‘She loves him. She told me she does.’
‘No, she’s made an economic decision. She likes money, my daughter. She loved a man before; he broke her heart. She married Jacques for his bank balance.’
‘Maybe he has a big cock.’
Sabine laughed out loud. ‘Maybe. I hope so.’
‘Maybe he does talk, maybe he just doesn’t like us.’
‘Maybe he’s a good man. I know. In fact, I’m sure he is. Just dull.’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘No.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Oh God, I just hoped . . . for more for her.’
‘Mum, Pascale is happy. She’s married, she has two great kids. They’re rich. She’s doing a lot better than me. I’m unmarried, I live off a salary. I love what I do but that’s it.’
‘You’re different.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You work for a publishing house in a big city. Your life is full of books, interesting people.’
‘Many of these people can be pretentious and spoilt.’
‘At least they read.’
‘Trinidad boasts several fine authors. Masses of fine poetry and prose comes from this region. Caribbean people are richly artistic and literate.’
‘Oh, look, don’t argue. You live in the real world.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘In a screw-up of a country the world has forgotten. Who cares about this dot on the map?’
‘Mum, please. Will you come in? I’ll make you some tea.’
‘In a moment, yes.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’ll just stand a while.’
‘See you inside, crazy lady.’
Sabine turned quickly. ‘Don’t tell your father.’
‘About what?’
‘About me talking to the hill.’
CHAPTER SIX
THE MIGHTY SPARROW’S ADVICE
In the morning, George woke and turned over in bed to gaze at the hills of his sleeping wife. Asleep, she looked at peace. Asleep, all the lines fell from her face and he could see who she once was. Sometimes he gazed for a long while and it was only then, in this early-morning time, before she was awake, that he could reclaim the memories which had amassed between them. He could gaze on her sleeping face with the same open love he’d felt from the moment he saw her. He still experienced a faint swell of wellbeing when he looked at her; she still affected him in a way he’d never understood. He stretched his hand out so that it hovered an inch from her, caressing the air above her shoulder, her stomach, her hip. He leant forward and pressed his lips lightly to the inside of the joint, the tender part he’d kissed a thousand times, his favourite spot on earth, this curved loin, this soft hidden place, his place in the world. ‘Eric Williams never loved you,’ he whispered into her flesh.
He rose and left the house at dawn and while Sabine and his son slept he drove up the Morne to Jennifer’s. It was just past dawn; the air was chilly, the hillside neighbourhood was tranquil. No other cars were on the road, which was hairpin bends all the way up. The grass on the verges was wetted down with dew. Jennifer was standing on the top step of the antiquated shack, holding Chantal’s baby girl; she looked surprised to see his truck. He parked and let himself into the yard.
‘How is he?’
‘Better, but he still get pain in he chest.’
‘Can I come up?’
She nodded, balancing the toddler on her hip, turning to lead the way.
This time George allowed himself to look around. Everything was neat ‒ shabby and gloomy, but well ordered. The inside of the house looked like the outside, everything so exhausted it appeared soft, as if made of silk. Objects stood in state, resting. There were more of their cast-offs than he first realised: the sagging double bed he and Sabine had thrown out years ago; a broken-down chest of drawers, now even more broken-down. Pillows, cushions, their pump-by-hand orange squeezer.
In the back room Talbot nursed a cup of black coffee. His face looked clearer, the swelling had reduced. His chest was still bandaged and he could sit up a little. George sat down on a stool next to him.
‘Talbot, how are you?’
‘Ah feelin’ much better except mih rib.’
‘I’m glad. I want you to stay indoors. I want you to keep your head down.’
Talbot steupsed. ‘Ah already do dat.’
‘These . . . police men won’t return. We’ve exposed them now.’
‘Mr Harwood, dem fellas bad.’
‘I know.’ George looked him straight in the eye. ‘Talbot, if there’s anything I don’t know about, you’ll tell me, won’t you?’
Talbot looked away.
‘Won’t you?’
