Trinidad Noir

by Lisa Allen-Agostini

  “Are either of you partial to oysters?” Dr. Traboulay was regarding the ruins sadly, lost in his own thoughts. Fiona, trying to enjoy the view, had shifted closer to Roy.

  Roy said, “I imagine most people are.”

  Dr. Traboulay, moving his head slowly from side to side, said, “They tasted better in the days of the restaurant, more like a clean sea.” He held up his hand, curling the fingertips to caress his palm as he studied them. “The sea bed, actually. In the days of this restaurant, we had such oysters. They had more life then. The salt was better.”

  “Do you still eat them?” Fiona asked. “There must be somewhere the sea is still okay.”

  “Yes, but . . . but . . . it is not the same . . .” He tapped the side of his head. “It is horrible, sometimes, to know things. I learned too much. The British were great collectors of knowledge. And they shared it with me. But then came independence, and—and—it was good. Yes, it was. But only for a while, only for a while. The new rulers came to hate everything, including the knowledge on which my profession is built. To them it was colonial knowledge, you see. They hated it all, especially with the oil boom. There was nothing we could not buy. They set me up at the university; they ruined my life. I was a flaneur in my profession, in the strict French sense. Then, almost overnight, the nation—if that is the right word for a place like this—became a flaneur in the strict English sense. And so we remain, lapsing, a ghetto country, adrift and in awe of Almighty America when it pleases us. And so,” he waved at distant hovels in the valley, at the sea changing into a last shade of blue like the night, and the orange tongues of flame, brighter now, in the far south of the island, “we remain slaves, occasionally bringing a glimmer of amusement even to the most liberal eye.” Dr. Traboulay shuddered and slapped his matted head repeatedly as if trying to shake out something inside. Again he reverted to local dialect. “It have too much thing inside this head. Mankind is a sinful beast, yes.” He moved toward the bushes from which he had emerged earlier. Roy watched, hands in pockets. “Excuse me,” Dr. Traboulay said, “I must visit my aunt. I shall return shortly.” He nodded and disappeared into the tall grass.

  “We should be going soon, I guess,” Roy said, relieved.

  “It’s odd, but I think I’d feel better about that poor man, about the world, if I knew he was really angry about something. It’s so sad to be damaged like that.”

  “Maybe he was angry. A long time ago.” Roy, hands still in his pockets, gazed at the distant gulf. He thought Fiona would question him, but she didn’t.

  Suddenly Dr. Traboulay reappeared. He went to the rock wall, hoisted himself up, and sat. Then he bowed his head, clasped his hands, and began to mumble. Before him the gulf reflected the deep clear indigo of the evening sky. Lights in the valley showed, little pieces of brightness cluttering their way down to the capital, down to the sea; and there, except for the ships in the harbor and beyond, these ships like signals of isolation, they stopped.

  “He’s praying,” Fiona said. She blinked several times, then wiped her eyes.

  The cell chimed. Roy went to the car and answered, leaning against the car door, watching Fiona to his left in front of the ruins and Dr. Traboulay some ninety feet ahead on the wall. Freddie’s voice was crisp, more alive than earlier.

  “Boss,” Freddie said, “Souza call. He head hot. Like jumbie hold him.”

  Roy swallowed. “I’m listening.”

  “Miss Fiona do something. He in a state.”

  “A little misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about. I’ll see about it.”

  “Better hear this first,” Freddie said, his voice rising. “Souza say you don’t want to know what Miss Fiona really wrap up with.”

  Roy tried to think. “Tell him not to be concerned. I know what he’s worried about, and I’ve checked it out. All harmless.”

  Fiona began walking over to Dr. Traboulay. A strand of her hair lifted by the wind caught the last light and curved around her face, across the tip of her nose. She stopped near the doctor, leaned against the wall, and spoke. Roy could not hear her.

  “Well, boss,” Freddie said, “that is you and he business.”

  A pause.

  “You know I will help you how I could,” Freddie continued. “But is only so far I could go, you understand. Me and the fellas watching out for you, but Souza like he watching everybody these days. Best thing to do now is get the lady out fast.”

  Roy coughed, thinking.

  “Boss?”

  “You have anything on a Dr. Traboulay? Vagrant fella, educated, maybe mad?”

