Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

“I could never get used to the cruelty.” Tears slip out of his closed eyes. “Sammy’s murder is just too … ask my secretary to send flowers, please. And a message from me for his loss.”

“We already did, soon after we heard,” Ata mumbles and his eyes open, his grief flickers. Was it that she was too presumptuous, or guilt for realizing his self-centeredness?

She excuses herself hurriedly. The lack of sympathy for a dying person, even for a second, feels worse than the first signs of his ugly side. “Maturity must be the acceptance of compromised beauty,” Fraser had once said.

* * *

Pierre pulls into the UNDP parking spot he was so kindly allotted temporarily, going on two years ago now. The wanker’s motorbike is there, the Harley the idiot so loved to show off, like how he flaunted his short-assed Italianness, overdoing his accent to charm the ladies. Like he is the only one who knows about good wine and art. The little wanker, with his pointed shoes and tight pants. Pierre is sure the Italian isn’t any good at his UNICEF “Save the poor children” job, but thankfully he doesn’t have much interaction with him. The poseur.

In the ratty elevator, Pierre looks down through the dirty glass at a car that is trying to fit into a space that is too small. Pierre stops on the central admin and UNAIDS floor to collect his mail himself, and once more notes how posh the office seems, compared to all the others. Too much money in HIV, he has always argued, distorting the true health picture and creating useless projects, organizations, and campaigns to spend it, while people can’t even get critical primary care.

Dr. Khumalo, the South African secretary general, the “Queen” of UNAIDS, prances out of her richly decorated office to her secretary, where Pierre stands. “Nice shirt,” she comments on his choice.

Pierre knows its baby-blue color suits his tan. The meek and mild middle-aged secretary signals him to give her a second, puts down the “In” pile, and goes for Dr. Khumalo’s document. “Thank you,” he replies.

“You know, I am making some headway ensuring we get a space in the new waterfront towers. It will be fantastic, eh? And I will get through, I know I will.”

“I’m sure you will.” Pierre takes in her elegant mauve stilettos, silk shirt, and black skirt, stretched tight over her high bum.

“And everyone will have me to thank.” She stretches a lavish hand, overly manicured and full of expensive rings and gold bracelets, to her approaching secretary. “Thank you. Don’t forget the MDG meeting this morning, Pierre. In the conference room. Nine-thirty.”

As Pierre makes his way up the drab, soon-to-be-officially-dingy steps, to his UNDP floor, he is thinking — what fun, the Police, the minister of Works and some NGOs will be there. Lovely. And joint meetings are always so useful — by the time the five UN agencies finish their statements, developed in the last meeting, there’s only time to set a date for the next meeting, which takes a while because everybody is always busy or off on travel duty. This is why, Pierre knows, he is not climbing the ranks past a P4 and keeps being moved around the world. The Trinidad country rep, from Bangladesh, didn’t like Pierre’s repetitive question — why are there so many U.N. offices in Trinidad in the first place? It doesn’t qualify as a recipient country. With a GDP so high, Trinidad could even afford to be a donor country. Okay, the care systems and policies need sorting out but let them get on with it, for God’s sake. At the very least, the U.N. should demand matching funds for its projects.

His new assistant secretary looks up from arranging the colorful, well-produced pamphlets and reports on the table as Pierre enters. She loves playing with them. The glossy rich photos are her daily reminder that she is working for the great United Nations. They make up for the disappointing cubbyhole and overwhelmingly demanding staff. She smiles uncertainly at Pierre and runs back to her desk. He has overheard her attempts at follow-up phone calls for the MDG public launch. And she has listened to him complaining about her incompetent language and brainlessness. She brings him the coffee he needs to stay awake through the bloody meeting and scampers away before he can go on about the terrible instant “fake coffee.”

Everyone is well seated in the extra-air-conditioned conference room by the time Pierre rushes in. He has managed to miss the painfully formal greetings, breaking the protocol for the presence of a minister. Dr. Khumalo glares at him and he straightens his shirt under his blazer. All the men have on ties, some jackets, a few of the women hug themselves, unprepared for the cold.

“… and the Millennium Development Goals, as established by the United Nations Millennium Declaration and adopted by world leaders in 2000, are very important to us in Trinidad and Tobago.” The minister of Planning and Works drones on. “Indeed, the development of our very own Vision 2020 is in keeping with the MDGs. And as we speak, each key ministry is already preparing a plan of action to meet these goals…”

U.N. language really helps the civil servant waste precious time. The little Italian poseur is nodding somberly, as if this was a new and brilliant idea, thought up by the minister himself. Dr. Khumalo and the country rep have on their very-intelligent fixed stare, encouraging the blithering idiot.

“Ahem … Under this present administration, we have been fortunate to have increased budgets and expenditure for areas of concern that have been challenging so far, such as: child protection, human rights, basic health and education, small business development and job creation, and the reduction of violence.”

An Afrocentric women’s activist glares at the potbellied speaker and he hastenes to add, “As well as violence against women, in particular, in fact. I take this opportunity to thank Dr. Patangali, UNIFEM and the joint U.N. committee, for facilitating this meeting and providing an excellent opportunity for collaboration between government and nongovernmental partners, on the MDGs and Vision 2020, which will ensure that Trinidad becomes world-class, in every way. I look forward to hearing the following presentations and updates. Thank you.”

Thank God , Pierre thinks as he slips lower into his comfy seat. The polite clapping makes the minister beam. He has said absolutely nothing new.

“Next I would like to present Nzunghi Stuart, president of the National Organization of Women of Trinidad and Tobago, NOW-TT, who will update us on the progress of the response to CEDAW and the country report that is being prepared in conjunction with the Bureau of Women’s Affairs.” The do-it-all chairperson is, of course, Khumalo, beaming her flat South African smile at everyone.

The Trini activist, in her African dress, goes to the podium, prods the projector, and looks expectantly at the screen. Jesus, she has a presentation, Pierre realizes. The Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) — An International Bill of Rights for Women and Trinidad and Tobago’s Existing Policies.

Pierre’s mind drifts off to his surprising love, and her strange mind and limbs. Atalanta, burning in the sun to darker shades of brown. Her moisture sometimes tastes of garlic and turmeric and sharp lemons mixed with salt. Hair, wiry like the springy questions she snaps. Skin, softest that slides around you, slips into your arms, heart, mouth …

* * *

Her mouth. Douli. Full lips. Bloodred. And brown. Pepper-skin burning. Chopping. Flesh. Douli. Hold me. Kiss me. Kill me. Douli.

Sammy, Sammy fighting the fever scalding him up from inside. The fever only he and he mother can feel. She had make him stay in bed, tie a rag with Limacol on his forehead. Now he sitting up in the gallery. Friends keep coming and Moms had food spread out, as if the funeral and wake is at they house. The dead house, not far away. The dead inside Sammy. Who know what her family arranging? Sammy can’t go. “They don’t even talk to you … and you not well.”