Trinidad Noir

by Lisa Allen-Agostini

  “What going on?” She was a ministering angel.

  “I don’t know.”

  She came inside and sat on the sofa, placing the plate of wontons on the coffee table. She was like a long lost friend. The smell of the wontons pervaded the room. They looked like slabs of white flesh.

  “Here, have a shot of brandy.” Carmella extracted from nowhere a small silver flask. It was metallic cold. I unscrewed the top and tipped the flask to my lips. I noticed that she was wearing a beautiful red silk kimono dressing gown. I was revived by the medicinal brandy. Carmella must’ve been very beautiful in her youth, she was ageless. She still dyed her hair jet-black. She could’ve been fifty-five or eighty. Then she said gently, without alarm, “Now you see what the police are like here. Them is part of the problem. How them could catch bandits and kidnappers? Drink some more brandy. Eat a wonton.”

  The brandy I sipped again, but the slabs of white flesh revolted me. Their spicy smell going quickly stale, the soya sauce sickly sweet.

  “You have family, Patrice?”

  “No, yes, all gone away. You know how it was? Black Power 1970. Parents bury in Lapeyrouse. Anyway . . . you know . . .”

  “What you doing here then?”

  “Love. Hug me island, hug me island.” I laughed.

  “I see. You need somebody to help you, you know.”

  Carmella advised me to call a lawyer. She got the phone number of one she had once used. “Her name is Jackie Sealy. And don’t worry with what them fellas tell you, eh, don’t worry with them, their mind sick, oui.” She must’ve been lovely as a young woman. I was reminded of The World of Suzie Wong.

  When I asked her if she had noticed anything unusual, she just said she didn’t see too good. I didn’t want to quiz her, at least not at this moment. I was terrified. The police could return at any moment. I called Jackie Sealy. She said I should insist on a warrant and call her the moment they arrived and she would be over for the interview. “The way they threatened and insulted you is not on,” she said. There is goodness in the country, I thought.

  As I waited for the police to arrive, it occurred to me that if someone had seen me looking through the binoculars at the school, they might well have reported me as a suspect. That thought made me sink deeper into the hammock. It was just that way the morning after I got here, when I had seen him arrive and depart and not thought anything of it—a little boy of ten or thereabouts getting into that Rover with a well-dressed gentleman who I thought must be his dad, or even a minister of government. No, they’re too smooth, dressed up in their big suits as if against the cold, and they go off in tinted cars which break the vehicle regulations. Anyway, black on black?

  “What does that mean?” Sasha asked when he phoned. Trying not to worry him, I explained that people had theories that crime here was committed by black people on Indians. I told him I had no evidence of that. Did anyone? Evidence was not what people needed to believe something like that here, just a racist mind.

  “Watch how you put any of that.”

  When the police returned, they were quite different in manner. They had their warrant to search and interview. I told them I was instructed to call my lawyer and they accepted. My suspicion was that they were doing everything by the book because they really thought they were onto something, a serial pedophile, and if they messed up because of procedure they would have no case.

  The crunch came after the formalities and in the middle part of the interview. Jackie scrutinized them and examined every phrase in their questions. I felt so safe with her there. This would be such a good bit for my story. I had a small tape recorder with an omni mic running that I used for my research. I might not get everything but it would be wonderful to get even the scraps of this interview and the noises as they opened and closed cupboards and doors. I knew that if Jackie weren’t here there would have been obscenities. I had flicked on the tape just before they arrived. They missed it in their cursory search of the lounge, they were so obsessed with my bedroom and my dresser where I kept my underwear and socks. I watched them snigger over my jocks and briefs. Don’t think the tape got that, more raising of their eyebrows and nasty smirks. Jackie, for a moment, was on her cell. They were even in the dirty clothes basket. They had those white gloves which they slipped on. I thought of condoms as they inserted their large black fingers. An erotic thought allowed me to escape my fear. One of the guys was very good-looking and sexy in his uniform with all the gadgetry of arrest and constriction hanging off him. If I were going to write sado, this would be where I would have to begin.

  “Do you have a pair of binoculars?”

  “Yes.” They had picked them up in the search, so I don’t know why they were asking me. Jackie whispered that they had to do their job this way. That was fine. She was almost holding my hand.

