‘No, we didn’t.’
George sighed. He was afraid for his ears. ‘Eric Williams became a dictator,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
Snip.
‘We’re living with his mistakes.’
Snip.
‘It’s hard for a man to do the right thing all the time, you know.’ He dared to look up. She pushed his chin down.
‘He had good people round him once,’ Sabine replied carefully.
Snip.
‘They were all dismissed,’ she continued. She picked up a handful of hair.
‘Oww. That hurts. Oww. Why ‒ oww ‒ do we expect people in power to be different? We treat politicians like parents, it’s the same relationship. We never forgive them if they fuck up.’
‘He fucked up all right.’
Snip.
‘He was just one man.’
Snip.
‘I suppose you understand him better than I ever did,’ Sabine said coldly.
‘We’re weak.’
Snip.
Sabine stopped cutting, snapping the blades shut. ‘God, politicians, husbands, all given the job of fathering. Holy God on earth, these islands and their father figures.’
‘The islands were children.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Men rule the world badly. It’s everywhere.’
‘And you don’t care.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Maybe I’m stupid.’
‘We’ve both disappointed you, then.’
Snip.
She took a step back, surveying her work, avoiding his eyes. ‘There. You’re done.’
George wanted to fall on his knees. He wanted her respect. He wanted to respect himself.
La Pompey appeared at the open kitchen door, his bare chest slippery with soap. ‘Two new cars,’ he grinned. ‘Clean as newborn babies.’ He cackled at George. ‘Mr Harwood get a bath, too, I see. Lookin’ baby fresh. Yousa lucky man, to have such a good woman to take care of you so nice.’
‘I am lucky, yes,’ George agreed.
But Sabine had disappeared.
The whore sat on the pavement with her legs open. Drunk or on drugs, her eyes glazed. George slowed the truck and she shot him an unfocused look of insolence. The backstreets of St James, the small hours of the morning. He was drunk, drunk on white rum since early evening. Had drunk himself stupid and then sober again. He left the house in the end when Sabine went to bed. Quite plainly this whore had had enough, could no longer be bothered to stand up. Her belly hung over her miniskirt and the straps of her silky black camisole flopped from her shoulders. Her hair was all this way and that, standing around her head in a star.
George stopped but kept the engine running. She half swayed upright and then climbed in, slamming the door shut. She gazed forward. George nodded, looking at her fallen straps.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Luna,’ she whispered in a hiccup, rum on her breath.
‘Like the moon.’
‘Das right.’
‘Very beautiful.’
She ignored this comment.
Luna’s skin lacked lustre. Matt black, black as tar, pimpled, her shoulders scarred with vaccination marks. She slouched back against the seat, mumbling, her legs open, twisting at her panties, itching or restless down there. From the back pocket of her miniskirt she brought out a tiny bottle of perfume, spraying at her pudenda.
‘Please don’t do that,’ George winced. ‘I like you as you are.’
She sniffed loudly and looked out the window. ‘Where yuh wanta park?’
‘At the docks.’
George drove on through the night. The city lay quiet, sleeping off the day. They bumped along the broken-up paved streets, gazing out opposite windows. He was nervous. Nervous, every time. What was he thinking? What did he think every time? That he liked sex, still needed it, no matter how, no matter what. Luna was light. Moonlight on his parched soul.
He drove towards the spot of the Cavina’s arrival. A strange wheezing rattled from Luna’s side of the bench-seat. Had she fallen asleep? He glanced across. No. Only breathing heavily, chest heaving. She coughed up phlegm, hawking it out the window. She wiped her lips, sniffed up snot and coughed that, too, spitting it out. She opened her legs wider, reaching across, placing his left hand on her thigh.
‘Dis what yuh buyin’.’ She guided his fingers inside her.
Oh Jesus, Lord. Hot there and dry as fuck, dry and fuckless. What had he done? He was ashamed. Ashamed to fuck a woman with no glow in her. Feeling made women glow and wet and he knew the difference between dry and wet when it came to women. What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t care. Could he love Luna? Make her come? He wanted to. Wanted to fuck her and make her come, release himself from the death he’d caused in his wife. He wanted to fuck a woman into life.
