Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

“Yes, get allyou ramping backside back to work!” Queen of the Band shouts, more authoritatively than the manager ever could.

An artist who has just returned from Canada, and her volunteering girlfriend, look away sheepishly and turn back to the pieces of the Queen’s costume.

Queen of the Band holds out her arms again, towering above and beyond the little group of the most talented around her. “Pull it tighter,” she orders and two women cinch the laces across the back of her bodice. Her spine, set deep between gold muscles, flexes. The strapless whiteness of the almost bridal dress pops her bosom and broad shoulders out at the top, glowing and strong. Ata could almost see her dazzling on the huge Savannah stage already.

They lift the first fifteen-foot fabric wing and struggle to squeeze the fiberglass spine of it into the casing on the back of her bodice.

“Ah think allyou will have to loosen me again to get them things in.” Queen places one arm across the bust of her dress to hold it up.

Fifteen feet are the shorter ones. It takes another forty-five minutes to fit the taller, feather-like wings and secure them.

Queen releases her bussom and breathes in deeply. Her flesh threatens to burst out but the laces hold. She bends forward from the waist and sweeps around and back up. The wings suddenly flicker alive and flag a most graceful arc.

“It works!” All the workers watching now as she tests and flexes the eight tremendous wings. The fluttering sight hushes them — an angel has sighed. When she spins, the soft fabric sings the sea and heavenly freedom of sails spinning by. The sound of swift bat wings, invisible in the night. They can see the Savannah breeze lifting them wings, bending and spreading them, in majestic flight.

“So, is more have to strap to my legs?” Queen’s feet are planted wide under her skirt as she stretches her torso side to side.

She enjoys the sound of kites, a child’s thrill in the paper-buzzed breeze, the tugging string.

“No, two more for your arms. And then the skirt frame and trail,” the manager says.

She holds the imaginary wing wands and waves herself across the floor. They see horizontal wings transforming her from angel to star, with a blaze of frothing white surf sparkling behind.

“So where is them? I ready.” They stay staring at her, admiring. “Take me out of this thing, I tired.” She slumps suddenly and the group hustles to start de-rigging.

Ata goes with the manager, over to where the wire-and-fiberglass outer skirt frame is being constructed. Upstairs in the sewing room, the huge ruffled train is still being cut. All man jack pick back up speed in their work, black spray stenciling outside, rags wrapping sponge over wire …

“Is only a few more days we have left, people. I need my costume finish on time!” Queen shouts, to no one in particular. “I ain’ able with no dramas in this rounds.”

The old wire-bender looks up from working on the Queen’s skirt frame, takes out a cigarette from his pocket, lights it, and continues.

* * *

SC comes to check on her friend after the burglary only to find she is at the mas camp. She corners Pierre, who has just finished work, waiting for Ata’s return. “So she still going and coming all hours after this t’ing happen? She going to play mas too?”

“I have no idea. You know her, I’ve spoken to her but…” Pierre shrugs.

SC sips her vodka tonic and waits. What was Ata waiting for? What really she looking for? “You don’t find she restless?” SC doesn’t need his answer. “What she looking to do career wise?”

“Ask her yourself. It doesn’t work like that in the arts. You should know that.”

“Yeah, right. I respec’ real artists, eh, but a lot’a people with talent does just be wasting time. And spinning round from one thing to the next. Is time she know what she about.”

Ata arrives home then, slightly surprised to see her friend sitting out with Pierre.

“It’s not that simple,” he murmurs. He goes to get Ata a drink and leaves them alone.

SC can’t ask her the questions, though. This strain and strangeness between them shut up her frankness. She figured that the scary invasion would have shaken away that. Ata watches SC’s sympathetic face and slowly tries to absorb the warmth of her effort. They try. But the small talk steers clear and safe away from the troublesome feelings. When it comes round to Carnival and design apprenticeship with the graphic artist that SC is jealous of, her face cools off. To her, this man had come with his higher standards and snooted upon all the other graphic artists in the town. Rightfully so ’cause he is good, but he made himself into a well-respected artist like a fine artist, with all his collecting of paintings and fraternizing. While they all now were only just seen to be doing graphics. Of course, Ata’s apprenticeship was on hold.

The coolness reminds Ata of her friend’s past words. Their glasses empty, sun gone, SC say no more, but the restless, bittersweet breath of the town sighs in Ata’s ear.

* * *

Fete after fete, after fete, after fete … The last massive one before Carnival weekend and town can’t talk ’bout nothing else. Brass and Glow. All them radio stations prime up and bussing airwaves. Steelpan finalists fine-tuning they last tune. Overseas family and visitors have the airport and Savannah vendors busy — everything well set. Corpasetic , Sammy like to call it — when things just so. But he himself, of course, not having any part in it this year. Fraser had take Sam advice and get Father McBarnette to bless his place, just after he move back home. Things good with him although Sammy suspect is more than the story with he kidneys going on. But even granted all that, he much better, talking about going to Tobago, and suchlike. Down to his Moms behaving peaceful, a little, ’cause she think Fraser taking God back in he heart. Every time she hear Father McBarnette was by him, she getting on bright, not knowing is church building and history and black people mysteries Fraser and he talking about. That Father McBarnette is a man and a half, Sammy thinking as he driving. McBarnette not joining sides in the papers, about Slinger Amen band and the blasphemy. He saying things, eh, but not directly like the bishop. And through and through, the way he put it, everything come out like it making sense both ways. That is a man to learn a thing or two from.

Sam on his way to pick up Ata and a lot’a mad drivers on the road tonight. His Queen thinks he working too much ’cause he not coming home to eat with her again. She hardly seeing him and he hardly seeing he daughter. Even though he try to ease she mind and tell her “is jus’ for de season” and that after, he will build on a better bathroom for her, like he promise. Sam just not interested most’a the time now, with the catering orders. The driving more better than the cooking. Things drunken-wild on the road in the bacchanal season, though. “Be careful, me son,” she say.

Ata had arrange for transport to and from the fete. That is always a good thing because Sam knows, from his days, that you can’t really free up properly without drinking a good lil’ bit, and then … She is a body that need a good free-up. The white man, sensible thing he is, had gone up by they lil’ beach house, again. Sam himself had drop him up there while Ata was at the camp, but Pierre don’t talk much, at least not to Sam. He only was looking out, and holding on to the dashboard, and the road plenty curvy so Sam was busy anyway.

“ In a party, with my baby, in a party with…” Baron ole-time tune playing when Sammy reach the Oval with Ata, round 11:00 p.m. She looking fresh and nice in all-white and she have on a tight pants and makeup. She look more like a Trini girl now, sparkly, and Sam tell her so when he pick her up. He tell her she shouldn’t be going in a fete looking sweet so without a man. She laugh and say she going to meet her friends from the camp. Sammy know she don’t have much friends, due to her different kind’a way, which is why she and Fraser so close — but that’s how some people are. Even though Sam know he does talk a lot, some things is not to talk about. Is a thing called privacy.