A Kind of Eden (3 page)

He inherited Sherry with the apartment, and mostly he is grateful for her; to hear someone else making noises, the sound of the vacuum cleaner, the wringing of the mop in the big metal bucket, cupboards opening and closing, is reassuring.
It's only when she starts preaching that he finds himself feeling irritated. Like last week, when he dropped her off before heading to the beach. As she was getting out of the car, she told him she would pray for him at church on Sunday. ‘It's too late for all that,' he'd said. He is sorry that she has come while Safiya is here—what had he been thinking—and in particular, on this last morning that they will be together for some time. He suspects that she does not approve of his relationship with Safiya. Apart from anything else, he is old enough to be her father.

‘Sorry about the Kentucky boxes,' he says, and moves the empty drinks cartons, the napkins and little tubs of tomato sauce into the black bin liner.

Safiya says there is no time for breakfast, just coffee; she will put on make-up at the other end. She shouts, ‘Morning,' to Sherry, who is now in the doorway, broom in hand. She grabs her bag, sandals, comb—and asks if he could open the gates, pronto. It is the one thing he wishes he had insisted on, electric gates. Unlocking the chunky padlock, opening and closing the stiff black gates, has become something of a pain.

Next thing Safiya is in her shiny white Mazda 626, and the engine is running and there is music blasting from the radio. She rolls down her window and turns down the sound.

‘Don't drive like a madwoman, okay. Alert today, alive tomorrow.'

She gives him a look he is certain he will never forget: her eyebrows raised a little, a half smile. He leans in to kiss her, forgetting he is wearing only boxer shorts and there are other people around. She usually complains that English tourists
never know how to behave in the sun, that they have no decorum. He tends to agree.

He can see that she has not quite dried herself, the top of her blouse is damp, and where her wet hair sits on her shoulders—it makes him want to pull her out of the car and take her back inside. If Sherry wasn't here he might consider it—to hell with the office, there are more important things. He had imagined them making love this morning, and he is annoyed that he slept so late.

‘Miss me,' she says, like an order.

‘I already miss you.' He kisses her again, aware of his coffee breath.

‘Don't forget to wear plenty sunblock. You don't always feel the sun with a sea breeze.'

‘That's a very wifely thing to say.'

She puts on her Ray-Ban shades, reverses swiftly up the drive, and with her arm stuck out of the window in a kind of salute, Safiya zooms away. He watches her car disappear around the corner of the cul-de-sac. And everything is quiet.

The morning sky is clear and light blue. Two emerald parrots are sitting on the wire, silent; they must have escaped from the flock. They often fly in a crowd overhead and shriek like they are quarrelling. He can't think of any English birds that make a noise like that, geese, perhaps, turkeys. They are quiet when there are just two of them, it seems. Safiya said parrots are like swans, they mate for life: a very rare species indeed.

From the old-fashioned American mailbox attached to the gate, he takes in today's rolled-up newspaper, and wanders barefoot back into the yard. The ground is already feeling
warm. At one time, he would have worn flip-flops to walk on the concrete because his feet were so soft; his entire life spent in shoes, boots, slippers and socks. But in the last year they have hardened, the soles have a layer of thickened yellowish skin, particularly on the heels, and he is pleased. Perhaps he is finally adapting to his environment.

Everything looks dry, and he knows that he should water the pots around the front area before he leaves. They are mostly ferns, and a couple of larger pots with anthurium lilies; their strange pink flowers look like ears, which he particularly likes.

Safiya has told him it will only get more dry as the coming months arrive. By June the yard will be begging for rain and all the plants and trees stooped like old people.

He finds it hard to keep up with the seasons. Safiya says there is only a dry season and a wet season, but it is apparently more complicated than this. What about the petit carême, a second spell of dry weather in the middle of the wet season? And then there is the hurricane season. Where does that fit in? In England the arrival of seasons is very clear, although they are less obvious than they used to be. It is one of the only things he misses.

