Lisa Allen-Agostini - Trinidad Noir

An empty day for Maracas though. No weekend piles of cars and picnics, bellies and bikinis parading all shapes and sizes. No vanload of country coolies, with Auntie, Uncle, beti, and fine-fine pickney hiding to eat curry and roti. No fat “Putt’a Spain” people talking loud and stuffing chicken pelau. No hot chicks suntanning, rubbing lotion on their buttocks, pretending to ignore the gold-chain black guys pumping music close by, waving hi to the bleachy surfer boys passing. Not even a beefy bodybuilder in a Speedo or a hairy Syrian, carpet-world on his chest, passing today. The whole long beach almost empty, only the sleeping lifeguards, the red warning flags, and a couple of other people scattered further down.

The hills stayed. And they watched how we went to buy bake-and-shark with chadon-beni sauce and pepper. How we handled the children, trying not to get pepper on them, keeping sand from their mouths. My sister Ria could have fed them much neater if they were hers, but she helped anyway. Cheryl spread out, comfortable with her big size, red skin, and glasses, eating, feeding Anika double. In Ria’s bikini and wrap, I tried to keep Oliver still for a few minutes to eat, to stop him from running off to the water or throwing sand. Feeling a little more breastful cause the bikini fitting good, proud of my flat belly but clumsy still, not sure where to put my legs on the rug.

Or how preoccupied with mothering I’m supposed to be. Ria noticed. And the hills. And Cheryl said let’s take the children for a splash cause Oliver won’t stay. So we headed for the greedy rolling water. Anika not so sure. My boy squeaking and hopping, charging straight into the fizzing foam. While further out, in the big bay, the waves never stopped chanting, pounding blue drums and spume. White foam surging and coasting in, tickling and floating us shallow.

“Jump, Mommy, now!”

The dark hills watched how we held our babies’ slippery limbs, how we coaxed Anika off her mother’s chest over to me, how we let Oliver bump-along tumble onto the beach. Bobbing. Dipping. Little head bouncing, gulping salt. Shrill shrieking, more waves coming noisy and fast. Till we were all shivering and fidgety as the water. “The body of a nine-year-old girl was found this morning among the cocoa trees in...”

Currents kept nipping, tugging at my feet, digging ambush holes in the sand, pulling, “Come deeper. Bring your child out here.”

“Let’s get back to the beach,” I told Cheryl. “The kids are getting cold.”

Ria agreed.

And soon as we came out, that treacherous sea calmed down. I damned sure. Drummed smooth, peaceful, with a steady breeze till the sun joined in, slowed down to meet it. Slow afternoon heat. Then we dusted dry sand off sleeping fat cheeks, pulled on warm T-shirts and unhooked bra tops, packed ourselves into the car, and climbed back up into the hills’ bosom again.

PMS day in the art department. Angelica Diaz is the madam of her girls.

“Seven women. Who needs men?” she laughed, gold tooth glinting, crashing bracelet arms and ring-heavy hands onto her desk. “You know what I mean? We manage quite well. Have a seat. And you, Carla, stop passing up and down outside my door! Where is your PMS badge?”

Her desk, like I imagined the inside of her car — a box of tissues, fresh-scent potpourri, a little dog with his head on a spring sitting on a doily. Her office, like the inside of her house — slim gilt-framed cheap prints of stylized flowers; a pink curly vase with an artificial bouquet and two proud photos of perfectly handsome children, of course in graduation hat and gown.

“Your portfolio is unusual,” she said. “I mean, is good.” Closed it and jangled her hands up, puffed her cleavage up and down above the desk. “But what you have here has nothing to do with what we need. I mean, you talented, I could see that. You’s a artiste!” She puckered her orange lipstick, raised plucked eyebrows, and blinked mascara-heavy lashes at me. She is one of these women who must sleep fully made up, with foundation, blush, and all. Would wear a frilly negligee over her full-body Spanish-woman shape. Be born with long lacquered nails and take her first steps on stilettos. These kinds of women were born to rule. Right away, they run things.

She looked at me trying to sit up straight like her, put on some of the confidence.

“But you know what? I think you could do the graphics we need, even though you never done these kind of things. What we need most is flip cards. They’re easy, you could pick it up quick. I like how you trying something. Different. You have yuh own kind’a style. And I would give anybody trying a chance... Yes, Carla! Yuh still up and down. I said I would give she a chance!” she shouted at the open door.

“You called for me, Angelica?” The tall smiley secretary appeared.

“No, I didn’t call for you. This is Bella. She’ll be joining us soon, part-time.”

The girl smiled welcome. “Another female for the department.”

“Yes, Carla, I wasn’t looking for a man, I had enough’a them and I have a husband now, yuh forget?” Shook her head at me, laughing rich and throaty, patting her piled-up hair vigorously.

I liked this lady, how she so vulgar and full of herself. She liked me too. Looked me square on then said, “And you have a little baby. Well, I giving you a chance.”

When I started thanking her—

“But is only part-time. And then you might get some freelance work cause sometimes clients need their own artwork done.” Still looking me square, hard as a business deal. “You brave, girl. You going to live on your own here? You can’t stay with yuh family? Trinidad rough, you know, it rough. It only looking so.”

“Girl, you born with a gold spoon in yuh ass!” my friend shouted at me, pelting out the gate of my new home. “Come let’s go round by me, I have some things for you. Look just so, you get this wonderful place to live. How long I had me eye on it but the stingy lady always saying she not renting. Now a job too. Yuh blessed, child...”

We swing round the corner into Picton Street, a few doors down to Francisco’s grandmother’s house, where he lived.

“Shh. She might be sleeping.”

I followed him up the red painted steps to the small front porch. A real granny house, crowded with chests, wicker chairs, and plants everywhere. Francisco’s clutter added more bric-a-brac — shells and pebbles collected on the banister, driftwood in a corner. He pried open the skinny front doors and let us into the gingerbread house. Cool dusky air inside and a swirl of bright speckles followed us in. In the tiny antique living room, the bent-wood furniture and radiogram are intact. A light, neat, and soft kitchen, treasured square tins in a row, tea towels folded clean. The snore of an old white fridge breathed gently too. These houses, and their insides, are the hidden pride of Port-of-Spain. Secrets, disappearing. Sometimes plucked out overnight.

“I have a pot here for you, come,” Francisco mumbled, digging in the kitchen safe, a traditional wood and wire-mesh food locker. He pulled out a dinky little aluminium kettle, almost dolly-house size. “It cute, eh? You could have it. And something else... It’s in the bedroom,” whispering, “fabric. Luvely white cheese cloth, mmn.”

When he pushed open his bedroom door, the paint held the top stuck for a second, then it sprang open, shaking the thin wall and fretwork. Piles and heaps, stuffed bags, hats, belts, and wraps filled the small space round the bed, his nest. Grabbing bags, checking, moving them aside, digging, he crinkled a noisy plastic one, a harsh loud sound in the small house.

“Shh, oh shit!”

“Francisco?” came from the sleeping room next door.