by Yaba Badoe
I’m always here, Sante-girl. I’ve been with you so long, where would I go now?
I tell Priss my dream and a membrane flips over her eyes as she ruminates.
I keep talking, telling her again what I’ve told her already: a man called Mamadou gave his flute to me. His brother could be the African I saw tonight, a survivor of the wreck that almost killed me. Don’t know why, but Grey Eyes frightens me. May be after me.
Eyelids flick back and eyes spark: And what are you going to do about it, Sante?
Bird’s been with me so long, she knows when I’m running scared. Bucks me up with feathery swish on the ear. I sit up, climb down from my bed.
Cobra rolls over and murmurs: ‘Are you all right, Sante?’
‘I’m going walkabout,’ I tell him.
He groans, flips over and falls asleep again while I step out with Priss.
*
From when I first recognised my A from my B, from the time I could talk and asked questions, no one, not even Mama Rose or Redwood, was able to answer. Questions such as: where on this wide earth do I come from? And who else has the same blood in their veins as I do? From when I began to realise that not everyone can chat to an eagle the way I talk to Priss, I understood that the best time of the day, by far, to think, is first thing in the morning. Before the sun’s up the earth’s still and calm, and daylight creatures are too drowsy to create a ruckus with their lungs. They aren’t yelping and twittering or preening in the shade of trees.
That’s why, when I step into the velvet quiet, and the dream still seems to be riding me, I don’t mind. Waking and sleeping feel much the same round about now. The dream may be hovering close enough to touch, but I know for a fact, I’ll be able to figure things out.
Some folk try to run down their thoughts. I hunt. Priss perches on a strap on my hand and then soars, feathers flaunting gold in a charcoal sky. Glides over a stretch of farmland, over crops of maize, tomatoes, grapes. She quivers, then drifts on a current of cool air. Tells me it’s too dark to see much. Sky’s going to clear soon though and it’s going to be hotter than yesterday. But for the time being, she can’t smell a whiff of trouble on the breeze.
She can’t sense it up there, ’cause most of it’s in me. Trouble. On my mind, in my bones. Thoughts twist and leap, until feelings I don’t fully understand free themselves and tumble on to my tongue, to help me name what’s bothering me: Mama Rose.
I know she loves me, but it can’t be right to rule someone you love through fear.
Thoughts winkle out of me and when they’re in the open, I decide. Either I obey Mama Rose and live life her way, or learn what I can from the African. Grey Eyes unsettles me, for sure. Even so, if Mama Rose won’t let me meet the two of ’em, I’ll make it easy for them to track me down. I’ll help them find me. That note is mine.
Priss on the wing sees movement. Hovers, then dives for the kill. I hear a shriek and a second later it’s over. She brings back her prey, a small, black hare and I let her eat it: eyes, tongue, muscle and blood. Everything.
7
Soon as I get back, I discover Mama Rose has gone to the city with Redwood on his motorbike.I put Priss on her perch and tune in to Bizzie Lizzie’s chatter as she dresses in the truck next door. She can’t decide which of her many hats to wear to keep the sun off her face. Porcelain-white skin breaks out in freckles at the slightest sniff of sunshine. Swears she freckles easily ’cause she’s closer to the sun than anyone else she knows, except Redwood. That’s what she told me once. I listen to Lizzie grumbling and start my morning chores.
I take Taj Mahal down to a stream at the bottom of the camp. Let him drink, then feed him outside his trailer as I get ready for my next move.
Strictly speaking, Taj belongs to Midget Man, but since he can only reach parts of him if he stands on a crate, I often help. Today, when he appears, he brushes Taj’s legs and tail while I do the rest of him.
Grooming is Midget Man’s time for thinking. He savours the stroke of his hand over Taj’s coat, the smooth curve of his hind legs, the tender lift of his feet. Usually whispers to him too, like I do, but Midget Man’s not himself this morning. Keeps looking over his shoulder, eyes darting from one end of the camp to the other. Twists his moustache, tugs his goatee. He glances at the twins under an olive tree eating bread with avocado, then at Mimi on a stool singing, combing her hair. Can’t settle his eyes on anything, not even the beauty of Taj’s face, the faint smudge of a dark star on his forehead. Mind can’t settle either. Takes me three brushstrokes of Taj’s rump to work out what’s on his mind: Mama Rose and Redwood. Midget Man’s worried about ’em.