Once a week, Vishnu, his gardener, cuts the lawn, clips the trees; there is a small mango tree and an orange tree, and the hedge with blue flowers that reminds him of forget- me-nots. In truth, Vishnu has transformed the garden; he has planted cassava near the fence, banana trees near the water tank, and it is Vishnu who has brought the lilies. Martin has told him he is making more work for himself. The place now needs a certain amount of attention. ‘Not so,' Vishnu says. ‘Come dry season,
it will need watering, but that's all. You'll see. I will grow you a little paradise.'

He is glad of Vishnu. He lives in Curepe with Shanti, an older, alcoholic woman who, apparently, makes his life difficult. Sherry says Shanti stays home all day and drinks rum. If Vishnu comes back late, she beats him with whatever she can lay her hands on: a broom, a saucepan, a piece of pipe.

Sometimes, Shanti shows up at the apartment. Once, while he cut the lawn, she lay in the shade of the avocado tree, her arms behind her head, her skinny legs stretched out. After an hour, she made a peculiar noise like a cat, and they disappeared into the shed, where, according to Sherry, they ‘copulate'.

Sherry was angry.

‘How they could do that while I right here in the house? It is disrespectful. Disrespectful to me and to you.'

‘Life is long, Sherry; the average person lives seventy years. Too long to go without fun. Surely Vishnu deserves a little bit of fun.'

Two years ago, he would have given Vishnu a proper ticking-off, but not now. As his mother used to say, Judge not yet ye be judged.

Sherry is stripping his bed, and throwing the sheets on the floor. Her arms are strong and thick; she has a paunch belly and small breasts. Today her black hair looks oily, and it is scraped back. He stands in the doorway and sips his freshly squeezed juice; it is delicious.

‘You're looking forward to Tobago, Mr Rawlinson? Tobago nice and peaceful. They say it good for newlyweds or nearly
deads. You won't want to come back to this crazy place. Trinidad is a mess.'

Fanta slips in through the open door, his nose up and sniffing the air. This is a very good sign—a sign that the cat is taking ownership. Sherry is unaware and starts to gather up the sheets. The cat stops and looks at her, then turns and strolls out again, brushing his long orange body against the cool white wall.

‘Port of Spain is like Miami now without the police. All these high-rise buildings. Everybody keeps talking about first world, but there is nothing first world about our country. We should be ashamed.'

‘Everywhere, Sherry,' he tells her. ‘It's not just Trinidad. Things don't always work smoothly in England, you know. There are bureaucrats everywhere and it's impossible to get things done. It's the same the whole world over.'

‘But in England you don't have kidnapping like here. When police say they come, they come.' She rearranges her arms to hold the white mass. It occurs to him how close her face is to their sheets. ‘I hope you teach the police here something.'

He doesn't know what to say; Sherry has a point. The situation in Trinidad is not about to change anytime soon, if anything, it has got worse. The level of complacency, the resistance to any ideas for improvement have, at times, bewildered him. How often has he heard: That's all very well, Mr Rawlinson, but it's not how we do it in our country. They are at least forty years behind. But what can he do? It is what it is. When he first arrived he was determined to make a difference; he continues to do his best.

They stand there looking at one another for a moment, and he realizes that he is still wearing only his boxer shorts.

‘Trinidad has a lot of money, Sherry. You have oil, natural gas. You're much better off than some of the other islands with only banana or nutmeg trees. Think of Grenada.'

‘Yes, but what are we doing with the money? Building mansions for the prime minister, buying private planes. Putting up skyscrapers. Plenty people don't have water or a house to live in. And don't talk to me about schools.'

The telephone rings, and he is relieved. It is Safiya reminding him that she will be in Mayaro for the next couple of days, and probably without a phone signal, should he decide to text.

‘Why aren't you ready to leave?' she says. ‘You don't have long.'

‘Where are you?' he asks, trying to conjure her.

‘In the corridor outside the office.'

He remembers the passageway lined with photographs of Trinidad Carnival Kings and Queens taken over the years.

‘They should have a photo of you up there. My Carnival Queen.'

