Trinidad Noir

by Lisa Allen-Agostini

  “Yeah, Star.”

  I drove not homeward but back around the Savannah and up Lady Chancellor for the second time that night and pulled over at the lookout, ignoring the other two vehicles parked as far as possible from each other to further identical purposes. Sitting on the warm bonnet, gazing at town spreading westward into the inky Gulf of Paria, I mulled over the night’s events and reminded myself to call #2. He didn’t know yet he could live without me.

  Overlooking my turf was calming. The island never failed me. I strolled back to my door, pausing to take a mental snapshot for the road before ducking into the driver’s seat.

  Speeding down the foreshore with one eye running along the edge of the island instead of the road, I switched out the Canals for my 12 bootleg, “answer when it call” blaring through open windows, anticipating my imminent opportunity to do so . . . feel the change coming in, it’s overcoming you, answer when it call . . .

  I stopped by Peake’s for a Royal Castle Neptune’s Catch and post-smoke Tunnocks, finished the sandwich before I crossed Majuba, was licking the chewy, chocolatey wafer from my teeth by Diamond Boulevard, and could taste the coconut water calling from the fridge before I had my key out the ignition. Hopefully, the preemptive strike against the munchies would hold me until morning and I wouldn’t remember the Guinness ice cream tucked away in the freezer behind the rainy-day sorrel, pastelles, and pelau.

  He wasn’t back. I wasn’t surprised.

  I poured coconut water into my proudly stolen BWee glass and put on the kettle, knowing the glass would empty quickly. I prepped my mug and scribbled tea on the list on the fridge, lifted the latch and lid of my wooden box just enough to slide out a skinny spliff and fire, threw an eye back at the kettle, and went to deposit clothes in the bedroom.

  I shrugged out of my dress, letting it puddle around my feet, then lit the spliff as I stepped out of my wedges and over the puddle to catch the boil and whistle of the almost-empty kettle. I turned the fire off, filled my mug, lit incense, and hit play on Plantation Lullabies with an already heavy-lidded nod to Me’Shell for being so right, the sandalwood scent wrapping around my smoke, hot tea in the works.

  It was 4:32 a.m.

  Morning proper found me on the couch, sun shouting me awake through too-thin curtains. My bedroom was protected against this onslaught. Why hadn’t I made it there? Based on the stillness of my surroundings, neither had he.

  It was already a slightly sweaty, but otherwise perfect beach day, and the stickiness was nothing that couldn’t be justifiably alleviated with a bikini. I jump-started myself by flinging open the traitorous curtains, then dug out a bathing suit and complimentary wrap and rolled one for the road. A morning at Hundred Steps would help clear the funk so my mind could track the story.

  I took St. Lucien to Majuba Cross Road and over the hill toward Maraval, past the maxi-taxis turning around at the wider but still too small bend in the shaded road, twisting and climbing between the wall of vegetation broken by impossible-to-reach houses on one side and the immediate drop into the valley on the other. Burning it on this hill with Manu Chao bubbling in my speakers was the perfect precursor to driving up Moka, Maracas Bay, and beyond. This morning I caught myself singing along, substituting home for Tijuana, Welcome to Trinidad, tequila, sex, or marijuana . . .

  I didn’t pay much mind to the car behind me until almost Maracas. Truthfully, even if I’d noticed the car before, coming over the hill with one lane in either direction and too many bends to overtake safely, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. And since Moka, I’d been lost in my favorite view, again with one eye on the road while the other ingested the edge of civilization, quick peeks accumulating to slow discovery of coastline all the way to the bay. I loved rounding a bend to catch a glimpse of mist hanging low over the sea, the Green Hut coming up on the left for my required dietary supplement of red mango, chow, and tamarind balls. I dropped at least twenty dollars there every time and made a second stop for bake-and-shark at Maracas, regardless of which beach I spent my day on. For now, I pretended to ignore the warm smells emanating from Richard’s and Natalie’s that almost made me wish I were already on my way back to make that second stop.

