Lisa Allen-Agostini - Trinidad Noir

“Before my time,” Roy said, wary of the vagrant. “But of course I remember the queen’s visit.”

Dr. Traboulay kept his distance, as if sensing that stepping closer would defeat his purpose. In an impeccable Oxford accent, occasionally interspersed with island dialect, he began again. “Ah, the British! Of them I have such fond memories! Do you know it was through the good auspices of Dr. William Smith — the man who discover five, five of our island hummingbirds. Of the family Trochilidae. Count them.” Dr. Traboulay held up his right hand, fingers and thumb splayed, and began to count and name the hummingbirds, lowering each finger as he tapped it. “One, the Rufous-breasted Hermit, Glaucis hirsuta. Two, the Black-throated Mango, Anthracothorax nigricollis. Three, the Green Hermit, Phaethornis guy. Four, the Tufted Coquette, Lophornis ornatus. Five, the Blue-chinned Sapphire, Chlorestes notatus — yes!” He gasped, excited by the memory. “Smith was the boss-man of hummingbird, oui . It was because of that decent fellow that I had the good fortune to acquire a scholarship to pursue zoological studies at Oxford University. The British —” He stopped and scratched his head, overcome by a troublesome memory. “I was going to tell you about the expedition into the northern range of the island, but first...” He grimaced and rolled his eyes. “What was it, I wonder?” He looked at the clouds.

Roy and Fiona were both uneasy now. Roy reached for his wallet and mumbled, “It’s okay,” offering Dr. Traboulay several reddish notes with frolicking scarlet ibises.

“Oh, sir! You are too kind — but this is entirely unacceptable!” He raised his hand in protest. “First, I must tell you my story.” He turned away, deep in thought. Roy replaced the money in his wallet.

“Poor man,” whispered Fiona. “We should go.”

Dr. Traboulay was muttering to himself. He went to the jaguar cage and addressed the cat in Latin. “ Pulvis et umbra sumus,” he said. The jaguar, still pacing, watched him expectantly.

Fiona and Roy eased away.

“Have you seen him before?” Fiona asked Roy.

“Not that I remember. But there’re a few like him around. He probably moved up from South recently. I doubt he’s been in that condition very long. A few years ago a man used to ride around the Northwest on a bicycle in a suit of silver foil. You had to wear sunglasses just to look at him. Now he’s gone. Perhaps he’s elsewhere on the island. Or perhaps they go in and out of these phases.”

As Roy and Fiona wandered beneath the huge branches of the silk-cotton tree, they passed a man hosing an agouti cage. When he saw Fiona, he wagged the hose in front him stupidly, calling, “Sweetness. Come by me, nuh.”

“Oh fuck,” Fiona said, looking away.

Roy, hunching his shoulders then releasing them in exasperation, said, “Good afternoon, sir.”

The man ignored him. They walked by.

“When it comes to islands, I think I’m starting to prefer England, Ireland. Even in winter. It’s not just crime in general, and all the guns most people seem to have, but what men do to women here that is truly frightening. At the consulate I saw last year’s rape reports. You wouldn’t believe—”

“But you said you loved it here, you said—”

She held his arm. “I do, you know, but... maybe it helps with leaving. Come with me.” Fiona had asked before.

Roy lifted his free arm and let it fall helplessly. He tilted his head and saw the sky in gaps through the silk-cotton tree, blue distances, clouds drifting. “A whole island, a whole country,” he said, “its problems unassailable. I couldn’t listen to poor Dr.Traboulay’s story. Sounds like the British treated him better than we did.”

Fiona sighed, released his arm. “I imagine with independence, people began hating him for admiring the British.”

“No doubt. One of the things my father taught me was to see beyond the way anyone sounded or looked. And for a long time I was able to go anywhere on this island. I looked at people a certain way and they returned it — an unassuming manner. That was the secret. Then he told me it wouldn’t last. He was right. Thank God he didn’t live to see how we’ve wrecked things.”

“Why ‘we’?”

“I never did anything to stop it. I never spoke to people how my father did. Like many others, I suppose, I thought things would work out, that things had been set right. They didn’t. They weren’t. There was so much to do, and we never realized.” He paused. “Or maybe we knew what had to be done, but just didn’t get around to it, for reasons I don’t even want to consider now.”

“Is that why you won’t leave?” They walked past cages with sleeping macaws, their long blue red and yellow tails cast down, their heads and bodies hidden in the shadowed cool of their perches. He thought of the jaguar’s confined pacing, of the vagrant observing him with the devotion of the zoologist he had once been. As Roy passed the last cage, a macaw looked at him out of a wrinkled sleepy eye, then stretched and flapped its wings, moving nowhere. Had the bird been a few hundred miles southeast, say in Guyana, a natural habitat, it would soon be gliding for miles along a river before roosting high in the forest canopy. And below, on the forest floor, moving through sun-dappled vegetation, would be the jaguar impatient for a night of no moon.

Roy shrugged. “Maybe, in a way, I’ve already left.” Once again, involuntarily, he thought of De Souza.

“Stop,” Fiona said. “Not now, with so few days left.”

“What does it matter?” he said. “We’ve had our time, our chance.”

“Oh... please.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have your restraint, my dear.”

Her eyes glistened, but her voice was calm. “Please stop.” Taking his arm, she ran her long fingers along its inside. Goose bumps raced the length of his arm, swept up onto his shoulder, tingled his neck, and ended below his left ear. It was like being caressed from beneath the skin, as though his blood were tickling him. Yet he resented this pleasure, resented even her voice sometimes. As their last days burned themselves out, thoughts of facing the island’s confines alone caused him to resist her. And he resented that, as did she. Their lovemaking had become infrequent, but more passionate. They gripped and bit each other, hard. Orgasms were dramas of minor brutalities.

“It’s all right,” he said, circling an arm around her waist. They stopped and he held her close. “There’s still time.” Her head was bowed, hair falling on his shoulder and chest. She was sniffling, wiping her eyes. “I can’t stand it when you cry, Fiona. Please.” He kissed her shoulder. The soft, thin cotton of her blouse met his lips. It tasted of the sea, the hidden beach where they had swum nude yesterday then sipped cold white wine in the shade of an almond tree. As the blue of the ocean deepened, and the sand became the color of old lions, they’d left, the green mountains darkening in the last light. In the air, in the sky, there was a sweet sadness, the old story of islands: People you loved, or felt you could love, went away. Matters of the heart were interrupted.

“Yes.” She lifted her head. “There’s still time, isn’t there, Roy?” She searched his eyes, but he turned away.

Taking her hand, he squinted at the sky and led her to the green waterfowl pond. Tall clusters of bamboo, many of their leaves burned orange-brown, arched over their heads, rustling in a late-afternoon breeze. The golden sunlight flickered down. He remembered the colors of the jaguar and its small cage. The cat thrived on movement — swimming hundreds of yards, fishing in streams, climbing trees after monkeys, roaming savannahs, mountains.