After falling asleep, Hemrajie dreamed she was being chased. In the dream, she was able to run very fast from whoever was chasing her and she did not get tired at all.
Hemrajie was tending her plants when the jogger passed the next evening. She had just started watering the bougainvillea when she heard shoes beating a rhythm on the tarmac. Through the spaces between the bricks of the front wall, she saw him coming. He had a full lower lip and deep-set, small eyes. As he passed the big gate, Hemrajie got a better look at him. His nose was curved with flared nostrils. Small curls of hair were plastered sweatily to his neck. He passed so close to her wall that she could hear his deep breaths. But he did not see Hemrajie in her garden behind the wall, and she felt relieved.
She had done all the planting herself in the three years since her mother died. There were bougainvillea, crotons, hibiscus, oleander, sweet lime, and even a small palm tree at each corner of the front wall. But the yard was unkempt. The back of the house was bounded by a high brick wall, with piles of old wood, iron rods, barbed wire, and other rubbish. The chicken coops were there, and every month Hemrajie would twist the necks of a few birds, pluck and gut them, and put the cut parts into the freezer. She never had to buy meat. Under the house where Hemrajie parked her fifteen-year-old car was tamped dirt, but there was a concrete walkway to the small gate in the front wall and a gravel path to the larger double-gate that was only opened on the two days when Hemrajie went to the mandir and once every fortnight when she went to the grocery store. Two shallow concrete drains, black with moss, ran alongside the yard. Weeds sprang between the loose dirt that turned to mud in the wet season. Hemrajie had thought about planting lawn grass on the sides and back of the house, but that would have cost too much. So she got plants instead which filled the front yard with greenery and color and blocked the back from people’s view.
When she finished watering her plants, Hemrajie took a trowel and a watering can, opened the small gate, and went outside. She had planted frangipani, jump-up-and-kiss-me, and Easter lilies along the wall. Grunting slightly, she stooped and began digging up weeds from between the flowers. She wore a dark-blue tracksuit and felt very warm. But the tracksuit was baggy and Hemrajie was comfortable to be out on the road in it. It was only when she heard the sound of running shoes that she realized the man had not passed back. She kept her head turned away as he ran by, digging assiduously, but she felt his eyes boring into her bowed back. It seemed to Hemrajie as though long seconds were passing between each footfall. She looked around only when she could no longer hear the sound of his footsteps. He was wearing the maroon shorts again and another white jersey. His running shoes were gray with red stripes. Then a movement caught her eye, and she saw Geeta sitting on her porch. Hemrajie ducked her head and began digging again. Geeta was thirty-six, a housewife who sold barbecued chicken on the weekends outside her house. She had two children, a fourteen-year-old daughter and an eleven-year-old boy, and her husband was an accounts clerk in the Education Ministry. After a few more minutes of digging, Hemrajie got to her feet, wiping her hands on the front of her pants and picking up the bundle of weeds. Geeta, still on the porch, waved to Hemrajie, who waved back. But she knew Geeta would think she had come outside to look at the man.
It was only during a commercial break for The Bold and the Beautiful that it occurred to Hemrajie that Geeta had come out to watch the jogger too. She was not usually out on her porch in the evening because the sun hit her house directly at that hour. And Geeta was married. Although her two children had broadened her hips, she liked to wear fitted clothes to show off her still-smallish waist. She had been on her porch in a halter top and a denim skirt that reached above her knees. But Hemrajie knew that Geeta would not have come out if her husband had been home. The thought eased her mind, and she was able to concentrate on the rest of the show.
That night, Hemrajie went to bed an hour early. She felt tired and thought this was because of the work she had done in the garden.
“I feel I should start taking some exercise,” Hemrajie told Feroza.
“Why?” Feroza asked. She was off for the weekend. Hemrajie had not sat on her porch for the past two evenings, finding that she was always busy with something inside the house or in the back with the bird pens.
“I do some work in the garden, and I find it leave me out of breath.”
