A Kind of Eden (2 page)

They were shown to a table by the waterside, and from there they looked out at the anchored boats which came from all over the world. He had been here once in the day when it was busy with young people, at the start of his trip, and there was a boating regatta of some sort, loud music pumping out from gigantic speakers on a truck. At first he found it irritating, the pounding of the bass, the unfamiliar soca tunes. But then someone handed him a beer, and he realised that the only way to fully enjoy the regatta was to carry on drinking. He had never known people drink and drive like Trinidadians. There was talk of bringing in breathalysers from England. But the cells would be full in no time. Here there were no health warnings, no mention of units, and definitely no drink-driving laws.

‘So how was he?'

‘Tired. Scrawny.' Safiya shook her head and then looked away at the water. ‘He looks like a hundred years old.'

‘He must've been glad to see you.'

She shrugged her shoulders, and he thought she might cry. Safiya's father had been terminally ill for a while. The hospital had sent him home that day with a small supply of morphine; there was nothing more they could do. There would be no follow-up care, no health visitor calls, no Macmillan nurses, no telephone helpline. Safiya's father had come home to die in the room he'd shared with his wife for thirty-seven years, except the bed had been moved and a new adjustable electric one was in its place. There was talk of getting a night nurse, and he
had even offered to pay a contribution, but her mother was resistant—he wouldn't want a stranger in the room.

‘It's mom I worry about. She's scared; I see it in her eyes. And she's anxious about money. This whole thing has eaten up their savings.'

The first time he met Marjorie Williams he arrived for dinner with a bottle of Californian Merlot; she was pleased: how did he know she liked red wine? She took him straight to the kitchen to taste the salt fish fritters she was frying. He told her, ‘This is the most delicious thing I've eaten since I got here,' and he meant it.

‘Thank you,' she said, and to Safiya, ‘A sweet talker; he can definitely come again.'

At that point she didn't realise that he was sleeping with her daughter, taking her back to his apartment at the end of the day; sometimes in the middle of the day, if their schedules allowed it. No, to her mother, Safiya had simply described him as a lonely old English guy she had met through work, no more than that.

He was surprised by the old-fashioned feel of the house: the olive-green Formica cupboards and the white worktop, the narrow gas stove where the big coal pot rested, and the large fridge covered with paper scraps, postcards, mementos. Safiya was born in this house, and apparently nothing much had changed: the same wooden floors, the ceiling fan in the living room, the cabinet packed with crockery and her grandmother's cocktail glasses, the silver cocktail shaker. He'd noticed a line of blue glass bottles outside the swing door, and Marjorie said these were to keep away bad spirits.

Vagrants sometimes wandered into the yard and slept on the steps. Just a month ago, while going to lock up the gate, she almost tripped over a sleeping vagrant. He had long dreads—a headful of snakes—and no shirt on his sweaty chest; his trousers were held up with old rope. You could see his pubic hair sticking out. The vagrant cursed her for kicking him, and she told him she'd already called St Ann's, the madhouse, and a van was on its way. Since she'd put the blue bottles out, he'd stayed away. Black people were frightened of blue bottles; Safiya said they are both religious and superstitious. If someone robs you, start saying the Lord's Prayer and see how fast they run.

That night Marjorie cooked up a West Indian feast: rice with pumpkin and beef; she prepared a large salad with lettuce and tomatoes. There was garlic bread, cassava, fried plantain. They sat at the dining table, the oval mahogany table which she said her husband had made when they first got married in 1955. It was an easy night, and he managed to avoid discussing anything too personal about his life in England. They mostly talked about Trinidadian politics, the recent Miss Universe competition, and the appalling rising crime. He was always taken aback by how seriously Trinidadians thought about their ruling government; in England he could not imagine having a similar discussion about New Labour around the dinner table. When Safiya said goodbye at the door, he knew she was pleased; the evening had gone extremely well.

But a month later, when he went back to the house, Marjorie did not come to say hello; she stayed in her bedroom and watched
CSI Miami
. She had found a birthday card in Safiya's bedroom. There was a poor choice of cards in the mall and
he'd settled for a soppy American Hallmark. On the front was a cute Labrador puppy with a red bow around its neck:
To the world, you may be one person. But to me, you are the world
. Marjorie confronted Safiya, who told her, yes, they are having a relationship, and yes, it is complicated, and no, she isn't worried about what she is getting herself into.

That night he waited to speak to her in the living room; Safiya made him a sandwich, brought him a cold beer. She wished that he would let it go, there was nothing more to say. But he waited, all the while listening to the American voices coming from her mother's room. Eventually, when he got up to leave, Marjorie appeared in the doorway.

‘I don't want you in this house again,' she said, calmly. She looked as if she had been crying. ‘My daughter is all I have.' Then, ‘An old man like you, you should know better.'

He drove away into the night, around and around the Savannah, until eventually he pulled into the car park at the Hilton Hotel where he shut off the lights, pushed back his seat. It was shocking to him, at his age, to be reprimanded by someone's mother.

