He looks out the window, to the back of the old Fernandez Hotel building. It was redone but they had tried to keep some semblance of the art deco style. It must have been lovely in its heyday, the social club of the Savannah. Tennis courts still there … The social chat among colleagues, when Pierre did go to functions, stayed focused on who had done what, where. Scuba diving, mountaineering, what air route they took to get to Belize, Chile, Laos. What hotel was the starting point. This was the “almost diplomats” measure, trying to make their “travel duty” glamorous. Their worldliness gave them the edge and authority to advise, as experts. The more hectic the schedule, to fly for two days for a three-hour meeting, the more important you are made to feel, the higher your salary and the bigger your perks. The perks. Oh, how these wannabe diplomats, wannabe Doctors Without Borders, without the medicine, love to compare perks. They conspire and help each other to get better deals, to be sent by high orders from HQ in Geneva on this mission before the other, so they can apply for the right post. The internal HR and job-speculation system is actually the biggest secret, handled carefully with governments and external ads, when necessary. CVs were banked and circulated but the unwritten recommendations were the classified files. Personal likes and dislikes make all the difference. Help draw the line between local and international staff.
Pierre had seen so many local recruits cast aside their civil servant or medical suits and decide to cross the line. They made themselves international, gradually. First, by getting comfortable with the endless stream of conferences, meetings, and workshops to attend out there, actually believing the jargon. Then short-term projects, then two- to three-year positions, far away from home. He saw the celebration of the Internationals and the adrenaline of the upwardly mobile race begin to wear thin, too late — as with himself now. After years of flying about, deciphering and presenting documents and spreadsheets and reading, reading, writing, writing, writing … too late and too close, to a plush retirement. Pierre can see the tattered edges of the Internationals, underneath the glamorous wealth, clearer now. Yes, the kids get to go to the best schools and posh properties abound. But simple peace of mind can never be regained. Information overload takes its toll. Never enough time, if you care at all. Why bother? Some don’t and they do well.
The way Trinis take to the U.N. mafia makes him wonder about himself … and think about his childhood … the South of France. Ata enjoys their visits there. She changes and becomes calmer, like the old landscape, reading all the time and tasting new foods and fruits. Pierre loves finding exquisite foods for her to guess at, little obscure restaurants with gourmet but gutsy, almost peasant food. She goes on about the range of seafood, the quality and tradition of it. And she articulated these things about his birthplace in a way that woke a new love and longing in him. He remembers Ata near the canal in Eyguières. The church bell striking, slowly.
* * *
The stupid assistant secretary knocks timidly on the door and barely peeps round the frame when he answers. “Mrs. Singh want to know if youall will still need to meet on Friday…’cause she wouldn’t be coming in.”
“What, why not?”
“I don’ know, sir.”
“Friday isn’t a holiday, it’s Monday and Tuesday’s the Carnival holidays, isn’t that enough?”
“Is only the Monday is the public holiday … actually. But alot’a people would be taking that Friday off, sir. And sometimes the Wednesday too.”
“Right, I forgot, the whole of bloody next week is useless too. Wonderful.”
From the resigned note in his voice, Moussey gets the impression he likes the idea of getting some time off as well. She waits, a little less afraid, for his answer.
* * *
Fraser foreign artist-friend arriving at the airport now and Sammy there to pick him up. This one is a case, with he deep-deep expensive English accent. It have cheap English accent, where they speak through they nose and keep checking to see if you understand, asking “Know wha’ I mean?” every two minutes — and then it have the expensive ones, sounding like them radio programs, movie actors, James Bond and t’ing. This artist-friend think he is the ultimate. He have a way of saying whatever he like and laughing deep while he smoking, like is funny. Sammy know them two had a lot’a wild days in England, and that’s why Mrs. Goodman never like he skin and can’t stand the man.
“I can’t believe I’m back, and in time for Carnival,” he rumble in Sam’s backseat. “It’s Sammy, isn’t it? Yes, I remember you…”
As if is a privilege Sam should feel, to be remembered. That’s how this man is, just turning everything his own way, owning it, with he lavish voice. Sammy not feeling inclined to talk to him, and in his experience you don’t need to anyway ’cause the man have things to say. If you do talk it just make you feel poor, anyway.
“This place hasn’t changed that much, more cars, yes, but … my dear, mad Fraser.”
“He home now, should be resting.”
“Yes, I know.”
Of course. But surprising, he didn’t talk again all the way there.
* * *
“Why, why?” Fraser says aloud, to let Ata know he’s awake again. His face is less puffy after his medicated sleep.
Ata has rested too and is leafing through the colors of the Barragan book, on the settee. Wiped out after the all-night action and drama, she had fallen asleep before Pierre left for work. She had lain there, listening to the conversation on the veranda about how careless Fraser is by nature, or rather how carefree, Helen insisted. The repetitious worry and blocks they face with him were well put by lawyer-friend and confirmed by doctor-friend. Ata had said all she had to say — they all had — but she still felt guilty as a negligent mother whose baby had hurt himself. She should have stopped him. She should have seen the signs. Sleep took her gratefully away for a little while.
Over his bed now, with the others gone and nurse checking his vitals, Ata can see again why she had leaned with him into excess. To fully live, for a moment, that’s all. It is the only reason for Carnival. For living in Trinidad.
He is crying. Hating and moaning, mouth open dry and painful, gasping, “Why? Why?” Her tears fall on his hand clutching hers and she can’t answer or console. “I just want my last days to be normal.”
“You’re not dying.”
“Yes I am. I will, Ata. I tired of being sick. I don’…”
“You will be better, gradually.” The nurse came back, Ata nods and she leaves them alone again. “It just takes time and healing is—”
“No, no. You know I can’t heal. No amount of pills, I can’t … I can’t live like this.”
Neither of them can acknowledge the killer-word “AIDS.” None of us know how we would face an ugly end of our life, none. How would I? she wonders. How could I ever empathize enough?
“Don’t cry with me, silly. You supposed to keep saying reassuring things.”
But those words were hiding all up in the ceiling corners of the room. Watery cobwebs hanging there, useless. “Well, crying helps, sometimes,” Ata sniffs.
Fraser looks at Ata’s tremulous face and sees the shadow of the missing thing. “You not okay, are you?” he whispers. “You and Pierre?”
Yes, no. She doesn’t know.
He watches the flicker on her. “I know…,” he wheezes, smoothing the blue sheets on the other side of him, “… the origin of your name.”
Ata climbs in and settles herself against him, gently resting a cheek on his shoulder, an arm across his high chest.