by Amanda Smyth
Breakfast was as usual. Marva cooked black pudding which she had bought from a little shop in St. James. When I took in the hops bread, warm and fresh from the oven, Joe was telling his father about a teacher at school who had shown the children a collection of butterflies. He would like to collect butterflies, too, he said, in the same glass cases. “There are bright blue ones called Blue Emperors. Their wings are thin like tissue so you have to make sure when you catch them that they don’t rip.” Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez said, “It’s cruel to kill them just so you can look at them from time to time. Even if they’re pretty.” “They taste with their feet,” Joe said. “They stand on their food to eat it.” Joe climbed down from his chair and put his plate on the floor. Helen Rodriguez said, “Celia, can you bring some more milk?” I could tell that Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez was in a good mood. From the kitchen I heard him tell his wife that he would like to go to the beach house again soon, maybe for the holidays. I didn’t hear her answer; I didn’t want to know.
THAT NIGHT HE came to my room. He knocked, and then let himself in. I was sitting on my bed in the dark, waiting.
“Celia,” he said, “I’d like to sit with you.” I wanted to say, Yes, only you don’t just want to sit with me, but I couldn’t speak. He put his hands on mine; they were folded in my lap. He stroked my arm, the lower arm near the wrist. I looked at the floor, and wished this was happening to somebody else.
“I have wanted you for months.” He stared at me for what felt like a long time. Then he left.
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT he came again. The same thing happened. Only this time, before he went, he gently touched my hair as if I was a child who had woken after a bad dream, and then he kissed my forehead. “Good night, Celia. Sleep well.”
But, of course, I didn’t sleep.
ON THE THIRD night, he tried to kiss me on my mouth, as I knew he would. I closed my eyes. His mouth was Roman’s mouth—a black hole sucking me in; I pulled away and started to breathe quickly, in a way that was more like panting. Like a kitten I once found, panting in the hot sun. It had skinny legs and a belly swollen with worms. When I took it home and Roman said we couldn’t keep it, I tried to drown it in a bucket of water. But it didn’t want to die. So I took it out, dried it off, and put it in a box under the breadfruit tree. Every day I brought the kitten food, and it got stronger. Then one day, I went to the tree and it wasn’t there. That afternoon, Roman told me he saw a dead cat, “just like the little kitty you bring me,” lying on the road to Buccoo. “Somebody must have run it over,” he said, and his eyes were lit. I ran up to the Buccoo road. It was the same one. There was blood and vomit coming out of its mouth. Its neck was twisted, as if someone had wrung it.
Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez got up. “What is it?”
I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to tell him about Roman, and I didn’t want to tell him about the kitten.
“You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to. It’s okay.” He put his hand on my back.
Then he told me that when he came to the house in Laventille, he knew by the bruises on my legs that something had happened to me. He had mentioned this to Mrs. Shamiel and she had said she would talk to me about it.
“Who did it?”
I said, “It doesn’t matter now, that’s old news.”
He said if I kept my eyes open, I would see it was him and not this other man.
“I’m not a beast, Celia. Open your eyes.”
AT FIRST WE sat on the narrow bed; it had old springs, so he lifted up the mattress and put it on the floor. I lay on my back (he asked me to do this), and he lay on his side with his head propped up, and with a gap between us. In those early days, he stared at me in a strange way, as if I wasn’t real. I didn’t look into his eyes. I looked at the cracks on the wall, or at the patterns on his embroidered cotton shirts. After a while, I would turn on my side; I still wouldn’t look at him. We hardly spoke. Once or twice he asked about my life in Black Rock, but I didn’t give anything away. I didn’t want him to know about my life. He seemed to understand this, and I was glad. But I wondered how long it would last, the silence and the looking. I didn’t imagine it would last for long.
