Whey yuh from? he asked.
Sangre Grande.
Whey een Grande?
Arya hesitated. When she told him exactly where, he’d know for sure she was some farm girl looking to escape the country. He wouldn’t help her then. But she couldn’t come up with the name of another place fast enough, afraid he’d question her even more and realize she was lying.
Cunaripo.
And what kinda job yuh lookin foh, Miss Cunaripo?
Ah wantah wok een ah office, said Arya.
Oho! Een ah office yuh say. He seemed tickled by her. Okay, hyah’s de ting, chile, ah could set yuh up wid de Census Bureau, boh dat is de bess ah could do foh now. Stay dey an do ah good job and yuh could move up. Undahstood?
Arya nodded, not sure what she was getting herself into. The man walked around the room, yanking sheets of paper from one drawer or another. Finally he stapled them together and handed them to her.
Fill dat out and come back nex week Monday, he told her in more of a whisper. Meh name is Jo. Joseph. Yuh ax foh meh hyah and meh alone. Yuh will hah toh take some classes, boh yuh look like ah bright gyul.
As he continued talking, Joseph filled the small office with his booming voice. There were a few other workers clacking away at their desks, but they didn’t seem to mind him, and Arya wondered if he was in charge. Without a thank you, she stumbled backward and headed out the door. At the last second she looked back. Mistah Joseph, tank yuh, tank yuh. He waved her away, a smile stamped on his pleasant face.
Outside the door, students walked past her, but she was no longer looking at them; instead she studied the sheaf of papers in her hand. The first half required all her personal information, and the second detailed her job as a census official. Relieved to have a job, Arya leaned against the cool stone wall and closed her eyes. Noise seemed amplified, as though her hearing had suddenly been turned on. The light coming through the windows seemed brighter, sharp almost.
—Ah geh ah job, Krys, my mother says, ah job! Foh de fuss time een meh life ah could acktually see mehself off dat fahm.
Arya dashed out of the building, the electricity sparking through her barely contained. A man with a snow cone cart was parked close by. He fanned himself with a folded newspaper beneath an umbrella. His black skin gleamed from the glare.
Kyan I hah one ah dooze? An how much?
He scraped crushed ice from around his box and scooped it into the bottom of a white foam cup, pumped red syrup on top, drizzled a generous amount of condensed milk, and then repeated all three layers again. Arya’s mouth watered, already tasting the sweetness. When she sucked on the straw, chunks of ice blended with milk, brown sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon took over her senses. She thanked the man so profusely he had a bemused look on his face as she sauntered away.
When her official workweek arrived, Arya rolled in on a cloud of pure glee. She wasn’t even dismayed when she realized she would be in the field for the Census Bureau. The training classes she attended for a week focused on how to best approach people and cajole them into answering personal questions about their household. Arya barely paid attention to any of the tactics, looking forward to escaping the room they were in to roam the streets of the city for an hour or so before heading home.
Because they knew Arya owned a car, they placed her within her district. She scrolled through the addresses in Cunaripo, Cumuto, Guaico, Tamana, even some more popular parts of Sangre Grande. Displeased she’d mostly be working within the rural areas, Arya decided to start in Sangre Grande first.
—Grande was de tung toh be een, Krys, my mother tells me. It was de closess toh we, and every chance ah geh now, if meh kyant be een Port-ah-Spain den is Grande meh gone. Ah use toh juss like toh watch people sometimes. Watch dem buy clodes, watch dem drive dey cah. An just imagine and dream.
Most families in Sangre Grande sympathized with Arya driving from house to house in the dusty heat just to fill out questionnaires. They invited her into their galleries to sit on their wicker chairs and offered her bottles of soda or glasses of homemade sorrel to sip on. While their glasses sweated along with their bodies in the heat, they patiently answered pages of questions until Arya reached the last batch, which covered personal income. Hospitality soured, and Arya was promptly escorted back to her car. Arya braced herself each time, feeling the air change around them as people bristled at the question about their annual household income, but try as she might, nothing she said could assuage their apprehension.