The dock was close. Ships were moored up, containers on the wharf. He knew a place. He accelerated. Luna rubbed herself and her legs were now open wide, one foot up on the dashboard.
He crash-parked in an empty lot. There was no one about, the night watchman asleep in his hut. Stars up in the sky, the moon like a lamp. The salt sea breeze was fluttering in from the Gulf of Paria into the cab and Luna was rubbing herself, her heavy breasts spilling from her black camisole, and he could smell her now, sharp and saltier than the sea. Luna rubbing her dry cunt, a cold meaningless expression in her eyes. She was drunk, so drunk she was either going to fall asleep or become violent.
Hands shaking, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his flies. He was soft. His elderly cock lay flaccid against his thighs, a dribble of its former self. Luna lay back, her head propped up against the door, legs splayed, panties pulled to one side. He could see into her, a place he could fit his hand, like a purse, or a secret crevice in a wall. George is a drunk, a second-rate specimen. There, he could store his misery. Store his sins right there: inside Luna.
Luna’s eyes were vacant as Sabine’s.
He threw himself onto her, thrusting and thrusting until he became lost and out of breath. But he was soft, had nothing in him, nothing for anyone. He sweated, thrusted and thrusted, sweating and furious. He thrusted until he thought he’d give himself a heart attack, sweat trickling from his temples, from his hair. He stopped, his heart pounding, his chest heaving.
‘I’m too old,’ he said, by way of an excuse. ‘Too old for you.’ And he was too old. He’d die soon, he knew.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ he muttered.
Luna steupsed, throwing him a look that said she’d seen and heard it all before. She glared at him. ‘Dis still a hundred dollars, eh?’
CHAPTER FOUR
NICE TRY
Early evening, the sky was pink as pomegranate seeds. The keskidees squabbled over the pool in their eternal family argument. A horn beeped outside the front gate.
‘Let me in, let me in, Daddyyy,’ Pascale called, her headlights spraying a lemony wash all over the driveway. The dogs rushed out, barking and jumping up, wagging their tails. George sped out with the buzzer to let her in. Sabine stood in the kitchen, holding her breath, counting: one, two, three. She took a clean plate from the rack and began washing it again slowly, listening.
‘Daddy, eh, eh.’ The car door slammed. Pascale’s loud boisterous kissing of her father on both cheeks.
‘How yuh goin’? Nuttin in de paper dis week? W’appen? Eh, eh, dese damn blasted dogs. Down. Down. Henry, down, man. Jesus, dogs. Dey diggin’ up de damn blasted roads again. Just like you said. Dey fix dem, den dey go damn well dig dem up again. Write somptin about dis, Daddy. Der’s a huge blasted hole in de middle of de road, just outside Linda’s. I almost drove straight in. Eh, eh. Down, you chupid dogs. Jesus Christ. Where’s Mummy?’
Tears pooled in Sabine’s eyes. Her beautiful daughter. Her daughter’s rich sing-song voice, part of the island now. Those letters George found, all those years she thought they were about to leave. Another three years, another three, and then, and then. Now her da
ughter spoke like them.
‘Mum’s inside. This is an unexpected pleasure. What a surprise. Lovely to see you. And the kids.’ Joy in George’s voice. A ring in it.
‘I’m here,’ Sabine called, from her pretend washing-up. She stayed still; best let them enjoy each other first.
They’d moved into the living room, Sabine could tell; George, she knew, was already mixing drinks, three-fingered measures. Pascale could drink, like her father. Sabine wiped her hands on a tea towel, patted her forehead dry. Dear Mr Williams; what had she been doing? She blushed with the shame of being so naive. She went to join them.
‘How are you, my love,’ she said.
Pascale invaded the living room. Tall, blonde, her curly hair straightened and cut like a boy; she was always in heels, always made-up. Always talking and joking. Pascale stood with the glass of rum in her hand, breathing a jet of cigarette smoke up to the ceiling.
‘Eh eh, Mummyuh, howyuh goin’?’ She smiled in a half-frozen way.
‘You look well,’ Sabine managed.
The women air-kissed.
‘Hello, Zack, Tabitha,’ Sabine greeted her grandchildren, who swarmed to their mother’s long legs. They stared up at Sabine, unspeaking.