  “Do you use them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you use them this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Bird watching.”

  “There is a witness ready to testify that you were seen training your binoculars on the school opposite.”

  “Yes, I do look at the school opposite.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “It’s unavoidable, really. Birds fly where they will.” I said this with a flourish of my hand.

  “This is a criminal investigation, sir. We expect you to take our questions seriously.”

  “My client is taking your questions seriously,” Jackie interjected. She smiled at me encouragingly. “You can put the question again, officer.”

  “Very well. For what purpose did you have your binoculars trained on the school and the schoolchildren?”

  “Well, seriously, it is unavoidable when looking at birds, as you can imagine, but yes, I thought I would do a bit of detection. We’re all aware of what’s happening. There doesn’t seem to be too much detection going on in this country.” I could hear my voice getting excitable. Jackie was warning me with her eyes.

  “I would caution you, sir, to answer the questions appropriately, otherwise we will have no choice but to charge you with obstructing our legitimate police investigation into the abduction of a number of children from Miss Beaubrun’s School.”

  “You might make better use of your time trying to find the abductors and the children and that little boy, rather than wasting your time interviewing me.”

  “Sir, I caution you.”

  “My client apologizes, officer. It won’t happen again.” I could see that Jackie was saying this to me. Jackie was a smart young black woman trained at the local law school. Carmella said she was the best in town.

  “What do you mean, that little boy?” the officer asked. The room was as silent as a tomb. The glass doors to the veranda were closed, but at that moment you could hear the cries of children drifting over from the school. It was recess. Jackie looked at me. I looked back at her and we both turned to the officers sitting opposite. It was fear. It was some intractable part of my unconscious, some memory I could never remember. My memory expressed itself as tears that welled up in my eyes and ran down my cheeks. I expect the officers thought, He’s cracking up, we’ll get a confession any moment. Jackie seemed pretty apprehensive, as if saying, What haven’t you told me? She got me a glass of water and a tissue from her bag. It smelled of some kind of Chanel. Gradually, I pulled myself together and spoke.

  “One of them. The day after I first came back, I was doing what I told you, bird watching. I saw that little boy, the one who disappeared on the twentieth of November. I’ve been reading the reports. I feel sure it was he that I saw get into a Rover with a well-dressed gentleman. It was mid-morning when I have a break and I thought it odd that the boy was leaving school then, but other than that I did not think anything, because at that time I did not know about the abductions, having just come back into the country. But piecing together the stories in the papers, I feel pretty sure.”

  “Why all the interest?”
This question was spontaneous and not one of their prepared ones.

  “I write. I’m writing a story about the disappearing children for a journal in London.”

  “But you’ve been withholding information in a criminal investigation. Why didn’t you report this?”

  Jackie was looking intently at me. I had not told her this.

  “When I first saw him, I was unaware of the abductions. When I found out, my visit to the police station did not inspire confidence. You fellas don’t get good press.”

  “I would not play detective, sir. And now, to clear you from our list of suspects, we will require you to come down to the St. Claire Police Station and give us your fingerprints and other particulars.”

  Jackie nodded. This was appropriate formality.

  “Yes, certainly. But you know, when you came earlier, even today when you were going through my private things—”

  “If you or your lawyer has any complaints, sir, you can put them in writing to the Commissioner of Police. You understand? You know.”

  There it was again, you know. That nervous tic. This told me that they had reached their limit of good behavior. The fuckers. They were going to get away with their obscenity and brutality.

  “One thing, sir. We would like an item of clothing from your soiled clothes to match a stain there with other evidence.”

  “You what?” It was all in his eyes: the hate, the brutality which he had not been able to administer.

  Jackie was utterly professional. “I trust that the item of clothing will be returned to my client in the proper manner.” They did not bother to reply, so Jackie repeated the question.

  “Yeah, man,” the officer replied.

  “Officer, I will repeat my question a third time and I will expect you to take the matter of a criminal investigation seriously. I trust that the item of clothing will be returned to my client in the proper manner.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Jackie went down to the police station with me and the officer on duty did the required.

