Lime Tree Can't Bear Orange

by Amanda Smyth

  WE WALKED BACK the long way round, and stopped to look in the windows of the department stores. There was always something I wanted. A dress, a pair of shoes, a piece of jewelry, a new cream to rub on my skin.

  “I wish I had a lot of money, William. I’d buy so many things.”

  “Money doesn’t buy you everything. Look at Mrs. Rodriguez; she has a lot and she still unhappy.”

  “Do you think so? Do you think she’s that unhappy?”

  “I hear her. Her window is right there.”

  “Crying?”

  “Yes, like a little child.”

  I said, “Maybe she knows you’re there and she does it on purpose.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  THE WOMEN IN the films we saw were beautiful and I often wished I could look like them. Rita Hayworth, Elizabeth Taylor, Audrey Hepburn, Greta Garbo. They were perfect, I thought, and if I was a man, I imagined that they were the kind of women I would want to marry. William said they were okay, nothing to shout about. “Trinidadian girls are the most beautiful girls in the world,” he said. “Anybody will tell you that.” Then he said, “I think you’re prettier than all of them.”

  DR. EMMANUEL RODRIGUEZ didn’t agree with William’s idea about Trinidadian girls. Yes, he said, they have beautiful women here in Trinidad, because of the different racial mixtures, but they have them all over the Caribbean too. And how could he say that English girls weren’t pretty when he’d married one. “You can’t get more English than my wife. And she was a typical English rose.”

  We were lying on my bed, and it was getting late.

  “Is she still a typical English rose?”

  He didn’t answer. Then, “What about Trinidadian men? Do you like them?”

  I knew he was talking about William.

  “I like some of them. Not all of them.”

  “Who was the first man you were with, Celia?”

  DR. EMMANUEL RODRIGUEZ didn’t seem to mind when I went out with William. How could he, when he was the one who suggested it. When he first came up with the idea, that a date now and then with “Gardener” (as he often called him) would put a stop to any suspicions his wife or anyone else might have about our relationship, I was dismayed. “How can I go out with someone else?” He said, “It’s not about going out with someone else. You don’t have to do anything with him. It’s about making sure people don’t talk. It’s a way of throwing them off the scent.”

  I SOON LEARNED that he was right.

  The morning after our first date, Helen Rodriguez hurried into the kitchen wearing her dressing gown and slippers, her face not yet washed.

  “How was it, Celia?” she asked, in a hushed voice. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  I carried on wiping down the parlor shelves.

  “I had a nice time, thank you, Mrs. Rodriguez.”

  “Oh good,” she said, obviously wanting to know more. “That is good news.” Then, “Did you go to the cinema?”

  Without looking at her, I said, “Yes, madam. We saw Gone With the Wind at the Deluxe.”

  “What a romantic film to see!” Some hair had escaped from her bun, she pushed it back and pinned it in place. “Do you think you’ll go out with him again?” This said like we were friends sharing our private thoughts.

  I rinsed the cloth in a bowl of water and squeezed it out. Then I started on the large ceramic containers, cleaning off the grubby handles and lids. They hadn’t been cleaned in a long while.

  “We’ll see,” I said. “I don’t want to rush anything.”

  “Of course. But now he’s on the hook, you mustn’t let him wriggle away. William is a good catch.”

  She was grinning.

  “No, madam,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron, looking her straight in the eyes. “I won’t let him wriggle away.”

  AND FROM THEN on, it was always the same. “Did he say anything special?” “Did he look after you?” “Did you go somewhere afterward?” I never said much. Usually, I smiled and nodded, allowing her to imagine whatever she wanted. She wasn’t put off by my withholding; if anything it seemed to encourage her. If Marva was there, she would look across and nod, or wink. Marva would say, “This girl like to keep her cards close to her chest.” Or, “Getting anything out of her is like pulling teeth.” I wanted to ask Marva why she was suddenly so interested in my life.

  “The thing is,” I said one day when they were both quizzing me, “talking about it too much might bring me bad luck.”

