Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

Everybody breathes as he takes a sip, thinking the speech is done.

“Well, more Caribbean people will be coming in to Trinidad,” the lawyer-lady finally inserts. “Especially with the CSME.”*

“CS who? Caricom Simple Minded Economics?” Marriette’s brother bellows. “Even though Trinidad have oil and t’ings looking good here — the TT dollar is shit! When they convert they minimum wage — and ours is lower, and they ain’ even getting that — when they convert it, they can’t send home shit. You see that CSME farce? Trinidad making up they own rules ’cause we don’t really want nobody here, specially small-island people. If is foreign companies like BP and Shell and t’ing — well, that’s a different matter. ‘Singapore of the Caribbean’ my ass.”

“I guess the crime puts people off too,” lawyer-lady mumbles.

“Exactly right! When they see Trinis hustling to move to other islands, buying homes, and sending they children to school there, ’cause’a the kidnapping and murder — who in they right mind go want to come here?”

“All the hundreds of convicts the U.S. deported back to the Caribbean, perhaps?” Fraser raises his wineglass.

“You damned right!” Marriette’s brother clinks it with his beer bottle, hard.

* * *

The Trini exclamatory way of talking, overdramatizing everything with unpolished wit and raucous emotion, sometimes overwhelms Ata. Yet she feels prudish when she recoils. Somehow, the chaotic Spanish clamoring, the Indian clannishness and cutlass temper, the African skiving danceability, and English peasant/French farmer crudeness all blend together into a confused, brash way of life and language. But mostly, because it’s an excuse for another party, everything is celebrated. Brian Lara, cricket, and steelpan — so much talent here. Unique art. Derek Walcott — we claim him. We reach World Cup football — we lose. But celebration is “we t’ing.” God is a Trini. And creolization becomes the obvious answer for everything, more t’ing to celebrate. Piss-taking Chinee-parang, chutney-soca, rapso, fast-food curry and roti … “Douglarize the nation!” said one politician, responding to racial politicking. The “red-skin” Trinis, though — the ones like the hot-stinging Jack Spaniard wasp, named after the bold, murderous pirate in search of El Dorado, the ones who think they’re local white, like Marriette’s brother — they always were the loudest and most boastful members of society.

* * *

“But it’s not just here,” Marriette says. Her cool voice comes floating out of the corner. “Things are getting worse everywhere. And Trinidad is no exception.”

Ata thinks this is a good time to escape to the bathroom. She stoops under the hanging candelabrum but bounces it, spilling hot wax onto the carpet and her back, setting off “ouches” and everyone feeling it for her. SC clucks and Fraser fusses about how he should really hang it elsewhere.

“But only you would hang it so low.”

Ata claims it’s not that bad, glad for the ridiculous object taking center stage as she gets away. As soon as she returns, though, the foreign wolf makes room for her at his end of the settee, insisting she sit there. She sits, cautiously.

The wolf smiles, crinkling crow’s-feet. He nudges the pack. “So what’s … what’s the forecast for this place, then? If it’s so grim in the other islands?”

A loud groaning starts — to shut up the know-it-all brother.

“You really want to know?” the orator booms.

But SC jumps up and claps a hand over his mouth, holding it there.

“It’s a mess,” the lawyer-lady laughs.

Muffled agreement comes from under SC’s hand and she renews her hold, bracing her body against him. He raises his beer bottle and the five Trinis raise theirs. Pierre and Ata raise glasses too.

“To a lost cause!” Fraser toasts.

“To all lost causes!”

Marriette’s brother nestles back against SC’s breasts. “Well, I don’ mind getting lost here at all.”

She boxes him and prances back to the settee laughing, just as Pierre’s hand touches Ata’s skin above her knee, where her wrap had slid back. Just resting his paw there briefly, but long enough to register the current between them. Her leg burns.

Others are standing up but Marriette is still as a sphinx in the corner.

SC straightens her skirt. “Oh boy, time for me to get this one home. Come, Ata, let’s go before dis white man take a bite out’a you. I seeing, yuh know!”

Pierre laughs and slyly taps Ata’s ass as she gets up, uncurling himself and stretching, before saying goodbye to the others.

Ata doesn’t realize until she stands that she’s had too much and maybe too many different drinks. Overdosed on the assorted company. She’s glad for SC.

Fraser sees them to the door, inviting Ata to come see his office, anytime.

“Of course, thanks. And thanks for inviting me tonight,” she manages.

“Is me who invited you, girl!” SC hugs her with one arm. “This fool thinks she could drink, but she have no flesh to absorb it. Bye, Fraser. See ya. And keep that one in check, he houngry, man.”

* * *

In the Roses Advertising art room, where ideas blossom , SC keeps catching Ata’s eye and winking hard at her. “De girl ketch white t’ing, yuh know, Claris.”

Mouse squeaks, “Un-huh?” grinning mischievously but not missing a beat at her desk.

“Don’t worry with this dramatist. Somebody was flirting with me, that’s all.”

“And you wasn’t flirting? I could find out where he staying and his number from Fraser, if you want,” SC offers generously.

“You see, Claris?” Ata smiles as SC winks at her again. “No, thanks.”

“Jeez, man, I just trying a little nurturing. Like our dear boss-lady likes to say, ‘ We nurture you to full bloom! ’” She hooted the ending as they all cracked up.

The whole office shared the private joke about the corniness of their boss-lady’s plug-line, and her taste. All eight employees were women, her bunch of roses, as she liked to call them. And when they had PMS they were allowed to show their thorns in this female-friendly environment. “You must feel comfortable to be productive. Think of it like yuh home. We are a family and must always stick together — to show them what we women can do!” Fiercely competitive, Angelica Diaz held her own against chauvinist businessmen. She had a natural combination of business head and body sense, and used her female charm all the time. Even with her bunch of roses.

* * *

When Ata first came to her office Angelica declared she only hired women. “So you may be lucky one time already. Who needs men?” She laughed, crashing bracelets and ring-heavy hands onto her desk. Her gold tooth glinted. “You know what I mean? Have a seat. And you, Mira,” she shouted to her secretary, “stop passing up and down outside my door!”

Her desk was like Ata imagined the inside of her car — a box of tissues, fresh-scent potpourri, a little dog with his head on a spring sitting on a doily. Her office, like the inside of her home — gilt-framed cheap prints of stylized flowers, a pink curly vase with artificial roses, and two proud photos of perfectly handsome children, in graduation caps and gowns, of course.

“Your portfolio is unusual,” she said to Ata. “I mean, is good.” Closed it, jangled her hands, and puffed her cleavage up and down above the desk. “But what you have here has nothing to do with what we need. I mean, you talented, I could see that. You’s a artist!” She puckered her orange lipstick, raised plucked eyebrows, and blinked mascara-heavy lashes at Ata.

This was one of these women who must sleep fully made-up, with foundation, blush, and all. She would wear a frilly negligee over her full-body Spanish shape, be born with long lacquered nails, and take her first steps in stilettos. Ata knew these kinds of women were born to rule. Right away, they run things.