lavender,’ she says. ‘She liked it when you pressed you thumbs into the small of she back. She liked tamarind candy and salt prunes. She liked the horizons on waters.…’
My mind wanders. Salt prunes. I think I had this once as a child. They’re red and evilly good in a mouth-tightening, scrunched-up-eyes sort of way. My mind wanders and I miss the rest of the list and awaken to a tinny percussion that gathers into the first bars of ‘Amazing Grace.’ I immediately turn away from the pan player and focus on the surrounding scenery, the wet grass and the maple and birch, but I’m drawn back to the music. It’s so sorrowful. I see it now. It’s the most sorrowful instrument that humankind has ever created. How could anyone, including me, have failed to appreciate this truth, this genius?
The hymn ends. The coffin is placed on nylon straps suspended above the grave, and the device that does the lowering is activated. The coffin takes what seems to be an unusual amount of time to lower, but finally, judging from the slack straps and the still device, the job is over. We stand in silence at the grave and then we hear it. The heavy wet splash of the coffin finally stabilizing itself at the watery bottom of the shaft.
I giggle. I actually giggle aloud and all eyes turn to me before I’m drowned in nausea and sorrow.
THEY SERVE JERK chicken and roti and dal and rice at the reception. It’s the most delicious food that I have ever tasted, and I gorge myself near the serving table, nodding silently when people offer condolences. I gorge and gorge and gorge, and then hurry to the bathroom to retch endlessly into the sink. I wipe my mouth and the splashes on my suit with toilet paper and then return to the table to gorge some more.
AFTER MY THIRD trip to the bathroom, I see Bohdan sitting alone, empty seats around him. I join him.
‘Your mother is dead,’ he says.
‘Yes. She’s dead.’
‘She fell. Now, she is dead.’
‘Yes, Bohdan. She’s gone now.’
He looks at something just above my eyes. I turn around a couple times before realizing that he’s looking at the bruise on my forehead. He reaches towards it and I lean closer. He probes gently and then moves down to my eyebrows, tracing them with his thumb.
His cool fingers before he pulls them away.
‘Eyestache,’ he says.
I SLOWLY REGAIN my senses in the days that follow, and I’m filled with a new degree of energy and purpose. There are a million things to do, but the most compelling task at the moment is to sell the house. Still pinned on Mother’s refrigerator is a magnetic sticker with telephone numbers for emergencies or semi-emergencies such as a fire or burglary or the ingestion of poison or lapses in mental health. These numbers are courtesy of Cheryl Kandarsingh, a real estate agent. Her image is also on the sticker, an attractive young woman wearing a rich purple jacket.
She’s even more attractive in person, though with a slightly distressed expression upon first seeing the house. I explain my situation as briefly as possible. I need to sell quickly because my mother died and I’m leaving very soon. Cheryl nods and immediately turns to look about, pulling out a mini cassette recorder and commenting on the foundation, the age of the roof, the wiring.
‘It’s of course much harder when you need to sell quickly,’ she explains. ‘But we’ll probably still get something for it. The surrounding neighbourhood is really quite attractive. We’ll emphasize that people should bring their own ideas.’
She asks if the basement collects moisture or if there are any leaks, if there’s any leaded paint or asbestos insulation.
‘I don’t think so. I think it was built before all of that.’
‘Heritage’ she says, smiling slyly. ‘Gotcha.’
She soon organizes a showing. A variety of people come to inspect the house, but all leave very quickly. None seem terribly impressed with the house itself or the details painstakingly added by my parents over the years, the refinished wooden trim, the careful painting, the additions to the garden outside. I try to see Mother’s house for the first time, as a visitor might see it. It’s old, sure, but it’s been cared for. It still might make a good home. When the sound of an approaching freight train grows, Cheryl’s voice becomes more urgent and animated.
‘It’s an excellent neighbourhood,’ she tells a new family. ‘So good, in fact, that when condominiums were proposed a couple blocks away, many in the neighbourhood kicked up quite a fuss and the plans were halted. People were afraid that some of the units would be set aside for government housing. That the culture of the neighbourhood would change.’
The train rumbles by into silence. The couple look about the house a bit more, and I see the man discreetly bouncing on the floor near the wall closest to the bluffs.
‘Is it really a good neighbourhood?’ the woman asks me.
‘You get used to it,’ I say, receiving a sharp look from Cheryl.
WE FINALLY SELL the house to a couple who admits that they’re planning on razing the property and building anew. In the meanwhile, they’ll rent the place out to university students during the upcoming winter term. They’ll of course need a closing date very soon. We make several proposals, but they insist on something faster each time. Finally, Cheryl arranges the paperwork and I sign away. In less than a month, I’ll have to vacate the place, a tight but manageable schedule.
I receive a che
que that for Cheryl is slightly disappointing, but for me is nothing less than astounding. $53,000. I go to the bank with it, approaching the clerk with sweating hands and fumbling with every single bit of identification that I own, including the library card that Miss Cameron issued to me when I was thirteen. The clerk looks at two pieces of ID and deposits the money and smiles and hands me proof and says, ‘Next.’ I’m completely dumbfounded by the balance slip in my hand. This is amazing. This just isn’t right.
So what now?
Late the following afternoon, I don once again my father’s embroidered cowboy suit, minus the tie. I take a bus going west toward the city, watching the evening come early to the overcast skies and listening as the languages around me multiply. High-rise apartment buildings begin to loom and the green space disappears. I overshoot Mrs Christopher’s apartment and have to walk back in the thin rain and dark. I take an elevator up that smells of turmeric and garlic. Ringing the buzzer at Mrs Christopher’s unit, I wait long minutes before she unlocks the door, first peeking at me with the security chain still on.
‘It’s me, Mrs Christopher.’
‘I see that. What you want?’
‘I need to talk to you about something.’
‘I busy. Come back some other time.’
‘Please.’
The word emerges strange and broken from my mouth and Mrs Christopher looks at me for a moment with some unreadable expression. She shuts the door hard again and there’s the sound of several locks being worked before she swings it abruptly open.
‘I don’t have too much time,’ she says. ‘Take off you shoes.’
Nonetheless, she insists on serving me tea before listening any further. She waits alone in the kitchen for the water to boil. She pours two cups of water and then dips a single teabag from one cup to the other, staining both waters evenly before carefully wrapping the bag in a crinkled square of aluminum foil. I expected her home to be in extremely good order, but it’s not. There are cushions on the floor and a clutter of books on the shelves. I strain my eyes but can’t make out the titles.
Soucouyant Page 12