I folded the letters up. Sometimes secured them with ribbon or string. I kept the letters in a box hidden in the back of a cupboard in the office, camouflaged by stacks of papers. Once, George appeared in the office just as I was closing the cupboard door, arranging the stacks to hide the box.
‘Hiding something, dear?’
I turned and scowled. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh, really? What?’
‘Letter to my lover.’ I let the last word drop. He stared. I felt a flush of pure hatred rise through me. On the desk in front of me was a heavy paperweight.
George was clearly taken aback. ‘And what lover is this?’ he replied, half jesting.
‘He’s young. Spanish. Black hair. He likes to tease. You know. At a party, maybe, he will put an olive in my mouth.’
George reddened.
I picked up the paperweight. ‘You little shit,’ I whispered as I took aim. I hurled the object as hard as I could at George’s head.
George ducked.
The paperweight smashed on the wall behind.
Irit became a personality in artistic circles. She exhibited local art in her boutique; it was a liming spot in arty circles. She rang us one evening.
‘Come to the Hilton, dahhlings, tomorrow night, by the pool. For a little drink. I’m organising a gathering for a friend to try and sell some of his paintings. Wear a nice dress.’
The Trinidad Hilton was famously built upside down: the reception at the top, the rooms underneath. We arrived around 6 p.m. as the sun was setting into a vast rose sky. The pool was floodlit, shimmering; the Samaan tree above it was an immense chandelier of fairy lights. Under it was a gazebo bar. Black barmen dressed in Hawaiian shirts mixed cocktails with the discretion of spies.
‘Darlings.’ Irit greeted us in a lilac kaftan. Her face was caramel brown, her eyes shaded with peacock blues.
‘Look, look, look, at this view, look at Port of Spain. Come and see.’ Behind the bar a narrow path led out to a glass-walled patio. We followed Irit along to a wide balcony. Port of Spain lay demure and diffident below us, acres of savannah grassland, the mauve city skyline further off. Beyond it the busy wharf, the Gulf of Paria. A cool breeze fell on us.
‘What a marvellous country, eh?’ Irit purred.
My eyes prickled.
‘I am so proud to be living here,’ she grinned. ‘No wonder they called it the Paradise Estate originally. Imagine what this must have looked like when the Spanish first arrived, eh? And then the British. Imagine how they rubbed their hands. Now it belongs to the people.’
‘White men are still buying up this island,’ I snapped. ‘Some now even belongs to George.’
‘But George is staying,’ Irit corrected me, winking with approval at my husband.
George nodded broodily.
I was in a foul mood, wanting no more of Trinidad; I wanted to jump from that wretched balcony.
When we returned to the bar area more guests had arrived, a mixed and fashionable crowd, black and white, young and old.
Then, a commotion behind me, a thrum of movement, voices raised, an Arrival of some sort. Standing not too far from me, under an umbrella, was a knot of besuited black men, drinking rum, laughing loudly. They were glamorous somehow, like a Trinidadian Rat Pack. Several moments passed before I recognised the figure in their midst. The thick-rimmed spectacles, the hearing aid. A small man, joking, the centre of things, enveloped in blue furls of smoke. My eyes photographed him. Eric Williams. Feet away. Relaxed and enjoying himself. Everyone, not just me, acutely conscious of his presence, as though he pulled invisible strings on the heads and shoulders of those gathered. Everyone peeped, they couldn’t help it. Eric Williams gleamed with the success of himself. He was polished, scrubbed. Off duty.
A hot and miserable shame flooded up in me. Almost a decade of snipping and cutting him out. Writing him letters! Letters ‒ as though he were God. Papa. Father of the Nation. Smoking and drinking rum and ol’ talking and lapping up the adulation of his gang of cronies, some of whom I began to recognise.
‘Darling, look who it is,’ George said, thrusting a rum punch into my hand.
I wanted to leave immediately.
‘Now’s your chance. To go over and speak your mind.’
Eric Williams glanced in our direction. I quailed. Our eyes met briefly but he didn’t recognise me at first, not from that day on the bike down in Abercrombie Street. I was all made-up, wearing a cocktail dress.
