Lime Tree Can't Bear Orange

by Amanda Smyth

  “Don’t mention me to them, okay. Do you understand that? Carr Brown knows people I know.”

  Also, I had been going more often to the cinema, and it seemed to make him irritable. I had actually started to enjoy going out with William. And more than that, I loved watching the films; I came home wanting to talk about the movie I had seen.

  “You act as if these people are real, as if you know them. You can’t live in a movie, you know. They’re actors paid to say lines.”

  “I don’t want to live in one, I like watching them.”

  DR. EMMANUEL RODRIGUEZ no longer told me when he was coming to my room; instead of knocking on my door, he walked straight in. If I was doing something—bathing or brushing my hair or sweeping the floor or putting away clothes—he sat on my bed and waited until I had finished. I didn’t ask about his wife and guessed that she was asleep early. When he was inside me, it was as if he was in a hurry, like when a man who has not eaten for days has a plate of food put in front of him. He started getting up earlier, and sometimes he came looking for me. Like that cloudy morning when I was outside cutting thyme, and William was there, and we were wondering if it might rain. We looked up at the sky and saw Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez staring down at us from his window. William waved but he didn’t wave back.

  There were more questions: Had William ever tried to kiss me? I told him, William had more manners than any man I’d known. He would only try to kiss me if I said he could. If I took off my clothes and stood in front of him, would he know what to do? William is a man, I said, so of course he would know what to do! I tried to say these things in a lighthearted way but Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez was insistent. Had William had girlfriends before? How about Mrs. Shamiel, was she encouraging her son? Who owned the house in Laventille?

  I answered as best I could. I didn’t understand why he was behaving in this way. I couldn’t believe that my relationship with William would make Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez jealous.

  But there were other things. He had heard that his brother in Antigua was ill; Siri had telephoned to tell him that he might have to come if his condition worsened. Apart from his wife and children (and his mother), George was his only surviving family. When it came to sickness at home, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez found it difficult to cope. Marva had told me this.

  “When Alexander die, Dr. Rodriguez did some things I sure he sorry for.”

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind. All that’s in the past now. All that’s gone.”

  “Tell me, Marva.”

  “Let’s just say, he hurt some people very badly.”

  THEN ONE NIGHT, he came to my room with a tiny black box. Inside, was a pair of sparkling silver earrings. “I hope you like them. I bought them in De Lima’s.” I tried them on, and lifted up my hair to show him. He said, “They’re something else, aren’t they. I knew the minute I saw them they would be perfect for you. I never see you wear earrings.” I checked in the mirror, took them off, and put them away in my dresser. Someone was bound to ask where I got them.

  “Tell Helen your aunt sent them from Tobago.”

  “She’d have seen them arrive in the post.”

  “Well, tell her you got them from an admirer. Or you saved up and bought them yourself.”

  “How would I ever have saved enough for these?”

  “I want you to wear them, Celia.” He said this like it was an instruction, an order. “You don’t have to tell her they’re real. A lot of shops sell costume jewelry made to look exactly like these.”

  It was almost as though he wanted to get found out.

  THAT SATURDAY AFTERNOON, he insisted I drive south with him to the refinery camp, where he had to make a visit to the hospital. As it turned out, Helen Rodriguez had been invited to a lunch in town. She was taking the children and it was an all-day event. The Robinsons had recently built a swimming pool so everyone was bringing their bath suits. Even Consuella had a little cotton bikini of her own. Mrs. Scott had offered to collect Helen and the children, and drop them back at the end of the day; that way Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez could have the car.

  “You should have the rest of the day off,” she told me, while packing their towels into a large basket. “I’m sure William would like to take you somewhere.”

  IT WAS A long drive on the old road toward San Fernando. Even though it was a chance to spend time alone together, I didn’t think that we should be going so far from home. If the car broke down, or we got stuck for some reason, how would we explain it. “Life is very short,” Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez said, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “You’ll understand this one day. When you’re young you think it will last forever. There’s no such thing as forever.”

  Soon green fields were on either side of us, the sugarcane as tall as people. The fires had started and we could smell the sweet burning. In the distance, there were clouds of smoke puffing up into the sky.

  “It’s partly to get rid of all the spiders and bugs,” Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez said. “And the leaves. Afterward they crush it up and make sugar.” I already knew this but I didn’t say anything. Sometimes he spoke to me like I was a child, as if he was my teacher or my father. “And you know they make rum from sugar.” “Yes,” I said. “And this is one of Trinidad’s best exports.” Again, “Yes.”

  He dropped me at the jetty, near a small yacht club.

  “Go and look at the sea and I’ll be back for you in a while.” He pointed straight ahead where the water was blue-gray and flat. “If you look hard, you can see Venezuela.”

  UP ON THE hill, Pointe-a-Pierre Yacht Club was decorated with balloons, streamers, and bunting. People were drinking at the bar. One of the children who were playing on the beach came running along the jetty to where I was sitting, watching the sailing boats. There were three or four boats and they were tipping in the wind.

  The little girl was staring at me. “Where are you from?”

  “Who wants to know?” I said, in a friendly way.