Then, after a week or so, he started touching me. I thought I would find this difficult, but for some reason I didn’t. Perhaps because he was a doctor, because he had touched me before when I was sick, because his touch was soft and cool and with the tips of his fingers, along my neck, my shoulders, my arms. Perhaps because he spoke kindly to me. Perhaps because I was attracted to him. He said my skin was flawless, like when you peel away the bark of a tree and you see the soft new wood underneath. It is like that, he said. He knew that I was intelligent and that I would do very well for myself someday. “You are not just beautiful. You have something about you, Celia, something that won’t get downtrodden like some of the girls in your position. You’re different.” I wanted to say, I’m glad you’re so sure because sometimes I am not; sometimes I wonder if I’ll make it through the week. Whenever he said my name, it was as if it was a new name, a foreign name, like someone learning a new language. He said it like this: Seelee-ah. I liked the way he said it. He told me that while at Avalon, more than once he came to my room and the door was open and he stood in the passageway watching me sleep. He wanted to wake me, but thought I might scream and alarm the whole house. “I would have,” I said.
One night, he stroked only my legs, from above my knees and down to my ankles and my feet. He did not touch the top part of my legs. Every time his hand was near there, my body went stiff. He said, “Your legs are long. We must get you a new bed, a bigger bed for your long legs.” I didn’t expect him to buy it. But a week later, I was polishing silver on the steps of the house when a large van arrived outside and the driver got out. They were here to deliver a bed, the man said. At first I thought they had come to the wrong house and then I realized. In no time at all, the two delivery men carried my old bed out and then took the new one inside. Thankfully, Helen Rodriguez was resting upstairs; she never heard a thing. It was the most comfortable bed I had ever lain on.
That night, when the house was in darkness, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez came to my room, and he lay down. He leaned over and kissed me. I did not pull away; I did not want to pull away. He touched my face like it was made of glass. He put his arms around my shoulders and edged closer. Then he moved me to the middle of my new bed, and lay on me so that his legs were on my legs, and so that my legs had to open to let his fall through. I nearly called out when he pressed down, but he stopped and tilted my chin so I could see his eyes. They were mostly brown now, not small and mad and black like Roman’s; but warm, alive, and tender. Then he touched me where he had not touched me before. Strangely I did not mind this part. I did not mind his hand; it did not feel enormous like the branch of a tree. It was gentle and slow; his soft fingers made my flesh tingle. And when he put himself inside me, the tip of him, and then the whole of him, it did not hurt as much as I had expected, perhaps because my body did not lock itself together. Perhaps because it was broken there now, unlike the first time, when I was sealed and new. Perhaps because part of me wanted him inside me. Soon he was breathing quicker and moving quicker. I kept my eyes fixed on him; I knew that if I closed them I would fall into the black hole that was Roman Bartholomew. Then Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez made a deep noise, like a small groan, and I knew that it was over.
DR. RODRIGUEZ CAME to me three or four times a week. Unless I had my period, or it was a time when I could too easily fall pregnant, and I heard Aunt Tassi’s voice, “Just now you’re having a baby and you’re still a baby yourself.”
At first, I kept the door open. But then one night, a frog got inside. I didn’t see it until I went into the bathroom. It was big and gray like a stone, and it seemed to be glaring at me. Aunt Tassi used to say that the souls of ill-fated people (those unable to leave the material world behind because they were attached to it in some way) could—on the point of death—inhabit
an animal. A dog, a cow, a frog, a goat, a bird. If you look in the eyes you can usually tell if it is possessed.
“Why does a bird fly into a house?” she had said, one day. And how about the cow that came into the yard and followed her mother around after her sister died? I was staring at the frog in the bathroom, and these thoughts were going around in my head, when Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez appeared.
He said, “Why on earth are you scared of a frog I thought you came from the bush in Tobago” (he said it all in a rush), and he took up the broom, prodded its back, and the frog jumped and jumped, until it went out and into the yard. I didn’t like the way he said “I thought you came from the bush.” But later, after he had been inside me, he said, “You are the prettiest flower in Trinidad,” and I forgot about it.
