The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (12 page)

‘Mummyuh!’ Pascale bellowed.

‘Well, he does.’

Jacques didn’t react.

‘Good gracious, woman!’ Pascale raged. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Because I felt like it.’

‘Are you
drunk
?’ Pascale shot at her.

George turned round and went straight back out to his barbeque. Sabine made a sarcastic smile: no, she wasn’t drunk. Yet.

‘How would you like
me
to say what I damn blasted well feel?’ Pascale stared her mother down.

‘Please, Pascale, don’t. Mum’s tired,’ Sebastian intervened. ‘Come on now. Make friends. Mum doesn’t mean to be rude. Do you, Mum?’

‘Oh, what do
you
know about Mum? You’re never here. All she do is mope an’ wait for your emails. And den we all have to hear about them. Mum,
you’re
stuffed. You look dead. Sometimes, man, only your eyes move.’

‘Pascale, how did you get so coarse?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You were such an intelligent child.’

‘When de las time you look at yourself in de mirror?’

‘I’m seventy-five.’

‘And I cyan remember you happy. I only know you to be sorry for yerself and above everytin. How dare you take your unhappiness out on Jacques. You apologise.’

‘I will not.’

Jacques shrugged. He looked like he was trying to vanish.

‘Right, we’re going!’ Pascale snapped. ‘Sebastian, call me if you’d like to go to the beach or down the islands. It would be nice to catch up. Tanks for de drink, eh?’ She winked at Sebastian but her eyes were glossed.

‘Oh Pascale, you’re making a fuss. Please don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Jacques.’

‘No, ol’ woman. You behave like odder people ent have feelins. We gone. Tell Daddy we couldn’t stay for dinner. Goodbye.’ Pascale was quivering, pushing Jacques in front of her across the rug.

Sabine winced.

‘Oh, Mum,’ Sebastian said, shaking his head.

‘What?’

The sound of their car starting up, headlights flashing, sweeping the drive, the dogs barking them out.

‘What have I said wrong? Why should I apologise? I hate that midget.’

 

Sabine escaped to the front lawn, to smoke, to stare up at the hills.

‘Mum?’

She turned. Her son stood there.

‘Talking to the hill again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know there’s a word for talking to hills?’

‘No,’ she chuckled.

‘Starts with talking to plants. Then trees. Then, you know, hills, mountains . . .’

‘Then what?’

‘The hill starts talking back. Then you’re in trouble.’

‘Oh, she talks back. Not always, but sometimes.’

‘She?’

‘The woman, up there. All around. Can’t you see her?’

Sebastian looked up.

‘Yes, now you mention it.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘You OK, Mum?’

‘Yes, of course. Was I very horrible to Jacques?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sorry.’

‘I know.’

‘Pascale will become an alcoholic like the rest of us if she’s not careful.’

‘She loves him. She told me she does.’

‘No, she’s made an economic decision. She likes money, my daughter. She loved a man before; he broke her heart. She married Jacques for his bank balance.’

‘Maybe he has a big cock.’

Sabine laughed out loud. ‘Maybe. I hope so.’

‘Maybe he
does
talk, maybe he just doesn’t like us.’

‘Maybe he’s a good man. I know. In fact, I’m sure he is. Just dull.’

‘Is that a crime?’

‘No.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘Oh God, I just hoped . . . for more for her.’

‘Mum, Pascale
is
happy. She’s married, she has two great kids. They’re rich. She’s doing a lot better than me. I’m unmarried, I live off a salary. I love what I do but that’s it.’

‘You’re different.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You work for a publishing house in a big city. Your life is full of books, interesting people.’

‘Many of these people can be pretentious and spoilt.’

‘At least they read.’

‘Trinidad boasts several fine authors. Masses of fine poetry and prose comes from this region. Caribbean people are richly artistic and literate.’

‘Oh, look, don’t argue. You live in the
real
world.’

‘And where do you live?’

‘In a screw-up of a country the world has forgotten. Who cares about this dot on the map?’

‘Mum, please. Will you come in? I’ll make you some tea.’

‘In a moment, yes.’

‘Sure?’

‘I’ll just stand a while.’

‘See you inside, crazy lady.’

Sabine turned quickly. ‘Don’t tell your father.’

‘About what?’

‘About me talking to the hill.’

In the morning, George woke and turned over in bed to gaze at the hills of his sleeping wife. Asleep, she looked at peace. Asleep, all the lines fell from her face and he could see who she once was. Sometimes he gazed for a long while and it was only then, in this early-morning time, before she was awake, that he could reclaim the memories which had amassed between them. He could gaze on her sleeping face with the same open love he’d felt from the moment he saw her. He still experienced a faint swell of wellbeing when he looked at her; she still affected him in a way he’d never understood. He stretched his hand out so that it hovered an inch from her, caressing the air above her shoulder, her stomach, her hip. He leant forward and pressed his lips lightly to the inside of the joint, the tender part he’d kissed a thousand times, his favourite spot on earth, this curved loin, this soft hidden place, his place in the world. ‘Eric Williams never loved you,’ he whispered into her flesh.

He rose and left the house at dawn and while Sabine and his son slept he drove up the Morne to Jennifer’s. It was just past dawn; the air was chilly, the hillside neighbourhood was tranquil. No other cars were on the road, which was hairpin bends all the way up. The grass on the verges was wetted down with dew. Jennifer was standing on the top step of the antiquated shack, holding Chantal’s baby girl; she looked surprised to see his truck. He parked and let himself into the yard.

‘How is he?’

‘Better, but he still get pain in he chest.’

‘Can I come up?’

She nodded, balancing the toddler on her hip, turning to lead the way.

