The dawning was gradual, but soon each woman who thought she had at one time been one of only two women in John Lucknow Mansing’s life—and of those two believed what she had been told, that she was the brighter—realized that she was simply one of many. The acoustics being what they were, the vocals inside Grant Monorail Presbyterian began to sound like the staging of an impromptu experimental piece of choral music, a concerto of staccato sotto voce gasps: arching whimpers, a strumming of tenor realizations crescen-doing to full-blown wails, tremolo growls and soprano screams in a multitude of pitches. When the pastor left his podium and ran down to console the confused and enraged ad hoc choir, Matilda Jasodhra soared like a Venus, the Venus of San Fernando, to the pulpit to see better. From there, the casket of her husband—of these women’s lover—not an arm’s length from her, she waved her walking cane as if the choir’s winged conductor, pointing at one woman after the other, and it was to her delight that whichever woman she pointed to complied with her conductor’s command and wailed or hissed or growled appropriately. When the inevitable fight broke out, she banged her cane in glee on the casket, but wigs were already being pulled off, clumps of real hair flung in the air, and shoes, some with dangerously pointed heels, were being hurled. Jewelry was being yanked from necks and ears, and rings torn off fingers. Suddenly, the swarm of women, as if all at once, came to a slow realization. They all together ceased their fighting. There was silence. And then the ominous growl, and seconds before the move occurred—one knew it was coming, it was bound to happen—every woman, save for John Lucknow Mansing’s wife and daughter, charged toward the casket. The pastor, adding a baritone drone to the affair, fled when the lid was torn right off. He didn’t, therefore, lucky for him, see the devastation to John Lucknow (ill-luck now, really) Mansing. It was unpleasant and messy.
Matilda Jasodhra wished she’d had a video camera with her, thinking what a good film this would have made. Meera Meera Johna wondered just how much she had really become like her father, and thought there was indeed more to learn from him, even in his demise, for she mustn’t end up like this. How awful it would be, she thought, for Vishala and Brianni and Carmen, all lovely girls, really, to behave in any way like this. She wondered if the recently dead could hear, and if they could feel.
The yardman too, like the pastor, saw nothing, but not because he had fled. He remained in the church, at the heels of his madam, looking like an ill-fitting lord, smelling disturbingly sweet. He stood behind Matilda Jasodhra Mansing, toying with the tail of her dress, counting for the umpteenth time the fortune that would befall him. He would have to find them a new gardener, someone else to anesthetize the garden snakes. And he would, of course, have to take care of the daughter now, so much like her father in any case, and from that very point of view, who would fault him, he wondered, for his intentions? An intervention here, an intervention there, such as they are, he assured himself again and again as he fingered the fabric of satin and silk, are sometimes necessary, and so a good thing. He nodded in agreement with himself. A very good thing, indeed.
DOUGLA
BY REENA ANDREA MANICKCHAND
Caroni Swamp
Jerks. Jagabats. Jackasses. I never believed them. Those fools of the Scare-’em Crew, as they called themselves, had me on a merry-go-round. I hate merry-go-rounds, always did as a child and always will. They made me wanna puke. The Scare-’em Crew actually invested in some of the crimes on the crime list themselves. The only thing they did not get into was killing. The leader was a pastor who didn’t want to disobey that commandment.
I shoulda known they were a bunch of jokers. I got a job just doing the small stuff like trafficking weed. It paid well and was not too much of a hassle. But then they tried to get me to pick up some of the heavier stuff. The pastor told me it would only be for two months while his son was away, and when he came back I could stop. Yeah, right. It ended up being six months even after his son came back.
God, I was a damned fool. I shoulda listened to my damned instincts. But as always, I tried to please Mother. Tried to look and be the good son she always wanted. I had to earn money in order for her to feel proud, so she could be just like the rest of the cacophony bitches she limes with. Hell, now she hates me—another dougla gone bad. Damn it, I even saw it in Vish’s eyes.