  Weeks have gone and I’ve not made any headway with my little boy or with my weight, despite the fact that I am walking each day. Walk faster, eat less. How will I make the road on j’ouvert morning?

  I get these ideas into my head on my walks. I have been noticing this house, cute little bungalow, just around the corner, really, with petrias that have just burst into bloom, bluey-purple; gorgeous color, and I love that I know the names of trees. The house is empty, or looks like it is. I wonder about that each morning as I pass and dream. I have been building a fantasy to give up my cage and move into this bungalow. I can see that there is a garden behind. The porch has been closed in, pity, fear!

  I’m still shaken by my visit from the police. I keep my focus. No, not on my childhood, my stolen childhood, but the stolen childhoods which are at the moment plaguing this city.

  I think the teachers are having a meeting today. No kids have arrived. That’s ominous. I hope now that they are not going to close the school, though I will completely understand why if they do. What have I got? Absolutely nothing. We need detection. Do you know that DNA is not allowed as evidence in the attempt to prosecute in this country? What are they going to do with my soiled briefs?

  There he is. I can see him. He’s running along the pavement opposite: khaki pants, blue shirt, satchel for a mountain climber on his back, a mite stacked with education books. Remember what Prime Minister Williams said back in ’62: Your future is in your school bag. I feel to be sick. He lifts his head with his mum and dad’s hopes and ambitions, not to mention Miss Beaubrun’s injunctions based on the national anthem, where every creed and race find an equal place, and as it was just Christmastime when I came, the carols of the story of Bethlehem. What I think is that every creed and race does have an equal place and that any of them could be the abductor of the children, of my little boy. He has a name. His name is Elijah.

  Sas, Can you imagine the weight of that name in a country that not only needs a prophet but a promised land to go to? No, fucking hell no! Not any more of those. Can’t we just stay here and clean up the shit we’ve got? Sas, how cynical can I get?

  P

  There he is, the smallest boy of ten that you can imagine. He is skipping alongside the gentleman. I take it to be his father. It’s a dream. I’m that obsessed. It’s just that he looks like I looked at ten in khaki pants and blue shirt. A disappeared childhood. I once said I loved my childhood.

  The couple, each morning parked just below the chief justice’s house in the ferny gulch with the bamboos, are there again today, Sas. They were having a row this morning. Where do they fit in? Still suspicious. Then I notice that the house, the cute bungalow, has two cars parked underneath. One is a Nissan Sunny, can’t make out the other. Oh no, someone has bought my bungalow. There’s a lot of garbage out this morning, stacks of old newspapers and several black plastic bags. They’re moving in? Moving out?

  P

  “You feeling okay?” Carmella asks through the burglar proofing when she hands me her weekly delivery of steamed wantons.

  “You want to come in?”

  “You want company.” She tells me, sitting on the sofa, that despite her bad eyesight she remembers that she did notice the Rover. “You know why?”

  “No?”

  “I had an old man friend who used to drive one and come and take me out. He died this year. I get accustom looking out of the window when I hear a car arrive to park under the window. Next to your place is my place, but I don’t have a car. He used to park there.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Odd light today. When this happens, everyone says it’s Sahara dust. The Harmattan! A dusty wind across the Middle Passage.

  When I come back down from the hills after my walk, pass the couple in their car, I notice that one of the cars from the cute bungalow is parked outside on the road. It’s a Rover. My heart misses a beat. The windows and windscreens are caked with dirt and someone has scrawled something in Sahara dust at the bottom of the back right-hand side window. Because it’s just by me, I stop to read, to decipher, because the dew, like tears, has smudged the message. It’s just one word, two—Elijah Help.

  I do my duty and call the police on my cell.

  We’re too late.

  Sas, this is a dark time, my love. The bodies of the boys have been found. A boy of twelve was drowned in a pond. The autopsy revealed sexual assault. Another boy was raped, rupturing his internal organs. Another two boys were found raped. The boy named Elijah was buggered, beaten, and tortured. The owner of the Rover was picked up, but without DNA will he be prosecuted? The Minister of National Security, speaking on crime in the country, said that free education had been given, unemployment was down, the economy was buoyant: Youth are not availing themselves of these opportunities and they have lost sight of God.