“Maybe you overexert yourself.”
“And the doctor say my sugar kinda high.”
“Ent you went for that check-up three months ago?”
“Yes. He tell me I should start taking exercise.”
“Gardening is good exercise.”
“I always do that. I was thinking of going for a walk in the evening.”
Feroza took a sip of her coffee, which was still hot. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“You will come with me?”
“Girl, look at me. I thin like a rake. You want me to disappear?”
“A li’l walking wouldn’t make you disappear. Besides, you yourself say you breathing hard just from walking up the stairs.”
“I’se get enough exercise with them patients,” said Feroza.
“Oh gosh, come nah. I want the company.”
Feroza took another sip of coffee, put down her cup, and unfolded her newspaper. “Oh, all right. When you want to start?”
“Tomorrow should be a good day,” said Hemrajie.
The next evening, when the shadows had grown long, Hemrajie walked down to the corner to meet Feroza. “Which way you want to go?” Feroza asked. She was already waiting in front of the bar, wearing red track pants and a yellow T-shirt. Her pale arms protruded like sticks from the sleeves. Two men, Ricky and Vishnu, were sitting at one of the outside tables drinking beer.
“Let’s walk down, nah,” said Hemrajie. “I don’t want to walk toward the sun.” They headed into the village. Hemrajie walked with a light-footed stroll. But she noticed for the first time that Feroza had an odd gait. They were walking slowly, but she extended her legs out fully and swung her hands almost up to her flat chest, as though moving at a fast clip. And as Hemrajie saw the jogger round the corner ahead, she wished she had come out alone.
“Just now,” she said. “My shoe feeling loose.”
Feroza stopped and waited while Hemrajie stooped and pretended to tie her shoelaces. The jogger came up to them.
“Evening,” he said. Hemrajie did not look up, and Feroza did not answer. He passed by and Hemrajie rose and they began walking again.
“Why you didn’t tell the man good evening?” asked Hemrajie.
“I thought he was going to make some stupid comment.”
“Why?”
“He look so. You know how Trini men is.”
“Oh.” They continued walking until they reached the corner.
“Turn back here?” Feroza said. The stretch of road beyond had no houses, but ran through a small forest.
“Yes,” said Hemrajie. “We could reach the next end of the village and call it a day. That is a good distance for the first time out.”
“Hm! Like you ambitious. The jogger fella inspire you or what?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Hemrajie. They headed back past the bar, which already had more men, past Hemrajie’s house, and toward the end of the village. Hemrajie was perspiring, but Feroza’s skin looked as cool as ever. They were both breathing more heavily. They passed the last house, a wooden structure on poles with a concrete annex behind, where a family of ten lived—Ameena and her husband Paul, their four children, Ameena’s mother, and Paul’s younger brother, his girlfriend, and their baby. “A little further?” Hemrajie said, glancing at Feroza.
Feroza, who had begun to slow, took a deep breath. “We have to watch out for them trucks,” she said. “You know them drivers does drive mad sometimes.”
“We won’t go too far.” The man was coming back. Hemrajie put a pleasant expression on her face, but instead of saying good evening as she intended, she just watched him. He nodded at
her, without speaking, and passed. He had an unhandsome face, as she had thought, with sharp cheekbones and a set mouth. He was unshaven.
“He look kinda dougla,” said Feroza.
Hemrajie glanced over her shoulder, where the man was already at the curve of the road. “You find? He look pure Indian to me.”
“He kind of dark.”
“I darker than he.”
“You Indian dark. He look dark like Negro people.”
“You want to turn here?” asked Hemrajie.
“Sure.”
As they began walking back, a taska truck roared by, its giant cage rattling.
It was one month later that the accident, and the rape, happened. Hemrajie and Feroza had begun walking regularly. It was only in the first week that Hemrajie’s thighs and ankles hurt. But she lost two pounds, and that encouraged her to continue. Feroza cut down to one cigarette when they sat on the porch, which they now did after their walks. They knew the people in the village had watched them at first, tongues wagging, but that soon stopped. The man continued to jog and would raise an eyebrow when he passed them. He never smiled. Feroza decided she did not like him.