‘Come, come, here,’ Pascale chided them. They clung, climbing all over Pascale as she sat down. Both had milk-chocolate skin. Both snuggled into Pascale’s lap as she talked, a continuous stream of news, questions and laughing at her own jokes. Pascale fingered her children’s wiry curls as she laughed. George sat on one of the bar stools, Sabine on the opposite sofa. They stared at their daughter, as if they’d never seen her before.
‘Hey, Daddy, who you interviewin’ nex?’
‘Brian Lara.’
‘Wow! Can I come, too? Hold de tape recorder for you?’
‘He’s coming back from New Zealand soon. It’s not yet confirmed.’
‘I wonder when he’ll retire.’
‘Oh, sometime in the near future. Perhaps after the World Cup in 2007.’
‘It won’t be the same when he goes. I’ll miss him.’
‘Maybe he’ll never go. He may be indispensable.’
‘He cyan disappear.’
‘The ladies like Lara, eh?’
‘And he likes dem.’
‘Children like Lara, too,’ George grinned.
‘An ol’ people.’
‘The man’s a national hero.’
‘Of course.’
‘That’ll make him hard to interview.’
Look at them. Glowing in each other’s presence. Glowing and laughing like old friends. Just like him, her father’s daughter. Something about the way they sat, stood, held themselves: so similar, both so confident. Pascale drank a lot and smoked and limed and fêted till dawn when she could.
‘Your brother’s coming out in a few days,’ Sabine intervened.
‘Oh, dat go be fun.’ She winked.
‘He’ll be here for two weeks.’ Sabine ignored her sarcasm. ‘You know, I told you months ago. He’s coming for Easter.’
‘He bringin’ any of his snobby friends?’
‘They’re not snobs.’
Pascale exhaled a long jet of smoke. ‘Mum, anyone who hates calypso is a snob.’
‘I hate calypso.’
Pascale laughed.
‘I’m not a snob.’
George snorted. Sabine shot him a look.
‘I don’t know why he comes. He doh really enjoy himself.’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘Oh God, Mummyuh, you blind when it come to him.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘He damn well tink everyone here chupid.’
‘Well, most people here are stupid.’
Pascal bunched her jaw, pushing her lips out.
‘My son is a very educated man.’
‘So? Sebastian shy and English when he come home. Trinidad too bold fer him. He look down on everyone. He not clever enough is my opinion.’
‘He cares about you very much.’
‘I care for him. He just too damn stiff.’
‘Gracious, some call it.’
‘Bite up, I call it.’
George got up and went to mix himself a fresh drink.
‘Dad, I’ll have another one, too.’ Pascale studied her father’s movements as he crossed the room.
Sabine appraised her grandchildren’s black skin. They were black, truly black. Not suntanned, not olive-skinned. Her grandchildren had Negro blood. African. They stared in the same mistrustful way the Africans did.
‘Anyway,’ Sabine continued, ‘he’s coming out for Easter. Alone.’
Pascale nodded. Sabine knew Pascale liked her brother despite their differences. Sebastian wasn’t stiff at all; he won over his sister like he won over everyone with his charming manner, his civilised ideas. Sebastian with his handsome open face; she had made beautiful children; no one could take that away from her. Tabitha had fallen asleep on the sofa. Zack picked his nose, still staring, like he always did. Sabine poked out her tongue and Zack half-smiled back, unsure.
Pascale leant over and stroked one of the dogs behind the ears. Her eyes drifted. ‘Daddy, you OK?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You lookin’ a bit . . . peaky.’
‘I’ve got a headache.’
‘Want an aspirin?’
‘No. I’ve already taken one.’
Sabine wanted to talk more, but Pascale wasn’t interested. No one wanted to talk about the things she did.
‘So. Brian Lara, eh? I want a signed photograph. And his phone number.’
‘He’s already taken.’
‘So?’
If only Pascale had got away, too, escaped to the London College of Fashion, like she’d once planned. If only she hadn’t married that weak-chinned, jumped-up French Creole midget. As a child, Pascale covered the walls of the house in murals and graffiti, tiny flowers, bumble bees, all three feet from the ground; they scrubbed the walls of her room every other month. Now Pascale was getting fat, she mothered the children full-time, with the help of maids. Her children’s dark skin had been a surprise to them all. They’d come out much darker than their father, who wouldn’t admit he had any African in him at all.
