Her breath catches at this news. Dios mío! Sunil is offering to leave his country and his family for hers, to become an exile for her, to exchange places. This is the sign the Bible predicted, this is amor … el mayor de todos.
When Sunil opens the back door, she scrambles into the car. He passes her the faded bag and she hugs it, in place of the teddy bear left behind on the bed.
“You alright there?” he asks, and when she says yes, he gets into the front passenger seat and orders Stench to “bun road.” Consuela hugs the bag tighter, closes her eyes and says a silent thank you: Gracias a Dios por este milagro. Gracias a Dios.
They haven’t moved far, though, when she feels the car roll and heave like a boat.
She opens her eyes to the glaring headlights of a Jeep parked on their side of the narrow lane. She ducks into the shade of Sunil’s headrest just as he and Stench curse, What the mudda—and raise their arms against the light. Then, the Jeep swings across the road, blocking their escape.
The Jeep’s front doors open and a male voice shouts, “Police! Police!”
“Sunil,” Consuela bleats, but he’s busy telling Stench, “Reverse, reverse!”
“You mad or what? They go kill we, bai,” Stench screeches.
“I not going back. Reverse,” Sunil insists, grabbing the gearstick. The two friends fight, but two firecracker sounds make them freeze.
The voice from beyond orders, “Put your two hand outside the glass!”
The boys comply, Sunil crying now, moaning, “Oh God, Oh God…”
The same booming voice says, “Open the door from outside and lie down on the ground! Face down! Now!”
Consuela remains bolt upright in the back seat; sweat glues her to the upholstery. Afraid to move, she whimpers a litany of Spanish words, gibberish even to her, as she watches the boys surrender. This is a movie, she is watching a movie, or this is a bad dream … yes, she has had many bad dreams since coming to Trinidad but she always wakes up warm and safe in her whore-house bed. But this dream gets even more scary when Corporal Sharpe, a regular at the guesthouse, steps out from behind the Jeep’s door. He is wearing a bulletproof vest and walking sideways like a giant crab, his gun aimed at Sunil, who is flat on the pavement. The other policeman approaches Stench in the same way.
But what will they do to her? Consuela wails as she glimpses her future: Boss Lady can’t save her now! They will rape her in the police station, they will rape her in the jail, they will swallow her whole in the detention center where they send all Venezolanas, and then they will shit her back out in Tucupita, back with her Mama, back with nothing.
What was it all for? Fue todo en vano?
As if by some spell of brujeria, her door opens, someone reaches in and drags her out, drags her along the pavement, back in the direction of the guesthouse, until she is next to a big black vehicle. Blinded by tears, she doesn’t recognize el demonio until he speaks, “You bitch! You dutty li’l bitch, you! Playing games with me, eh? I go teach you a lesson here tonight.”
Jagroop. He cuffs her face and she falls, her ears ringing with the sound her radio makes when signals fail across the Bocas. Jagroop kicks her, over and over, while she becomes an eel on the gritty pavement. Somewhere behind the shrill noise, Sunil’s voice sputters, “Leave she alone! Leave she! I go kill yuh!” and her body vibrates with the frantic drumming of feet.
“Stop, boy, stop!” Corporal Sharpe screams.
Consuela opens her eyes and foresees what is about to happen. She opens wide her lungs, her heart, her throat, her mouth to warn Sunil, “No! Don’t come!” but her English deserts her and she hears her own stranded cry, “No vengas!” at the exact moment Jagroop’s boot lands on her ribs and there is a loud pop.
Her eyes meet Sunil’s across the cold concrete. He bleeds, and she bleeds too, but she is the one who wishes to die.
1. Commonly shortened by locals to “the Bocas”, this is the collective geographic name for the several small straits between the northwestern point of Trinidad and the Venezuelan coast. However, on most maps it is not translated as plural, but rather as the singular, “The Dragon’s Mouth”.