“But why?” Hemrajie asked her.
“My blood just don’t take him,” she said.
“But you never talk to the man.”
“You don’t have to talk to somebody for your blood not to take them.”
“Okay,” said Hemrajie.
This conversation occurred after the day the jogger passed them at the bar when there was a promotion for a new brand of rum, and many men who were not from the village were liming outside. Hemrajie and Feroza had been walking back, and the man passed them from behind. He was wearing a pair of green and black shorts they had never seen before.
“Like he running faster these days,” Hemrajie had said to Feroza.
“Hm.”
Then they’d heard someone outside the bar say, “But watch how the Gruesome Twosome staring down the fella!” Hemrajie and Feroza pretended that they had not heard. But Feroza did not go home till after dark that evening, and Hemrajie missed The Bold and the Beautiful. They stopped walking to the bar and began heading in the other direction, and the next time they passed the jogger he nodded as usual. But Feroza said he was looking at them funny.
The accident happened on a Sunday. There were not many cars passing on the road, but the evening sun was very bright. Hemrajie and Feroza had planned to walk, and had already put on their tracksuits, but then changed their minds because it was so hot. They sat on the porch, Hemrajie drinking iced tea and Feroza, because of the heat, drinking iced coffee while she read the newspaper. The jogger passed by. He was wearing his maroon shorts and a blue jersey.
“He good to run in this heat,” Hemrajie said.
“I think he ready for the marathon,” said Feroza. The man passed the last house, running steadily, and vanished around the corner. A taska truck came out from the cane field, turned onto the road, and made its way toward the distant chimney. The canes would soon be harvested and then the land would look very big and very flat.
“They find the woman body,” Feroza said. “The one who get kidnap last month.”
“I thought the family pay the ransom.”
“They still kill she.”
“Anybody get arrested?”
Feroza sniffed. “Police does arrest police?”
“They do when is a Indian officer, you never notice?”
“True, true,” Feroza said. She took a last gulp of her coffee and Hemrajie drained her glass of tea. The sun eased down to the horizon, but the man did not return.
“Like we friend making some extra distance today,” Hemrajie said.
“Look so,” said Feroza.
“You want to make a small walk? Work out some of this sugar?”
“All right.”
It took them five minutes to reach the bend. The road stretched out to the far factory, but they did not see anyone running. A car sped by, the wind of its passing making their clothes flutter.
“That strange,” Hemrajie said. “I don’t think he woulda go so far.”
“Maybe he take a run through the cane field.”
“Maybe.”
“We could walk up a li’l bit again.”
They continued for another five minutes, by which time the sky was getting dim. It was only on their way back that Feroza saw something out of the corner of her eye. “What is that?” she said.
They stopped, peering through the canes. Then they saw him. He was lying in the middle of the field, several feet off the road. His head was twisted back, his arms and legs cast out limply.
“Oh God,” said Hemrajie.
“Come,” Feroza said.
They eased their way through the canes. Feroza knelt beside the man and put two fingers to his neck. Then she put her ear in front of his nose.
“He . . . ?” Hemrajie began, but did not complete the sentence.
“He not dead,” said Feroza. “He unconscious.”
“What happen to him?”
“Car hit him,” said Feroza. “Or more likely the taska and the driver didn’t notice.” She peered in the dimming light at his nostrils and ears, then ran her hands over the man’s head, down his arms, then his torso, then his legs. “Nothing broken,” she said, as though talking to herself. She rose to her feet.
“What’s that?” Hemrajie said.
Feroza looked down at the man’s body. “What?”
“Uh, that,” said Hemrajie. “In front. By his, uh . . .” Feroza bent down to look more closely, then pulled at the man’s clothes. “Is his intestines?” Hemrajie asked. Feroza was blocking her.