  “I hear about him. They call him Watchman, for all them watch on his hand. Know the time all round the world. He does be all about, but he in North a year now. He know plenty thing, like history nuh, and about bird and animal. It had a fella like that in the Bahamas fifteen years ago. He cause plenty trouble. Fockin’ man was suppose to be blind, yes, but he was workin’ for the DEA. Anyhow, Souza calling you just now, eh.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Roy walked around the car twice, counting to himself. Fiona and Dr. Traboulay hadn’t stopped talking. The cell rang again. He counted to five before answering.

  “How are we, Roy?” De Souza’s smooth slow voice filled his ear.

  “There’s a problem?”

  “In our business, there’s no such thing, Roy, only solutions. Kind of unfortunate, but there you are.”

  Silence.

  “How was the zoo?” De Souza asked.

  “Needs maintenance, as usual. It’s one problem that’ll never be solved, but it works fine, doesn’t attract much attention. Which is the way I thought we liked things.”

  “Do you recall, Roy, the time I took you to meet God in Miami? Recall, if you can, the movie theater for the special preview, the scent of the people, especially the women, Roy. You said—and I’ve never forgotten this—that if heaven is a place, this is how it would smell. To me it was the scent of— how shall I put it?—utmost security. Power. Of never having to worry about anything. Rolex watches shining in the dim light. The women were heaven scent. I laughed when you said that. You’ve always had a way with words, Roy, words and women. It’s a talent you should use a little more wisely, especially when it comes to Fiona.” He sensed De Souza thinking: a series of faint sighs, but lately combined with some static, which was unusual for De Souza’s connections.

  “So how is He?” Roy asked. “How is God?”

  “He still resides in Miami, and knows your mother socially. It’s not a very warm acquaintance, despite her devotion to the church. It’s an appropriate one, however, unlike yours with Fiona.”

  “Exactly what’s on your mind, De Souza?”

  “There’re a few matters I’m concerned about.”

  “I assure you there is nothing to worry about. Fiona told me everything. It’s nothing but schoolgirl drama.” Roy winced. “She still has a bit of a crush on you.”

  Fiona and Dr. Traboulay were now silhouettes against the dark-blue light, talking to one another. The doctor had straightened from his hunched position and now faced Fiona, who stood attentively a few feet away, arms folded.

  “Good. Very good, Roy. Now tell me about our resident zoologist. Or is it anthropologist?”

  “Harmless,” Roy said. “For Christ’s sake, you’re really tense. Get a massage or something.”

  “I’m leaving the matter entirely in your hands, Roy. I’m leaving for Miami tomorrow. I’m taking the good word to Him. I have faith in you. As does He.” De Souza coughed. “Roy?”

  “Here.”

  “I did warn you about our mutual lady friend.”

  “Yes. Say hello to my mother.”

  Roy tossed the cell onto the car seat and began walking toward Fiona and Dr. Traboulay.

  The zoologist was speaking: “It was Conrad, my dear, who said, ‘All ambitions are lawful except those which climb upwards on the miseries or credulities of mankind.’ To that we must add the animal kingdom, and the remaining beauty
of this island. If we lose it, we lose ourselves.” The doctor’s words trailed into the evening air.

  It was cool. The mountains were dark, austere.

  Roy, do you love me? He was trying to think.

  The jaguar stopped pacing. The zoo’s nocturnal captives were restless in the dark. He sensed their movements, confined as his own, and stood tall on his hind legs, front paws against the cage, observing. The moon had not yet risen. A scent of salt lingered on the sign the man had attached to the upper part of his cage. No one had been around then, and the man, who spoke Latin—sounds similar to those that accompanied the first genuine intrusion into the jaguar’s environment over five hundred years ago but that afternoon a gentle music—had given him salt, which the jaguar licked from his palm. Then the man attached a black wooden sign onto the jaguar’s cage, weaving a strong cotton string, tied to nails in the board, around the bars. Now in the night, the jaguar, standing seven feet tall, his nocturnal instincts aroused, was looking through the bars, his heavy head and jaws near the sign. Occasionally, smelling a faint hint of salt, the jaguar licked the sign, his eyes half-closing, affectionate almost.

  The moon rose.