This time George allowed himself to look around. Everything was neat ‒ shabby and gloomy, but well ordered. The inside of the house looked like the outside, everything so exhausted it appeared soft, as if made of silk. Objects stood in state, resting. There were more of their cast-offs than he first realised: the sagging double bed he and Sabine had thrown out years ago; a broken-down chest of drawers, now even more broken-down. Pillows, cushions, their pump-by-hand orange squeezer.

In the back room Talbot nursed a cup of black coffee. His face looked clearer, the swelling had reduced. His chest was still bandaged and he could sit up a little. George sat down on a stool next to him.

‘Talbot, how are you?’

‘Ah feelin’ much better except mih rib.’

‘I’m glad. I want you to stay indoors. I want you to keep your head down.’

Talbot steupsed. ‘Ah already do dat.’

‘These . . . police men won’t return. We’ve exposed them now.’

‘Mr Harwood, dem fellas bad.’

‘I know.’ George looked him straight in the eye. ‘Talbot, if there’s anything I don’t know about, you’ll tell me, won’t you?’

Talbot looked away.

‘Won’t you?’

‘Ah know what yer sayin’. Mr Harwood, it hard not to get mix up wid summa dem fellas up here.’

‘Some of them live across the road, your cousins?’

‘Nah, dey not bad.’

‘Then who?’

‘Nuttin and nobody. I done wid alluh dat. I get mix up, some time pass. But I stop, long time. I done nuttin wrong, Mr Harwood. Nuttin.’

‘Good. Because I want to pay for a lawyer to represent you in court.’

Talbot’s eyes flew wide open, the whites shining.

Jennifer clicked her throat. ‘What?’

‘Yes. It will mean you’ll have to be strong. You’ll have to give evidence, you’ll have to identify these men. Not now. Eventually. You may even have to move away for a short time. But I think it’s time we took this to the court of law and sought justice. This is a serious crime. These men should be taken off the force. They only do this kind of thing to poor people. They would never dare beat up my son because I have money. I can pay for your defence, Talbot. Will you let me help you?’

Jennifer hovered, still holding Chantal’s little girl. She kissed her on the forehead, nervous.

Talbot’s eyes flitted back and forth, trying to understand.

Jennifer hummed.

‘My friends at the newspaper will support us,’ George urged. ‘Report the story. Fact by fact. You will have the press and the law on your side. There is still legal redress in this country, for the rich. And you will have my support, too. No one will hurt you, Talbot. I give you my solemn promise about that.’

Tears fell down Jennifer’s face.

George felt ashamed. Ashamed of what? He didn’t quite know. Ashamed of himself, perhaps.

Talbot nodded slowly. He inhaled deeply and George could see that even this breath hurt him. Talbot had planned to fade away. That was the best tactic. Take the beating, say nothing. Bobby’s garlicky breath came to him. His own ribs creaking.

‘Talbot, I won’t let you get hurt again.’

Talbot’s eyes filmed.

‘I give you my word.’

The young man squirmed. His injuries seemed to crawl across his face.

‘If it comes to it, I’ll pay for a private bodyguard.’

‘I doh need that.’

‘I’ll keep you safe. Trust me.’

‘OK,’ he said but his eyes held no trust in them. ‘For Mummy, yes. For Mummy ah go do whatever it take.’

‘Good boy. I’m glad. I know just the man to call in. Just the man. I’ll make some calls now, today. And Jennifer—’

‘What?’

‘Please don’t mention any of this to Mrs Harwood. That’s my only condition. I don’t want her to know about this . . . not yet. I’ll explain it all in my own time.’

‘Yes, Mr Harwood.’

 

George left the shack in Paramin just as the sun was rising, blessing the hill. On his way to the car an emaciated bitch covered in sores slinked out from under Jennifer’s neighbour’s house to stretch and yawn. Four emaciated puppies clung to her ragged teats. They sucked and sucked.

‘Dat dog bad.’ Jennifer scowled at it, still nursing the infant.

‘Why?’

‘She had many more puppies.’

‘Oh?’

‘But she eat dem all.’

‘What?’

‘She eat dem when dey born.’ Jennifer made a chomping gesture with her mouth. ‘She eat dem.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘Mash!’ Jennifer shouted and clapped at the bitch, scaring her off into the dust, back under the house.

 

George drove to the famous calypsonian’s home with a churning knot in his stomach. The Mighty Sparrow. Slinger Francisco. Calypso King of the World. Chief of the Yorubas. Holder of numerous honorary university doctorates and awards from foreign governments. Winner of eleven Calypso Monarch competitions. Over seventy albums produced. In New York, 18 March was the Mighty Sparrow Day. In Trinidad, Sparrow was a god every day.

George remembered the young hustler of the 1950s: even then he was a hurricane, blowing other singers off the stage. The resounding baritone, his charismatic persona. Sparrow could do it all: extemporise, satirise, sing with the grandeur of opera, with the sleaze of vaudeville. His calypsos were often political, all were original. They swung votes. Early on, the PNM courted Sparrow and he became their number one vote-getter, the only other black man on the island who could pull a crowd like Eric Williams. Sparrow penned many calypsos supporting the PNM, until even he turned against them. ‘Get to Hell Outta Here’ was the song which nailed Williams.

A headache chewed at the back of George’s skull. They came every other day now, in hot, acid waves. He arrived early and sat for several moments in the close cabin of the truck, massaging the back of his head, the pain dulling as he rubbed. He stared into the rear-view mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like shit. Like he was dead. His skin was liverish. Damp. He patted his cheeks dry. Was he ill? Finally?

He got out of the truck and rang the doorbell. A young coffee-skinned woman of around twenty-five appeared gazelle-like at the gate.

‘I’m from the
Trinidad Guardian
. I’ve come to interview Mr Francisco.’

She raised her eyebrows, openly surprised. ‘Come this way. Daddyy . . .’ she called out.