Why yuh need toh know dat foh? We doh know yuh. Who yuh goan an gih dis infohmation toh? Nah, goan from here now, chile, yuh done take up too much ah meh precious time.
Most of these people still kept their money away from banks, locked in iron chests beneath their homes, tucked into sofas, or filed away in the pages of books. Her father was the same, paranoid whenever people asked him questions about his business, so Arya understood them.
—Boh ah couldn’t finish de questionnaire, Krys, my mother says. Widdout dem answerin dem lass set ah questions it considah incomplete.
Joseph’s words echoed in her head, Stay dey an do ah good job and yuh could move up. But Arya was failing miserably. The farm families were the worst. They trusted no one, not even kin, so when she approached their houses with her broad smile and sheaf of papers, their suspicions grew with each question.
Yuh tink we hah time foh dis? they hollered. Yuh eh see we hah wok toh do? And if they knew her and her family, Chile, wah de hell wrong wid yuh? Yuh eh come from ah fahm yuhself? Yuh tink ah hah time toh siddung so ansahrin question aftah question? Look, goh from hyah. These were the ones who let her introduce herself and explain why she was there. Most of them tucked into the countryside didn’t even let her in.
Arya returned to the Census Bureau’s office with her unfinished questionnaires and ran through one excuse or another, hoping they would offer her another job, but she saw on their faces that they’d heard it all before.
Four months had passed. All she needed to do was hang on for another two more before she could switch departments.
If they let her.
—Yuh see dere was still no assurance, says my mother, no mattah whey ah go, so ah know ah lucky toh be dey, but aftah ah while it eh feel so lucky no moh nah.
On one of her days out, Arya came to a house that sat high on a steep hill. Her car threatened to roll back down the slope several times on the way up. She’d been to this house before, but no one had ever answered her call at the gate. That day she parked outside and honked her horn incessantly. She was as fed up with everyone as they were with her. Only for a few seconds at a time did she let up until someone rapped on the passenger side of her car. She jumped, a scream catching in her throat.
Aye gyul, said an Indian man in his thirties. You is de one who does come rung here axin one set ah questions?
Arya nodded.
Well lemmeh tell yuh someting eh, he continued, bending down further to be eye level with her. Dat mahn up dey is ah rheal crazy mahn. He pointed up to the house with a key while the rest jingled from a bunch. Ah wouldn’t mess wid e nah.
In Trinidad, when someone issued a warning like that, you listened. Arya thanked him and kicked off in her little Escort. The next day she stormed into the Census Bureau ready to demand another position. She couldn’t put herself in danger like that anymore, she planned to say to them; who knew what that man was capable of?
Arya stood before everyone in the office and told them of her close brush with a madman. She detailed how he drove her off his property, brandishing a cutlass in his hands, his hair wild and crazed about him.
—Ah di ketch up een meh own lie, my mother tells me. Ah juss didn’t wantah do dis job anymoh so ah tawt ah had to make it ah rheal performance, yuh know Krys?
When she was done, she was out of breath from her performance and sure they would be on her side. When no one said anything, Arya added, We should definitely mahk dat address so people know not toh goh dey.
They let her go. No
more jobs available, they muttered, and Arya suspected they sniggered behind her back after she left.
—Meh only regret is ah din leave dat godforsaken job long befoh dat, Krys, my mother tells me. Huh! Four monts and nutten toh show foh it.
IT TOOK ALL of Arya’s courage to approach her father again for yet another opportunity. She realized how comfortable he’d gotten having her full-time on the farm again. Arya wanted none of it. Slowly, she was being sucked into the very life she’d been struggling to escape. When someone mentioned job openings from the Ministry of Labor, she wanted to be one of the first to show up. Surprisingly there was little resistance when she informed her father of her plan.
Arya pulled out a small box of clothes hidden under her bed, in the room she shared with her siblings. In it was some make-up, new clothes, and several pairs of heels she’d bought herself in Grande while working for the Census Bureau. Arya selected an airy blouse and checkered pants that adhered to her long legs. To complete the ensemble, she chose open-toed black stilettos. She wrapped the outfit up in a sheet and put it at the head of her bed.