  In careful white script, the sign read:

  For centuries, the jaguar has been associated with human fears and desires. In Mesoamerica, around 1200 B.C., Olmec art was dominated by human-jaguar forms resembling werewolves. After the Mayan conquest, images of the jaguar, balam, thought to be the manifestation of the night sun under the earth, guarded tombs, temples, and thrones. The Aztec culture’s warrior elite was called the Jaguar Knights. Aztec tradition included human sacrifice, in which jaguar-headed altars received the still-beating hearts of victims. The word jaguar comes from Amazonia, where Guarani Indians tell of a beast, yaguara, that attacks with one leap. The jaguar frequently subdues its prey in such a manner, killing quickly by biting into the skull or neck as opposed to strangulation, the preferred method of most large cats. The jaguar is South America’s most powerful predator, and it grows larger in southern Amazonia; some males measure eight feet from nose to tip of tail and weigh over three hundred pounds.

  This jaguar’s title is Lord of Olmec, after the Olmec culture. Call him Olmec.

  I remain yours faithfully,

  Dr. E. Traboulay

  Resident Zoologist and Conservationist

  Toward an opening in the trees on the other side of the zoo, the yaguara was looking, his gaze as steady and penetrating as though he had sighted prey.

  Had the yaguara been able to leap through the cage, through the air, and into the trees and beyond, across the night sky, flying in a magical bound to what lay in the distance across the sea, he would come to the coast of South America. He would land on a long wide and beautiful beach, the moon lighting it as if its sand were made of salt or crushed diamonds. He would run along the beach, hearing the sound of waves, enjoying the scent of sea and the soft sand beneath his paws. Soon he would angle toward the jungle, running to its dark green billions of leaves tinted by moonlight. And there he would be.

  Yaguara.

  ERIC’S TURN

  BY RIAN MARIE EXTAVOUR

  Tunapuna

  Eric’s lips pulled back and he inhaled sharply as the liquid heat slid over his tongue. He blew strands of steam from the soup, and sipped the next spoonful cautiously, letting it trickle to the back of his throat. He gazed intently at each spoonful of the murky yellow liquid with the occasional dumpling, carrot, and oh-so-rare corn. The warm soup pushed against the cold in his body, temporarily evicting the uninvited guest and making him shudder. He would not feel so cold if he had worn his blue jacket, but after Jerry had jeered at him last week about the “old rag” causing the office staff to erupt in laughter, he had decided it was time to leave it behind. For three months he had succeeded in hiding the shredded lining of the overused pockets, but now the shoulder seams were beginning to tear, and a week ago the zipper refused to align.

  At the time he had simply shrugged his shoulders, bowed his head, and chuckled along as he usually did. Answering Jerry would only lead to more humiliation. He certainly wasn’t going to ask them to adjust the air-conditioning. Besides, the jacket was the only thing he had left of her. Wearing it not only kept him warm in the office, but it allowed him to feel closer to her. It was the one thing she had not taken when she left, and every day he would breathe into it trying to catch a remnant of her perfume. Now the jacket lay at home bundled under a cardboard box waiting for his return.

  “Ey, Mopey Dick, you call the football association yet?” a voice asked. “The minister waiting on the budget.” Ryan stood over Eric’s desk cradling a stack of folders and tapping his foot.

  To Eric, this gray-brick, two-story office complex housing the ministry felt like a prison with its creamy walls and sleepy sentinels, too old or too fat to run after any perpetrator. Its manicured presence seemed to mock the neighboring Regional Corporation to the back, whose yard was littered with mud-caked tractors, backhoes, and dumptrucks. In front, the busy Eastern Main Road bustled, slowing only on Sunday evenings and holidays. Eric felt trapped. His release would come later at his favorite bar, Spektakular-4-Rum—the only place that would still give him credit. As long as he hid there, the pressures of wife and work remained at bay.

  “No, I’ll get to it after lunch,” he answered, turning his back to Ryan.

  “I’ll let her know,” Ryan replied smugly before walking off. Eric’s failure would be another feather in his colleague’s cap of ambition. Maybe this time the minister would understand and send Eric back to the messenger department.

  No one in the office understood how he had been promoted to clerical duties. He was disorganized. His work was always behind schedule causing delayed payments of community funds. This embarrassed the entire department that, prior to Eric’s arrival, had prided itself on its efficiency. For the five months that Eric had worked in this office, he had pretended not to notice the cold stares and sudden silences whenever he appeared. He was certain they were all conspiring to get him transferred, and he also knew that this current post was the head messenger’s way of getting rid of him after years of trying.