  “You mustn’t be so superstitious, Celia. If it’s the Lord’s wish that you and William are together, then there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening.”

  HELEN RODRIGUEZ STARTED giving me clothes. She had lost so much weight, she said, and these were dresses and skirts she would never wear again; it was a shame to throw them away. “Please have them,” she’d say, and she’d lay them out in her sewing room. “It’s important to feel special when you have a boyfriend.” I felt bad at first. But then I thought, Why not, I could never afford to buy such things. On the nights that William came to collect me and while he waited outside, she often came to see what I was wearing. She might fix a strap, or the collar, or check a hem. If Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez was there he would tell her to stop fussing. “Leave her be, Helen. She knows how to dress herself.”

  Marva said I should count my lucky stars. “I never see her do that with anybody else. Look at how much clothes she give you. She treat you like a daughter.”

  When I got home, I often saw her light on or heard her moving around upstairs, and I knew that she was waiting to hear me come in. This was annoying for Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez, who preferred to visit my room when he knew his wife was asleep. “You’re keeping the lady up,” he’d say in a half-playful way. “And me too.”

  THAT NIGHT, WE had just got home after seeing the eight o’clock showing of The Bad and the Beautiful with Lana Turner and Kirk Douglas, and William was in the kitchen drinking a glass of water, when Helen Rodriguez called down to tell me that there was a letter for me on the table. It had gone to the wrong house and someone had dropped it by hand, late this afternoon. I went at once to the dining room and picked it up. It was from Aunt Tassi. For some reason, I knew it was good news.

  IT WAS MORE than I had hoped for.

  AUNT TASSI WAS “writing to inform” me “that a terrible thing had happened.” Roman was wrongly accused of doing “something,” and the police had gotten involved. They’d put Roman in jail and she had to “find money for his bail.” The whole thing was a misunderstanding and it had made Roman very upset. The night they let him out, Roman stayed home and got real drunk, more drunk than usual. After everybody went to bed, he left the house and decided to take a walk on Courland Bay. Aunt Tassi was sure he went down there to think about things. Because now and then we all need to be alone and think about things. Some men, and they still don’t know who the men were, but they might have been the fishermen we used to see— the badjohns, the good-for-nothings. Well, they must have heard about the lies people spreading, because they beat Roman. They beat him with sticks. They beat him hard. They beat him so you wouldn’t know it was Roman. Next day two little children find him on the sand and all around him black with blood. Aunt Tassi said she should have known, because just that night, she had seen a huge scorpion crawl out of one of Roman’s shoes, a sure sign of death.

  Aunt Tassi didn’t know what she “feel right now,” because she so shocked. Everybody know how she love Roman. Vera and Violet were in a terrible state. They can’t believe their daddy dead. She hoped that at some point I would come home to Black Rock and we could patch up our differences. “Blood is thicker than water,” she said. She wanted to know where her friends were now. In her heart, she know that Roman would never do what they say he did. And she know the Mackenzie girl like to tell stories. Why did no one believe her? “Friends carry you,” she wrote at the bottom of the page, “but they will not bring you back.”

  When I had read it, I called o
ut, “Praise God! Praise God!” and William came running inside. “What happen?” he said. “What happen?” I said, “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, this is a time to celebrate.” He was glad to hear this, he said, because tomorrow night he had wanted to take me out to hear the New Town Singers play in Charlotte Street. The whole way home, he wanted to ask me but was so sure I would say no that he hadn’t dared ask. I said, “Yes! Let’s go and hear the New Town Singers in Charlotte Street.”

  From the doorway, Helen Rodriguez said, “What is it, Celia? Good news?”

  LATER, DR. EMMANUEL Rodriguez came to my room, and he wanted to know why I was in such good spirits. “Your eyes are sparkling, Celia. I have never seen you like this before. What happened, is it something to do with your aunt? The one in Tobago?”

  That’s when I told him: “You are always asking me about the first man I was with. Well, the first man I knew was called Roman Bartholomew, and tonight I found out he’s dead. And I’m happy because it means God never sleeps.”

