Trinidad Noir

by Earl Lovelace

  He sat looking around at the trees and up at the hill. I looked, too, at the view. The cocoa trees seemed greener than I ever remembered seeing them, and the immortelles which stood between the cocoa, for shade, were like great giants, their blooms reddening the sky.

  I looked up at him. We smiled.

  Quietly, then, he talked of the city. He told me the city was lovely, too, but in a different way. Not like it was here. He said I must see the city one of these days. Everything there was busy. The cars and buses flashed by, and people hurried into the shops, and out of the shops and everywhere. He said he liked the city. It had shops, stores, hotels, hospitals, post offices, schools—everything. Everything that made life easy. But sometimes he grew tired, he said, of the hustle and bustle and nowhere to turn for peace. He said he liked it here, quiet and nice. As life was meant to be. Then his eyes wandered off to the green cocoa again, and the immortelles, and here at the river, and up again to our house on the hill.

  And he smiled sadly and said that he wished he was Father to be living here.

  We went back into the water for some time. Afterwards the man dried my skin, and his, and we went up to the house.

  After we had eaten, Father took us into the cocoa field.

  It was quiet there between the trees. The dried brown leaves underfoot, together with the ripening cocoa, put a healthy fragrance in the air.

  It was strange being so near those trees. Before I had only known they were there and had watched them from the house, but now I was right in the middle of them, and touching them.

  We passed under immortelle trees. The ground beneath the trees was red with dropped flowers and the man picked up the loveliest of the flowers and gave them to me. Father broke a cocoa pod, and we sucked the seeds and juicy pulp, and really, the young cocoa was as sweet as Wills had told me. The man sucked his seeds dry and looked as if he wanted more, so I laughed. And Father, watching from the corner of his eyes, understood, and said, “Let’s look for a nice ripe cocoa.”

  * * *

  It was already evening when we took the path out. Father and the young man were talking and I heard Father ask him what he thought of the place.

  “Great, Mr. Browne,” he answered. “Mr. Browne, it’s great, I’m telling you!”

  Later, late that night, I eased up from the bed. I unlatched the window and quietly shifted the curtain from one side.

  The valley lay quietly below. The cocoa leaves seemed to be playing with the moonlight and the immortelles stood there, looking tall and lonely and rapt in peace. From the shadows the moonlight spread right across the river and up the hill.

  “Beautiful . . . !” the voice sailed back to my mind. And I wondered where he was now, if he was already in Port of Spain. He had been sorry to leave. He had said this was one of the happiest days he had known. I had heard him telling Father how he liked the valley so much and how much he liked the little boy. I had cried then.

  And now it swept back to my mind—what he had told Father just as he was leaving. He had said, “Mr. Browne, don’t be afraid for witchbroom. Not a thing will happen. Just you use that spray—you know—and everything will be all right.”

  Quickly then I drew the curtains and latched the window. And I squeezed the pillow to me, for joy.

  PART II

  Facing Independence

  The Quiet Peasant

  by Harold Sonny Ladoo

  Tola

  (Originally published in 1973)

  Gobinah wasn’t the kind of man to eat in the dark. He used to say that night is the time for a man to sleep and probe the meaning of his dreams; it is a time too for him to think about his crops and meditate on the future of his children; life isn’t worth living if a man prefers to wake after the sun has travelled far in the sky; a man is supposed to wake before the sun and feel the sweat streaming out of his body, and the mud caking his feet and hands while there is still the mysterious darkness, for without this exposure and personal closeness to the primeval earth, it would be totally impossible for any man to enjoy good health.

