Ata takes the notes and her unfinished feelings up to the study, changes, and stares at the sketches for a long time. A swim might clear her mind. Hot cream-synthetic-carpet smell, lingering upstairs. Blood stirring slow, turning in veins, cool in the room downstairs. As she walks through the house, Fraser, in his full glory, comes back to her, cavorting round the place as he used to. Running from the downstairs bathroom stark naked, long thighs chucking his bum, fleshy arms shuddering — splash. Lovelay! Ouffing and spouting belly-up in the pool, clacking his small-teeth grin.
The carpet stops at the door of the upstairs bathroom. The small white tiles are cool underfoot. Cooler than the plastic toilet seat. “I can see you from here,” through the window. Gru-gru bef trees rasping the breeze and the big silk cotton, on the other hill, flying clouds of white puffs. Cotton magic puffs, sailing over the dust-dry town and the millpond shimmering hot sea. And on a glorious day like this, you sleeping a toxic dream downstairs. Ata likes the tiles in this bathroom. The way the black ones make a border round the edge and how some, just on the floor here, are crooked. It makes her think of someone laying each one carefully, with the white grouting powder on their hands and in their hair. Armitage Shanks. You washed your face here and you like this bathroom too.
A fan-palm breeze pats Fraser’s cheek. Sleeping dreams of yesterday and nightmares of tomorrow.
* * *
Vernon walk into the ole boys rumshop. The whole town is his, seems like. All of Laventille, any part of the city — he could walk. Not like a big bravin’ baddjohn or anything, just steely-silent. If you do notice him, you wouldn’t look to trouble him. Vernon go cool-cool down inside the bar to the counter, and nobody don’t pay him no mind. Except Jigga, who dancing and moving around in the corner. Sammy recognize Vernon straightaway but Vernon don’t notice him.
At the counter, shiny Rosie come to serve him a drink. Jigga dangle over by him too, shaking heself, and he swell-up rum face, right up next to Vernon. Vernon don’t take him on. Miss Rosie watch the stranger.
“Aye brudda-man, how you is today? Buy me a drink nuh?” Jigga splattering out the drunken words close close.
Vernon check his forearm resting on the counter, to make sure no stinking froth didn’t fall on him. He ain’ look at Jigga rample face yet but he can smell him, so he not turning.
Rosie ask what he drinking.
“Aye brudda-man, buy me a drink nuh?” Jigga rest he hand on Vernon shoulder and bring he slathering mouth closer.
In two twos, Vernon sling off the man hand and fling he back so, “Don’ touch me!”
Sammy, from all the way by the door, could see hackles rise. All the ole fellas’ talk stop. But drunky Jigga blind to that. He reel and smile, and come forward again.
“I ain’ drinking dis hour’a the day,” Vernon mutter to Miss Rosie. “Gimme a pack’a cigritte.”
“Don’ mind Jigga,” she say, turning to reach for the small red packets on the shelf.
“Well, breds, a schmoke, a schmoke. Gimme a schmoke, nuh?”
Before he could land he hand on Vernon arm again, Vernon slam he up against the wall and rangle he up so.
“Oh Lawd Gad, e killing me!” Jigga bawl out. He head butt-up on the wall, how Vernon raff him, while he splattering and bawling, “He dead.”
“Vernon!” Sammy shout out.
Vernon drop him one-time and he fall down on the ground laughing. “Yuh lucky,” Vernon snarl, deep in he guttery throat. And he pay for he cigarettes, not minding how Rosie watching him scornful.
“Wha’ happen to you man?” but he walk out without even watching Sammy yet.
Jigga jump back up on he antsy foot, shaking and dancing again. “Da is a vex man, bwoy…”
“That is not a man to trouble,” them ole boys say.
“I know him,” Sam say. “I always suspec’ he is a troublemaker.”
“Where he from? Aye-aye, he remind me’a Dr. Rat, but he taller than Rat. Yes, Dr. Rat, de informer for Kojak. Protected — a feared fella from Belmont. He used to be on de street insulting people and they couldn’t touch him…” The scamps expert start up again and the rest like nothing better.
Sammy listening but he hope they would get back to great people names, so he could go driving around in he mind again, looking up where named after them. He looking forward to actually driving by these places, to find telling signs that match the character. But he have a feeling the talk heading to violence. It always comes back to that, somehow. Violence and corruption. If a person not in it, they talking about it. A lot’a talk.
“… a time, Kojak realize Rat had two rum in he head and he slap him up in front’a people! Yes. Randolf Kojak Burrows, man, and he tatical squad.”
“He wha?”
“De ‘Flying Squad’ they used to call them. If you see them coming out, with they black suit…”
“And NUFF come out too.”
“Nuff what?”
“National Union of Freedom Fighters — they give Kojak a hard time in de seventies, but he was de first national police commissioner. After they run out de Englishman in independence.”
“Kojak, eh?” The young fool will make this thing drag out.
“Yuh know Telly Savalez on TV?”
“How he go know dat?”
“Well, Burrows shave he head, keep on a dark glasses, and always have a lollipop in he mouth, just as Savalez. And he have a finney hand — was somebody he do wickedness to. And one day when Kojak walking alone — he uses to like to walk about in rough places without escort, to show he is man — well, de fella brackle him, break he arm, and push him in he car, wind up the window on he hand. Man, he drive him all’a about Port’a Spain with him so, before he let him go. Well, of course, dat was the wrong mistake he make — next day the Flying Squad search all over the country and find him and shoot him and put a gun in he hand. From then on everybody ’fraid Kojak and he shave he head and t’ing. Just used to kill off criminals as he ketch them.”
* * *
“Duke sing about it. ‘How many more must die…’”
* * *
It don’t look like they would get back around to finish off with the prime scamps countdown from Silver Fox Panday to present PM Manning. But Sammy can’t think of much, offhand, that was named after them anyway. Audrey Jeffers? She have a lil’ piece’a highway over so. Sam had hear on the radio she was a good woman who had work hard for poor people and like feeding them and things so, set up school lunches and de same Breakfast Shed down by the waterfront. Good food. Cheap. And cooling mauby drink. A good woman.
In his mind. In his mind, Sam driving again. So he decide he should leave. Them talky ole boys didn’t even miss him when he gone. And Sam glad they don’t know nothing about his private state a’ffairs.
FETE SOUNDS CLASH with the gentle Sunday afternoon. They had all had breakfast together out by the pool, almost like how it used to be; Pierre crunching toast and reading the papers, Fraser eating slowly, drinking in the morning with his eyes; Ata shifting her focus between the lines of Isabel Allende, Fraser’s face, Pierre’s distracted form, and the facing hills.
The hills like to play mas with the fete noise. Sound-play is their bacchanal. They bounce, smack, drum the rhythms back and forth until they’re a tangled mess. Now the insistent soca bass marches its vibrations through the whole house and across the lawn. The hills’ mouths open wide and splatter it back out on them, laughing. The MC screams at the crowd and a twangy claw scratches the valley, slicing a cheek. There is no escape from the echoing massacre of noise.