  Did I vaguely remember this pale blue Sunny behind me since Diego? If so, it didn’t pass by while I was pulled over at the Hut and was now up my backside again. I tried to recall if the license plate in my rearview was the same, because the car was on the nondescript side of familiar, one of thousands on the road in that make and color, but something about it tickled the back of my brain. Was it following me? The job wasn’t high-profile—nobody reads bylines except media people—but I couldn’t think of any other reason I’d be a target. One look should assure would-be bandits or kidnappers I wasn’t worth their time.

  After the last ten minutes of more-pothole-than-road to Hundred Steps, I made the hard left onto Phillips Trace slowly, trying not to fuck up my ride, coasted to the dead end of unevenly packed dirt and parked, the sole car. I’d never seen more than three cars at Hundred Steps, so on a random weekday if I were one, chances were slim the Sunny’d be another. It had to be going on to Blanchisseuse.

  I grabbed my bag off the passenger seat and got out just in time to hear muffler and undercarriage bang and scrape off the bumpy and potholed ground, hardness belied by the weedy cushioning sprouting everywhere. Pale blue Sunny. And it was impossible to squeeze back out past someone driving in.

  Lacking the hasty-exit option, I debated fiddling around in the car until they had trekked the 136 steps down to the beach versus pelting down there and picking a cave where I might remain undiscovered and unbothered. Assuming the tide was out enough, the beach was just big enough for a full Sunny and me.

  The blue Sunny pulled uncomfortably close, its heavily tinted passenger window slid partway down. A pair of fake jewel–encrusted darkers hissed, “We watchin’ . . .” The intimidation attempt suffered from the obvious difficulty of projecting the evil eye from behind fancy darkers with one’s driver-slash-backup also obscured, even if his darkers weren’t also distractingly bejewelled. Thus dismissing the encounter as stalled small talk with overly accessorized strangers, I spun out from between our cars, hit the lock button on my key ring, and skipped down every other step, more buoyant with each one. The beach jumped up to meet my increasingly jubilant feet, and none followed.

  I dropped my bag on the deserted swath of sand, flung keys and wrap inside, and ran to the water. It licked my toes, dragging tongues of waterlogged sand over them on its retreat. I waded out till I was chest deep, bobbing gently in water calmer and warmer than any man-made and maintained pool.

  Having navigated the steps and the first splash of water on inner thighs and lower belly with that slight chill of sea breeze, I flashed back to the mystery lady in the blue Sunny. Why follow me all the way out here behind god back to accost me with some cryptic bullshit? Who was that masked woman? She didn’t look like #1’s type. Or #2’s. Something about the pale blue Sunny faintly rang a bell, but I still couldn’t quite pull it into focus.

  I shook my brain for loose change. Any recollection of a pale blue Sunny—had #1 ever driven one? gotten picked up in or gotten out of one? mentioned somebody driving one? #2, maybe? Kaya? Pale blue Sunny . . . and there it was. The memory popped so clearly into my mind—being pushed into it outside the Henry Street hawk and spit, looking up at gold-teeth Rasta in confusion, marking Fidel’s face. No wonder the driver hid behind darkers, too, just now. He knew I’d make him out.

  Waterlogged and pruny now, lingering feet dragged me back up the beach. It was hard to leave the water, but lunch with Kaya was the reason today’s bake-and-shark would be going home for dinner. The wrap was just enough clothing for Frankie’s.

  Inside an hour later we were carrying curry goat and buss-up-shut to an outside table to watch the avenue mêlée while I gave Kaya the rundown on everything since we’d spoken the previous day. She smiled slyly, dropping her eyelids and her voice into its lower
register. “Look you,” sucking thick brown sauce from articulate fingers, “you didn’t even want a boyfriend. Now you have live-in man and outside man, plus me. Should I be worried about my shrinking time slot in your busy schedule, my Social Dora?”

  “I am not a Dora. God, my mother says that shit.”

  “Mother know what she talking ’bout.”

  “You don’t know that woman. And lemme tell you, she wouldn’t like you if she knew the sexual deviancy you engage in, encouraging me—her one girl-child who she hoping will provide her with some picky head grandchildren. That woman would cut your tail. Anyway, what the ass going on with #1? Tell me stop seeing #2, ride out in super-stealth mode, can’t reach home or answer phone since. I gone looking for him, and his goldteeth Rasta partner take me for some obedient little wifey to just hustle out the bar talking ’bout I shouldn’t be there, boldfaced enough to try and send me home, and know my address to boot. You said #1 could handle my stories, and he say the same thing when we put down ground rules, so wha’ he acting up for now?”