‘George.’ Irit appeared. ‘Come, come with me. Come, Sabine, you too.’
George followed and pulled me along with him, stumbling, trying to resist. I watched as in a dream as dear Irit, with the grace of a giant butterfly, alighted on the group, parting it, introducing George to Eric Williams. Williams shook George’s hand.
‘And this’ ‒ Irit turned to me, her eyes twinkling with mischief ‒ ‘this is his lovely wife, Sabine Harwood. A French woman. Eric, Sabine is very interested in the PNM, aren’t you, Sabine?’
Williams inspected me.
George inspected me, too.
The whole group, including Irit, inspected me, waiting for what I might say, what I could possibly say.
‘So.’ Williams addressed me in a patient, jovial tone. ‘You’re staying in Trinidad?’
The group waited. George looked bemused and delighted and a bit drunk.
‘No,’ I replied, stonily. ‘We’re not staying in Trinidad too much longer. I don’t particularly like it here. I no longer ride my bicycle. And that’s a pity.’
Williams stared. Only then, I could see, he remembered me and, oh, then did he remember me. His mouth fell open and he almost said it out loud: So, you’re . . . He checked himself and digested the information silently, even flushed a little. I raised my eyebrows in recognition of his recognition of me. George noticed something had shifted between me and the Prime Minister. The group melted into the background.
Williams coughed.
‘I’m interested in the PNM.’ I found my voice again. ‘But I confess I wouldn’t have voted for you, Mr Williams, even if I had been able. Not like my good friend over there.’ Irit had moved away and was ensconced in another conversation.
‘That’s a shame.’
My dress was low-cut, pinched at the waist, revealing the swells of my breasts and the curves of my waist and hips. My skin was damp, plump with the humidity. He gazed at me and his gaze brought on a swell in me. My breath slowed and I shifted, uneasily.
From somewhere I found the bravery to speak my thoughts. ‘Why is there no water yet up in Paramin?’
Williams baulked, half smiling. I was delighted. I followed his gaze to my breast and let it rest there. I shot him a cool open stare.
‘My maid, her grandmother, is a member of the PNM. They piss in a bucket out in the bush behind their house. They live in a chattel house. You know the kind. No water, no current. Why?’
‘Darling!’ George interrupted. He glared at me as if I was mad. ‘Leave the poor man alone.’
‘No, please.’ Williams waved him off. He cleared his throat but I could see he was a little embarrassed.
‘It’s not public knowledge yet, but I’ve recently commissioned a full report into the entire lower and upper Winderflet area including Morne Cocoa and Paramin. We are aware of the lack of commodities in certain parts.’ His voice was suddenly Oxford, clipped and precise, overriding the situation. ‘A major regeneration project will be drawn up. For most of the poorer areas like those you speak of, these issues will be addressed. Basic sanitation, etcetera. Rest assured, Mrs Harwood. We have the problem in hand.’ This last word was said with a curt dismissal.
Heat rose in my cheeks. He was a professional politician. He sneered, letting me know this, and I felt vague and foolish.
‘I’m glad to hear that, Mr Williams. I shall pass this on to my friends on the hill. They’ll be glad of the news.’
‘Please do.’
‘I shall. Goodnight, Mr Williams. Darling . . .’ I raised my
eyebrows tartly at George, turned and left.
I overheard George say something to Williams. Williams laughed loudly, appreciatively. Immediately, the men were absorbed in conversation.
I left them to it, heading to imaginary friends on the other side of the pool terrace. Once there, I gathered myself and took another rum punch from a waiter floating past. I watched them both: my husband and Eric Williams, the Prime Minister of Trinidad. Standing comfortably, side by side, talking comfortably, too, not about politics, of course, avidly avoiding the almighty subject. George, electric with his shock of burnished hair, his cobalt eyes, his skin the colour of red rum, his booming laugh. A bona fide card-carrying colonial Englishman. Eric Williams, silent, like a Mafia don, bold in a quieter way. God, I hated them both.
George was elated when we got home. I didn’t want to hear about their conversation but he told me anyway. Cricket. They talked about cricket. I clamped my hands over my ears. ‘I don’t want to know what you talked about to that bloody man,’ I shouted.