‘Ah know what yer sayin’. Mr Harwood, it hard not to get mix up wid summa dem fellas up here.’
‘Some of them live across the road, your cousins?’
‘Nah, dey not bad.’
‘Then who?’
‘Nuttin and nobody. I done wid alluh dat. I get mix up, some time pass. But I stop, long time. I done nuttin wrong, Mr Harwood. Nuttin.’
‘Good. Because I want to pay for a lawyer to represent you in court.’
Talbot’s eyes flew wide open, the whites shining.
Jennifer clicked her throat. ‘What?’
‘Yes. It will mean you’ll have to be strong. You’ll have to give evidence, you’ll have to identify these men. Not now. Eventually. You may even have to move away for a short time. But I think it’s time we took this to the court of law and sought justice. This is a serious crime. These men should be taken off the force. They only do this kind of thing to poor people. They would never dare beat up my son because I have money. I can pay for your defence, Talbot. Will you let me help you?’
Jennifer hovered, still holding Chantal’s little girl. She kissed her on the forehead, nervous.
Talbot’s eyes flitted back and forth, trying to understand.
Jennifer hummed.
‘My friends at the newspaper will support us,’ George urged. ‘Report the story. Fact by fact. You will have the press and the law on your side. There is still legal redress in this country, for the rich. And you will have my support, too. No one will hurt you, Talbot. I give you my solemn promise about that.’
Tears fell down Jennifer’s face.
George felt ashamed. Ashamed of what? He didn’t quite know. Ashamed of himself, perhaps.
Talbot nodded slowly. He inhaled deeply and George could see that even this breath hurt him. Talbot had planned to fade away. That was the best tactic. Take the beating, say nothing. Bobby’s garlicky breath came to him. His own ribs creaking.
‘Talbot, I won’t let you get hurt again.’
Talbot’s eyes filmed.
‘I give you my word.’
The young man squirmed. His injuries seemed to crawl across his face.
‘If it comes to it, I’ll pay for a private bodyguard.’
‘I doh need that.’
‘I’ll keep you safe. Trust me.’
‘OK,’ he said but his eyes held no trust in them. ‘For Mummy, yes. For Mummy ah go do whatever it take.’
‘Good boy. I’m glad. I know just the man to call in. Just the man. I’ll make some calls now, today. And Jennifer—’
‘What?’
‘Please don’t mention any of this to Mrs Harwood. That’s my only condition. I don’t want her to know about this . . . not yet. I’ll explain it all in my own time.’
‘Yes, Mr Harwood.’
George left the shack in Paramin just as the sun was rising, blessing the hill. On his way to the car an emaciated bitch covered in sores slinked out from under Jennifer’s neighbour’s house to stretch and yawn. Four emaciated puppies clung to her ragged teats. They sucked and sucked.
‘Dat dog bad.’ Jennifer scowled at it, still nursing the infant.
‘Why?’
‘She had many more puppies.’
‘Oh?’
; ‘But she eat dem all.’
‘What?’
‘She eat dem when dey born.’ Jennifer made a chomping gesture with her mouth. ‘She eat dem.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘Mash!’ Jennifer shouted and clapped at the bitch, scaring her off into the dust, back under the house.
George drove to the famous calypsonian’s home with a churning knot in his stomach. The Mighty Sparrow. Slinger Francisco. Calypso King of the World. Chief of the Yorubas. Holder of numerous honorary university doctorates and awards from foreign governments. Winner of eleven Calypso Monarch competitions. Over seventy albums produced. In New York, 18 March was the Mighty Sparrow Day. In Trinidad, Sparrow was a god every day.
George remembered the young hustler of the 1950s: even then he was a hurricane, blowing other singers off the stage. The resounding baritone, his charismatic persona. Sparrow could do it all: extemporise, satirise, sing with the grandeur of opera, with the sleaze of vaudeville. His calypsos were often political, all were original. They swung votes. Early on, the PNM courted Sparrow and he became their number one vote-getter, the only other black man on the island who could pull a crowd like Eric Williams. Sparrow penned many calypsos supporting the PNM, until even he turned against them. ‘Get to Hell Outta Here’ was the song which nailed Williams.