  “Dread. I don’t know. All I saying is he fine, paying the bills, he have goals, he love you, you already living together in the house you own, so just fucking commit to your life already. You don’t even have to give me up. He’ll find it hot if we just let him watch, and you know I don’t business.”

  “But #2 think the sun rises and sets in my eyes.”

  “Yes, yes. I get all that Roberta Flack shit, but look. He’s a child, can’t do nothing for you, and when you get older faster than him, he’ll stray anyway. Plus, you only act a little interested in monogamy, #1 might think the sun rising and setting in your damn eye, too.”

  I trailed Kaya home, tormented both by the now pervasive aroma of bake-and-shark (even with a bellyful of goat) and knowing her beautiful body would have to wait while I made some considerably less enticing calls. Since Face was tracking those tracking my car, I wanted him on Fidel, goldteeth Rasta, and darkers-wearing mystery lady one time. At least we’d find #1. Who still didn’t answer his phone.

  I finally sat on the bed, reexamining the details with Kaya’s naked bottom. “And why Fidel and fancy-darkers follow me from quite Diego to accost me by Hundred Steps just to say they watching me, no particular reason? They reporting to #1 if I see #2, or wha’?”

  The bottom I was admiring dimpled attractively as Kaya lifted her head just enough to speak. “Obviously goldteeth Rasta in something with #1, and whatever it is deep enough that he know ’bout you. So his people musta recognize your car from when you park in Charford—or maybe they following you since you leave home, or regular, since he clearly know where you living—and they tell him you coming before you reach the bar. They know you only know one place to look for #1. But hear what—I really don’t care. What I care about is why you still wasting time wearing so much clothes.”

  “Sorry, babes. I coming.”

  “You better be. And then you will.”

  I quickly unwrapped myself for her. No further thought of men, mothers, or their mysteries distracted us as she undid the strings around my neck, back, and hips.

  Hours later, watching the sun drop below the window frame as the coquis’ evening refrain built harmonies, I tried his phone again. No answer. I buried my face in Kaya’s armpit and allowed myself to sleep a little as the evening expanded.

  My mobile woke me. Two messages. I hadn’t called #2. He was worried. Nothing from #1.

  I called Face back first, creeping out of bed without stirring Kaya, to pace through his questioning, for the first time in years of surreptitious encounters, whether my relationship with #1 was other than idyllic. I liked the interrogation flip even less when he interrupted my hesitantly edited account of our status.

  “Hear what, Star. I not minding your business. Just trying to make out the big picture. If you don’t tell me everything, info don’t link. No context.”

  I didn’t tell Face about #2. Divulging my arrangement wasn’t an option. I couldn’t have informants passing judgment (or information) on my personal life. Knowledge is power, and my working relationship with Face depended on his lack of power over me.

  I turned to my notebook. Things always made more sense on paper:

  —#1 told me to end it with #2, then left.

  —same car outside hawk and spit and Hundred Steps.

  Fidel just happen to be idling on Henry Street night before, or is darkers-wearing mystery lady goldteeth Rasta’s accessory as well as #1’s?

  —thus, who’s included in “we” watching me? they watching me for someone specific?

  Too many questions. I stared at the page, willing the words to morph into a graphic explanation of what the fuck was going on. Appended: or am I being watched for reasons unconnected to relationships/arrangement and #1’s demands?

  Tried #1 again. Still no answer.

  Time to reassure #2. I told him I’d see him as soon as I could without making hard plans. He was happy just to hear my voice and knew better than to expect more. He loved me, wanted to be with me, was worried about me. With his chatter in one ear and Kaya’s breathing in the other, I realized I might as well be entertained if I had to listen to the whining. I sat on the edge of the bed again, reaching out to touch Kaya’s sweet spot. The naked body turned toward my hand, eyelids cracked slowly, and a tiny smile formed. I pointed at the phone pressed to my ear, then beckoned closer and met her halfway. Kaya snuggled up, throwing an arm across my lap. I took her extended hand and pushed it between my thighs. The hand obliged, fingers instantly making the voice on the phone less bothersome. I relaxed, legs falling further apart.