‘Why not? He was very interesting.’
‘Cricket! I can’t believe it.’
‘What else was I going to say, eh? Have a pop at him like you did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on, Sabine. Do you think politicians aren’t corrupt in England or in Europe?’
‘That’s where Williams caught it from,’ I spat.
‘What would you do, then, eh? Miss Morally Superior. How would you sort the mess out, how would you have conquered the monsters left behind?’
‘If I was Williams?’
‘Yes.’
‘The descendant of a slave?’
‘Yes.’
‘I would keep the sugar plantations going.’
‘Oh, brilliant!’
‘Redistribute the land. Turn them into collectives. Have the Africans run them, work them, own them. Equally. Invest the profits.’
‘Just like they did in Haiti?’
‘Ugh. You arrogant pig.’
‘Well, why don’t you write to Williams. Tell him your ideas. Suck his cock, why don’t you. He obviously fancied you.’
‘Maybe I will suck his cock ‒ in front of you.’
‘Good. Suck the cock of the Prime Minister of Trinidad. Lucky man. More than I ever get.’
I slapped George hard.
‘Owwww.’ He was only half hurt. He was still drunk.
‘You’re all prick these days, George. That’s why I don’t suck your cock. Can’t get my mouth round something that large.’
‘Very funny, Sabine. You’ve changed, too. You used to be much more fun. Now it’s all politics and bollocks to that.’
‘God, you’re boring.’
That stung him.
I smiled. I was pleased to hurt him, piss him off. He was so dead to things. Dead and drunk and stupid.
‘Well, if you’re so interesting and so interested in politics, why don’t you form a political party?’
‘Because I don’t want to be in this tinpot country, with its tinpot politics. Eric Williams can be King of this country. He can fuck himself.’
I wrote again to Eric Williams that night:
Have I fallen in love with you? Or am I falling into a hatred of you? I can’t tell. I am confused, always. One minute gone, the next, like the mountains, you’re everywhere, even at the Hilton. You’re in the papers every day, on the radio, on the television. Everyone talks about you. And what are you doing? Commissioning reports? I shall tell Granny. She’ll be interested to know that. My husband won’t leave Trinidad. He has built a house, a big house with a swimming pool. Ducks come to swim in it. He is turning black, just like you ‒ we both are. Everyone is leaving. And we are staying behind. Are you like George? Have you forgotten yourself? Massa day done. Big Brain, they call you. Well, let’s see. I’m watching you. I’m not afraid of you.
I went to see Dr Baker. I called him one morning and he agreed to squeeze me in as his last appointment.
‘I’m having difficulty. Sleeping.’ I couldn’t meet his eyes. I twisted my wedding ring. Was he faithful to his wife? I imagined Christobel had him on a tight leash.
‘Sabine, how’s life?’ he asked carefully.
I looked down, unable to reply. Tears fell onto my skirt. I wiped them with my fingers.
He handed me a box of Kleenex.
I took one, blowing my nose. ‘I’m . . . stuck here,’ I stumbled. ‘I never wanted to stay this long. Now we have this big house and the children. George is the Deputy Director now. We know people and it’s all more than I’d planned on . . . so many others have left or are leaving. I can’t get back.’ Tears fell heavily, racking me.
‘My dear girl.’ He spoke softly. He didn’t touch or comfort me, just waited until I collected myself.
‘I hate this place. I always have.’
‘Come now.’
‘I don’t belong and I don’t want to belong either. I don’t mean any disrespect. I’m always too hot. I can’t stand the heat. I can’t stand it any more. My children speak like . . .’
‘Does George know how you feel?’
‘He loves Trinidad! He wants to die and be buried here, in his bloody house, in the garden.’
Sebastian looked at me, concerned, wanting to say more. He exhaled heavily, reaching for his pad, writing me out a prescription. ‘Take this as you need it,’ he advised. ‘It’ll make things a little easier.’
I looked at the prescription and read the word VALIUM on it, relieved. It was what I’d come for.
Valium pills, rum, my conversations with the mountain woman. This became my other, private life. I scribbled a letter to Williams every day.
