Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

The Greek Goddess smiles, floating through it all, coming attentively to the rescue of the delicate wine discussers while Fraser spins around on command, looking for more ice for the rum drinkers. Sangria lashers finishing the big bowl quick and slackers hauling Carib beers from coolers under the table.

“Wha’ happening with de music? How you could have a party without music?” Marriette’s brother shouts over the clamor.

“I will do it, I’m the DJ! Your muuusic-machine self, yaow!” The designer’s hyper husband jostles his way into the living room.

“Play something nice and background,” Fraser yells, then asks Marriette, “Why everyone came in through the kitchen door? I have a perfectly decent front entrance that’s hardly ever used.”

“When you will stop yuh assishness, Fraser? That’s just it — which one of your friends ever came in here through your blasted front door? This man loves nonsense.” She turns to Ata chuckling, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke.

Ata stares at her easy confidence and suddenly feels completely self-conscious in her makeshift outfit, a piece of saffron sari fabric, wrapped and tied into a halter getup. She had cinched it with her sister’s broad belt and tortoiseshell buckle, but the fabric was plain cotton with a nonshiny, simple border. She had even pulled up her curls and hooked on a leaf-shaped bronze earring that curved around her ear and along her jaw. Most people commented on her earring or unusual style of dress, but this near to Marriette it just feels cheap and overdone. Ata tries not to look at her and moves away toward Fraser’s staff and the comfort of office conversation.

Dhiraj the draftsman and Sunil the all-rounder were both young and modest about their roles but quick to let you know that they know — they are in with something terribly unique. “People don’t understand,” they whisper. “You see the new buildings going up, that look like they come straight out of Miami? Off-the-shelf designs? Well, not like that!” Apart from Fraser’s style being ultramodern, “is just different ” and they are proud and privileged to be part of it.

Ata lets on that she has a sense of it, from what he’d done with this flat.

“Exactly!” they both agree emphatically, nodding yes to SC’s offer of more intoxication.

Ata suddenly feels worldly and sophisticated because of a familiarity with what seems so celebrated on this island. She half listens to someone’s gorgeous rasta friend, who SC had pointed out as prime eye-food.

SC nods at him now. “Boring boring and overly ordinary , on the inside. Don’t mind all this world-music kind’a mix, nuh.”

“ Aaaah let’s do it, let’s dance! Shake your booty right to the ground…” blasts out suddenly from the music set.

“What de hell!” SC cranes to see the DJ bobbing and grooving away in the living room. “Turn it down!” she shouts.

The DJ obeys, slightly. And the last remnants of cocktail-partyness disappear as some people begin shaking it. Alcohol confidence moves Ata toward the lawyer couple, who had been looking curiously but welcomingly at her. The look when people want to start a get-to-know-you conversation. SC is already gyrating her hips and wriggles off toward the living room.

The couple are interesting enough but conversation is an effort over the music and noise. The arrival of a latecomer gives them something to look at. He stamps and stamps on the doormat, wiping his feet energetically the way a dog does on grass after his ablutions, sniffing and jerking his sharp chin up in the air. Gripping a bottle of wine as if it were a walking stick, he hitches up his trousers and steps into the kitchen looking absolutely delighted to be invited. A foreigner. Most people could spot one a mile off. Exactly how they are spotted, before they even open their mouths, cannot be pinned down. This is a real skill, mastered by island-vibe detectives who zoom in on the clues between a stranger and foreigner, between visiting overseas family member and returnee, expat and tourist. The experts claim we know everybody, is a small place . Impossible with a population of a million. Or we can smell fresh meat . Ata wonders, does this make her a local, since she has the sense? But she’s detected as a foreigner too, sometimes.

She watches as the latecomer glances around, eyes lighting on hers, raking her body. A stealthy wolf. Tall, skinny, and hunched but good-looking in a Gypsy way. His accent is slightly French as Marriette introduces herself and offers to find the host. He stamps his shoes some more, adjusts his spectacles, and swipes his longish hair back as Fraser comes beaming up to him. “Pierre, you’re here, you old dog! You didn’t even call me.”

“I only just got in to the hotel. Had a bit of trouble with the taxi finding this place…”

Fraser embraces his rib cage warmly and he bends, wrapping arms and bottle around Fraser’s shoulders. They thump and box each other, grinning away in genuine boyish affection. Marriette lounges off again, close by, smiling her drop-dead perfect smile. And the lawyer couple have faded off to chat with others.

“So you met the lovely Marriette already?” Fraser turns away from her, adding under his breath, “She’s the stunner I said I wanted you to meet.”

“But who’s this?” Pierre’s eyes are drinking in Ata. He pads over to where she stands alone now, trapped.

Fraser introduces them and returns to his duties.

“So what do you do?” Pierre asks, seeming less interested in the answer than in the detail of her collarbone and sharp bare shoulders.

Heart like a bird in a cage, she stutters and mumbles about graphics, design … Marriette’s eyes glitter cruelly as she trails off.

“Umn.” He nudges in closer to her. “Very graphic indeed.”

* * *

After the dancing dies and the drunk and polite leave, the party becomes a sit-down affair. Marriette sits on a tall stool, comfortable as the ornament on the bookshelf behind her. Suave comments and her low, throaty laugh drift out and, glass in hand, sipping, she glows amber at them. At Pierre. Fraser, merry himself, checks her gleam. Spreads himself in his chair so he can see better — from her, to Pierre, to Ata. Then Marriette’s well-lubricated brother is accidentally set off when someone asks about his surveillance work on other islands.

“Well, boy, soon small-island people can’t afford to live in they own home. Is either you working in service — servitude for imported millionaires, building luxury villas for them — can’t pay yuh bills ’cause yuh pay is shit, or you sell yuh piece’a heritance for U.S. dollars and get de hell out’a there. Is colonialism all over again, yuh understand? But dis time the owner not responsible for de slave. Whereas, long ago, the owner had to feed, clothe, give house and land, make sure they don’t get too sick — or else is his loss and fire in he skin. Now the government self, the blasted politicians, only selling out every last piece’a crown land, and is every man for theyself.”

Three others try getting a word in but he outshouts them. “But wait, nuh — ah now start! So, while all this craziness going on — inflation — people just putting up price ’cause they feel they must get a piece’a de dollar. Man who don’t want to serve can’t get work. In fact, is less jobs for he anyway ’cause they prefer to hire women — less pay, less trouble — man must do physical labor like construction and farming and t’ing. But man can’t get a start-up loan ’cause banks only lending for secure business and tourist development anyway. So, is more violence. Man can’t feed he family so he beat them, take a drink, and stab-up a next man. And woman sexing more than ever for money and whatever they need, ’cause is easier. But is service still, yuh check wha’ I mean? Heh. Meanwhile, is damage. Damage all round de islands. Down to de damn ‘eco-habitats.’ Less food production, more importation. Food more cheap in England and de U.S. than in dese islands! So people must migrate to survive. They even joining army and navy, to migrate again.”