I couldn’t join the army. After all, it was for the Afro boys. And I didn’t want to work in the garage with my older brother. I just couldn’t stand them Indo boys riding along with their souped-up vehicles and gloating ’bout their drag races. I know she didn’t want me to do anything illegal, but what’s a dougla like me to do? After all, doesn’t dougla mean bastard in Hindi? That’s what they call people like me who are half-Indian and half-African.
“Hey, pretty dougla! Stop daydreaming and get ready!” the African guard bellowed.
Get ready? What the rasclat? This is a jail cell—I’ve been ready.
Kwae jumped off the bed, reeling from his angry thoughts. Keys clanked as the guard opened his cell. Kwae smoothed his wavy black curls, cleaned the yampi from his big round eyes, and licked his semi-full lips. He’d definitely have to thank his Afro mother for those lips and his Indo father for his eyes, ’cause he could enchant almost anyone with them.
“Yeah, Mr. Kwaesi Ramlogan, yuh better get yuh pretty-boy act together,” the Indian guard repeated. Kwae allowed himself to be handcuffed. Stupid Indian officer always following stupid African officer. What a bunch of monkeys. Wait—I guess I’m a monkey too, or else I wouldn’t have ended up in all this cow dung.
They left his cell and started down the hall. Kwae’s flared nostrils caught the stale pissy stench that filtered through the air from the uncleaned cells. Twice a week the cells were cleaned. They probably kept it like that so the stench would punish the inmates. Worse yet, when the cells were washed out, they never fully dried the place, so sometimes it was damp for two days straight, especially now in the rainy season. Worse yet, his cell had been previously occupied by an inmate who had died of pneumonia. That would be just Kwae’s luck—he’d probably die before the case was over.
It had been one month already without closure. Damned bloodclat stinking jury. I already told them I was guilty of trafficking marijuana. Couldn’t they believe I was innocent when I said I didn’t kill Redman? Sure, I used to sell him some good herb, but I had no reason to kill him. After all, he paid up well.
By the time Kwae reached the courtyard to board the waiting van, he was angry again. Being hot-blooded was a side effect of being mixed, and even though he didn’t like the emotion, it felt good to be angry. What made him even madder were the potholes that the van hit on the way from the Port-of-Spain jail to the Hall of Justice. He felt that they could have walked him to the hall. It was just three streets from the sick, mustard-colored walls of the jail. He would have been able to walk down the street like everyone else and get some air, even if it was more polluted than his country air in Couva.
“Hey, drive,” Kwae called as the van bumped along.
“Yeah, Mr. Ramlogan. What tune you have for us today?” the driver asked, while the two monkey officers with Kwae in the back laughed.
“Let we go straight down Frederick Street and turn across the park nah, insteada goin’ on to St. Vincent Street. They got them sweet girls lined up outside their work places this morning ’cause it’s Friday, so you know is only tight jeans and short skirts on parade,” Kwae goaded.
“Yeah, Horse, let we take Frederick,” the dougla officer in front by the driver piped up. “St. Vincent Street only have a bunch of ministry workers that not as hot as the girls in the private businesses.”
Kwae smiled. One can always count on one’s own kind to feel pity. One can never count on the African or Indian Trinidadians, as they hate douglas for having the best of both gene pools. The only time they like you is around voting time. The Africans will say, “Boy, yuh have African in yuh. Be proud. The Indian doh like yuh.” The Indians will say, “Beta, yuh have Ganges blood fl
owing through yuh, doh yours is only half.” Fuck ’em. They can all go back to their motherland for all I care. Both races are the same—a bunch of persecutors.
As the driver continued down Frederick Street, having been persuaded at the thought of hot mamacitas in tight pants, Kwae was looking out for one particular place. He did not care about seeing the girls. He just wanted to pass round by Woodford Square. Somehow this park reminded him of a place that was special to him and Vish. The square was like a breath of fresh air in the polluted city, its tall trees and grassy areas a refuge for many who wanted to sit on the park benches and enjoy nature.