Before he leaves for the airport, he rings the office. He assumes that Juliet has either left for an early lunch, or she is in the toilet. He tries again; the telephone rings and rings. The truth is, it doesn't really matter if he speaks to her before he goes. But this is something that frustrates him about Trinidad; it is one thing to be laid back in your own time but not during working hours. Juliet should have put on her voicemail. A simple thing. He wants to remind her, when his renewal contract is drafted and ready, to send it out immediately.

He has grown fond of Juliet. She clonks around the office in old-fashioned lace-up shoes and thick nylon stockings as if she has all the time in the world. And yet somehow she manages to get the work done. It is not part of her job to organise his holiday villa, but Juliet did it without turning a hair—the villa (a friend of a friend at an excellent rate), a driver to collect them from the airport and a hire car delivered to their address. What more could he ask for. Occasionally she will bring him treats—homemade coconut cake, brownies, mauby. Last week, when he asked about extending his visa, she made a face.

‘Don't worry, Mr Rawlinson,' she said, ‘no one is throwing you out of Trinidad just yet. We need you here. You're keeping our country safe. Even Raymond say so.'

He was flattered, especially the part about Raymond. He knew that Raymond was resistant to the UK recruits; Raymond thought Trinidad should sort out its own mess. It had taken a long time for Martin to feel accepted. Now, to his amazement, they are friends.

On his first day in the job, as part of his induction, Raymond took him to a lively pub in St James. They sat at the bar and watched the place fill while huge speakers thumped out a fast soca beat; the beer rushed quickly to his head—he hadn't eaten, and he wasn't yet used to the heat. He was soon feeling lightheaded. For the first time it hit him: he was in Trinidad; home of calypso and Carnival, according to the guide books, the melting pot of the Caribbean.

‘Take a good look,' Raymond said, ‘these are the people we deal with. There are some in here who've killed eight or ten people. They not frightened of the law or anybody.'

Young men, couples playing dominoes, women in shorts, flimsy dresses, tight jeans, some of them already drunk, shimmying around a pool table. It was all going on. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, including the two of them.

‘You want to know why we have so much trouble? Drugs. Drugs are shipped all over the world—to the USA and the UK, Europe. Transshipment from Columbia to Trinidad is six hours. We've had cases where large ships were supposedly being refurbished in Trinidad, and then intercepted in Spain with a billion dollars of cocaine.'

Martin had heard about this.

‘Two months ago, we pick up a boat from Columbia. It was thirty-five foot long. Five engines on board, each one 150h.p. They all stacked in the back, and to the front of the boat is all the big parcels of coke and marijuana. The men are heavily armed, eight or ten guns, including machine guns. They come here, drop off the drugs and fly back from Piarco, leaving their guns behind. So now there is a proliferation of guns.'

Raymond was on a roll.

‘In June 1999, we hang nine people in the state prison gallows. You know how many murders there were that month? None. You know why?' He thumped his hand on the bar: ‘Trinidadians don't like hanging.'

Martin said, with a half smile. ‘Well, it's a little barbaric, don't you think?'

Raymond shook his head. ‘Barbaric? You know what's barbaric? Kidnapping someone from their home, and when the ransom money come, shooting them in the face. Two young women bashed and beaten like piñata dolls in front of their
children in West Moorings; a baby playing in her grandparents' blood. A child found in a cane field, raped so bad she split like a piece of bamboo. That is barbaric. This kind of thing is happening far too often. Like it's normal. Murders are up thirty-eight per cent. And we are letting it happen.'

He steamed on. ‘Tell me, what do the Privy Council understand about this country? They don't live here; they don't know the mentality of the people or the history of the islands. So how can they tell us how to punish our criminals? They should mind their own business and let us hang those who need to be hanged.'

Martin wanted to say that capital punishment is a sign of a backward society and could never, in his mind, be justified.
An eye for an eye leaves everybody blind
. Yes, he could rant about this for hours. But he kept quiet and drank his beer.

‘Just last week a woman up near St Joseph went to a salon in Tunapuna. There were three other women having their hair styled. Two guys burst in and raped all of them. In the middle of the day. You hear what I say,' Raymond wagged his finger, ‘in the middle of the day. While raping one of them, the woman cried, “Why you do this? Why you do this to us?” The man look her in the eye and say, “I need a reason?”'