  Well, how much darker can we get than this, Sas?

  P

  Phone me.

  Sas

  HOW TO MAKE PHOTOCOPIES IN THE TRINIDAD & TOBAGO NATIONAL ARCHIVES

  BY ROBERT ANTONI

  Uptown Port-of-Spain

  First Message

  dear mr robot:

  now as i have lil chance 2 catch me breath & cool down some after all dem boisterous carryings-ons of las night, of which i can only admit shameful 2 have play my own part in dem, my womanly desires catchin de best a me unawares much as i fight dem down, cause lord only know dis pussy aint get a good airing-out like dat in many a long day, & now it finish at last wid all dat amount a pulsatin & twitchin-up so sweet & i could collec meself little bit & sit down cool & calm & quiet enough dis mornin 2 write u out dis email & put it all down clear in b & w fa u 2 hear, so LISTEN GOOD what i tellin u, eh: if u tink u could get u fockin hands pon dat machine easy as dat, u mad like fockin toro!!! i aint oversee dese national archives all dese amount a fockin years only 2 be ram-jam-tank-u-mam quick & easy so, u unnastan? & i dont give a FOCK if u is wealthy whiteman, or famous books writer fro
m amerika, or whoeverdeassitis, aint NOBODY does touch dat xerox machine but me, u unnastan, & miss samlalsingh under my own supervision, & u could fock me & miss samlalsingh 2 till BOTH WE PUSSIES SMOKING LIKE BUSHFIRE, but wouldn’t get u no closer 2 dat machine, u unnastan?

  good

  now u unnastan

  so mr robot i done check tru de card catalogue & fortunate for u in de c f stollmeyer esq collection is most a de numbers a dat journal u looking fa, DE MORNIN STAR, dating from 5 feb 1845 tru de following year approx, & i give dem a lil looksee meself & most is in pretty good shape & not 2 smudge & fade so u could read dem easy enough, & i check fa dem papers 2 a dis man u name, J A ETZLER, & in de stollmeyer esq collection u gots dem 2, 1 call PARADISE & nex call MECHANICAL SYSTEM & a turd i cant remember so good de name a-tall wid some longass fockin title bout MIGRATION 2 DE TROPICS & MATRIXULATION OF SOMEBODY OR SOMETING SO, & of course u got copies of all de local news from dat era 2, p o s gazette & guardian & standard & all de res

  anyways, u gots dem all, mr robot, & me or miss samlalsingh will hol dem for u at de reserve frontdesk, but bear in mind mr robot what i tellin u, eh: rules is rules & laws is laws & u cannot remove NO documents from de premises a-tall a-tall, & as de sign post pon de wall behin de selfsame frontdesk read clear enough fa u & all to see in de queens own proper english & let me quote, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE PHOTOCOPIES OF ARCHIVAL DOCUMENTS PERMITTED, AND ALL LAPTOPS, SCANNERS, OR OTHER ELECTRONIC DEVICES ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN ON THE PREMISES, only PENCIL & PAPER mr robot 2 write down what u want & take enough notes fa u research

  cordial,

  miss ramsol

  director, t&tna

  ps mr robot if u want 2 see me again 2night u could please meet me at pelo roun 9

  Second Message

  dear mr robot:

  so u asks me las night when we did get tru wid all dat amount a jookin-up & shoutin-down de place so sweet like dat mother of jesus!!! & we was relaxin lil bit catchin a cool, & u wants me to tell u lil someting bout my family here in t’dad & where we comes from, & i dont mind 2 tell u since being a coolie aint noting shameful fa me 2 feel embarrass bout a-tall, & even dough in trut i aint know 2 much bout where we comes from meself, only as i was sayin las night dat de furs of my ancestors 2 reach here in dis place come from calcutta pon de very FURS ship a dem indenture coolies, de FATAL ROZAC, & u sit up in de bed jus den wid you toetee still half-hard still stannin-up like a stanpipe jus as i say dat exclaimin loud loud HOW FOCKIN COOL IS DAT?! dat my ancestors arrive here in port-of-spain de very same year as u family reach here wid dat crazyass man ETZLER & he TROPICAL EMIGRATION SOCIETY, de selfsame year of 1845