  As the afterglow waned, I wrapped the conversation. He’d deal. He was #2.

  Ordinarily, there was a constant, nearly relentless demand on my attention. I needed to get home where I could be alone with my thoughts—a too-rare occurrence. I gently pushed Kaya off my lap. “I hadda ride, babes.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. I have to figure out what going on with #1, and if I stay here I’ll be completely distracted by you.” Silently self-congratulatory over the quick cover.

  “I’ll leave you alone. You don’t have to go.”

  “I do.” Breathe. “You’ll see me soon.”

  “You coming to the club tomorrow night?”

  “You know I will unless I can’t. How many times have I not been there?”

  “I just know you have other priorities right now.”

  “I promised I would, right?”

  For the 2:00 a.m. ride, I pulled the emergency smoke from my hidden compartment. Mellowed to the strains of 12, now turned down low: stop living your life like you born to dead . . .

  With temporary peace of mind, I relented and redialed #2 to take advantage of the situation under the pretext of making up. His unprecedented hesitation made him suddenly sexier than he’d ever been. As I pulled up to my house, I breathlessly informed him that in exactly half an hour my front door would be unlocked, inviting him inside for the first time, where I’d be naked, glistening, smelling of chocolate and mangos.

  I leaned back in the driver’s seat finishing the spliff, my spinning mind casting a loose net for relevance: brooding over #1’s sudden unexplained resistance to one of my boys; considering #2’s limitless adoration, manifested in zero-notice availability and loving gifts that transported me back to college relationships; wondering what business interest #1 shared with goldteeth Rasta to fund his art . . . and as the last of the smoke dissipated, I saw. I’d been looking at the wrong lover.

  Over goldteeth Rasta’s shoulder in the dim corner under the hawk and spit’s darkened windows, #2—poorly lit, out of context, thus unrecognized. Bossman ordering minions. Déjà vu—hesitation before my wrist swiveled and I pushed the door hard, then pushed it again. “I’m here.”

  No answer. No surprise.

  He was lying on the mattress we’d shared, in fresh clothes and what appeared to be a pool of his own blood—the stain would never come out. Or the smell. I’d lov
ed that bed. The last time I lay on it still felt like the day I bounced on it at the store. Now I wished I’d made it there the last time I’d slept at home.

  Mentally I recapped my entrance. What had I done, touched, moved? Or did the fact that I lived here make all that moot? Up close, it hit me. I was the last to see him alive, and the first to see him like this.

  I called Kaya instinctively as I found myself in the car, winding my way back up Terre Brûlée, needing her inside me with the panorama of St. James calling from the window that so often framed me with the previous tenant’s mural. As soon as I reached her, my mobile interrupted. I simultaneously remembered—#2 was on his way to my house.

  “Fuck. Sorry. I have to answer.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry.” It never stopped. What else could I say?

  “Hello. Look. I’m sorry.” I explained somebody was dead and I was at Kaya’s, apologized again for the wasted run, and promised to call. I rushed off the phone, needing to talk fast and refrain from admitting I had called him for makeup sex after leaving her. Instead, I said that after finding #1, I needed to make sure #2 was okay, and couldn’t not answer because he was already worried about me.

  Leaning on the windowsill again, thinking how lucky the neighbors were that I wasn’t shy, as her writhing tongue flicked over me, I had another brief flicker of recognition. I assumed it was the result of anticipation now twice fulfilled, until thirty seconds later, when the thrill arching my spine ceased, leaving me cursing whatever had quenched the rising, swirling heat. As I turned away from the window the flicker of recognition returned, but before I could turn back to confirm the pale blue Sunny parked in the street below, #2 was in the room.

  “I knew what you’d need—when I called I was almost here.” Out of context again, blue Sunny waiting outside, but unmistakable this time.

  “But, how you know where—?” Before I could get the words out, she provided the answer to all my questions, even #2’s uncanny ability to provide for desires not yet voiced.