From that day, we decided I would keep the door closed, he would knock three times and I would know that it was him. “That way we don’t have to deal with any toads!”
ON WEEKENDS, AFTER lunch, when Helen Rodriguez was resting, and if Joe was playing next door, he pressed the bell (all the rooms in the house had bells) and called me into his office. “Could I have some juice, please, Celia?” or “Would you fill up the water jug and bring it?” And then he would pull me to him. But I worried that someone would pass and peep through the shutters. Or Helen Rodriguez could come downstairs in her quiet way, like a wandering ghost, and she would want to know why in God’s name the door was locked with Celia and her husband on the other side of it.
So, mostly, we went into the toolshed. It was a small, hot room and there wasn’t much space to move around. I balanced myself on the bench, a smooth wooden bench with a metal vise. Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez did not spend long stroking or kissing me, as he usually would. He quickly worked his way inside me, his trousers down around his ankles. From the bench, I could see William’s tools, cutters, clippers, rope, a saw stuck on the wall, boxes of screws and pins and hooks, a hoe hanging. There was one small, high window. No one could see inside. When it was over, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez tore a piece of rag from the box of old sheets that were used to clean the tools, and he wiped himself clean.
Once, when we were in the middle of things, we heard something in the yard. He stopped, and put a finger to his lips. I kept very quiet, and, slowly, he drew himself out of me and pulled his trousers up. We waited for a few minutes, looking at one another. My heart was racing. I hid behind the cupboard while he opened the door. Whoever or whatever was there had gone.
“It could have been a lizard,” he said, later, when he came to my room. “There are a lot of them about.”
I imagined one of the big lizards that look like they’re a thousand years old. The sort Roman used to pelt with a stone. He’d kill it in one strike, put it on a fire to roast, and peel off its black skin and eat it. I never ate the meat but Aunt Tassi said it was delicious. To cure Violet’s asthma, she ground the skin into a fine powder, and sprinkled it over her food like salt.
“Did you know that a lizard’s skin cures asthma?”
“Don’t let my wife hear you say that or she will start to fret about obeah.”
“Do you think it could have been Mrs. Rodriguez? I have often seen her there by the tree.”
“No, it wasn’t Helen. Not unless she went away very quickly.”
DR. EMMANUEL RODRIGUEZ didn’t always want to make love. Now and then, he lay down in my room without touching me. He put his hands under his head and looked up at the ceiling. He told me things about his life. I heard about his father who came from British Guiana, who died in a terrible fire in Georgetown when a burning pole fell and hit his head. And how his mother packed up their house and went back to Lisbon, where she quickly met and married another man. Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez had not spoken to her since. His only brother was a hunchback who lived in Antigua, with a woman called Siri. They weren’t married, but Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez knew that his brother, George, was happy and that he loved Siri, and she took good care of him.
George Rodriguez had dreams of buried treasure. After such a dream, he took a boat or a donkey, and with his yard boy and Siri, went to the exact spot to look for it. There, the yard boy dug and dug and dug.
“The only treasure they had ever found was an old purse filled with worthless foreign coins!”
“I found a purse once, on the beach. There was nothing in it.” “In Tobago?”
“Yes. I kept it with my things under the house.” “Tell me about your house. Tell me about where you grew up.” “There’s nothing to tell.” “Who was the first man you were with?” I kept my eyes down on the crumpled sheets.
“One day I want you to tell me. It will be a sign that you trust me.”
THERE WERE TIMES when Dr. Rodriguez fell asleep right there on my bed. And while he slept, I lay beside him and stared—at his tanned skin, the silky lids of his eyes, his small mouth, his almost perfect nose apart from the tiny mole on his left nostril, his chin with a dimple in the middle that he didn’t like. And I imagined what it would be like to be with him every day, in this way. Eventually, I would have to wake him before he was missed. He’d quickly get up, fix his clothes, and leave.
