Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

“Tiny Winey” was playing on the big old scratchy speakers by the door. And that was another reason Sam like to come by this corner bar — they like to play a lot of ole-time soca and calypso. He can rely on that. And is mostly ole fellas always there. Even though Sam is a young fella, he likes to be around older people ’cause they have more learning and they see plenty more things, and they talk less shit about woman, woman, woman. Sam have all them old kaiso tunes on he lil’ cassettes and now on CDs too, but is a different thing altogether when you hear them songs between old folks who appreciate them. Together with the rum jokes sparring double entendre and domino competition and suchlike.

Sam watch them men laughing, stamping they foot together with the slamming, scattering hidden flies from the sticky floor. And he look at Rosie round face shining down in the back, behind the dark dark bar. And he think, Trinidad sweet, boy. Ah love it .

“Yes, this is he,” he say, quick-draw style, when his phone ring. He had pick up that line from Fraser. Fraser handy for a good few lines. But Sam feel when he say it fast fast so — it sound like business. He smile as Fraser say something, teasing him as usual. Then he tell the domino players he heading out to make a turn.

He had park quite over so, by his friend’s lil’ car park. But he don’t mind the walk. He walks quick anyway, just like how he talks. He like pedestrianizing this part of town. That’s right, pedestrianizing — footing it — in the “heart a Po’t a Spain,” as he sees it. It always have action and t’ing going on, making it feel like a real city, to him. He like to see them decent office girls at this hour, going in and out’a KFC on the corner, buying they lil’ dinner-pack-to-go. This is the working-people hour and time to start making tracks home. Time to buy the few groceries you missing from the Chinee shop or pick up repaired shoes from the leather vendors in the middle of the square. He pass them now packing up, crinkling big plastic huckster-bags, stuffing them with they sandals and calabash ornaments, coconut pendants, and all sorts of Trinidad souvenirs. By this evening, the smell of leather and incense go be gone from around these tight stalls. But for now, as he stepping into the open boulevard, under the high, sparse old poui and flamboyant trees, the sun ain’t too hot and the traffic flowing and the corn-soup lady setting up, and he just get two extra turns to make for the day. “ Wine Miss Tiny, roll back Miss Tiny…”

* * *

Sam pull up screnching the gravel in the courtyard, park he faithful Nissan Sunny, and hop out, heading to Fraser’ glass door. She already coming out though, Fraser kissing she cheeks just like how he kiss every damn woman. But like he give her flowers? Sam never see this one before at all. But she buss Sam a big smile and say thanks, before she even get in the car. In the front seat. Sam smile too. He like smiley people and better yet ladies but he pride himself on never getting too fresh. Always know how to hangle t’ings — right through.

“Eh heh, where we heading? Your wish is my command and Fraser say you want me to pick up and drop somebody else later?”

The woman watch him like she seeing a small brown rabbit instead of a man. She listen to Sam nasal voice and watch he squingey self and long cheerful face. Sam hands must be lil’ paws mastering the steering wheel, the dashboard, the phone and tape deck. Two feet must be hind legs stabbing quick at the clutch and accelerator. She watch the Pizza Boys soft-drink cup and half-empty bag of granola between the seats homey-like, and she maybe notice his number plate is private, not hire car.

She start explaining her address and right away Sam know it, nodding, ginching heself forward onto the steering. “So you is from where? You not from here? I never see you round here before and I see alot’a people … You feeling nice you get flowers? That’s nice…” Sam thinks he might as well make chats. This one look open to that. And she looking excitable. “Right, right, right, you now meet Fraser — I say dat! ’Cause I know he a long time, I do alot’a runnings for he, errands nuh. You could say I is he office gofer. Not chauffeur, mind you. And I would’a notice if I had see a nice lady like you here before. I don’t forget people. Dat is just how I is. Since I small, I never forget a face.”

The woman, Ata, introduce herself, surprising Sam for a second with a handshake move. But then he quickly accept and extend a paw, the one with the long lil’ fingernail.

“So.” Sam cut through the quiet back streets of Woodbrook. He know the one-way system, all the potholes and crossroad dips in the road, like he know all four white walls of the Laperouse Cemetery close by. “So, so what time you want me pick up this person? From where? Oh, right, I know the hotel. Yes. So he is a visitor, right. And where I bringing he to? Okay, okay, same place. That’s easy. Good. And dat’s a nice time ’cause I will finish me lil’ football practice by then. Is perfec’ timing. Fine.” Sam see why the woman looking excitable now. He smile when she smile at him again. Something nice going to happen tonight, he know so. And that’s why she fidgeting so before she ask — if he works late. Sam couldn’t resist. “Is a kind’a date, nuh? The flowers. But I didn’t want to be so forward as to say something, yuh know? Not everybody does appreciate a friendly comment. That nice — he give you flowers — men don’ do these t’ings enough again, these days. Me, I is a ole-fashion kind’a…”

Her mind in fast-forward. Trying to plan for a type of date she had never had — bringing a man she didn’t know at all into her home. Ata is thinking she could still suggest they go out to eat. She doesn’t even bother to ask Sam about his football or keep up the chats.

* * *

End-of-the-week bare kitchen stared Ata straight in the face. She looked around the “dining” room and six o’clock weariness washed it sad, workbench with scraps and brushes sagging in the corner. She’d start with the dishes, make up the bed, bathe, and dare to look forward to the night — to when the light patterns of her pinpricked eggshell turned inside out.

She used to balance a shiny knife on the windowsill to put on eyeliner but had upgraded to a little piece of mirror. Holding it at arm’s length, she angled it up and down her frame, checking how much her embroidered top covered, the length of her Javanese brown wrap. But should she dress to go out? Her big flat feet stuck out stupid down there. A bra? No bra? She should seem comfortable in her own house. Casual even. Cool, calm, and … jumping jitterbug at the sound of the gate opening, she peeped through the fretwork and braced herself to open the front door. There he was, stamping again, almost hopping and wiping his shoes on the step, in a frisky shaking-off-snow kind of way.

“Allo!” He jerked a big grinning chin up at her. “Allo again. Ah ha, look at you!”

She leaned forward for a kiss on the cheek and Pierre hopped inside onto the mat, wiping shoes again. Ata wondered if invisible rain was falling or did he step in something?

That night, that Frenchie-English walked in with a bottle of wine and romance gripped tight in a paper bag. Ata watched Pierre struggle with the kitchen knife and a fork handle — she had no corkscrew. She ordered Chinese delivery and he stumbled out to the gate to collect it. But it seemed he had never eaten a meal without a table, never eaten this close to the floor. He looked at the cushions and chose the single decorative stool, clutching his plate uncomfortably on his knees. She tucked her feet under her, closed her wrap to stop her leg glaring out.

The jalousie glowed with streetlight like pleated rice paper and talk didn’t crack the tension or stop the night hours from seeping out. Didn’t stop her from saying “Oh no, it’s not so late” when he mumbled he should be going because of the time. Politeness was why he said it. His eyes weren’t decent. The wolf’s greediness licked them over her slowly. He slunk over and stretched out on the cushions next to her. Pink shins! She had never seen such a thing on a wolf, nor human being. Hairless, too. She stared at them in amazement, half-horrified and half-curious at how delicate they were, the skin tight and shiny. His feet — high arches, fine-boned and feminine. What a thing. A Gypsy wolf, braced up against the wall, breathing in and out of a big deep chest.