Pascale left still gushing, tipsy, disappearing like a comet, leaving a trail of conversation-dust in her wake. George staggered to bed, sloshed. Sabine drifted out onto the grass, staring up at the hill above the house, the hip of the green woman, a woman lying on her side, never any doubt about that. A woman trapped in the mud, half sculpted from the sticky oil-clogged bedrock, half made. She was also stuck. Half out, half in. Hip, breast, a long travelling arm. Half her face, half her bushy tangled hair. Usually, she slept heavily and the earth hummed with the timbre of her snores. It could be chilly in the evenings. Cool fresh air, the mountain woman’s breath. Moments of peace, sometimes, out here.
You, Sabine addressed the hill. All you do is watch. That’s all you’ve ever done. Sit back and observe the disaster going on.
It’s my privilege.
They can’t even fix the roads. Lay them down and then dig them up again. In all this time, no proper hurricane. They all veer away.
I don’t bring the winds.
George found my letters to Eric Williams.
Oh.
I’m glad.
Really?
Yes. After all these years. I’m glad. It even feels good. So, there it is. He can think what he likes. Think me mad. Maybe I was. All I know is you, you haven’t changed.
No, I don’t change.
I’ve changed. I hardly recognise my face in the mirror. Another version of myself, of that woman who rode around so carefree on her bicycle. I thought loving George would be enough. But he loves you.
They all love me.
Yes. But you show no concern.
You’re free to go. Go.
You know I won’t, so long as he’s here.
Your son is coming soon.
Yes. Sebastian. He’ll
make it all better for a short time.
Late morning, George strolled with the big dogs along his strip of Trinidad. A Carib in his hand, his hair blowing over to one side. La Blanchisseuse ‒ the washerwoman ‒ the name of this part of Trinidad’s northern coast. The women of the village once washed their clothes in the river near by and this coastline was named after them. Early morning and the sea ebbed and flowed in tame, measured swells; the white sand under the waves illuminated the water to a brilliant duck-egg blue. Tiny iridescent fish marauded through it, chased by larger silver fish, careet. November to March the sea was rough, heavy rollers breaking onto the shore. Today it was a lido out there between the shore and the black rock poking its snout from the water. In the rock a pool had formed, full of grunts and boxfish and feathery algae. A crowd of hoary pelicans sat about on the flat part and, when they took flight, in threes and fours, gliding with aerodynamic grace inches from the sea’s surface, the dogs leapt into the waves, paddling after them, woofing.
The beach, his beach, constituted a narrow strip of the coast. He owned, from the high-water mark-up, one acre of land between the beach and the road. Up here, past the busy tourist beach of Maracas, the road narrowed and the hills of the densely forested northern range gathered, protecting the coast. The remote village had emerged after the 1783 Cedula, higgledy-piggledy, by the sea, when the Spanish were settling new French Creole immigrants. Some of the colourful wooden creole homes still existed, perched precariously on the black rugged cliffs, above the waves, the spume floating up into their kitchens. Gulls hovered at the windows. The gardens were studded with conch shells. A thin beaten-up road ran past, no shops, no fresh water most of the time. In recent years the coast had turned into prime real estate with gargantuan Miami-style condos and homes blocking the view of the sea. A cluster of canary-yellow apartments were now selling for a million dollars each.
George had never built a beach house. He visited his plot once or twice a month to gaze out to sea, to walk the dogs, skinny-dip when the sea was calm, paddle about. A narrow sand-spit stretched from one end of the beach out to a craggy rock sprouting with cactus and sea-almond and manchineel trees. Harwood’s Spit, he called it. At low tide he could walk to the island along the strip of sand, observe the frigate birds diving and swooping, stealing what the smaller birds had caught, or watch the terns swinging on air-thermals. The spit’s water was transparent, it was like standing in a pool of gin. Translucent crabs skittered about on the sandy floor. Tiny fish pecked his toes.
The White Woman on the Green Bicycle Page 6