Endangered Species
OMAR SAT, UNCOMFORTABLE, IN THE FRONT seat of the maxi-taxi minivan. His lanky frame was hunched and contorted, his face puffed-up like a country crapaud. He was pissed. He’d been pissed when he left his mother’s house in the quiet, turtle-watching village of Matura about an hour ago, and he was pissed now as the maxi neared the bustling hub of Pleasantview Junction. He didn’t want to be back in Pleasantview—but his mother, Josephine, wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want to return to the tiny, suffocating room with the chicken-wire window where he rented from the Jagroops. He didn’t want to spend another day of his life bagging groceries at the Save-U Supermarket. And to make matters worse, he didn’t want the old, fragile picture-frame in his duffel bag—but, this morning, Josephine had made him take it anyway.
The usual buildings, trees and savannahs whooshed past. Omar sat tense, wincing with every pothole, gripping the duffel’s strap, bracing the bag with his knee to keep it from falling. Josephine would never forgive him if he broke the stupid picture: him and his father on the beach with a leatherback turtle. The photo had long ago faded and become welded to the glass, time and heat making them one.
One 8 x 10 booby-trap.
Its only purpose was to ensnare Omar in dangerous thoughts of what was missing in his life—what had been missing—for the past eleven years. Jacob van der Zee: high-and-mighty turtle scientist, dashing Dutchman, runaway father. He’d abandoned Omar and Josephine when Omar was six, leaving the boy confused as to whether the paralyzing feeling he got, every time he looked at the picture, was raw hatred or, merely, sour love.
Screech! About two miles from Pleasantview Junction, the maxi suddenly swerved. Came to a lurching stop. A grating, straining noise followed as the driver retried the engine. There was … nothing. He twisted around to face the passengers and barked, “Allyuh come out, come out. We shut down.”
A collective steups went up—everyone, including Omar, sucking their teeth. The twelve passengers in the back of the maxi began turtling out. Omar took a moment to slow his heartbeat and rotate the shoulder yanked by the bag, then he hopped from the front seat.
On the pavement, the passengers had encircled the driver, demanding a refund. As Omar eased his bag out, he noticed a short, black Rasta-man watching him cut-eye.
“What you say, Big-Red? Ain’t the man should give we back we money?”
Omar couldn’t believe his bad luck. Just because of his six-foot-four height, just because he looked big and strong, people always tried to recruit him for their dirty work. But why today? Today, when he was so anxious to get to his room. Today, when the sole challenge of his journey was to keep the picture frame unbroken. He wanted no run-ins with these Pleasantview people. He didn’t know how to cuss like them and he’d never learned how to fight. So, like a basketballer, he swiveled out of the jittery mob. He crossed the road and began speed-walking toward the Junction. Behind him, the Rasta called out, “Like you’s a li’l mama-man, or what!” But Omar had heard that one before in high school, along with “Lonesome Dove,” “Big Pussy,” and countless other names only the quiet boys got called.
Two miles. With this heavy bag, in this nine o’clock sun. Omar trudged forward, wondering if the maxi shutting down was some kind of supernatural punishment. For the fights he’d had with Josephine this weekend; for the way he’d stormed out this morning: slamming the door extra hard, so her beloved crucifix rattled and fell to the floor.
His nostrils picked up the rankness of the rubbish-filled drain alongside the pavement. And his ears registered a rising chaos: horns, engines, exhausts; they clashed with voices, sirens, reggae. Every time Omar set foot in Pleasantview he felt overwhelmed. It was so hard to tell music from noise, the good places from the bad places, the good guys from the bad guys. Take that Rasta, for instance: he could’ve been joking, but
he could’ve just as well been picking a fight.
Omar squinted as, up ahead at the corner of Evans Street, his landlord, Mr. Jagroop’s fruit and vegetable stand, The Horn of Plenty, came into sight. Sunlight shimmered on its white, oil-paint walls in a way that reminded Omar of inside a conch-shell. Mr. Jagroop was another Pleasantview person Omar found confusing. He cussed out his wife every single day, called her “cunt” and “bitch” like it was her first name, and yet the man was the best father to his lazy, rum-guzzling son, Manohar. A couple months ago, when Omar had just moved in, he’d noticed Mr. Jagroop loading up the produce truck every day with no help. One morning, Omar had summoned the courage to offer; but Mr. Jagroop had grunted, “Nah. It should be Mannie helping. That boy over-lazy! Is that old bitch have him so. But what I go do? Is my son.”