  “Everybody is wondering who you are.” She glanced up at the bar.

  “I’m from Port of Spain.”

  “My mother comes from Port of Spain,” she said. “You might know her. They said you shouldn’t be here unless you know someone.”

  “Well maybe you shouldn’t be here either,” I said. “You’re annoying me.”

  She looked confused as she walked away, her blond hair trailing down her back. I watched her run up the hill, and speak to someone. Next thing they would be calling security. What kind of a place was this?

  I was glad when Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez arrived.

  WE DROVE AROUND the camp. It was strange; all the residential houses looked the same, big brick houses with white walls and green galvanized roofs. The gardens and land around were immaculate. There was a golf course and tennis courts and a swimming pool. We parked outside the entrance and walked up a path cut between a high hedge, like a wall. The pool was big. I thought how lucky the young people were, all day diving off the high board, and swimming up and down in the turquoise water. Some tanned girls were perched on wrought-iron chairs under umbrellas, eating and drinking and talking. They were having a good time. Almost everyone I saw was white, unless they were minding little children and then they were black and in uniform.

  “This is another world,” I said. “They have everything here, these people.”

  We stopped at the lake and parked under a huge samaan tree. The water was low and there were two or three alligators lying like logs on the bank. Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez leaned over and kissed me hard. Something told me he wanted to do it right there. He put his hand up my dress, and found his way to the top of my legs. Next thing, his fingers were inside me, and he started to rub himself with his other hand, over and over. There was an older couple and two young children strolling alongside the lake.

  I said, “There are people coming this way. Don’t you see them?”

  “Yes, I see them. I want to finish.” He was breathy now, coming to the end. I knew when this was
going to happen.

  Afterward, he reached for a bottle of water in the back, poured some of it on the seat where he had spilled, and rubbed it with his handkerchief. “Let’s hope it doesn’t leave a stain. It should be dry by tomorrow.”

  Then, just as I thought we were about to leave, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez insisted that we drive to a shop in Vistabella called Charlie’s that sold the best black pudding in Trinidad. We could take some back for dinner.

  I said, “Are you sure we have time? Isn’t it in the opposite direction?”

  He didn’t answer.

  WE DROVE BACK in the dark, the car full of the smell of fresh hops bread and peppery black pudding. We hardly spoke. I didn’t ask Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez what he was thinking about as I usually would, or what he was going to tell his wife. It was almost 8:30 p.m. I had my own story ready. I would say that I had been alone to the early showing of Bridge on the River Kwai at the cinema. Helen Rodriguez wouldn’t have any reason to doubt it. On Monday, in case she mentioned it to William and Marva, I would tell them the same thing.

  At the docks I saw the boat from Tobago was in; the same boat I had arrived on. People were hovering outside the Port Authority gates, looking for a ride; some were queuing for the tram. We stopped to let a woman cross the road. She was wrapped in a sheet like a vagrant. Halfway across the road, she looked at the car and put up her hand. In the bright headlamps, I could see her hand was disfigured, a bundle of tangled flesh, and I suddenly recognized the woman from outside the post office more than two years ago. She fastened her eyes on me. So much so that Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez said, “Do you know her?” He tooted the horn once, then twice, and the woman shuffled away. I suddenly felt cold and tired. More than anything, I wanted to get home.

  But when we arrived, the house was in darkness. In the garage, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez kept the car lights on while he looked for keys. No sooner had we walked in the front door than the telephone rang. I knew it was Mrs. Robinson. She wanted to let Dr. Rodriguez know that his wife was fine, and they had had a lovely afternoon. But Helen wasn’t feeling too well. Mrs. Robinson called it a “nervous attack.” It was probably nothing to worry about, and in fact, Mr. Robinson was going to drive her back earlier, but everyone thought it best that she wait until someone was home. She must have said, “What’s your maid’s name?” because I heard him say, “Celia. She’s called Celia.” Then he said, “Yes, I think she was out all afternoon, too. I have just returned myself.”

  JOE WAS PALE and tired. After supper at the Robinsons’, he had fallen asleep on their sofa. Now he staggered upstairs, weary and irritable. Meanwhile, Helen looked like she had been awake for days; her eyes were red and dark underneath like someone had punched her. She handed me Consuella, and I carried her upstairs.

  When I went to tell Joe good night, he was staring up at the airplane suspended from the ceiling. He said, “What’s wrong with Mummy?”

  “She gets very tired, Joe.”

  “Why? I don’t know anyone else who gets tired like that.”

  “I’m not exactly sure but you can ask your daddy. It’s very useful having a doctor for a father.”

  “She wants to go to England. She told me today; she hates it here.” Then he looked straight at me. “She hates you too.”

  • • •

  IN THE MORNING, I was about to go into the kitchen when I caught sight of Helen Rodriguez standing at the sink. I quickly stepped away and then I saw Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez, his back against the wall.

  I heard him say, “Do you want to talk to somebody?” Then, “You have to tell me what’s going on, Helen. You can’t barricade me out of our room.”

  She was getting something out of the cupboard.

  “Is it that you’re missing England?”

  Silence.

  “What is it that you feel anxious about? There is no reason to feel that way. Everything is good. We have two beautiful children, and we have a lovely home.”

