Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

Ata watches her precious friend thinking about the stupidness again. She explains what little she knows of the Amen concept and Fraser takes an instant liking to it, ignoring her frustration.

“Yes, you would like it. ‘How timely’ is right. But don’t even think you going anywhere near mas and play yuh-self!” SC is onto him and as soon as she says it, Ata can see Fraser’s intentions walking across his sleepy face.

“No, no, no.” He tries to pull his smirk in and get back to Ata’s work. “But you have to make your decision, dahling. How long you been with him? Eight years off and on? In the four years I know you, you saying the same thing. The man’s work is brilliant but he ain’ go change.”

They all know that the best of Trini’s young visual artists have tried to work with God of Design. And not one of them has stayed on.

“The man is impossible!”

SC steupses.

“That’s not even the sad part. It’s the opportunity that is lost for other artists to carry this incredible thing on when he can’t anymore.” Ata wonders, though, if it really is an opportunity lost. Hasn’t he contributed enough to the Carnival arts already? Imitations were already starting to pop up and his name had become “esqued” in style too. “Slingeresque.”

“Well, thank God dat is not my worry. And is not yours neither, Ata, I don’ know why you fighting-up with all dat.”

“I’m not the only one. What about the Chinese guy who’s dying and is working his last days away in the camp and just wasted them on costumes that would never be worn?” Ata knows SC’s tightened lips are saying, “Well, who tell he to go and waste time in the first place,” but she turns to Fraser, expecting some sympathy. He knows the guy too.

Fraser smiles. He’s beginning to fade but can see Amen clearly. How fitting at this time in his life, his work with the church and Father McBarnette — this might be his “last Carnival.” He’d be very happy to join thousands of people in plain white T-shirts with black print. “Hallelujah,” he murmurs softly.

“Look you…” SC notices he’s falling asleep and whispers to Ata that she has to go do some errands — this is her errands and “town” vacation week, before her escape holiday.

How could someone have an “errands vacation” and be so predictable? Ata doesn’t object, even though she thought they were going to spend some time together today. She doesn’t ask when they might have lunch either. Ata watches her town-friend look back at Fraser’s sleeping face, then prance off purposefully to her sleek car.

Ata takes the notes and her unfinished feelings up to the study, changes, and stares at the sketches for a long time. A swim might clear her mind. Hot cream-synthetic-carpet smell, lingering upstairs. Blood stirring slow, turning in veins, cool in the room downstairs. As she walks through the house, Fraser, in his full glory, comes back to her, cavorting round the place as he used to. Running from the downstairs bathroom stark naked, long thighs chucking his bum, fleshy arms shuddering — splash. Lovelay! Ouffing and spouting belly-up in the pool, clacking his small-teeth grin.

The carpet stops at the door of the upstairs bathroom. The small white tiles are cool underfoot. Cooler than the plastic toilet seat. “I can see you from here,” through the window. Gru-gru bef trees rasping the breeze and the big silk cotton, on the other hill, flying clouds of white puffs. Cotton magic puffs, sailing over the dust-dry town and the millpond shimmering hot sea. And on a glorious day like this, you sleeping a toxic dream downstairs. Ata likes the tiles in this bathroom. The way the black ones make a border round the edge and how some, just on the floor here, are crooked. It makes her think of someone laying each one carefully, with the white grouting powder on their hands and in their hair. Armitage Shanks. You washed your face here and you like this bathroom too.

A fan-palm breeze pats Fraser’s cheek. Sleeping dreams of yesterday and nightmares of tomorrow.

* * *

Vernon walk into the ole boys rumshop. The whole town is his, seems like. All of Laventille, any part of the city — he could walk. Not like a big bravin’ baddjohn or anything, just steely-silent. If you do notice him, you wouldn’t look to trouble him. Vernon go cool-cool down inside the bar to the counter, and nobody don’t pay him no mind. Except Jigga, who dancing and moving around in the corner. Sammy recognize Vernon straightaway but Vernon don’t notice him.

At the counter, shiny Rosie come to serve him a drink. Jigga dangle over by him too, shaking heself, and he swell-up rum face, right up next to Vernon. Vernon don’t take him on. Miss Rosie watch the stranger.

“Aye brudda-man, how you is today? Buy me a drink nuh?” Jigga splattering out the drunken words close close.

Vernon check his forearm resting on the counter, to make sure no stinking froth didn’t fall on him. He ain’ look at Jigga rample face yet but he can smell him, so he not turning.

Rosie ask what he drinking.

“Aye brudda-man, buy me a drink nuh?” Jigga rest he hand on Vernon shoulder and bring he slathering mouth closer.

In two twos, Vernon sling off the man hand and fling he back so, “Don’ touch me!”

Sammy, from all the way by the door, could see hackles rise. All the ole fellas’ talk stop. But drunky Jigga blind to that. He reel and smile, and come forward again.

“I ain’ drinking dis hour’a the day,” Vernon mutter to Miss Rosie. “Gimme a pack’a cigritte.”

“Don’ mind Jigga,” she say, turning to reach for the small red packets on the shelf.

“Well, breds, a schmoke, a schmoke. Gimme a schmoke, nuh?”

Before he could land he hand on Vernon arm again, Vernon slam he up against the wall and rangle he up so.

“Oh Lawd Gad, e killing me!” Jigga bawl out. He head butt-up on the wall, how Vernon raff him, while he splattering and bawling, “He dead.”

“Vernon!” Sammy shout out.

Vernon drop him one-time and he fall down on the ground laughing. “Yuh lucky,” Vernon snarl, deep in he guttery throat. And he pay for he cigarettes, not minding how Rosie watching him scornful.

“Wha’ happen to you man?” but he walk out without even watching Sammy yet.

Jigga jump back up on he antsy foot, shaking and dancing again. “Da is a vex man, bwoy…”

“That is not a man to trouble,” them ole boys say.

“I know him,” Sam say. “I always suspec’ he is a troublemaker.”

“Where he from? Aye-aye, he remind me’a Dr. Rat, but he taller than Rat. Yes, Dr. Rat, de informer for Kojak. Protected — a feared fella from Belmont. He used to be on de street insulting people and they couldn’t touch him…” The scamps expert start up again and the rest like nothing better.

Sammy listening but he hope they would get back to great people names, so he could go driving around in he mind again, looking up where named after them. He looking forward to actually driving by these places, to find telling signs that match the character. But he have a feeling the talk heading to violence. It always comes back to that, somehow. Violence and corruption. If a person not in it, they talking about it. A lot’a talk.

“… a time, Kojak realize Rat had two rum in he head and he slap him up in front’a people! Yes. Randolf Kojak Burrows, man, and he tatical squad.”

“He wha?”

“De ‘Flying Squad’ they used to call them. If you see them coming out, with they black suit…”

“And NUFF come out too.”

“Nuff what?”

“National Union of Freedom Fighters — they give Kojak a hard time in de seventies, but he was de first national police commissioner. After they run out de Englishman in independence.”