The rain don’t stop. On the third day I start looking through the bookcase, at all the book-dem that Teena used to use in high school. I take out A Midsummer Night’s Dream and flick through it. I used to like reading long-long time ago, in elementary school. But when Teena little, is Albert who would read to her at night because I was too tired by then. Poem by Miss Lou. Things bout princess. I used to love hear him voice, that same voice that . . . but what the point of thinking bout that now. Albert always so sure him was the smarter one, but not too smart to stop him woman from calling me. Him used to joke that him have the brains and me have the looks. I didn’t find the joke all that funny, but I way past all that now. I have mi own way of being smart. Not everything have to come from book.
I pull out a big green-cover one from the bookcase and open it in the middle. This one is old English. I did learn bout that in school. Is like yesterday and donkey years ago at the same time. Paradise Lost. I like the language, even if this kinda thing could give people headache. Anyway, enough with the book-dem. I decide instead to cook up a big batch of rice and peas, because who know when this damn rain going done.
But next day the sky clear and sun bright like nothing did happen. When I go outside on the verandah, I see him, the new man, another one of them artist people staying at Miss Della place. Last year she had a friend of Stephen staying with her for a long-long time, Chris him name was, painting flowers. Flowers every day and night until all her walls full of them. Everywhere she look is flowers. But they nice-nice. The first time I go up there to take a look, he give me one of the painting-dem as I leaving. See it right there on mi wall. But imagine, when Miss Della come down here to work at her nursery, she have to look pon even more flowers. I tell her that that woulda make me go nuts. But she just laugh. She love her plants to kingdom come, know how to make them grow and send out blossom like no tomorrow. When Albert go off, she bring me one plant that look all dry up like it soon going dead. Vera, she say, just keep watering it, take care of it for me. So I care for that plant like mi life depend on it, making sure it always have water, putting it in bigger pot, feeding it fertilizer. And look at it now, big-big croton on mi verandah, like mi best friend. Is yours, Miss Della say, when it come back to life.
This new man is from I don’t know where, tall, bony, and kinda shy-looking, with a thin face and hair cut short. I think him maybe a little bit older than me. He walk round each tree lying there on the ground then bend down and run him right hand along the bark of one. Like him saying sorry or something. Him probably feel me watching him because him glance up at the verandah and him smile. I smile back. I would like to hang round and see what him plan to do with the tree but I have things to do. I have to go to the supermarket because the fridge look like I just buy it, brand new, not a thing inside. And I been longing for some fried sweet potato. Wish I had somebody to share it with, though, because one of the things that most make mi spirits drop these days is the eating by meself.
I take a quick bath and put on mi favourite olive-
green skirt and blouse—another present from Teena—and I have to say I feel good that it still fit me nice. Mean that I don’t put on too much weight, thank God for that. I been doing the exercise on the video-dem that Teena send down, and it look like they working. When I walk out the yard, I stop to look at what this carver-man doing, and even though he don’t look up, I still say hello. Is like him hard of hearing, because is a full five second before him raise him head from scraping at the tree. Our eye-dem make four, and him look over the rest of me before coming back to mi face. But him not facety or anything.
Hello, Madame, him say, and I can hear right away that him don’t really speak English, so maybe him language is Spanish or something. I smile and go bout mi business, wondering if him going to cut up the tree-dem and haul them way. I am sure them would lie there and rot before government send anybody to clear them up.
When I come back from the market, one of the tree-dem is a woman. It not quite finish, but I can make out the face and the bosom and the hips. She wearing some kind of wavy, meshy clothes. If I didn’t know better, I would say she look like me. But I not going to fool meself. I look round for him, but him not there anymore. Probably too hot now for him to work in the sun. I walk along the tree, and can’t help but laugh to meself. It must be nice to be able to do this kinda thing. Take tree and turn it into somebody.
I want to call to Lorraine to come out and look too, but I think she gone to help out Miss Della at the nursery already. She will see it when she come back to her yard.
The man turn up again the next day, and I watch him from inside mi living room. Him concentrate on the first tree, with knife and hammer and tool I don’t know the name of. It burning me up to know what him doing, but I definitely not going to go out there while him still carving. Plus I have work to do. Besides finishing Miss Della dress-dem, I should start on the blouse that Lorraine been asking me to make for her. She give me the material long-long time now and while she not saying anything bout it, I know she kinda getting vex that nothing not coming. Everybody want me to sew, although I want to stop. I don’t know where the love for it gone, but I find all sorta excuse not to sit at the machine nowadays. And is not only the knee pain, because that been around for a while and it never used to stop me. Today, though, watching that carver-man bending over the tree-dem, I feel like I should be making something too.
I cutting some silky material to make a waistband for Miss Della dress when I hear the gate creaking open, then somebody knocking on the living-room door. Of course, I always peep through the kitchen window before opening the door, because you never know, and is him I see standing there on the verandah.
Hello, I call out through the window.
Hello, Madame. Can I ask you for water?
All right, I tell him. Coming.