Since then, Omar had become almost obsessed with Mr. Jagroop. He waited every morning to hear the old man cussing, then his rubber slippers on the stairs; then Omar spied on him. First, puja, Hindu prayers by a little shrine in the yard. Then Mr. Jagroop washed and loaded both trucks: his as well as his son’s; then he and Mannie left for work together. He was, to Omar’s eyes, exactly what a father should be. Omar wished he could know the old man better, study him up close like a rare species, solve the mystery of how one man could have such different sides. Josephine had said, “You is the newcomer, Omar. You have to try again with your landlord-and-them.” But Omar couldn’t think of how to make another approach to Mr. Jagroop.
He came alongside The Horn of Plenty and peered in.
The place seemed deserted except for disgusting Mannie, who sat at the cash register chewing his nails and spitting them into a crate of grapefruit. Then the hammock at the back of the shed moved. Omar glimpsed Mr. Jagroop. He swung gently, stroking his pumpkin belly and humming the mournful Indian music of a nearby radio. In his hand, he contemplated a mango.
“Morning,” Omar bleated with a timid wave.
Father and son startled. Mannie merely grunted while Mr. Jagroop called out, “Morning, Omar. Where you toting that big bag this hour?”
“Home, Mr. Jagroop. But the maxi shut-down. I hustling to the Junction to get a car.”
The old man shot from the hammock like a stone from a sling. He shoved the mango into one pocket of his khaki shorts and pulled a bunch of keys from the other. With a big grin, he walked toward Omar saying, “Come, come, I go give you a drop.”
Grateful, Omar folded his length into the truck’s tiny cab and balanced the duffel on his knees. Mr. Jagroop raised a bushy eyebrow and said, “Humph! Is gold inside there, or what? Put that beast in the tray, nah.”
“No, is just—”
Before Omar could say, “something that could break”, Mr. Jagroop cut in. “So, you busy, son? Or you have time? I have a few stops to make first.” Pulling away from the curb, he added, “Plus, I feel you is the man to help me with something. You don’t mind?”
A few stops? Omar wanted to get to his room as quickly as possible. To unload the picture, get it off his conscience and stow it away somewhere safe, where he’d never have to look at it. But Mr. Jagroop had asked him a favor, made it clear that Omar was the man to help. Omar wasn’t sure what was involved but he knew he couldn’t say no. He’d been wanting an inroad like this for too long.
Their first stop was quick: the bank, in the same shopping plaza as the Save-U where Omar worked. While he waited in the truck, he thought of how Josephine had reacted yesterday when he’d said he would stay in Matura, find a job there, where he felt comfortable and understood life, where he had a few friends. To hell with Pleasantview, he’d told Josephine. Packing groceries like a maniac—but never fast enough for the Save-U Manager—twelve hours a day, Monday to Saturday. It made Omar feel he was on a five-day deadline, like a pregnant turtle. Flap, flap, flap, work, work, work—but, in his case, for what? To deliver his dirty laundry and crisp salary to Josephine every Sunday. Then, every Monday, to slouch back to Pleasantview and begin the cycle all over again. Seventeen years old and wasting life, Omar had complained.
Josephine had straightened slowly, swiped the suds straight down from her elbows, back into the washtub, before turning to Omar. “You mad or what? It ain’t have nowhere in Matura that paying what you making in Pleasantview.”
Sitting there in Mr. Jagroop’s truck, Omar still believed she was wrong. He could easily be a tour guide at some eco-resort. Nobody knew Matura beach like him; nobody knew turtles like him. Jacob had shared so much during their walks; Omar had never forgotten any of it—not even the sound of Jacob’s voice. And so many midnights, when Josephine was snoring in her bed, Omar had snuck out to the beach to learn more, to watch the mother-turtles in nesting season.
There, Omar’s argument snagged.
Nesting season. Tour guides in Matura only had work in nesting season.