  It was March and the tomatoes he had planted in the ratoon caneland were dying off for water. March is always a terrible month for planting things in Carib Island, and most farmers in Lima, fearing the dryness of the earth, never bothered to plant a single seed during the dry season. Instead of trying to quarrel with the drought, the farmers in the area drank their rum, reaped their cane and looked after their animals. But Gobinah was different. Other men had their wives to help them in the fields, and their grown sons helped them with their cattle. Once Batulan had worked side by side with Gobinah. First it started as a little cough and Batulan drank bush medicine and consulted Bhola Saddhu, the village priest of Tola. Months later the D.M.O. in Tolaville said that Batulan had TB. Most men in Tola would have beaten their wife out of the village, but Gobinah didn’t do this. He accepted her illness as his destiny and continued to work the soil. In order to pay medical bills he sold his crops and his cattle and never became depressed.

  In the end he remained with the black double-jointed bull; he considered the animal his friend and he couldn’t sell it. Some months ago a few wicked villagers had poisoned the animal. Most men in Tola would have gone on the warpath and killed somebody, but Gobinah believed in abstract justice, so he left the matter alone. Gobinah could have made some money, because butchers came to buy the dead animal to sell the meat in South City Market. Instead of selling the bull Gobinah dug a grave and buried it in the ratoon caneland. In the night the butchers came with lanterns and guns, dug out the carcass and carried it away.

  Because he had no money to pay someone to cart his cane to the derrick, he cutlassed down most of the ratoon cane, dug up the earth with a fork and a hoe, and planted tomatoes. Sita, his eldest daughter, was already fifteen, and in May she would be married off to a crab-catcher in Jangli Tola. Although the crab-catcher belonged to the chamar caste (the lowest caste), he had demanded tilak (dowry). This dowry was important and Gobinah knew that only a madman would marry his daughter without it. His four other daughters were still too young to be of any real bother, and perhaps when they would come of age he wouldn’t have to worry too much, because they were pupils at the Tolaville Mission School. Daily girls with a little education were getting jobs in the cities and looking after themselves. Perhaps Sita would have had her fair share of education, if Batulan hadn’t contracted consumption. With his whole mind centred on the work, and his powerful arms holding the fork, Gobinah continued digging the well. He had already crossed six feet, the earth became softer and colder, yet there were no signs of water. Long before daybreak he had started digging, but the top soil was hard like iron. Now, however, it was easier for him to dig. The earth felt cold under his feet and his skin became taut as the direct rays of the sun hit his body.

  Raju, the ten-year-old son of Gobinah, was weeding the yard with an old hoe. As he was putting some dirt around the small zaboca tree Batulan came out of the kitchen. Holding her chest she coughed. The boy heard the racking inside her chest but he didn’t look. Then Batulan spat out the phlegm and blood, saying, “Beta (son), time to carry some food for you bap (father) in the land.”

  “Ha (yes), Mai (mother),” he said, as he dropped the hoe on the ground. When he approached the drain he saw the chunks of blood that had come out of his mother’s chest resting like small red flowers on the parched earth. When he reached inside the kitchen, Sita handed him a basket. Inside the basket, the roti and fried allou were wrapped in banana leaves. Then she put some rainwater into the bolee (calabash) and handed it to him. Without saying anything to his sister, the boy walked out of the house. He was going to meet his father in the caneland, and the land was a little over a mile away from the house. To get to his father he had to pass through the land of other farmers. Often the farmers cursed and swore at him, and many times they made their grown sons beat him with bamboo switches. To avoid the farmers he walked through the bamboo grass. Since he was barefooted and naked except for the
short and torn khaki pants that were held up by the strand of corbeau liana tied around his waist, he felt the sun eating through his skin. Now he was near the two acres of land that his father rented from the whiteman. Thirsty, he drank some water from the bolee and looked up at the sky; it was blue, with hardly a strand of cloud anywhere. When he walked into the land he saw the tomatoes’ leaves all crumpled up; the leaves were pale, but here and there he saw little gold spots, and he recognised them as the tiny flowers. As soon as he reached the mound of freshly dug earth, he called out, “Ay, bap!”

  “Ha, beta,” his father answered.

  “I bring you food, bap.”

  “Send it down, beta.”