When Mimi clambers into the truck, he whispers: ‘They went into town to find those men, Sante. Find out what they know and strike a deal with them. Get ’em off your back.’
Doesn’t make sense to me, no sense at all. Why would Redwood and Mama Rose do exactly what she told me not to do? Mama Rose is up to something. Knows more than she’s letting on too, if she wants to find out what those men are acquainted with. There has to be money involved, if they’re considering making a deal.
I look at Midget Man, imploring him to tell me more. He knows what it’s like to have people tower over you, tell you what to do, what’s good for you.
‘No,’ he says. Says no but he’s struggling with his conscience. Brain’s muddled as a maze, with no obvious exits and entrances, and he’s lost in the middle of it. Midget Man rubs the brush of hair on his chin: ‘I’ve told you more than I should already, Sante,’ he says. ‘I daren’t say anything else.’
I touch his shoulder, tell him I understand, then ask if I can take Taj for a ride on the shore.
‘A few hours should be fine,’ he says, fondling Taj’s muzzle. ‘But be careful not to let him get too hot. It’s going to be a scorcher today.’
I promise and make my move. It takes me a while to persuade Cobra to stay put and stall Mama Rose and Redwood when they get back. He agrees reluctantly, and I set off on Taj with Cat, a rucksack on my back.
*
The campsite’s not far from the ocean, and with Priss leading the way, it doesn’t take us long to reach it. Taj trots through a field of sunflowers, across a highway, then we head down a hill dotted with lemon trees, to a wide open stretch of beach. It’s still early morning, the air bright with human chatter. There’s a rattle of cafés opening, the heave and haul of shutters pulled up. Grunts and groans of waiters as they drag tables outside; laughter of men arranging recliners to rent. Priss flies away without so much as a backwards glance, and soon all I can see of her is a fleck on the horizon.
I jump off Taj. Cat follows. We take reams of Taj’s finery out of my rucksack and we dress him up. Silver bells and white ribbons, white tassels on his tail. We primp and prettify him, so that by the time we’re done, Taj looks like a fairy-tale stallion fit for a princess. I tie a rope around his neck, give it to Cat, then leap on his back while Cat leads us.
We’ve never done this sort of thing outside the ring before. Never created a spectacle to draw attention to ourselves; never deliberately broken cover. That’s what we’re doing, me most of all. A black girl on a silver stallion. A girl in white cut-offs and T-shirt doing handstands on a magnificent horse. I steady my hands, bend backwards until my legs slide either side of Taj’s neck. Then I’m up again, a big smile on my face, to a faint ripple of applause.
As Cat takes us through our paces at a canter, a crowd gathers and the applause grows louder. I stand on Taj’s broad back, and with both hands arched above me, do a toe-touch-sky arabesque. Keep my balance. Hold the pose for as long as I can. Drop on to Taj’s back again and then do another handstand.
Passers-by pause to stare. Joggers stop running. Traffic snarls to a crawl. A crowd forms around us: mothers and toddlers, folk on the way to work. Most of ’em, intrigued by my acrobatics, stop and gawk, as others smile at me and walk on. All of ’em, I’m sure, will mention me to their friends and families: the black girl on a white horse.
And with a bit of luck they’ll prattle so much the African and Grey Eyes will hear. And even if they do cut a deal with Mama Rose and Redwood today, they’ll be here to see me tomorrow.
This is what I’m thinking, when I sense a presence in the gathering, and hear a plea for help faint as the whimper of a newborn pup. I see her hair first, a tangle of red maple leaves in fall. I catch a glimpse of that hair and feel her spirit reaching out to me. The redhead in the audience from last night. The girl with the worn-down family. I complete a back-flip, and when I’m astride Taj soaking up applause, I look for her.
She’s at the edge of the crowd, staring at me with glazed eyes. Mind’s a blank, but in her heart I see a pool of loneliness swollen with anguish. Girl’s in trouble, for sure.
The thought zings through me, as Cat touches the right side of her nose: our signal for trouble. I look to my right and see a police car slowing down. It stops and a black-boot in blue gets out. Looks at me. Takes off a crumpled cap. Wipes the sweat off his brow and surveys the crowd.