  So Eric kept to himself. Whenever anyone approached his desk, he would cover the papers in front of him. He never used the lunchroom, and he remained at his desk unless he had to go to the men’s room or grab a bite to eat. At 12, when most of the staff was carpooling to Fai’s in upper Tunapuna or to the Valpark Shopping Plaza, Eric was never included. The corn soup lady in the market lower down the main road was Eric’s only option on days when he did not pack a lunch. Fortunately, the walk gave him a chance to get out of the office—away from Ryan and Jerry and the others.

  Eric passed the butter-colored fire station with its silver training tower and fire tender. The adjacent police station had recently been renovated, but the demolished cars to the front and side made it seem like a car dump. Eric stepped forward to cross Pasea Road then jumped back as a car screeched past, its driver trying to catch the light. He ignored the expletives thrown his way and crossed. The snackette on the opposite corner was open, but Eric knew that the plastic-wrapped products would not be sufficient to stave off these hunger pangs. Only corn soup would fill the emptiness and keep him warm in the office.

  He walked past vendors with clothes hanging and a man selling leather shoes from the back of a station wagon, offering his wares to passersby. A female vendor straightened her display of panties and bras as a maxi-taxi boomed past with laughing schoolchildren, then stopped abruptly to board another as irate drivers honked and swerved to avoid colliding.

  Today Eric left for lunch earlier than usual, so there was no line at the corn soup stand and no need for meaningless bits of conversation with strangers. Good. He needed to think about how to execute his plan. He paid for his soup, covered the Styrofoam cup, and hurried back to the office. Before crossing Pasea Road, he paused and looked southward toward the Palladium Cinema. Its silver-gray gate was pulled shut. Cara l
oved the cinema. Eric thought of the many evenings they had enjoyed cuddling in the warm darkness with only the light from the screen before spilling onto the sidewalk with the crowd after a four-hour matinee. Once, during their courtship, they had left the cinema around midnight and walked through the dark alley that emerged at the back of the market. They had leaned against a wall to kiss, but had run off when a stranger approached from the shadows demanding money. Later they had laughed off their fright. That seemed like a lifetime ago. After they had married, trips to the cinema became a task to Eric and soon waned.

  Now Cara would not be around to comfort him after a trying day, to help him laugh off the pressure. Before their separation, she had been there to listen to how he was given the most difficult projects to work on, and how the others had used every opportunity to report him. She had made him feel like he belonged—somewhere. Her soft voice would calm him, and she would bring him a cup of warm milk, sit beside him, and rub his shoulders until he fell asleep. But this time, she would not be there to tell him it was all right, that they just did not understand him. Eric decided that today was the day. He could wait no longer. If she refused to come back . . . No, she would come back. She loved him.

  Later that afternoon, as he sat at his desk thinking of the empty house awaiting him that evening, his eyes brimmed with tears, and it took extra effort to breathe. Why had she left? Why? And who would take care of him now? How could she be seeing another man? She belonged to him. As he thought of her, the room became blurry and seemed to spin. His breathing became rapid and deep as though he had been running.

  “Oh, geez, look at Eric’s face,” a voice whispered.

  “Oh no, not again,” someone answered.

  “This is the second time this month,” said another.

  “I hear he have a heart problem.”

  More voices joined. Indistinct figures moved in front of him. Their voices became merely a buzz under the sirens sounding in his head. Eric placed the Styrofoam cup on the desk and laid his head next to it, panting to catch his breath. His hands began to shake. The tremors moved upwards until his entire body was shaking. He bit his lips to hold back sound, but a whimper escaped, signaling an avalanche of choking sobs that caused his chest to heave. He raised his head gasping for air, but as he did, the swivel chair rolled back from under him and he slipped to the floor. He curled up in a corner between the wall and his desk and rocked. Various feet appeared under the desk, and someone was calling his name. His sobs became guttural moans, silencing the voices. Someone came around the desk and bent over him, calling, “Eric! Eric . . . Eric . . .” It was Jerry. Grabbing the man’s arm and clutching his own chest, Eric cried out Cara’s name, closed his eyes, and let his body go limp.