Just as she did before, Arya waited for her father to leave before getting ready. She didn’t know how long the application process would take, but Arya had every intention of lying to her father. This was her chance to explore the city, and she was going to revel in every second of it.
The Ministry of Labor was in the capital, Port-of-Spain, the heart of Trinidad. To get there took close to an hour and a half, and that included a walk, a taxi to Sangre Grande, and another taxi from there to the capital. Her driving was limited to rural areas, small towns, and villages, so this was the best way for her to get there. Used to traveling by now, she was just thrilled to get as far away from the farm as possible.
Arya had more than enough money for the trip wrapped in paper and stuffed into her brassiere. Her father had been unusually generous, and she wondered if he was testing her.
The dense wall of trees on either side of the taxi melted away to buildings taller than Arya had ever seen. Her face was plastered to the window as she watched people strolling along the sidewalk. At a stop was a couple with their arms linked at the elbows; they crossed the street. The man was dressed in a tailored gray suit, white collar standing at attention around his neck. The lady beside him was wearing a hibiscus red dress that clung to her curves. She wore lace gloves and held a matching lace umbrella over her head. Together they sashayed across the road as though aware they were the center of attention. Their brown skin was smooth and lustrous against the elegant fabrics covering their bodies.
Yuh eh see how dem wawkin hoity toity so, someone beside her said. People like dem dey feel dey bettah dan we.
Arya nodded to avoid confrontation, and though she hid the yearning on her face, it burned deep inside her. She wanted to be like that woman strolling the streets of Port-of-Spain.
All the passengers were eager to disembark after a long, hot ride, but none more so than Arya. This was her first time in the city, and she wanted to walk through this place she’d dreamed of so many times while cutlassing grass in Cunaripo.
Arya stopped to buy a snow cone from a peddler. Shops lined the streets on both sides. She licked the condensed milk off the top of her cone as she peered through the windows at women getting their hair done, their fingernails painted, their bodies measured. There were lights on in the middle of the day for ambiance, running water for convenience.
—Krys gyul, my mother says, ah see wah de easy life was all about. People geh up een de mawin, de take ah showah, poh on some make-up, goh toh de mahket oh de shops, nobody toh ansah toh. Ah nevah hah dat.
The freedom of eating what she chose, walking where she wanted without a time constraint, reignited her passion to leave home.
She walked past one financial building after another, their gray silence looming far above her. Eventually Arya came to the Red House. Statuesque palm trees stood in front, their fronds fluttering in the breeze. It was as beautiful as her textbooks promised. In school, she had learned it was constructed in 1844, many years before she came to exist. The building was painted red to celebrate sixty years of Queen Victoria’s reign, parts of the structure made and finished in England before being shipped to and assembled in Trinidad. Since then it had been called the Red House, though its color seemed burned, almost copper at midday. Two wings of the Red House fanned out before her, an archway connecting them together above the street. Domed windows and doors, columns running all around.
—It look like ah castle, Krys, says my mom. Ah nevah see ah buildin like dat een meh whole life. Ah feel important juss bein dey and watchin it.
Her stomach began to rumble, calling for food. Too anxious to be on her way that morning, Arya hadn’t eaten anything since the day before. She looked around for a vendor and found someone selling Trinidad’s most popular street food—doubles. She asked for one with just a touch of pepper. In seconds an open doubles lay in her palms. Curried chickpeas steamed in between two slices of fried split-pea buns. Two of those with a side of cream soda were her brunch that day.
The Ministry of Labor was located in a slender building. Within its walls was a flurry of paper and people clacking away at typewriters, yelling back and forth to each other. It wasn’t the calm she imagined, nothing like the Census Bureau office at the university. The onslaught of activity took her by surprise, but she welcomed it. Anything to be in an office environment. Amid the activity, someone steered her through two sets of doors to a second, much quieter office where a lady sat talking on the phone, with several women behind her doing the same.
When one of them waved her over, Arya approached timidly. The woman’s eyes roamed Arya’s slim legs, the curves of her waist, the muscles in her flat stomach as the blouse rippled over it, her fluffed-out curls, only to land on Arya’s carefully made-up face with contempt.