As the van came up to the square, Kwae saw a vagrant taking an early-morning bath in the mermaid fountain at the center. The vagrant reminded him that the country’s deprived and poor were growing in number. Maybe that’s why some have to depend on so-called criminal avenues—to avoid these depths of depravity. Water splashed onto the ground startling some pigeons. As they glided off together to find the perfect spot, they suddenly turned into scarlet ibis as Kwae’s thoughts turned to Caroni Swamp.
Kwae liked the swamp. Both he and Vish enjoyed watching the sun dip behind the mangrove trees and sink into the Gulf of Paria. Even though the mangrove concealed snakes and the dark waters contained caimans, Vish liked to motor quietly with him to see the scarlet ibis around this time of evening. As for Kwae, he had one thought in mind—to make sure he wrapped up his deals on time, and swiftly. The swamp was one of the best places to make his pick-ups. Even though it had waterways reserved for tourists to explore the mangrove, many were not open to the public. However, those with local knowledge could venture along these wide waterways and meet other boats for quick exchanges of all kinds—not only narcotics but even human cargo. Maybe that’s why there were so many South Americans in the country. The funny part was that they all claimed to be here because they wanted to learn English. Sure, there were some who came to learn the language legitimately, but others were here to feed the appetites of the big-belly men of the country. No wonder the government had a hard time putting them out.
Kwae liked to think of the swamp as a miniature Amazon River. It could lead to the sea or carry you to different landing spots in the center of the island. Of course, one had to know these routes well or the place would seem to have only dead ends. Fortunately, the police had no knowledge of the secret passageways that had been created since the time of the Amerindians. One of these waterways led to the back of a car parts dealer. Kwae used to tell Vish that he was going to pick up some parts for his brother. He hated to lie to his love, but he needed the money. If Vish began to look skeptical when he would go to make his deals and collect his goods, Kwae would fire up the engine and speed through the waterways. Vish’s beautiful Egyptian eyes would immediately light up and his wavy curls would blow and Kwae would rejoice in the fact that he had found a dougla of his own.
The only problem was Vish’s bitch Indian mother. Like the typical mother, she didn’t want Vish getting mixed up with him cause of his odd-job attitude and adventurous ways. If she only knew we’re more than just friends, that ours is a love as hot as mother-in-law pepper sauce! We’re destined to be together. So what if we can’t make little pickney. There are enough crackheads in the world today . . .
Kwae jolted back to reality when the van slammed into a pothole just before stopping in front of the Hall of Justice. “Oh shit, man! Drive!” Kwae shouted. “Like yuh toutoulebay after seeing all that bottom in the road!” He felt a slap on his head for the rude remark and was hurried out of the van. Cuboid walls loomed as the guards walked Kwae up the long red-stoned flight—the Hall of Justice, where many tears had flowed and criminals had been sentenced or set free. Midway he caught sight of a familiar form at the top. “Vish,” he whispered softly.
The Afro guard heard him and started laughing. “Ah, man. I see yuh lover boy here.”
“Wait a minute,” the Indo guard said. “This one is a buller man? No wonder the boys didn’t want to touch yuh.” The guards laughed and talked about Kwae all the way to the courtroom.
He didn’t mind. Vish looks so beautiful with clean shoes and all, but his hair is cut short to the point that he looks almost Indian. Too bad, Kwae thought. He liked to stroke the dougla waves. I wonder if his mother made him cut it. Although Vish did not appear to see him, Kwae would definitely catch his eye inside the courtroom.
All that matters is that Vish is here to defend me. He will tell the jury that we were together the day of the murder, at least most of the day—after all, didn’t the boys in blue catch me at home? So I could never have done the dirty deed of chopping off Redman’s phallus and then burying him at the shores of the swamp. That would have taken a lot of time. The bastard who did it deserves to suffer in Hell’s fire for eternity and to be haunted by La Diablesse and the douennes.
The case mulled on during the day as ethnic fatigue settled into the judge, jury, and lawyers. Finally, Mr. Vishlal Thomas was called to make his oath. This is the moment of truth, Kwae thought excitedly. Vish made his oath staring straight ahead with a stone face.
