Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

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Just a few men smoking cigarettes, and a woman selling sweets on the quiet pavement, outside the Back in Times fete. They can hear “Tiny Winey” whinging away in there and a couple come out leaning on each other. Her tight blue satin dress and his jacket and hat, slipping out into the streetlight — sweet reminders of the past. They step comfortably through the silo shadows to the bus terminal, in peace.

“What a sign, eh? Allyou going in?”

Ata looks at Fraser’s profile from the backseat as he listens and stares longingly, lost for a moment. She has seen the inside of this venue in full oldie-goldie swing. Fraser has too, and was savoring his remnant memories of the silhouettes and figures like the Mighty Kitchener, stiff-limbed but agile on the dance floor; a man’s hand spread on the small of a woman’s back, guiding her round; big women squeezed into velvet and synthetic silk, cleavage powdered and hardworking feet pinched in heels. They would have tables in there, on the edge of the dance floor, where some mostly sit and eat heavy food with flimsy plastic forks. Ladies sip beer or Malta, men knock rum. Bumsies would be rolling but not frantically, no high-speed in there. Sweet, like the old voices and wicked lyrics of kaiso. Slow and tight in a fine-wine.

“Allyou going in, or wha’? Not to be rude or hustle you or anything, but if is jus’ a drink you want at dis hour, I mean, just a chill-out before yuh head home ’cause you can’t drink, Fraser — I know a place to take you.”

They can see Fraser has relaxed and is tired but he insists he isn’t, as they pull off. He shrinks down into his seat. Soon they’re at the ole boys rumshop on Independence Square. The whole place brisk and lively, even at this hour, owing to the fact that this is like Christmas for Trinis. Sammy points out, “Some people does spend more money and be brokes-brokes after, more than Christmas. I mean to say, though, with the cost of fetes these days, and costumes all hundreds and thousands of dollars — what you expec’?”

They pick their way along the pavement toward the grungy rumshop.

“The bands nowadays have security, traveling toilet, AC lounge-room on de truck — you have to pay for all dat…”

Only a few of the ole boys there but well lubricated, so they make up in volume for the half-empty table. The overdone topic — Trini women is the best in the world — slurs, shouted over Roaring Lion’s “Papa Choonks.” They take no notice of Sam’s new friends and Ata’s glad for that as they hover, almost on the pavement.

The choonkuloonks powder-puff squeezy tune is the best, new but a classic already. Ata relaxes with her last drink, half listening to the conversation and playing cool in the town-night scene she rarely gets to see. Fraser is in his element, tired, but widened eyes and a tentative smile showing how much he’s trying to absorb all he can. He sways a little, out of rhythm, and Sammy insists he sit. One ole boy swipes a stool for Fraser and almost falls off his.

Sammy sits too, shaking his head with Fraser — how these ole fellas so excity and enjoying theyself so much over rum and old songs. He glad the one who like to lash the table loud not here right now. The racket, eh — they clashing with the music playing. And the image of the big ugly horner-man, creeping, coming to commit adultery, the mother hushing him, and the child pointing, Mama look a boo-boo , had them good.

Fraser smiles serene.

Ata dancing slight by the door, gazing at a madwoman searching for something in the drain.

“But Bomber! Bomber come with the one, “Foolish People,” with Ras and Choonkie. Yuh rememba? She charging for a kiss and giving he bow-wow to eat. Rememba?”

“ When he akse what is dat, she bawl, meow — he say what! From now I eating cat. ” They squeal and hoot, remembering well. Sammy and his friends don’t know this one and the ole boys start talking all at once, clamoring to explain more of the song. Fresh, listening blood.

“Ah, but where does the name ‘calypso’ come from?” Fraser eventually dares ask. He knows there’s no definitive answer.

The barrage of conflicting answers jumble out, just as one of his waves of tiredness sweeps over him, a strong one.

Carib cariso and French carrousseaux , Spanish/Venezuelan caliso and the various meanings of joyous song, drinking party, festivity, topical song. Each arguing, then admitting there wasn’t one source, agreeing soundly that the West African kaiso is not to be disputed.

Fraser’s impressed. And relieved, down to his soul, that he could find this and still be impressed.

Ata thinks, his Terence would enjoy this too. This is the stuff he and other returnees and intellectuals romanticize. They write theses about this, and would be tickled, and more attentive than Fraser is now, behaving like foreign researchers even though they’re local. Anthropologists, sociologists, linguist, orthographist, philologist, and every other “-ist” kind of heaven here, especially around Carnival time.

The madwoman has moved to the other side of the street and is scouring along the curb there. Suddenly, a car lurches round the corner and swerves crazy. Green light shines from under the car, and scratchy treble noise, men’s arms and faces, blare from it. A bottle pelts out from the car, aimed at the woman, misses, catching the pavement just by her foot. Laughter and red blinking lights on the rear spoiler, swoops and disappears.

“… tha’s why they end up calling a good calypso kaiso .”

“Who tell you dat? You mad. I know it have good calypso, and it have good kaiso , and the both is the same t’ing.”

“Shu’ yuh mouth, nuh, boy.”

“But allyou know the Greek meaning of calypso too?” Fraser intervenes.

“Of course, somet’ing with a island…”

Ata thinks they should be going, enough is enough. Fraser’s looking weak but he is set. “The nymph, who imprisoned Odysseus on her island—”

“Da is Trinidad, de island.”

“—to make him her immortal husband. Daughter of the Titan Atlas—”

“Ent’ nymphs does have plenty sex?” Sammy wants to show off his learning too. “This man here have a lot’a knowledge about book things and religions, and so on,” he boasts.

“Nymphymaniac, that is dem Trini women in true.”

“Where? They only playing so, is only trick they tricking man, to mamaguy you. If you have money, they want to married.”

Another rounds sets off, about Maestro’s “Mr. Trinidadian” and how he love mamaguy, ’cause “ Trinis don’ know what dey want…”

Fraser gets up and joins Ata, chipping slowly side to side, “ I want a man, to hold on in de parrr-ty. Somebody to rub up … and everyt’ing will be irie, irie … shake yuh dingaling…”

Just so — Fraser falling to the ground. Ata grabs him and Sam rush in like lightning but he reaches the pavement. Ata’s heart’s in her mouth as she calls his name, checking … eyes not opening but … a mumble, as all the ole boys helping to pull him up, and bundle him into Sammy’s car.

They speed off to the private hospital. Ata on the mobile, to his doctor.

THIS IS THE BLOODY THING he couldn’t understand. Why go through all of that, why bother, when it’s just a show? Pierre had come in to work in the afternoon, after helping Ata and Helen take Fraser home from the hospital. It was a relapse from overdoing himself. His toxicity levels were a little high. Pierre guessed he must be eating whatever he felt like, now he’s feeling better. What irresponsibility. And Ata and the damned jump-up nonsense.

The draft report of the MDG launch is on his desk for review and comments. The whole thing is a farce. This Trinidad office is a farce. He remembers thinking that this would be an easy post — the jokes by other new arrivals about what a piece of cake it is, to be in a place like this for a change. The beaches, sailing, no wars or hordes of starving children, a minuscule population. He used to like to ask about the numbers, in meetings, just to remind others of the scale that their percentages blow out of proportion. What a joke. And now, because of the evangelical U.S. embassy, IOM setting up office too. What trafficking? Drugs, yes, but … even when there’s outright corruption, can the U.N. do anything?