  TWENTY

  ON THE PORCH, WHILE THE DAY COOLED RIGHT DOWN and we drank a cup of English tea, Aunt Sula taught me how to crochet. I quickly got the hang of it and this pleased her; bringing the yarn over, from back to front, then plucking it with the hook, bringing it through the slipknot …

  “You’re like me. I learned it very quickly too, and I’ve been making things all these years.” Then, “When you get married you will want things for your home. Better start now.” “You can make things for children too; babies’ clothes are quick and easy to make.”

  I couldn’t imagine a day when I would be married.

  “Why didn’t you get married, Aunt Sula?”

  “You have to meet the right man.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  She half smiled.

  “Who with?”

  “Questions, questions! That was a long, long time ago.”

  “How did you know you were in love?”

  “Well, I suppose I wanted to be with him all the time. When I saw him my heart would beat hard like a drum.” She thumped her chest.

  “Did he love you too?”

  “He said so.”

  “Then why didn’t he ask you to marry him?”

  “You can love somebody but they might not be right for you.”

  Yes, I thought, that is exactly how I am.

  WE WERE GOING to walk up to the stream, but Aunt Sula wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t complain but when Joseph Carr Brown arrived with some special herbs that he’d picked up in Four Roads, I could see that she was glad. While she mixed them together with powdered milk and warm water, he told me the herbs had come from Hazra. “The lady we gave the lift to; she said it’s a cure-all. Hazra’s not just a pretty face.” I couldn’t tell whether or not he thought they were worthwhile. “She grows them in the yard and dries them out to make tea.” Then he said, “How does it taste, Sula? Like mud, I bet.”

  “Yes, Mr. Carr Brown, just like mud, only worse.”

  He was about to leave, but then the sky opened up and rain came lashing down. The wind blew hard through the little porch, so we went inside. And I was wondering what to say to him, because Aunt Sula was in her bedroom and apart from Shadow we were alone together, when he pulled out from his pocket a silver oblong box which he put to his mouth, and started to blow. Later Aunt Sula told me that Joseph Carr Brown’s family had come from Scotland, and he had learned to play this instrument from his grandfather. I had never heard anybody play a mouth organ before. Shadow looked up at his master, ears cocked, and Aunt Sula came and stood in the doorway of her room. The music was sweet and sad and it made you want to smile and cry at the same time. When it was finished, she said, “Will you play that for me at my funeral?”

  “Well,” he said, “if nature takes its rightful course, I’ll be gone long before you, Sula.”

  And then I thought about Roman, and wondered if he would be buried near his mother in Speyside. Earlier, when I arrived at Tamana, Aunt Sula said, “Celia, we don’t have to talk about Roman, but let’s at least acknowledge that he’s gone.”

  “Yes,” I said, “and may his soul burn in hell.”

  AFTER SUPPER, AS usual, Aunt Sula insisted on washing the dishes. I was her guest, she said, I wasn’t there to work. I thought how straight and slim her back was, not like Aunt Tassi, who was always heavy, no matter how she tried to lose weight.

  That night, I asked, “Was my mother pretty?”

  She looked up from the sink and out at the yard.

  “Of course.”

  “Did people stare at her when she walked by?”

  “I’m sure they did.”

  A small lizard stuck his head from behind a painting, and slipped back behind it. His tail was still poking out.

  “Was she fun?”

  “Oh yes.”

  The lizard made a run for it, darting across the wall to the window where he paused, then flipped himself over the edge and disappeared.

  “Do I look like her?”

  Aunt Sula turned around, and studied my face; then she shook her head. “A little.” For a moment, I thought she looked sad.

  “I must look like my father then,” I said, and sat back in the rocking chair, sliding my hands over the smooth, polished arms. The back and seat were cooling rattan that left little patterns on your skin.

  “Did you know your father, Aunt Sula?”

  “I didn’t know him well at all. He was a difficult man.”

  “Well, one day I’m going to meet mine,” I said.