Wah yuh here foh? she snapped.
Arya explained she was there for a job, described her work background, and expressed her desire to be in an office in the city. She even attempted to sweet-talk the lady by saying, All ah allyuh look so happy hyah, if only ah could be bless like you and wok here too.
Wah? Yuh wantah wok here? The lady laughed at her. Wah kinda experience yuh hah toh be wokin een ah place like dis? Look, she continued, looking at a sheet of paper before her, we eh hah no opahnins hyah oh anywhey close toh hyah. De bess one foh yuh is een Grande. Close toh yuh house een de bush. This last bit she said with a sneer.
They didn’t need anything from her. There was no formal interview, and all Arya walked away with was a job description of clerical work in the Social Welfare office in Sangre Grande.
—Little dat oman know wid she wide self, my mother says, is dat Grande was moh dan good enough foh meh as long as ah geh wok een tung.
So scrumptious was the doubles before, Arya went back again before heading to the bus and bought an aloo pie—fried dough stuffed with potatoes, spices, and onions. This was one of the few times Arya had bought herself food, and the experience was powerful—consuming meals she hadn’t prepared.
Arya spent the day strolling through the capital.
—Remembah, Krys, my mother says, all meh life ah wasn’t allowed toh go anywhey oh do anyting. Dis was meh chance.
On the bus ride home, Arya used her training from the Census Bureau to come up with a lie that would allow her to wander Grande every day until her job began. She would tell her father she had to take a secretarial training course in the city before being stationed at the Sangre Grande office. And so day after day she returned to Port-of-Spain just to browse the shops and eat street food to her heart’s content. She fell in love with Kirpalani’s, a small store that sold everything from food to clothing. Then she discovered the sleeker, more upscale Woolworth’s department store. Here Arya touched satin blouses and cotton sheets softer than she’d ever imagined. Buried in between shelves she unearthed things she never heard of before—candle holders, vases, decorative bowls, delicate gl
asses with stems.
On her second-to-last day in the city, she had to drop off some paperwork at the Ministry of Labor, and she spotted the director emerging from the front of the building. As she approached, she saw him chatting with someone, a handsome young man with eyes the color of brown sugar. The young man was dressed in his police uniform, every piece of clothing on him ironed and starched to perfection. His hands were clasped behind him, lending an easy air to his walk. As they strolled past her, Arya noticed a police officer’s cap dangling from the tip of his index finger. For someone so young and in such formidable company, he was quite comfortable. They stopped for a second as the director asked the young man if he’d like to get something to eat.
No, tank yuh, suh, said the young man. Meh muddah pack ah nice dhalpouri roti and curry duck foh meh. He patted his trim stomach.
Dat is wah ah like toh hear, said the director.
They moved out of earshot, but Arya continued looking in their direction, the young man shaking his pleasantly square head moving from left to right as he conversed and walked.
—It was yuh faddah, my mother tells me, laughing. E was rheal goodlookin yuh know. Rheal Indian starboi material.
WOOING
—KRYS, DEM OMAN AN DEM EH play dey use toh swoon for yuh faddah nah, my mother says as she drizzles rum and wine over a freshly prepared black cake. E was charismatic, ahgo gih im dat, but oh lawd e eh play was obnoxious too nah. My grandfather’s situation in the hospital seems to melt away as my mother remembers herself as a teenager.
At eighteen, Arya was the youngest and by far the sexiest of the many secretaries in the Social Welfare office. When she signed in or out for the day, or for lunch, a shadow fell over the lines of the book—the young policeman she saw at the ministry was now temporarily stationed there.
As Arya finished the last flourish over the H of her last name, he leaned in closer. She placed her lacquered nails over her signature. Oh Gawd tell meh yuh name nah dahlin, he said. Look how long now ah tryin toh find out de preety preety name toh match de preety preety face. With the flick of a finger, she shut the book and sashayed away. By now, Arya had grown into her limbs and controlled every movement, from the shiver of her hair as she let it cascade down her back to the snap of her skirt as it moved with her legs.
Secrets We Kept Page 9