I wanted attention. Got more than I bargained for.
Cat blinks twice at me: should we stay or leave?
Heart hammering, I touch the middle of my forehead. We’re staying.
The man in blue takes out a walkie-talkie and speaks into it.
My pulse quickens, racing faster than I can think.
The black-boot puts the walkie-talkie away. Just as he’s about to go, he pauses. Turns and stares at me. Seems to be looking straight at me, but he could be taking in something behind me, something I can’t see. He starts to run. I grab hold of the rope around Taj’s neck and turn. In a flash, I see what he’s seeing.
‘Stop! Stop!’ the policeman cries. ‘Stop her!’
Taj whinnies and rears. I cling to him, whisper in his ear, and as the crowd surges forwards, I steer him to the sea. His legs stretch in a canter, hooves pummelling sand. I squeeze his flank with my heels and Taj Mahal streaks past the policeman, past a gaggle of screaming children: ‘Stop! Stop!’ they cry. Taj tears across the beach, galloping over a pile of clothes and sandals on the sand, into the sea.
The redhead has walked naked into the Atlantic. She’s up to her eyes in it, and even though she’s not swimming, she can’t seem to hear everyone shouting at her. Can’t seem to hear or see. The top of her head is completely submerged when I leap off Taj and fling myself in. I suck in a lungful of air, dive, and swim in her direction. Thanks to Redwood, I’m slick as a seal underwater. I open my eyes, wince at the sting of salt, and, through a whirl of sand, see the girl filling her lungs with brine.
I lunge at her and a tendril of red hair slithers over my face. Wide-eyed with terror, she’s almost gone. But then I see it, a last flicker of life in those eyes that reminds me of Priss’s prey this morning.
I haul the redhead up in the air. Her arms flap and she hits me. Splutters, heaves out water, tries to drown herself again, but I flip her on to her back on top of me. She twists away, lashes out and I swallow sea. Either I loosen my grip and let her be, or in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, she’s going to kill me. I hold on.
She struggles and screams, bashes me, then drags me down so deep, I’m about to get away from under her, when the policeman reaches us, and hauls us both in.
It seems the whole of Cádiz is waiting for us on the shore, even Priss. Bird swoops from her morning ramble and lands beside me.
Just as I’m catching my breath, the redhead screams: ‘What do you think you were doing?’
She’s talking to us: the policeman and me. He’s doubled over, hands on his knees, gulping air. Water trickles from his short black hair. He can’t talk as yet, so he stares at her – me and him both – as she says: ‘I was swimming, that’s all. Swimming.’
She spells it out in a voice that would make the Queen of England proud. The same voice Mama Rose uses when we’re in trouble and she’s determined to browbeat black-boots into submission. Haughty. Bludgeoning. Knows how to throw a veil over the truth, this girl, ’cause if she was swimming, then I’m a mermaid and Taj Mahal is a unicorn.
She shrugs on her shabby green dress and stumbles getting up. The policeman takes her elbow. She pushes him away. Would like to spit at him, I reckon. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ she says. ‘Leave me alone.’
I never imagined I could ever end up on the same side as a black-boot, but we both know the girl’s lying. She was trying to kill herself.
Her bottom lip twitches as she takes in all the people staring at her. She casts her eyes down, squeezes them shut, and covers her face with her hair.
She’s made a fool of me, I know, yet somehow I can’t help rooting for her, can’t help hoping that she gets on top of the mess she’s in. The policeman must feel the same way too, for he doesn’t scold her for wasting police time, doesn’t write down her name. Tears a page from his notebook instead. Scribbles his name and phone number and hands it to her. It slips through her fingers. I pick it up and read the name on it: ‘Federico Angel de Menendez.’
Federico smiles. I put his note in my pocket while he waves gawping spectators away. Stragglers linger until Cat, on Taj, shoos them off: ‘Show’s over,’ she says. ‘Time to go home, folks.’
The girl looks up and eyes the colour of honey lick Cat’s greens. I feel it the moment they do: the hunger, the sweet sadness in her. The shiver on Cat’s skin as she holds out a hand and lifts her up on to Taj Mahal. Cat likes her, wants to sweeten her mouth with maple syrup. I feel it, and in the heat of that moment, as a spark of desire lights between them, I know for a fact that our lives are about to change forever.