  Now she was filling the kettle.

  “If this is about England and you want a trip away, then we can sort it out. Perhaps you want to see Isobel.”

  Her figure disappeared into the living room.

  WHEN HELEN RODRIGUEZ telephoned Marva and asked her to come to work (Marva never worked on Sundays), I wondered what was going on. Then she started getting everything out of the pantry: flour, sugar, butter, pans, bowls, in a cheerful way. Joe hovered around her, watching. She said, “We’re going to have a tea party. You pick whichever friends you’d like to come. As if it’s your birthday.” Her voice was definite and clear.

  He looked up. “Why?”

  “Don’t ask why, Joe. Just go and make a list. Tell them to come for three o’clock.”

  “Aren’t we going to church?”

  “We don’t have time to go to church.” She was getting irritated.

  He glanced over at me. I nodded as if to say: Make the list.

  BY THE TIME Marva arrived, I was feeling uneasy. Helen Rodriguez, who had never cared for baking, had mixed up three different cakes: chocolate, marble, lemon, and was now starting on gingerbread. She was following recipes from a book; something I had never seen her do. There weren’t enough pans, and there weren’t enough mixing bowls. She wore an apron over her nightdress and her hair was like a scruffy nest on the top of her head. She never left us alone together, but whenever Marva had a chance, she glanced over at me and I knew that we were thinking the same thing.

  In the hallway, I could hear Joe speaking on the telephone. “No special reason,” he said to someone. “Just a party.” I thought how grown-up he sounded and I felt sorry for him. He would soon be old enough to compare his mother with his friends’ mothers, and see that she was different. When he had finished, he came back into the kitchen and told Helen Rodriguez that most of his friends already had plans. Some were down the islands. Only six could definitely come, he said. He didn’t look happy; he looked confused.

  Then, unusually, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez was called out on a visit. A patient had gone into labor, the midwife hadn’t shown up, and the woman couldn’t get to the hospital. She lived in Diego Martin. Before he left, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez stood in the doorway and ran his eyes over the growing chaos.

  “I don’t know what is going on in here but I’m assuming somebody does.”

  • • •

  WE MADE ENOUGH sandwiches for ten guests, just in case, and there were three cakes in all, plus gingerbread. At the last minute, Helen Rodriguez decided to make biscuits, cut into stars and moons. “There’s no point in doing things halfheartedly.”

  While they were baking, she found some balloons in the cupboard under the stairs. “From three years ago,” she said. “We got them for Alexander’s christening.”

  Marva and I blew them up, tied them into bundles, and pinned them in the corners of the dining room. She looked pleased. Then she said, “What about the piñata?” I had heard about piñata. I knew that it was a game involving a shape made out of papier-mâché that was filled with sweets and hung from the ceiling. A blindfolded child would be spun around by the other children, and then, with a big stick, set the challenge of breaking the thing open to get the sweets out.

  Helen Rodriguez threw up her hands, “Well, you’re not very enthusiastic today, the two of you.”

  We followed her outside. There on the lawn was a big, round shape covered in newspaper. “I made it early this morning. It needs a little longer to dry.”

  She was beaming; happier than I had ever seen her.

  By the time I came back from the store carrying five large bags of sweets, she had popped the balloon inside the ball, and was covering it with blue tissue paper. It was going to be a fish, she said, to represent Christ. She had thought about making a donkey; the creature that carried Mary to Bethlehem, but this was easier.

  I fed the sweets inside the blue shape and Helen Rodriguez brought the ladder. Marva climbed up it and tied the piñata to the beam.

  “What about a stick,” she sa
id. “Celia, let’s go to the tool room and find one.”

  I didn’t want to go to the tool room with her.

  “Come on, no time to delay,” and off she marched barefoot into the yard. The ground was still wet in parts from the rain that had fallen in the night. She didn’t seem to mind the mud on her bare feet.

  I WAS GLAD to quickly find an old wooden pole that William once used for picking fruit. There was no longer a hook on it, which was just as well.

  “It gets hot in here, doesn’t it,” she said, fanning herself. “I wonder how William can stand it. You really can’t have more than two people in here at once.” She ran her hand along the bench. “My husband had this made when we moved here. He used to come out here a lot. He still does, I think.” She glanced at me and I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, How would I know? Then she dipped her hand in the box where the old sheet was kept and ripped away a strip of it. “This is useful. We can use it for a blindfold.”

  At the ficus tree, Helen Rodriguez stopped. She took a deep breath, then made the sign of the cross.

  “Did you know my boy died?”

  I said, “Yes, madam. Yes, I did know.”

  And she looked at me in a way that made me feel small and low, like I was no better than a cockroach crawling in the dirt, so much so that I couldn’t bear to look at her and I turned and ran toward the house as if I had seen something there. She didn’t call me back.

  AT 2:00 P.M. Helen Rodriguez told Marva and me to shower and change. “By the time they arrive, we should all be clean and dressed.” Then at last, she went upstairs. Marva and I looked at each other. It was hard to know what to say or do. If only Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez was at home. Marva said, “I think we should try to find him.”