Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

The car can’t go faster on the crowdy street outside the East Oval wall. Everybody walking in wearing white — that is the glow part but Sammy don’t know where they getting the brass part of the fete from. Wasn’t no proper brass bands around again, only Roy Cape and he All Stars, and they in National Water and Sewage Authority fete tonight. The things they call “brass” nowadays, can’t compare. This is a soca fete. Okay, granted David Rudder and Charlie’s Roots will be playing, it go be the least wajang of the soca fetes but still … That’s why — Sammy remind himself and Ata, whether she can hear him over the music or not — he stop jumping up and feting and such. Though he is a young fella, he know what things used to be like, and them soca instructions to mash up this, and wave yuh flag, move to the left, move to the right , spoiling everything. “As if people don’ know how to move they own body.”

“Yes, but people still have a good time.”

“But they, and the singers-selves, only charging here and there like mad bull. Ever since Super Blue and then Machel Montano come on the scene. Worse yet now, the stupid Donkey song.” Sammy raise his voice. “Anyway, this is de safer fete — watch who going in — you see the security and the amount’a whitey and light-skin people?”

“And the music is the best, out of the lot.”

“Ah know, ah know, I ain’ saying is a bad t’ing — is good ’cause it safe, for you. I ain’ mean you hoity-toity like them. That is a next reason why I don’ go again, too much’a security factor. Gone is de days when a man could have a good-good jump up and enjoy heself, without a stabbing or a robbing or fighting. Remember last year somebody was juking people with a HIV needle?”

Ata remembers the scandal, and the “AIDS in Yuh Bam-Bam” song. She had experienced one or two fetes that were considered working-class and rough. She had no trouble at all and had a good time, just like everybody else.

“Watch — that is a machine gun de security by the entrance have. Enjoy yuhself, girl. And call me when you ready, just call.”

* * *

Ata and the white-clothes line stepping bouncy, some high already, agitating to see inside. Sky clear and all the stars and the high old samaan trees even look excity, and ready to go through till daybreak.

The stage, set behind the cricket stands, sparkles loud, “ Sing Glory Hallelujah…” David Rudder tries, with all his friendly face and charm, but the song is too goody-goody. The sea of white shuffles till it passes, and warms up with his next song. When the bass and tabla drums start beating “Hulsie X”—everybody bumping up. This is what they love this man for — he have it going on. Soul voice and “ lyrics to make a politician cringe and turn a woman’s body into jelly, yeah … You could’a never refuse it Calypso, and when you shake like a shango drum … CALYPSO! ” Tons of voices singing for him and raising him up, bouncing as one, “ CALYPSO-O-O-Oh…”

In the middle of the fete, jumping with three Slingerites, Ata feels the mobile vibrating against her hip. She makes her way out to the edge of the crowd, struggling to get it out from her tight sweaty pocket. Fraser! Rum-and-Coke blaze, fete-sweat glazed, Ata calls back, hardly able to hear the ring on the other end. She covers her ear and starts pushing through to the entrance. “YOU WHERE?… OUT?…” She shows her orange wrist-tag and dashes outside. On the edge of people in the barricades still entering, Ata spots Fraser, with Vernon standing behind him.

From the itchy smile all over his face and the simple way he stands there, waiting to be swallowed, Ata can see that this isn’t a time to buff him for venturing this far. She crashes into him hugging and forgetting his second navel, apologizing for her clumsiness, offering to get his ticket. She cut-eye at Vernon, for bringing Fraser, but both know there’s no stopping him anyway. Back inside, Rudder heating steelpan “ thunderbolt tell me what going on, tell me, tell me where he gone…” and the ringing scene hits Fraser bidip-bap.

“Oh, go-ooood!” He launches himself, pushing into the crowd, to feel the pounding better. “ Ah where de man with de hammer gone? Tell me, tell me where he gone…”

Bottom grinding on bambazam. “ Aye! ”

Woman wining on man. “ Search under yuh bed, aye! ”

Woman and woman. “ All about yuh head, aye! ”

Even man and man jungle-up together, bumping. Everybody — Black, White, Chinee, even Syrian — tout bagai wining. Rudder raise his voice in vibrato … “ Tell me, tell me, ah want to knnowww…”

He hush his people now, pointing up to the hills. “ One day up in Laventille, many years ago…” Fraser’s heaven, his favorite lyrics. Vernon standing still and strong, Guinness in hand, his birthplace celebrated in song. Ata looks at them both. She still isn’t getting the feeling and tries to decipher, from the energy between them, in the middle of all these people — if Fraser had told Vernon. Or Vernon…?

Now there’s a drink in Fraser’s hand. Ata sidles up to him and peeps in the cup — he says it’s only one, winks both eyes at her, nodding — he’s okay. Good. All the movement, skin and teeth shining, costume jewelry and silver glitter, is enough. With the sweat-slicking beat, was too much. Plenty to make you drunk before you even drink.

Allison Hinds is bringing on the soca glow of the fete and prances her heavyweight backside across the stage. Aerobic gymnastics in the place and the skin-up antics now start. Ata and Fraser are pushed back, to give way for two women and three men gone clear. The ragey-ness is building up like the volume and pitch onstage. Drinks sloshing, foot mashing. “ I want a man come an…”

Ata suggests it’s time they go, and Fraser pretends to be sorry but agrees quickly. They look around for Vernon and find him by the bar, well happy and brace up. They leave him there. Ata doesn’t ask Fraser if he’s worried about him driving home drunk, she figures it’s something Vernon must do all the time. The breeze greets them cool outside and the barricade is empty. It looks like a corral now. For rutting cows and bulls. Fraser rests a palm against the wall, feeling the stampede vibrations through his whole body still, quivering his ears.

He gets into Sammy’s car reluctantly. “I wish there was a gentler fete. I ain’ ready to go home yet.”

After Sam rants about what he doing out at this hour, and how his head hard and so and so, he concedes. “But allyou go in de wrong place to begin. Back in Times in the labor union place, on Wrightson Road, where it does have calypso tent— dat is where you will get de real sweet kaiso.” And they swing down there, to check it out.

* * *

Alone in bed. In a damp, cheap little cottage, almost at the end of the North Coast Road, in Trinidad. Pierre stepped out naked in the night, onto the deck, and went cautiously down the wooden steps, to the little swimming platform. He sat on the edge as his eyes adjusted to the dark-sea tones, his skin to the tickle of wind. This is what he had thought he could have more of. He had dreamed of leaving this place. Thought of it, thinking he needs to. Living in a city without the benefits of a city was not for him. Not good for her either. She would gain more from the arts in London, or Europe somewhere. Pseudo city life is what Port of Spainians love and excel in, hurriedly erecting Miami-style town houses and air-conditioned condo towers, gated “communities.” When everywhere else was trying to escape suburbia, these fools were rushing into it, boasting about how many security measures they have to take, how many hours spent in traffic, and how long ago it was since they made it to the beach. Mall life. While this …