A headache chewed at the back of George’s skull. They came every other day now, in hot, acid waves. He arrived early and sat for several moments in the close cabin of the truck, massaging the back of his head, the pain dulling as he rubbed. He stared into the rear-view mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like shit. Like he was dead. His skin was liverish. Damp. He patted his cheeks dry. Was he ill? Finally?
He got out of the truck and rang the doorbell. A young coffee-skinned woman of around twenty-five appeared gazelle-like at the gate.
‘I’m from the Trinidad Guardian. I’ve come to interview Mr Francisco.’
She raised her eyebrows, openly surprised. ‘Come this way. Daddyy . . .’ she called out.
Sparrow’s house, Sparrow’s Hideaway, was famous, too. Gigantic, gaudy, it was a sprawling arrangement of buildings, more a mansion turned memorial park than a home. The house was Trinidad’s Graceland. Sparrow’s daughter led George to a garden out back, to a round wrought-iron table and chairs.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked.
‘A cup of tea would hit the spot.’
She made a face, disappearing.
George found he wasn’t just nervous. Waiting for Sparrow was like waiting for a panther to pounce on him.
‘Eh, eh!’
The voice. God, the voice was enough to kill him off.
‘Is you dey sendin’?’
George was upright without consciously moving, his hand crushed in Sparrow’s steel grip. Sparrow laughed long and loud and sonorous. Baseball cap, wraparound sunglasses, shorts, an American-style checked shirt, Nike flip-flops. Like Elvis Presley crossed with Idi Amin.
‘Where de young chick? Dey tell me dey sendin’ a nice young woman to interview me today.’
‘She has a cold.’
‘I know you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, man. Yous famous. George Harwood, man. Dey send me de crack shot. De ace reporter.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’
‘Good.’
Sparrow’s daughter brought out a mug of tea, a glass of orange juice and a bottle of pills on a tray.
‘Ahhh yes.’ Sparrow groaned as he sat down, taking the weight off his legs and rubbing one knee. He had recently turned seventy. He was an old man now.
‘Excuse me while I take some of these little beauties for mih bones.’
George smiled. ‘Actually, I think I’ll join you.’ He fumbled in his top pocket for a strip of aspirin.
‘Cheers, man.’ Sparrow held up his orange juice, throwing the pills down his throat.
‘Cheers.’ George toasted him with tea and aspirin.
Sparrow licked his lips and shook his head so his cheeks wobbled like a big cat’s. His black skin was hairless, polished. The man was huge, lean in the arms and legs. Even his paunch looked lean. George found himself staring and realised that Sparrow was letting him, getting it out the way. The face was familiar in more ways than one. The young boy, Clock; could he see a resemblance?
‘You’re a father,’ George began.
‘Yes.’
‘Your daughter is charming. How many, if you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Two daughters.’
‘Have you been a good father?’ It slipped out.
Sparrow looked taken aback. ‘Jesus, you get stuck in der quick, man.’ He inhaled sharply. George squirmed. ‘I’m a famous man. What do you think?’
‘Famous people are famously bad parents,’ George dared.
‘Hmmph. I doh know about dat. You go aks mih daughters.’
‘Your children must be very proud of you.’
‘Dey better be.’
‘You have thousands of children.’
‘Howyuh mean?’
‘You’re one of the Fathers of the Nation.’
Sparrow laughed. ‘Das bullshit. I’s an entertainer.’
‘The clown is a serious figure. Always the straight man in disguise.’
‘Calypso give de poor man a voice. De poor man usually have nuttin to laugh about.’
‘But you’re rich.’
‘I born poor.’
‘I have a friend who sings like a bird. Sings in the choir at his local church.’
‘I was a choirboy, too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, man. Latin and ting. I was head choirboy at St Patrick’s Church in New Town.’
‘My friend is a boy, about eleven or so. He leads the choir, too. At the church in Winderflet.’
