“They going ahead and tarmac that piece’a de Savannah. Heh. Manning dreams, nuh. If you see the design in de papers, it look like a sci-fi t’ing. That go be so jokey, eh. Heh.”
World-class, Ata thinks but she doesn’t say. Thomas can fill up the whole afternoon with talk, easy, if you give him a chance. The best tactic is not to respond much.
“Is then people go say even more, Trinidad is de Big Apple’a the Caribbean.”
They stay looking out and listening for a long while, without talking.
Ata sails out with the dry-season leaves. She spirals up on hot-air notes, high over the confusion of color. Way above the bass flow drumming aground, she coasts, eagle soar and wide. Head swivel, wingtip angle. She flies, for some time, searching.
“Slinger band must’e crossing now.”
From the wall, they hear the faint tune of Amen and the chant of three thousand players.
Thomas follows her back into the house. She glances at her phone on the table — three missed calls and a message. Fraser’s number.
* * *
Ata enters the cool air of the hospital. A soundproof bubble trapped in the final Carnival afternoon. Silence. She walks past Vernon, slumped in the corner of the waiting room. His acrid rum-fumes blend with the faint medicinal scent. Inside, by Fraser’s bedside, Alan doesn’t even look distraught. It is an infection this time. A fever had suddenly run up so they had to bring him in. Terence kisses her cheek and positions himself, worried as always, by the door.
Fraser’s face is peaceful. But his eyes have changed. Mean and hard, while his mouth tries to smile, a flicker. His anger defies hers, as she stands before him. The clinical air crackles and Alan gets up and stands on the other side of Fraser’s bed. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and Ata just stares. Fraser stares back. What the fuck is she angry about, anyway? He is the one stuck inside this room, in this incubator, a heartless vacuum in the tattered flesh of this town.
Outside, tired revelers would be dragging themselves home, discarding pieces of their costume, peeling off mashed-up shoes from swollen feet. Fraser can smell the fettered but liberated spirits. He knows the type, too, who would now be coming out fresh, to join the costumed leftovers, heading to Saint James for Las’ Lap. But he can’t hear them. Locked in this sterile soul-cage, he can’t feel anymore. And so what is the point?
This is what Alan argues with Ata and with Helen and his doctor, back at his flat. What is the point of him trying to be someone he is not? How could a sanitized, cautious, controlled, and routine version of Fraser ever make him whole again? Anyone who knows him must know the answer to this. And Fraser lay, silent and still the whole time, stiff and terrifyingly haughty, a hard glitter in his antibiotic eyes.
They stay up late with him, he couldn’t sleep easily. As the Las’ Lap steel-bands jangle around Roxy Roundabout, crashing and clanging, ringing out and lamenting the end of mas. Happy, tired people, who can’t feel their legs anymore, raise arms to the sky. And the steel notes fling their souls up like glitter confetti in the streetlight. The last sparkle, before all clatters back down to a standstill.
~ ~ ~
THANK GOD for the peace of it. Thank God, the hills repeat. Is normalness again, Sammy almost say aloud to himself, driving past Sea Lots into town. He figure Father McBarnette should be busy, as it’s Ash Wednesday, but mostly alot’a people go to Tobago and Maracas beach, Down de Islands and Toco, instead’a going to church these days. And now, he hear on the radio, it even have Carnival Cool Down fete and Las’, Las’ Lap jam, on these same beaches. On this ashy Wednesday. He himself not business with the Jesus burn up, Lent or whatever Christian reasons — all’a that have something to do with the bacchanal in the first place.
Sam check the tone of the traffic, predictable — some decent citizens taking they children to school and going to work, goods trucks, buying-and-selling people going about they way. Noticeably quiet, and less movement than normal, of course, for the rest of the week. Even those who can’t afford, losing they job to sleep and ketch-up theyself. To think he, Sammy, uses to be in the thick of it, eh? Times really change.
On Wrightson Road, he pull into the new version of the Breakfast Shed. What they call it now? In a fancy silver, curly writing—Femmes Du Chalet. What that mean? They say is French for Breakfast Shed. Not even French-Creole, yuh know, French. Is still De Breakfast Shed to him and everybody. But Sam feel to scope out the new design, firsthand. He go up to one of the food stalls and wait he turn. Is not bad, it airy. Nothing like the old darky warehouse before, with everything black up and sweaty in the corners from all them ladies years’a cooking. This nice. Sam like it. He like how it have modern tiles in the cooking stalls, don’t mind is cheap ones and them ladies will scratch up and break them in no time with they heavy hand and big pot. And he find the meshy designish thing they use instead of window in each concrete stall nice, ’cause is more breeze and it making the place bright, even though that cooking grease will black and clog it up just now. Is details does tell you things, you know. When is his turn by the counter, he spot the lil’ house sink, with house-pipe handle and all, already giving trouble. These people ain’ go look after nothing like is they own.
“Ah go take a large mauby.” He watch the bake and buljol they have in the glass case and leave it right there. It can’t compare to his Queen own so what he going to pay money for something like that for?
Yes, it nice in the Chalet Femme La. Sam step around a woman spread out on a bench, between all she basket of provision peeling fresh stuff. Maggie, the seasoning and packet soup, sponsor everybody yellow and red, aprons, hats, and menu board. And that, of course, is to make the place look more bright, together with the high roof and open front, or back, if you want to watch it that way, open onto the sea. Imagine you could actually sit down inside De Breakfast Shed, and watch the sea, through a good chain-link fence. Nice and secure, well bar-off.
Is only a few of the holiday visitors in the place, mixed with mostly people like himself, and office workers, picking up something “to go.” It uses to be mostly cargo sailors, port authority, and stevedores eating in the ole shed. Now is a lot’a public people enjoying the food. Sam leave with his mauby.
Trust Maggie, eh. Them chicken-flavor cubes and seasoning salt good in some things but not in everything so. Is like when he invite he friends by him, and try to introduce them to some new foods — pasta with spaghetti sauce and vegetables like green pepper and thing, cook up plain on the side, even a little Chinese sometimes, a sweet-and-sour something — them fellas don’t like it much. They say it don’t have enough taste for them, meaning over-salty Maggie seasoning. But that is because they have a creole mouth for creole food only. When he and he Queen cater these things for certain functions, people say how the food lovely. She does tell them, “Is me son know how to cook dese fancy new things, he’s the one.”
Sam pull out onto Wrightson Road. Some of the construction workers out, big cranes moving. Soon all this place here will be the International Waterfront. And all them big-shot offices go rush to move into them fancy skyscrapers. Is skyscrapers he have to call them ’cause that is what they going to be, taller than the ones already marking town, twenty-six stories, they say. They go add more shiny glass and glitter for sure, more cityness. Sam don’t know how the traffic going to work but he thinking now, design is a helluva thing. It could change things one-time, forever. So easy. Waterfront, walkway with café, and what they say again? “Outdoor cultural amphitheater” and “communal space to enjoy the vast views.” It go be well light-up and patrol too. Town, eh. Is what really does make town a city? ’Cause is the city of Port’a Spain.