I open the door, and him hold back a little before coming into the living room. I tell him to sit on the high-back mahogany chair. I don’t want him putting himself on mi beige sofa when him been working in the sun like that, with him shirt sticking to him body with sweat. And especially after all the cleaning up I been doing these last days. I go back through to the kitchen and take a bottle from the fridge and bring it and a glass to him.
You want some ice?
No, this is very good, Madame, thank you.
I like the way him talk, it sound so polite and educated. I can’t remember anybody ever calling me Madame before.
I watch as him drink the water and notice the perspiration below him hairline and the grey in him hair. Looking at him up close like this, I think him must be bout the same age as me, or a little younger or older.
What you going do with the tree-dem when you finish? I ask him.
I don’t know. I will probably leave them there. I might have to go home soon.
Oh. To which country?
Him tell me the name, and mi head full up with picture of river running bright-bright red with blood. That was the story in the Gleaner and on TV when them talk bout all the bad-bad things that happen in that country. I don’t know what to say to him, but him smile at me and hand me back the glass.
Thank you so much, Madame.
Be careful, working in the sun like that, I tell him as him go through the door. And by the way, mi name is Vera.
Mine is Paul, Madame, Paul Mawenza. And him smile. And all of a sudden, is like somebody turn on light in him eye-dem.
I follow him on to the verandah and watch him for a couple minute as him start on the second tree. I wonder why him run him hand along the whole trunk before starting to cut.
I expect him to come again the next day and ask for water, but he stay outside working in the sun. So I carry the water over to him.
Him smile at me, looking grateful, and wipe him hand pon him pants before taking the glass. Him drink the water down in one go. I take back the glass then look good to see what him been up to.
This second tree now is a woman too, holding a little girl h
and. The two of them have them hair in braids, ropy and long pon the wood. The woman have the same looks of the one on the first tree. I want to bend down to touch the wood, but I don’t know if that would be right.
Nice, I say, before I leave him there in the sun and go back to mi house. I think I going finish the first dress for Miss Della today.
* * *
People now coming down our street to look at the tree-dem and him working on the third one. Everybody have something funny to say. Because we live in a country where everybody is joker. But still you can hear that them admiring what him doing. Them just don’t know how to say so. Is like when Albert left. I know people round here feel sorry for me, but nobody know what to say. If it was dead him dead, them would bring me food and sit with me pon the verandah, and hand me envelope with dollar bill to help take care of the funeral expense. But when man run off with other woman, what is there to say, really? Him gone to a better place? The angels taking care of him? Him in heaven now?
Still, when I put fire to all him clothes and things in the backyard, people come to look, like them doing now with the tree-dem. And is after that that Miss Della did bring me the dry-up plant. And she say to me, I always cutting off the bad parts of mi plants and burning them, and the next thing I know, the plant putting out new leaves and blossoms like nobody’s business, and thriving. When she say that, I did just nod mi head.
I go out now and give everybody water to drink as them standing there in the sun, watching Mister Paul turn tree into whatever.
Heh-heh, the woman kinda look like you, Lorraine tell me. She standing behind her gate, taking in everything.
Me can’t see the resemblance, I tell her. But if you say so.
I tell her that I going to start on her blouse soon, I just finishing up Miss Della clothes first, since she have to travel. And Lorraine say, Take your time, mi dear. But I know what that mean: You better hurry up before me get more vex.
When everybody gone, Paul come and knock on the door
You finish already? I ask him.
Yes, he say. Unless you have more trees, Madame?
Didn’t I say mi name is Vera?
Oh, pardon me, he say, Madame Vera.
I can’t help but laugh. Him have such a quietness bout him, and him eyes so kind and so—I don’t know what—that I ask him if he want to have some of the rice and peas that I heating up.
With pleasure, he say.
So, we there eating, and I ask him bout the trees, especially the one with the lady and little girl. And he say it was him wife and daughter. And I don’t want to push mi nose in him business, but still I ask what happen to them, although I already know in mi heart. And he tell me how a bunch of men chase them down. He don’t go into any detail, but I can see what happen. I know what people can do with machete.
You remind me of her, him say, looking at me. Of my wife.
As we sit there, not eating anymore, him tell me that him have another daughter, a girl him adopt. She was a baby when him find her, lying on her own mother body. The people who kill her mother musta think she dead too. Or some little kindness musta got into them heart and make them leave her there. Him took her with him. Twenty-three years now since that day.
She will graduate from university next week, him say. So, I’m going back for that.
Oh. That is all I can say. Mi heart full and low at the same time.
But I would like to come back, him say, talking slow like him thinking bout things. I want to work on some more trees here. I think I will come back in July, if Madame Della has space.
I going to ask her, I tell him. I sure she will keep a room for you. And I going make sure storm knock down some more tree before you come.