The defending lawyer began to pound out his questions. The questions seemed endless. Kwae felt sorry for having to put Vish through this. Why doesn’t Vish look at me for support? he wondered. Then he realized that Vish’s mother was there, her face looking like frozen baigan choka. Gasps of shock from the jury interrupted his reverie. Vish was repeating the word, “GUILTY!” Everyone was silent. What kind of sick joke? Is this for real? Kwae felt his palms moisten. Vish didn’t look his way.
“Doh chain my head up!” Kwae yelled. He rose screaming and rushed toward Vish. Instantly the guards floored him and stabbed him with a tranquilizer. As the drug settled in, Kwae lay motionless, unable to accept that his dougla had done this to him.
When Kwae opened his eyes, he felt the coldness of the floor seeping through his back. He was in his cell. He could barely move as the tranquilizer had only partly worn off. He began to think. How could Vish carry me on this merry-go-round? Is he part of the Scare-’em Crew? Just the thought of it made his stomach churn, and he had to turn on his side to throw up. As he rolled back, turning his face away from the puke, he heard keys clanking and officers jabbering loudly. The Afro officer didn’t have his usual silly smirk. The Indo one had a container in his hand which he upended, drenching Kwae in cold water. Kwae had barely uttered a few words when he was cut short by the sneering tone in the Afro officer’s voice.
“Time to get ready for the hard life of jail, yuh buller criminal.”
“Yeah, no more pretty-boy treatment,” the Indo sneered. Kwae shivered as they handcuffed him and dragged him through the pissy walkway. This treatment was far harsher than that which he had received earlier. Now he was a convicted criminal and as good as dead. He didn’t care. He felt dead already remembering Vish’s betrayal. His soul seemed to have left his body, and he didn’t have the fight in him to protest or even to try to walk.
As the stench stung his nostrils, he remembered Redman’s murder scene. He had just walked into the car parts place at the swamp that day when he saw the big burly body lying facedown in a puddle of blood. He had been so stunned at the sight that his eyes began to blur. His mind became so cloudy that it took him awhile to realize that the scene was actually real. Unfortunately, instead of running out the back entrance, he headed through the front and tripped over a cutlass. As a reflex he picked up the bloody cutlass and then dropped it and continued running. His fingerprints on the cutlass led the police straight to him. Of course those were the only prints the lazy morons decided to take.
Kwae’s mind shifted back to the present. His underarms began to hurt as the guards dragged him to the visiting room where they had fun taunting him, tapping him up, and threatening to do all kinds of strange things with his rear end. They can’t scare me—I’m as good as dead. I just can’t believe these bastards are so sick. They left him sitting in the visiting room listening to the hum of a radio down the hall. Who could b
e coming to see me? Maybe this is part of the new treatment—how wonderfully torturous. His thoughts drifted back to the courtroom and Vish’s testimony . . .
Kwae’s vision was still blurry from the tranquilizer when a figure appeared in the doorway. My mother? Vish? Wouldn’t it be a laugh if it was Vish’s mother? He could make out a buff shape and a big head. “Doh tief my head,” Kwae choked out. His blood pumped faster as the blur turned into a man pulling up a chair next to him.
“Yuh know what your problem is, dougla?” the man began. “You think too much about the wrong things.”
“You jagabat!” Was it really Redman? “You and my Judas man, eh?” Kwae’s voice rose as he tried to get up from the chair.
“Actually, you little cynic, your mother and I,” Redman replied coolly. Kwae stopped short as the words registered.
“Your mother was right. You do have a short fuse.”
“Don’t even try to bring my mother into this,” Kwae growled. “I won’t fall for that piece of la.”
“You don’t have to.” Redman placed an envelope within Kwae’s reach. Kwae stared at it, then picked it up and spilled the contents onto the table—a badge, an ID card, and a tape recorder. He read the name on the badge—Simon Redman James.
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