8
I know ’cause it’s been like that from the beginning between Cobra and me. I told him years ago that I plan to marry him as soon as I’m grown. Was five years old at the time, and from what I recall, he looked mighty pleased. My head pillowed by his arm, he grinned, then said slow as molasses dribbling off a spoon: ‘Sante-girl, maybe one of these days I will marry you.’
Leastways, he didn’t say no. And from the way he behaves, the way he looks out for me and holds my hand when I’m low, I’m still his best girl: even though once in a while, he does make eyes at strangers.
I think of Cobra when I see the redhead with Cat and wish he was with us. He’d figure her out in no time at all and know what to do now Cat seems moon-crazy. The girl clings to her, head cradled on the back of Cat’s shoulder. Hanging on for dear life by the look of it, and Cat seems to like it.
With Priss on my hand, I take hold of Taj’s rope, and lead ’em to a seaside café for a bite to eat. Cat and the girl don’t talk; just stare at each other. Might take ’em a while to get their tongues moving again, so I order breakfast: bread, butter, eggs and bacon, mint tea the way Mimi makes it. Fresh leaves scrunched up in a pot served piping hot. I calculate how much it’s going to cost and set money aside from our earnings this morning.
Cat and the girl munch in silence. No time for small talk, these two. No how-do-you-do and, by the way, what’s your name? No, sir! They link fingers under the table like Cobra and I do, and gaze into each other’s eyes.
I dunk a hunk of bread into my fried egg, stir it around. Take a bite of yolky crust and look at ’em. Priss is eyeing them too. Wonders who in heaven’s name the redhead is, while I’m trying to figure out what she’s up to.
Mama Rose is always saying you can tell a lot about a person from the way she eats. The redhead eats daintily, chews before she swallows. May be hungry, but she doesn’t rush her food. Doesn’t wolf it down like Cat and I usually do. Nails may be a bit grimy right now, but her hands are smooth, manicured, nails painted a delicate pearly pink. From what I’m seeing, I’d say she’s more of a buyer of bread than a seller of it.
I watch her. Watch the two of ’em gawping at each other, then I say: ‘Girl, what’s your name?’
She looks at Cat. Cat nods.
‘Scarlett,’ she says. ‘My name’s Scarlett Woodhouse.’
‘Scarlett,’ Cat repeats. ‘Cat.’<
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‘Cat.’ The girl smiles and Cat purrs.
Under normal circumstances, I’d leave ’em alone to get acquainted. After all, Cat’s my older sister. She knows how to look after herself and usually me. But the state she’s in, with all that staring and purring, seems to me I’m the Old One here.
‘Where are your folks, Scarlett?’ I ask. ‘Your family from last night?’
Her mouth twitches. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s about to run into the sea again, when Cat strokes her hand and says: ‘Take your time, Scarlett.’
Cat holds her hand until the lip-twitching stops, and then pours tea into Scarlett’s cup. Scarlett sips it, begins to talk. As she tells her story, tears run down her cheeks, and I see a side of Cat I’ve never witnessed before: tender tabby Cat with kitten; unusually touchy-feely for someone who laughs when Redwood encourages us to hug trees. Cat murmurs over Scarlett, nuzzles against her, patting and caressing, as the story unfolds.
Turns out the rest of the Woodhouse family left town first thing this morning. Borrowed money to buy tickets home.
‘I thought we were all going home,’ says Scarlett. ‘All of us: Jack, my parents and me. They promised! Promised not to leave me again. But when I woke, they were gone. Miguel told me they left me behind as insurance. I’m to stay with him till they’re able pay him back.’
My mouth drops open while Cat continues murmuring. Keeps it up, I reckon, to encourage Scarlett to tell us more. Some things, however, are just too hard to speak about, so I ask: ‘And in the meantime what are you supposed to do?’
Scarlett tries to straighten her back, but her shoulders droop as words too difficult to utter stick to her tongue. She blushes and hides her face with a blanket of hair. From the look of it, she’d rather drown than go through with what’s expected of her. And yet, from what I’m gleaning, she can’t very well ask for help from the police. Her folks would get into trouble then.