  Slowly, carefully, the boy walked on top of the fresh dirt. The well was deeper than ten feet now, and still there wasn’t any sign of water in it. Wearing a soiled and torn dhoti (loincloth), bare-back and barefooted, he saw his father inside the hole. Sweat was flowing from every pore in his body; with the earth caking his hands and feet, the man asked, “How de tomatoes lookin, beta?”

  As if expecting the whole plantation to change miraculously, the boy looked at the tomatoes again, before saying, “De garden lookin bad, bap.”

  The man said nothing. First the boy threw the basket down inside the well; the man caught it, took out the food and flung the basket back for his son. Next the boy sent down the water. Resting the water at his feet, opening the roti and allou, the man asked, “You go eat some food, beta?”

  “No, bap, I done eat.”

  With his toes hidden in the earth, with his back resting against the cold earth, the man ate his food. Raju stood at the top looking down at his father. He noticed that the man’s feet trembled now and then, and his hands shook as he brought the food to his mouth. His face, neck and chest were red and his veins stood out as thick as corbeau lianas. Dropping the banana leaves inside the well, drinking the water from the bolee, throwing the container up for his son, Gobinah said, “So de garden lookin bad, beta?”

  “Ha, bap.”

  Gobinah shook his head. “Soon as I get worta in dis well, beta, everything goin to be oright. Wen I reap dis tomatoes I goin to pay de whiteman his rent. If I don’t pay de rent, he goin to take away de land. Den I goin to give tilak for Sita to get married.”

  “Yeh, bap.”

  “Now, beta, you modder kinda sickly. A few days every week, try and go to school and learn someting. Take education, beta, so wen you come a man, you woudn’t have to kill youself for a bread like me.” Wiping his brows with his soiled hands, he continued, “When you have education, beta, you woudn’t have de cause to rent land from dese white people. And wen you come a man, beta, try and make youself oright.”

  “Yeh, bap,” Raju said sadly. Looking at his father, he said, “Well, bap, maybe you could take a rest now. Tomorrow you could dig some more.”

  “No, beta. I must get worta in dis hole today. Dem tomatoes deadin for worta. If dis crop dead off, beta, den de whiteman goin to take back de land, and de ten years dat I payin rent woudn’t stop him from takin it. Den dis crop have to make enuff money for you sista to get married. She is a big gal now, beta, and I cant keep she too long again in de house.”

  After the man talked some more, he took up the fork again and continued digging. Now the hole was too deep for him to swing the dirt up with the fork. He took up the dirt, made it into small balls, and flung them out of the hole.

  “Lemme help you, bap.”

  “No, beta, de sun too hot. Go and siddown inside dem ratoon cane. Wen I get worta, I goin to call you.”

  “Oright, bap.”

  Exhausted by the heat of the sun Raju took the basket and bolee and walked to the ratoon cane. Then he thrashed some dry leaves and sat on them. From his hiding place he saw the little balls of dirt darting out of the well. As he waited for his father to call, he dozed off. Suddenly he woke with a start; during his sleep he had heard his father calling, just his eyes couldn’t open at the time. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, he noticed that it was almost evening; he noticed too that no small balls of earth came flying out of the hole. Quickly taking up the bolee and the basket, he hurried to the well, calling his father. When he heard no answer, climbing the mound of dirt, he looked down inside the hole. Now the hole was much deeper, but there still wasn’t any water in it. His father sat at the bottom of the hole; with his hands holding the fork, his head bent slightly to the right, Gobinah stared unblinkingly at the sky.

  “Ay, bap!” the boy screamed.

  But only a deep silence came out of the well.

  The Schooner Flight

  by Derek Walcott

  Blanchisseuse

  (Originally published in 1979)

  1. Adios, Carenage

  In idle August, while the sea soft,

  and leaves of brown islands stick to the rim

  of this Caribbean, I blow out the light

  by the dreamless face of Maria Concepcion

  to ship as a seaman on the schooner Flight.

