Lisa Allen-Agostini - Trinidad Noir

Only Nicola’s patient understanding brought him hope. She encouraged him to pray for his wrongdoings, to be grateful for new life. The beatings he had suffered were lessons, though painful, that should bring him back to his senses. She fed him pablum, crackers, and fruit juices, changed his clothes, and powdered his face. She untied the pit bulls in the yard, and added locks throughout the premises.

Slowly Sabagal regained his strength and began to walk unassisted. He assessed his position with his dear wife Nicola, who was consistently at his side, a devoted caring nurse bringing him comfort. She cooked his favorite meals which he still had trouble eating, washed his clothes, answered his calls, and read him the daily newspapers. Both maids were sent home temporarily because she wanted absolute privacy for him. But she kept the two armed guards, dependent and loyal Scobie and Habib.

One afternoon while Nicola was in the kitchen, Sabagal called both guards. He briefed them about the documents he had signed in the black pouch which had been taken by the men in the black double-hulled boat.

Scobie and Habib began their investigation, which eventually led to a boat at Carenage. Assuming the roles of repairmen in the gulf, they rowed their pirogue between the yachts anchored in the shallow bay. They tied the pirogue to an empty yacht, swam to the boat, and climbed aboard. At once they were confronted by a man who emerged from the cabin. He was tall and naked to the waist. He rushed at the trespassers with a piece of pipe. But Scobie was prepared. He swung the heavy chain that lay on the bow, knocking the man flat on his back. At first he seemed unconscious, but then he rose and fought like a beast. Muscles swelling, he grabbed Scobie’s arms, but Habib struck him again with the swinging chain. Finally, they subdued him and taped his mouth and eyes, the deep gash on his forehead splattering blood. Habib searched the boat while Scobie nursed a sore hand which he suspected was broken.

Sabagal was impressed with his two men. They had recovered the urgent documents. He did not question his men about the details — the return of the precious documents was heartwarming enough. But Nicola was perplexed that her husband did not ask for details.

“We had a hard time, boss,” Habib said. “That man in the boat gave us hell. Lucky Scobie was with me.”

“My hand and shoulder in pain, boss,” Scobie said. “If that man had a knife we woulda be dead.”

“You did a good job, men. Thanks. I get plenty licks in the cave too. I passed out. My own men, Balbosa and Teemul, nearly killed me. Imagine that your own friends are your worst enemies. But I don’t want to think about that. I have to thank God that I did not die.”

When Scobie and Habib left, Sabagal sat in his rocker gazing down at the bustling city of Port-of-Spain, deep in thought. Nicola brought him a drink and sat next to her husband. “Drink the juice, medicine after,” she said. She wondered why he kept so quiet, so thoughtful. “Well, things work out nice. Those murderers don’t have no hold on you again.”

Sabagal said quietly, “Call Father Ignatius. I want to see him.”

“You still not well...”

“Call Father,” he insisted. Nicola felt his forehead and pulse, then handed him his drink, but he refused.

Father Ignatius, a tall spectacled man, white-gowned, his crucifix displayed on his chest, arrived the next day. It was drizzling and the winds were strong. Nicola was saying, “You not eating anything. I had to dump all the food yesterday. You not even drinking. Don’t you want a sandwich?”

“No. Look, Father coming up the stairway.”

Sabagal attempted to stand as he greeted Father Ignatius, but the priest pushed him down gently.

“Father, I am happy that you have come. Look, Nicola. We have to pass these properties to Father. If they don’t sell, Father, you can auction them. The money coming from the sales I want you to keep it. So many people in the parish are poor. You have organizations, do what you like. All my life I have been a wretched soul, and I want to be relieved of the burden. I thought money would bring happiness. Now I realize that material things are temporary. I feel happy to give to charity.”

Father Ignatius sat amazed as Sabagal handed him the papers. Slowly he smiled and said in his Dutch accent, “God will bless you. Immensely. But you look pale and so thin. Have plenty rest now. Nicola will tend to you. You are lucky — she is good to you.” He stood to leave and thanked Sabagal. Sabagal remained motionless in his chair, his eyes riveted on the scene below.

“He not eating and drinking at all,” Nicola worried, walking with the priest toward the door. “He was only asking for you. Nothing was on his mind but you.”

Father Ignatius patted her shoulder. “I’ll see you at Sunday Mass,” he said and blessed her.

She locked the front door and returned to her husband. His head was down over his chest, his hands tightly clamped onto the chair. Nervously she felt for his pulse. She frantically placed her hand over his breast. She threw her head heavenward and bawled out, “OH, GOD!”

Palmiste

W hen a holy person dies, black butterflies float like ash to tell the heavens of their coming. When someone like you dies, my mother confides, gray vultures dig to their death in the soil. You will never make it to God, she hisses. Children pay for the sins of their fathers.

Unearthing years of rubbish from my mother’s cupboard, we find a rotting crib, my father’s wedding tie, his Playboy magazines, his underwear. After nineteen years the widow shows me her wares.

“What de ass I keeping all this here for? Dead and gone.” She speaks of things I will never have. She insists he never loved me. “If I didn’t have you,” she mutters, “Parker woulda marry me long time. And to think I was the one who wanted a girl.” Distracted, she thumbs the pants my father wore the evening of his death.

Sudden and violent, crashing to the bedroom floor.

Aneurysm.

“Stop it!” a little girl screams. She is sitting on a chair, her fingers scissoring the ears of her stuffed rabbit, needling at its fur with her nails. Like a tree being felled, a big man died, leaving his little girl screaming. Everyone else on the porch having a Carib, telling stories of strongman Dennis pulling up a devious kingfish with ease. Everyone beginning to ask, “But where Dennis gone, man?” “Dennis man! But where he gone?” When they find her she is turning purple, hitting her head methodically, her mouth opening and closing like a choking fish. Her mother appears, moaning like a wounded dog, scraping at his clothes. At the funeral they have to hold May back. She is bawling like someone is cutting her open.

Unlike the fuzzy-rimmed nature of dreams, distinct memories of my father resurface in the corners of late evening. I remember fussing from my crib and his insistence that she deal with the problem. I remember him beating me and my fragile, then soft-spoken mother sweeping me away to their room. I remember her crying, the sound of the rocking, and the colors on her dress. I remember what she has told me to remember.

Yet when people speak of him, their voices break. They recount their version of strongman Dennis with the gentle heart... You can think you know a man when he doesn’t live in your house or share your bed. Women are more transparent. May can smile through cracked lips and caking lipstick, squint joyfully through scraggly eyeliner, but people see the scowl.

“The man dead and leave me here to mind you.” May continues unearthing her hoard. “Why you think Parker won’t marry me? Who want a woman with another man child?” Parker. Parker, who has a habit of looking at my friends. Measuring them with his eyes and saying they are growing up nicely. He used to ask me to call him Daddy. I think back to the first time...