He glanced across at Save-U where he worked now, and would always have work, every day, all year round—even public holidays,
Yes, but he still had no friends. Yesterday, Josephine had scolded him, “Listen, Matura can’t do one ass for you. So you better start treating Pleasantview like is your future. Put your whole self in it, son. Try again with them people.”
Just then, Mr. Jagroop’s grinning face reappeared in the driver’s-side window. He held two sno-cones—and offered one to Omar. A perfect globe of crushed ice, soaked with red syrup and wearing a white pope-hat of condensed milk. It looked cooling and delicious, so Omar stretched to accept, noticing, as Mr. Jagroop climbed into the truck, an unsealed envelope, thick with money, jutting from the old man’s pocket.
They swung out of the parking lot and back onto the main road. Between bites of ice, Mr. Jagroop chatted as if they took road-trips together all the time, and Omar began to feel school-boyish again.
“So you hear the news?” Mr. Jagroop said. “Your landlord might be a Member-a-Parliament soon, son. They ask me to be the UNC candidate.”
“But that real good, Mr. Jagroop!”
“Yeah, only the background checks now. They does real dig-up in your past, you know? By the time they finish, they know everything about a man—down to what size jockey-shorts he does wear.”
“True?”
“That’s why I have a li’l favor to ask. A errand. I can’t send Mannie. But I need somebody I could trust as much. I was there in the hammock thinking, ‘Lord, who?’ and then bam! You walk up. You is the quietest fella I ever see. I know I could trust you.”
In his head, Omar repeated Mr. Jagroop’s words, “… somebody I could trust as much…” As much as Mannie? Or as much as a son? There was a difference. Omar wouldn’t want to be equated with Mannie—lazy and always reeking of rum. But, for Mr. Jagroop to trust Omar like a son—well, that Omar didn’t mind. He answered, “For sure, Mr. Jagroop. But what it is?”
Jagroop patted his pocket. “I just need you to run inside and hand somebody this. You think you could manage?”
Omar was still nodding as they turned onto clogged Evans Street. On one side, the University campus sprawled, bounded by their neighborhood of East Pleasantview.
“So Omar, is which village you from again? Matura, ain’t?” Mr. Jagroop asked, gearing the truck down to a crawl.
Omar nodded distractedly, “Mmm-hmm,” taking advantage of the traffic to macco inside the University fence. Boys and girls, no older than him probably, reclining on the lawn. Some read fat books. Others chatted. Under a samaan tree, a couple kissed. If he’d had a real father, maybe Omar might’ve been among them, studying something—anything—related to the sea; and maybe he would’ve had a girlfriend too, somebody pretty—but quiet like him.
“All them north coast villages is the same. Turtles, turtles, turtles. Not so?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Omar noticed another couple wiggling sandwich triangles at a skinny, black dog.
“The Mrs. tell me your father was a white-man. A doctor or something. That’s true?”
“A turtle scientist,” Omar corrected, as the dog inch
ed closer to the couple. For the briefest moment, Omar considered going further and sharing Josephine’s nancy story: how Jacob had been “serious about the environment” and had come to Matura to open an eco-resort; how she’d worked there as a cleaner; how after six years Jacob had gotten fed-up with Trinidad; how he’d left them for Dutch Guiana “to help save the Amazon”.
But Omar didn’t want to talk about Jacob. Especially after the things Josephine had said this morning when she’d slid the picture-frame across the kitchen-table.
“Ma, why you giving me this thing?” Omar had asked, pitching his spoon down as if a lump of shit had surfaced in his porridge bowl.
“Because you is a big man now, but you turning out just like your father: selfish and ungrateful. Take this, put it up in your room in Pleasantview and watch it good every day. Tell yourself you will be better than him, son. That you will be a real man, the kind that does sacrifice and mind his family. All these years, I do my best for you; now is your turn to work. Now, get your long, bony, backside up and go.”
The stray dog finally nuzzled the bread.
“Scientist, eh?” Mr. Jagroop warbled, through a clump of sno-cone. “I is a nature-lover myself, you know. I always say one day me and Mannie go drive up, like big-time tourist, and do some turtle-watching. But work, Omar. Work is a bitch.”
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