  Out in the yard turning gray in the dawn,

  I stood like a stone and nothing else move

  but the cold sea rippling like galvanize

  and the nail holes of stars in the sky roof,

  till a wind start to interfere with the trees.

  I pass me dry neighbor sweeping she yard

  as I went downhill, and I nearly said:

  “Sweep soft, you witch, ’cause she don’t sleep hard,”

  but the bitch look through me like I was dead.

  A route taxi pull up, park-lights still on.

  The driver size up my bags with a grin:

  “This time, Shabine, like you really gone!”

  I ain’t answer the ass, I simply pile in

  the back seat and watch the sky burn

  above Laventille pink as the gown

  in which the woman I left was sleeping,

  and I look in the rearview and see a man

  exactly like me, and the man was weeping

  for the houses, the streets, that whole fucking island.

  Christ have mercy on all sleeping things!

  From that dog rotting down Wrightson Road

  to when I was a dog on these streets;

  if loving these islands must be my load,

  out of corruption my soul takes wings.

  But they had started to poison my soul

  with their big house, big car, big-time bohbohl,

  coolie, nigger, Syrian, and French Creole,

  so I leave it for them and their carnival—

  I taking a sea bath, I gone down the road.

  I know these islands from Monos to Nassau,

  a rusty head sailor with sea-green eyes

  that they nickname Shabine, the patois for

  any red nigger, and I, Shabine, saw

  when these slums of empire was paradise.

  I’m just a red nigger who love the sea,

  I had a sound colonial education,

  I have Dutch, nigger, and English in me,

  and either I’m nobody, or I’m a nation,

  But Maria Concepcion was all my thought

  watching the sea heaving up and down

  as the port side of dories, schooners, and yachts

  was painted afresh by the strokes of the sun

  signing her name with every reflection;

  I knew when dark-haired evening put on

  her bright silk at sunset, and, folding the sea,

  sidled under the sheet with her starry laugh,

  that there’d be no rest, there’d be no forgetting.

  Is like telling mourners round the graveside

  about resurrection, they want the dead back,

  so I smile to myself as the bow rope untied

  and the Flight swing seaward: “Is no use repeating

  that the sea have more fish. I ain’t want her

  dressed in the sexless light of a seraph,

  I want those round brown eyes like a marmoset
, and

  till the day when I can lean back and laugh,

  those claws that tickled my back on sweating

  Sunday afternoons, like a crab on wet sand.”

  As I worked, watching the rotting waves come

  past the bow that scissor the sea like silk,

  I swear to you all, by my mother’s milk,

  by the stars that shall fly from tonight’s furnace,

  that I loved them, my children, my wife, my home;

  I loved them as poets love the poetry

  that kills them, as drowned sailors the sea.

  You ever look up from some lonely beach

  and see a far schooner? Well, when I write

  this poem, each phrase go be soaked in salt;

  I go draw and knot every line as tight

  as ropes in this rigging; in simple speech

  my common language go be the wind,

  my pages the sails of the schooner Flight.

  But let me tell you how this business begin.

  2. Raptures of the Deep

  Smuggled Scotch for O’Hara, big government man,

  between Cedros and the Main, so the Coast Guard couldn’t

  touch us,

  and the Spanish pirogues always met us halfway,

  but a voice kept saying: “Shabine, see this business

  of playing pirate?” Well, so said, so done!

  That whole racket crash. And I for a woman,

  for her laces and silks, Maria Concepcion.

  Ay, ay! Next thing I hear, some Commission of Inquiry

  was being organized to conduct a big quiz,

  with himself as chairman investigating himself.

  Well, I knew damn well who the suckers would be,

  not that shark in shark skin, but his pilot fish,

  khaki-pants red niggers like you and me.

  What worse, I fighting with Maria Concepcion,

  plates flying and thing, so I swear: “Not again!”

  It was mashing up my house and my family.