Lisa Allen-Agostini - Trinidad Noir

Gita’s mourning was different. Her mother died and suddenly her own life began. Suddenly she could spend the night at Leslie’s. Suddenly no one scrutinized her clothes when she went out... didn’t check the length of her skirts or the transparency of her blouses. Suddenly she could go to Barnard or Spellman. But she was no longer sure if she wanted to go anywhere at all.

Gita mourned her mother by going to the coffin shop in Diego Martin. She had watched the shop from across the street. She noticed that mostly women went in. That many of them were older women, perhaps burying parents. She would stand across the street and watch them and her stomach would hurt. Perhaps she was getting an ulcer. On the fourth day she’d invited Leslie.

“That place is creepy, Pinky.”

“Come on, Les. I just want to see inside.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Come on. I’ll go with you to Anchorage tonight. I just want to see. You ent curious?”

“Tonight is Base night. And no, Pinky. Not at all curious. And you’re never coming, anyhow. Even with Mateo begging you. It’s nearly the end of the semester, but I swear, if you go he’ll ask you to be his woman.”

“I’ll go. Now come on.”

“Fine. But I still don’t think it’s a good idea.” Leslie brought her friend’s face to hers. “You okay?”

“I’m good,” Pinky said, pushing Leslie’s hand from her face. “Just curious.”

She and Leslie went to the coffin shop. They pretended they were there for an assignment. “And this one?” she’d asked Corban. “The airplane with one wing?”

And she would have stayed there among the funeral things for hours, forever, if Leslie hadn’t said, “I’m leaving you here if you don’t come now.”

Pinky bought some fresh marigolds from the nice older man on the way out and put one behind her ear. In the car, Leslie moved the rearview mirror so Pinky could see herself. “Tonight, you get Mateo Diaz.” Pinky nodded. Yes. She would.

As she was getting dressed, and her father was reading his first installment of the New Yorker , Gita shouted through the door that she would be staying at Leslie’s for the weekend. “Will you be okay, Dada?”

“Yes, my love,” he called back. He turned a page. Smiled at a cartoon.

“I’ll call tonight and tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to,” he said.

Pinky pursed her lips and walked out into the living room. “But you’ll be alone.”

Without looking up from his magazine, Mr. Manachandi waved his hand dismissively in the air. “Not really, you know,” he said. “Not really.”

That night, Pinky wore a dress to match her name. A magenta dress that wasn’t even hers. “The sluttiest thing I own,” said Leslie, laughing. But Pinky didn’t laugh. She looked at herself in the mirror and thought of her mother in her red wedding sari. In the picture, her father wore a European suit and had thick sideburns. Her father looked like a child of an era, her mother looked era-less. She was not sure which was better. Now she looked at herself in the mirror and puckered. Her dress was spandex and it stuck and stretched. It was open at the back and ended above the knees. There was a slit at the left thigh. Pinky thought that she would never look like this again. But in the next instant she said out loud, “This is what I always want to look like.”

The club was not the hot smoky place she had expected. It was cool with AC inside and there was a big balcony out by the water. “Scope the place out first!” shouted Leslie, as the entry bands were fastened around their wrists. “Stay away from the nasty old men.”

They walked in. They kept their backs straight. They flipped their hair. Leslie had taught her the screw face. This club was about attitude. Don’t smile unless you see someone you know, and then hug and air kiss, and if it’s a guy, wait for him to offer a drink. Never say no to a free drink. And never buy your own drink. It was a masquerade. They were pretty. They were desirable. Everyone was supposed to know it. When you dance, make sure you’re not next to a girl who can dance better than you. Make sure to establish eye contact with a good-looking guy, but let him come over to you. Dance even when you’re tired. Dance even if you’re sweaty and tired. Take off your shoes if you need to, you can keep them behind the deejay booth. Only stop dancing if a guy offers you a drink. And then ask for something good. What’s good? Get, like, a Sex on the Beach. Or a Fuzzy Navel. Or a Blow Job. No, don’t get that. That’s taking it too far. Never get what he’s having. Man drinks taste nasty. Like Long Island Iced Tea. Disgusting. That’s a get-drunk drink. You just want to look good when you’re holding the glass. In fact, stick to Sex on the Beach. It matches your dress. And me. I’ll get Blue Lagoons all night.

The old men against the walls watched them like a movie.

Outside on the deck, Pinky and Leslie drank their colorful drinks bought by forgettable boys and cooled off with the sea breeze. Pinky’s hair was plastered onto her face. It wasn’t so hot inside but they had been dancing and sweating. The deejay had played hip-hop and rock but not calypso yet. Pinky didn’t really know how to move to hip-hop or rock. She was waiting for soca. “They play it last,” explained Leslie.

“No Mateo,” Gita said aloud and felt relieved, and then disappointed by her own relief.

“No Mateo yet . You wait.” Leslie lit a tiny black cigar with a plastic tip. She blew out over the balcony. When the bells and knocking of calypso came on, Leslie flicked her cigarillo over the side of the balcony. They left their drinks.

Inside, the dance floor was crowded. Women had their skirts hoisted and men had their hands in the air. People were dancing in the corner by the tables and on top of the couches. Women leaned on the backs of chairs to steady themselves. Leslie and Pinky didn’t look for an empty space, they simply walked in and danced where they ended up. Pinky felt good now. She didn’t need Mateo after all. She swung her hips and her heavy wet hair. And then, just like that, Mateo came up behind her, as though it was something he did often.

He had that rich musky smell and he held her hips in his hands as he pulled her body closer to his. Her first thought was that this was not right. Her next thought was this was very right. Everyone in the club was screaming the words to the song. Everyone was knocking hips into one another. The bass beat twice and people stomped their feet twice. Pinky put her hands over Mateo’s so she could follow his rhythm.

She looked around, realizing that Leslie was not beside her. But then there she was. A white girl was hard to miss in the dark club. Leslie had her palms flat on the wall, her arms straight and stiff, and her backside was rolling on the crotch of a man who was old enough to act cool about the friction. It seemed so odd, all of this. All this display. All this. And after Christmas break they’d be back in class in their uniforms, and perhaps that was its own kind of pretend.

Mateo turned her around so they faced each other, and though this was less vulgar, because less of their bodies touched, it seemed much more intimate. He leaned his face into her neck and she felt his lips on her wet skin as if he had tapped directly onto her spine. She shivered and pulled back. And then she left the dance floor. Mateo stood there for a moment before following her.

“You okay?” he asked once they were outside.

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” They were quiet for several moments. “I wanted to kiss you in there.”

“I know.”

“Can I kiss you now?”

“I don’t know, actually.”