Him laugh, and the sound full up the house, like fresh clean breeze after lightning and thunder.
chapter twelve
Travelling Light
Christopher didn’t know how the trip to France became a multinational family affair. He could feel people staring at them as they moved through JFK, with Miss Pretty in her fur coat at the height of summer. They were all there: his father, Stephen, Féliciane, Leroy, Miss Della, Uncle Alton, Jasmine—whom he was meeting for the first time, and whose brightly coloured hair attracted eyes like moths to fire—and Miss Pretty in fur with her walking stick.
The whole thing should teach him to keep his mouth shut in the future, Chris thought, because the madness had started with his opening up about his plans to go to Italy to visit Lidia’s parents after they’d sent him an email asking him to come. They really longed to see him, they’d written, too much time had passed. And he should’ve kept the information to himself. But Féliciane had invited him over for dinner, and they were discussing the blockbuster Monet exhibition that had just opened at MOMA when he stupidly said, “I might stop over in France and visit the Monet museums before I go to Italy.”
“What?” Leroy screeched. “You going to France? Féliciane, you hear that? If Chris going to France, I going with him. You can stay here if you want.”
Chris had thought it was a joke, especially since it was the first time he had set eyes on Leroy. He liked the man, but he wasn’t looking for a friggin’ travelling companion.
“I need a visa?” Leroy asked. “You know, Fellie, if you decide to come, maybe we could get married there.”
Chris had to laugh. “Whoa. Smooth, man. Nice way to propose.”
Féliciane had stared at them both, looking as if somebody had sneaked up and vengefully stuck her with a pin. But once the curtains went up on his plans, there was no stopping the theatre piece. The next thing Chris knew, Stephen had got in on the action and arranged a group show in Paris, through contacts that Féliciane helped to provide. And the “group” meant not just him and Féliciane, but Uncle Alton and Jasmine as well. Later, Stephen claimed that it was Jasmine who called to ask why couldn’t Aunt Della and Aunt Pretty come along as well, and she professed to be quite willing to take care of the paperwork on her end, apply for visas and the like. Of course, Stephen would have to get notarized documents that attested to the fact that both women were related to him, and that he had the means to be their sponsor in America. Stephen being Stephen would have said: No problem. You can always find a way. Jasmine, meanwhile, would have to dress as a man when she passed through airports because her passport hadn’t yet been changed. She told Stephen that her lawyer was working on it but that officials at the passport office seemed determined to block things at every stage.
Later, Chris’s father joined the ensemble, saying he had always wanted to go to France and Italy and would love to see Lidia’s folks. His father had started speaking more and seemed less forgetful since the operation. He now looked at Chris when he addressed him, which was a change from past years. During the time Chris had been taking care of him, they ate meals together, and went for short walks around the neighbourhood. One late afternoon, after they’d had coffee at the fancy new Filippo’s on Second Street, his father drained his cup and said out of the blue, “I’m sorry, you know, Chris. I should have been more supportive of you, of your work. And after Lidia.”
Chris was so moved by the apology that it took him several seconds to reply. “It’s all right, Dad. I could’ve talked to you more about things.”
When his father said he wanted to accompany him to Europe, Chris gave up on his plans to travel alone, and allowed himself to be carried along, with Stephen directing the show. He concentrated instead on finishing a series of dahlias that he wanted in the exhibition. He was proud of how good he’d got at this. If only Lidia and miss moon shine could see him now.
* * *
On the plane to Paris, they took up nearly a whole row. Leroy had a window seat, with Féliciane sitting between him and Stephen. Across the aisle, Chris sat next to his father, while Aunt Della and Miss Pretty completed the four-seat section. In the next three seats, Uncle Alton was beside Jasmine and they seemed to be having a grand time, he laughing at her jokes and she tilting her head to listen t
o his stories. On Jasmine’s right slept a man who’d donned his sleeping mask and leant his head back against his little pillow as soon as the plane took off. Stephen followed his example and inhaled deeply, trying to relax, but sleep came only intermittently. He kept hearing snatches of their conversation in his disturbed dreams. Stephen saying: I can share. We can work something out. Miss Pretty asking a flight attendant if she could walk up and down the aisle. The flight attendant saying yes, as long as the Fasten Seat Belt sign was off. His father informing Aunt Della that he would choose the fish and potatoes option and not the chicken and rice because he couldn’t stand rice. Earlier, the flight attendants had distributed the menu, in English and French, and Chris had been surprised at how many of the French words he already recognized, from the lessons that Féliciane had given him. He knew it wouldn’t be a language he would ever speak fluently, however, because the masculine and feminine thing drove him nuts. He told Féliciane he would just put “la” in front of every word, unless the word began with a vowel. “La” rolled off the tongue with ease, not “le.” La pomme, la femme, la tête, la mère. He saved one “le” for “père,” father, because Féliciane had insisted on that.
Chris felt lucky to have an aisle seat as he could stretch out his legs, but his father kept shifting, trying to find a comfortable position for his frame. He eventually changed seats with Miss Pretty, who then kept squeezing past Chris to walk in the aisle when there was no turbulence. By the time the plane landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport after seven hours, he wanted to strangle them all.
A Million Aunties Page 11