Once while he was sleeping, I drew a picture of his face. I was surprised by how much it looked like him, although he did not look as kind as I knew him to be. In fact, he looked like a man who loved no one but himself! When I showed him the sketch, he was impressed. “Am I so handsome?” he said. I didn’t say anything, but I wanted to say, You are much more handsome. He told me to put the portrait somewhere safe, in case Helen found it.
ON SUNDAYS, I went as usual to the Royal Botanical Gardens, but afterward, instead of going to church, I walked up Lady Chancellor Hill, as if I was going to the hotel. I started up the smooth road, which was flanked with dense bushes and trees; some of them were spindly and tall and tangled with vines like ropes. After rain, the pitch steamed and the road looked like it was breathing. Everything smelled alive. By the time I reached the second or third bend, the blue Hillman car appeared; Dr. Rodriguez stopped and I got in. Then he drove to the top, turned the car around, and if no one was at the point, we parked and looked down at Port of Spain, sprawled out and sparkling in the late afternoon light, with the Gulf of Paria rolling out behind it. It went so far you couldn’t tell what was sky and what was sea. I could have looked at it for hours. But we never stayed long.
At the bottom of the hill, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez turned, taking the road that led to the beach. I liked the drive, with the high hills on the right, and the well-kept houses dotted here and there, with their driveways and verandas and beautifully tended gardens. The roads were quiet, and there were often girls, like me, but usually darker than me, walking with small children or pushing prams. We drove mainly in silence. “Better not to look too friendly,” Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez used to say, “in case we pass anyone I know. Make it seem like I’m dropping you somewhere.”
After ten minutes or so, he drove off the main road and followed a track, and it went on for a little while. We parked under a Flamboyant tree. I liked this tree very much. It had bright red flowers and long black pods that rattled when you shook them. Once I took a pod home and offered it to Joe. “Where did you get it?” he asked, pleased. I made something up. (I soon got good at making things up.) At that particular spot, there was never anybody there. Now and again a car passed by on the main road, but none came our way, and even if they had, we were quite hidden in the tall grass. It was okay to push back the seat and lie all the way down, and that way, if Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez was lying on top of me, he could see through the back window. We usually stayed in the car, but afterward, if I needed to pee, I walked along the track, to a dark and sheltered place where two trees met, and where there was a tiny stream. There were rocks on the other side, and I once saw clothes draped there to dry.
On the way home, he often seemed far away and I wondered what he was thinking. He was looking at the road, but at the same time, not looking at it.
One day I said, “When
did you know that you wanted me, exactly?”
“I knew we would be together the first time I saw you in Laventille. You always know who you’re going to sleep with the minute you put eyes on them.”
“Even though I was sick with fever?”
“Yes,” he said, “even though you were sick with fever.”
AND ANOTHER TIME:
“Are English girls pretty?”
“Yes, but they don’t understand Trinidad. When you tell somebody in England about Trinidad, they never know where it is.” “Have you ever thought you could live in England?” “No. It’s too cold and damp and it rains all the time. In winter it’s so cold you can see your own breath.”
“Aunt Sula told me so.” Then, I said, “Can you eat snow?” He laughed. “Yes, I’m sure you can, but I’ve never tried it.”
HE ALWAYS STOPPED at the end of the road, and I got out and, slowly, walked back to the house as if I had just been to church. Once, though, near the house, we saw Joe walking with his friend from next door, and Mr. Scott, the boy’s father. Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez carried on driving. He said, “Don’t say a word,” and then he pulled up alongside them, cocking his head through the window as the car came to a standstill.
“Good evening, Dr. Rodriguez,” said the tall, blond man. “We’re bringing your son for you. He’s spent the whole afternoon beating us at Scrabble.”
“Very good. That’s what I like to hear. Come on, Joe, climb in.” Joe ran around to the other side and jumped in the back. Then, “Tonight I’m playing taxi driver. I found Celia here walking back from church.”