Sparrow froze momentarily, staring hard at George. George was sure he’d be thrown out. Ejected over the wall.
Then, wearily: ‘I know de boy you mean. Dat little cripple boy from de village down der in Winderflet? Look. Man, you is stickin it to me. De one dey say is my son?’
‘That’s the local tittle tattle.’
Sparrow leant forward. ‘Do you know how many women claim dey have a chile from me?’
George shook his head.
‘Plenty.’
‘One in every village?’
‘At least.’
‘See, you’re a Father of the Nation. You and Eric Williams.’
Sparrow steupsed. ‘Ohhh, gorsh. Pressure, man. I cyan believe dey send me you. I want de girl. De nice young ting.’
‘Why did you go to the PNM celebration in January, the one in Woodford Square to mark their fiftieth anniversary?’
Sparrow paused, looking at George with dawning caution. ‘I is part of their history. PNM history. I was invited, nuh.’
‘But you turned on them.’
‘We all did.’
‘Didn’t you love Eric Williams once?’
‘Yes, man. Everyone loved Eric at first. We were all in awe of him. All excited by what he might do. Of course. He was a great man.’
‘And then he failed.’
‘Yes.’
‘I met him once. With my wife.’
‘Eric was popular wid de ladies. She liked him?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Howyuh mean?’
‘My wife . . . wrote to Eric Williams.’
‘What?’
‘For years. Hundreds of letters, actually. I found them recently. I think she developed . . . feelings for Eric Williams.’
‘Feelins?’ Sparrow’s eyebrows danced.
‘Like you. She saw him speak once, maybe twice. In Woodford Square. She was taken in. I think she . . . respected him.’
‘Your wife loved Eric Williams, too?’
‘She had feelings.’
‘What kinda feelins?’
George exhaled loudly. ‘Compassion.’
Sparrow whistled. ‘Crazy. Eric didn’t like white peopl
e.’
‘I know.’
‘Massa day done, eh?’ Sparrow chuckled.
‘Yes. Quite.’ George felt his throat tighten. So far he’d toughed it out. But since finding the letters he’d thought of little else. What she had said, what had been going on behind his back. She’d cared. Just like Sparrow, like everyone else. There had been a love affair going on for a short time, when Williams was alive: Williams and the whole damn island.
A look of regret came into Sparrow’s eyes. ‘Eric hurt everyone who loved him.’
‘Why?’
‘He was very . . . up and down.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Eric was a moody man. Light and dark. Happy, joking and then vexed. He trusted no one.’
‘You hurt him back.’
Sparrow’s eyes went dark. ‘Yes.’
George nodded.
‘You never ketch your wife writin’ dose letters?’
‘No.’
‘Never suspect somptin goin’ on?’
‘No.’
‘I tink I can understand why she write to Williams. Eric was brilliant, man.’
‘My wife was very naive when she first came to Trinidad.’
‘You jealous?’
‘No,’ George lied.
Sparrow noticed his discomfort. He smiled. ‘Yous an old man, Mr Harwood. You telling me your wife had a ting for Eric long time past and you not jealous? You still man and wife?’
‘Just.’
Sparrow laughed.
‘You ever worry about losing your wife, Mr Francisco?’
Sparrow laughed so hard the hairs on George’s arms stood up. ‘What! If I ketch my wife writing letters to Eric Williams, boy . . . dat would be a story, too. Of course, I is a jealous man. Write to Eric? Man, dat woulda been trouble fer she.’
‘What would you do if you found your wife’s love letters to another man?’
‘I’d sing fer her, man. Win her back.’
‘What if you couldn’t sing?’
‘Nah man, I’d win her.’
‘But I can’t sing.’
‘What about dance?’
‘I can dance.’
‘Den we go launch an attack. I go sing fer she, under your window, and den you take her in your arms, dance wid her. She’d love it.’
‘Like Cyrano de Bergerac. That’s ridiculous.’
The White Woman on the Green Bicycle Page 9