Something’s not right here. Something about this island. Those who came before, those who’ve left, slinking off. Something can’t be fixed. Am I right? Are you coming to the same conclusion? Hard to put right the many wrongs of the past. Granny Seraphina, the green woman who watches me. They know. They’re patient. Don’t mess with them. Hard to put it all right again. Hard to paint it all out. George doesn’t care, not any more. I can’t remember the day I arrived. That day has vanished from memory. I dream of departure every day. Sailing back. Something isn’t right here. You know what I mean, don’t you?
It was the first week of the summer holidays when Sebastian disappeared. We only noticed at lunchtime, I hate to admit. I thought he was playing with Pascale in the front garden; Venus thought he was out at the back. It was Lucy’s day off. No one noticed the gate was ajar, not even when we called him in for lunch.
‘Pascale, where’s your brother?’ Pascale shook her head, not the least bit interested. She’d been in her bedroom all morning, playing with her Barbie doll. At five, she already liked dressing up, dragging around her tiny handbags, bangles up her arms. She’d developed a bad habit of drawing on the walls and furniture with her pink felt-tip pens. We confiscated the felt-tips, so she drew with biros and crayons instead, even my old Rimmel eyeliners.
‘He wasn’t playing with his GI Joe?’
‘Nah.’
‘No, Mummy,’ I repeated.
I wasn’t worried. The garden was big enough. I wandered out the front and saw Venus out by the gate.
‘Madam, de gate open.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘De dogs out on de road. I had to call dem in.’ Both were sheepishly following Venus up the drive.
Venus was trying not to look anxious.
‘Do you think he’s gone out?’
‘I don’t know, madam. Maybe he see de schoolchildren walkin’ past, on der way to de village dong so. Dey pass every day.’
‘But he wouldn’t go anywhere with them.’
‘I see him talking to dem one time, tru de gate.’
‘To those children?’
‘Madam, he lonely for friends his age. Who he go play wid here when mih sons not visitin’? I feel he go out wid dose chilren.’
‘What?’
Winderflet village was up the road and round the corn
er, quite a walk for a seven-year-old.
‘Venus, you stay here, call Mr Harwood, tell him to come home immediately.’
‘Where you goin’?’
‘To find him!’
I ran to the garage and threw the newspapers and old clothes off the bicycle.
‘Madam, on dat ting?’
‘What choice have I got? He could be anywhere. Call Mr Harwood.’
I cycled hard down the hot tarmac and round the corner, calling out his name. Winderflet village was more ramshackle then. A collection of squatters’ shacks and half-built concrete homes clustered to the winding river. Emaciated stray dogs lay about in the dust. A caged rooster balanced on an old oil drum, crowing in indignation. I rode along the pavement, shouting for my son, tears welling up, sweat dripping from my hairline.
‘My son is lost!’ I shouted. ‘Has anybody seen a small blond boy?’ A woman sitting in her window, watching the world pass, stared at me. I stopped, angry. ‘Have you seen my son?’
She shook her head, nonplussed.
‘A little blond boy. He came through with some schoolchildren.’
She was sucking a salt prune and spat out the orange stone into a crumpled tissue. She lifted her finger. ‘Try up so.’
She pointed behind her, into the thicket of shacks, where back yards met each other, where there was no pavement, just a labyrinth of shanties made of galvanized tin and salvaged wood.
‘Thank you.’
I hopped off and wheeled the bike through the narrow paths and passages, under washing lines and past an outdoor hair salon, a woman in curlers shaving a man’s afro. I blushed, calling out, ‘Sebastian.’ Someone was cooking: cumin exploding, tumeric, green peppers sizzling. Somewhere, a radio on, Lord Kitchener singing ‘Tick, Tick,Tick’, an old calypso. A dog barked at me. A woman smoking on her porch steps smiled at me and clicked her throat: everywhere this attitude. As if I was funny, or crazy. Everybody stared at the bicycle. No one spoke to me or came forward to help. I wanted to throw down the bike and scream, Why, why won’t anybody help?
The White Woman on the Green Bicycle Page 28