“No,” Feroza said. “Look at this.” She moved aside. She had pulled down the man’s shorts and Hemrajie saw that his penis was full and pointing bluntly to the sky.
“What—?”
Feroza ran her fingers along the man’s hair again. “Uhhuh. A depression right here. He get hit on the head.”
“But how—I mean—?”
Feroza sat on the ground. “We had a patient like this three years back. Young fella, about twenty-five. Get a blow to the head, right around the same spot. Was in a coma and had a permanent cockstand.” She looked up at Hemrajie. “He was in the ward for three months. You could bet a few of the nurses take advantage of that.”
“Advantage?”
“Yes. It was good.”
Hemrajie stared at her friend in the dimming light of the cane field. “You mean—you?”
“Yes. Was more than ten years since I get something.”
Hemrajie continued to stare.
“Oh, don’t watch me so,” Feroza said. “Was no harm.”
“What happen to the patient?”
Feroza shrugged. “He never come out of the coma.” She looked down at the man’s penis, then reached out and put her hand around the swollen shaft. “I tell you he was dougla.”
Hemrajie laughed, then her hand flew to her mouth. “You shouldn’t be doing that!”
Feroza looked up at Hemrajie. “Why you don’t take something?” she said. Her tongue slid delicately over her front teeth. “You never had a man. Now is your chance.” She glanced down at the jogger. “He will never know.”
“I couldn’t,” said Hemrajie. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?” Feroza’s voice was low, cajoling.
“We have to get him help.”
“We will. But his vital signs stable. No harm.”
“I can’t,” said Hemrajie.
Feroza got off the ground, but did not let go of the jogger’s penis. “Well, I going to,” she said in the same low voice.
“What?” said Hemrajie. “Suppose he have AIDS!”
Feroza shook her head. “He does take care of himself.”
“Feroza!”
“It dark. No one will see.” She grinned. “But you could watch and learn how to do it.” With her other hand, Feroza slipped down her pants and her panties, then squatted on top
of the man. She eased down with a deep sigh. Her hips began to move and, underneath the hem of her jersey in the dim light, Hemrajie could see the shaking of Feroza’s pale shanks. In a few minutes she stiffened, grunted, and her hands turned to claws on the man’s unmoving shoulders. She stood, pulling up her underwear and track pants in one movement. “I’ll go by you and phone for the ambulance. You wait here with him. Give me your house keys.” Hemrajie reached into her pants pockets and handed over the keys. Feroza took them and turned to push her way out of the cane. She glanced back at Hemrajie. “It go take me twenty minutes to go and come back. And the ambulance probably won’t be here in less than an hour. I mightn’t even reach back before half-hour.”
“All right,” Hemrajie said. “I will wait.”
Feroza left, and Hemrajie stood in the middle of the canes under the starry sky. After a while, she stooped down and she saw that Feroza had not pulled up the man’s shorts. She reached out, then hesitated. Slowly, she put her face closer. Except for a picture from a magazine when she was twenty-three, she had never seen a man’s penis. The light from the moon was enough for her to see details—the pulled balls, the thick vein on the underside, the swoop of the helmeted head, even the intimate slit at the top. Hemrajie thought how ugly the penis was, and how beautiful. She reached out timidly and put her fingers around it. It did not feel anything like her dildo. It was firm yet had give. It had a throb and a warmth. It was alive.
She looked around. The canes were a wall of black lances and the moonlit road beyond was empty and silent. Hemrajie pulled down her pants to her knees. She didn’t wear panties when she walked because they rode up. She would just rub him against herself, she thought, just to see what it felt like. She moved on top of the man, feeling his hard flesh poking at her soft and secret place. She held his penis and moved it against herself. She did not intend to put it in. But he was so hard and she was so wet and it slipped so easily into her. She rested her weight on him and began moving her hips as Feroza had done. This was what she had never known, and she closed her eyes and imagined that she was in her bed on her honeymoon, and she quickened her hips and came within moments.
Trinidad Noir Page 4