  “And when will that be?”

  “Not for a while. I don’t have enough money saved. As soon as I do, I’ll go to England and find him. It’s not so hard to get to England these days.”

  “I hope you’ll tell me when you’re going.” Aunt Sula wiped her hands on her apron. Then from the drawer, she took up a fresh tea towel and started to dry the little pile of pots. “These things have a habit of coming together at the right time. You know what they say: If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.”

  WHEN IT WAS dark, she put on the radio. I was always glad to lie down early in the bed she had set up for me in the living room. And I always slept well. Aunt Sula said it was the country air.

  When it was time to leave, she filled a basket with mangoes, grapefruit, plums, and pineapples.

  “Won’t he mind that you’ve given me these things?”

  “Mr. Carr Brown? Not at all.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  I DON’T KNOW WHICH I NOTICED FIRST: THE CHANGE IN Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez or the change in his wife. At that time, Helen Rodriguez was spending long hours in her bedroom. She complained about the rain, the heat, and the flies. From the newspaper she read out stories of robberies, murders, corruption. One particular case had troubled her: a brutal murder of two young women. When they were found, their eyes had been sewn shut, their private parts mutilated.

  “This place is the opposite of paradise,” she said one day, to no one in particular. “Hell on earth.” She was also troubled by a murderer called Boysie Singh, known to cut out the hearts of his female victims, and rub them on the shoes of his racehorse, to guarantee a win. “These small islands breed monsters. No one is safe.”

  Some days she was quiet and withdrawn as if she was disappearing inside herself. Others, she was bright and gay as a butterfly. But this never lasted long. And I wondered on these good days, if she was trying very hard to make everything all right between herself and her husband.

  “It’s been ages since we went out for dinner,” she said to him one morning, when I was clearing the breakfast table. “We could try that new place by the hotel.”

  “Whatever you want, Helen,” Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez said, without looking up from his journal. “We can go out, we can stay home. Usually you want to stay home, that’s why I never ask.”

  I felt sorry for her then.

  “Well, why don’t I book it, and we can go. It will make a nice change.�
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  “Yes,” he said. “Why don’t you.”

  ONE DAY, SHE decided to take Joe shopping. He needed school shoes, she said. I asked if she would like me to go with her, and she said no. It was very hot, the dry air crackling with heat. “Why not go tomorrow morning,” I said, “when it’s cooler.” But Helen Rodriguez drifted outside as if she hadn’t heard a word, calling Joe, Joe.

  They were gone all afternoon. It wasn’t until dusk that I heard the car pulling in. Joe ran into the kitchen, and I could tell at once that he was upset. His mother followed, her arms laden with large shopping bags. “There’s more in the car,” she said, in a breathy voice. They had been all over Port of Spain buying shoes, driving as far as Chaguanas. Joe and I carried the bags upstairs and laid out the shoes in a line; we counted eight pairs.

  When Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez saw them, he threw up his hands. “What were you thinking?” Helen Rodriguez looked blank, as if she could not understand. “You must take these shoes back to the stores tomorrow.” Then, “Celia, please put them back in their boxes, and place them in their correct bags.” His wife let out a little cry, ran into her bedroom, and slammed the door.

  ANOTHER TIME, SHE came home from the hairdresser’s wearing a lot of makeup. There was a new beauty consultant based at the salon. Her eyelashes were black and thick, her eyes shaded in silvery blues and grays, her lips a deep red. Marva said she looked like a film star. But when Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez came home at noon, he sat across from his newly made-up wife and ate his entire lunch without noticing. “Can you see the difference?” she asked Marva afterward, her eyes moist with tears. “Can you?” Marva said, “Yes, madam. Yes I can.”

  With me he was the opposite. Recently I had noticed that he was asking more questions about my whereabouts, particularly after I came back from Tamana. For the first time since I had started working there, I was taking time off. “What is it with Tamana?” he asked. “You’re not thinking of living there?” “I like going to see my aunt,” I said, surprised. “And Joseph Carr Brown is nice to me.”