He steps quietly through his apartment, stopping to collect a beer from the fridge, to the back where his small veranda is in darkness. He unlocks the wrought-iron gates, and pushes them open. He dislikes the bars, but they are necessary. He has become less security-conscious in the last few weeks, and he knows that he needs to be careful. Just last month a woman in her fifties was found dead not too far from here. Someone had seen two men at her door, and she apparently let them in
without struggle. She'd been renovating her house, extending her porch, and people were coming and going all day. No one noticed anything unusual. Later that evening her son stopped by and found his mother lying on the floor in the utility room tied up with a garden hose. Then he saw that one end had been forced down her throat into her stomach, and the pipe, like a giant green plastic noodle, was sticking out of her mouth.

Next door's security lights are on, and he can see the glow of their L-shaped swimming pool through the fence. The couple are often away. He has met them a few times—at their house, when they invited him to a pre-Christmas party, and occasionally over the fence. They seem pleasant enough.

He is certain that the wife, Jeanne, has had breast implants; she wears them boldly, with tight shirts and tube tops. She is friendly, but in a self-conscious way, often adjusting her straightened hair or her straps while complaining about the heat or the rain. He wonders if she ever plays away. He has discovered that it's possible, in a relationship, to present to the world a picture quite different from the truth. These days, when he meets other couples, he finds himself looking for signs; he contemplates, he speculates. Are they in love? Are they happy? Faithful to one another?

Yes, there is something about Jeanne that seems available, feckless. Satnam, her husband—immaculate, in long-sleeved shirts and slacks, works for the local airline. His senior position means they can fly wherever they wish, and that means mostly Miami, Florida, where she can shop, and where they own two houses.

It is curious to him—a steady, quiet person like Satnam,
caught up with a woman like Jeanne. He has seen it before, and it doesn't always go the way you think; time usually sorts things out. Yes, with time people reveal themselves. He'd put money on Jeanne trading in Satnam at some point down the road; cashing in the houses, the car, half of his annual income, which, by any standards, Trinidad or England, must be considerable. And swiftly marrying someone else; someone younger, more adventurous, better looking. Is this something Satnam ever worries about? Perhaps not.

The day they were leaving for Miami, he saw them in their black 4x4 Hyundai Tucson. Jeanne peeped over the blacked-out electric window, her long earrings dangling.

‘Any requests from Uncle Sam?'

And he had felt embarrassed, and without thinking found himself blurting, ‘I actually hate America.'

He knew by the way she looked at him that she was thrown.

‘Just kidding,' he added. ‘Have fun.' He seems to remember they are back on the weekend.

Ahead, he can make out the hills. It is incredible to him how quickly he has grown accustomed to sitting here in the veranda, on the ugly aluminum chairs with the plastic white straps. More than one of the straps has broken, and two of the chairs are more or less useless. Around the veranda is a little brick wall about three feet tall, and in the middle, a white plastic table. It is hardly luxurious. But he has grown to love these hills and the way they change colour; sometimes, particularly in the gentle morning light when he sits outside with his first cup of coffee, they are pale and blueish. By noon they are a hard yellow-green; and in late afternoon
they are tinted with shades of violet and mauve. Now they are so very black.

He wanders into the yard. This tropical grass is thicker, tougher than the grass of his English lawn. The blades feel coarse and springy when you walk on them. Recently he has discovered something: he likes to feel his bare feet on the earth, particularly in the early morning when the ground is moist. In the rainy season it turns muddy, and the mud is reddish brown like clay. There is an old sink by the side of the apartment where he can wash his feet. He has to watch out for the tiny ‘ti marie' that prick the skin. There are ants too, millions of tiny ants. According to Safiya there are twelve different types of ant in Trinidad. He has yet to see the gigantic leaf-cutting bachacs that live in the forests. One day, Safiya will take him there.

He looks out at the dark shapes, the shadowy trees, the small concrete shed, and he wonders about Fanta. Usually at this time, Fanta is sitting on the veranda wall, or sleeping in his wicker basket. He hasn't seen him all day. Maybe he has things to do: a cat is a lion in a jungle of small bushes. Three months ago, he found the stray kitten curled up in a shady corner outside the supermarket. Small enough to sit in the palm of his hand, his ribs protruded and when he stood he had no tail. But his orange coat was pretty and surprisingly soft. Without thinking too much, he put the cat in a brown paper bag, and placed him in the back of his car. At home, Fanta slept and ate milk and crushed water biscuits. Before long he was strong enough to run about. Now he is used to Brunswick tuna and IAMS biscuits imported from America, and Safiya says he is spoiling
him. She doesn't like the name, either. He has explained to Safiya that Fanta is a fizzy English orange drink.

‘I'm hungry,' Safiya says from the doorway, her voice a sleepy drawl. ‘Are we going out to eat, or should we have something here?'

She is wearing a long yellow T-shirt. She sits, and draws her knees up to her chest. ‘I could do Kentucky.'

In England he would never have dreamed of eating Kentucky Fried Chicken, but here everyone seems to like it. One evening, recently, on the way home from the beach, hungry, sandy and sunbeaten, and dressed only in their beach clothes, on Safiya's insistence they'd picked up a twelve-piece tub of hot and spicy chicken from the drive-by in Maraval, and parked under the huge Samaan tree; he was surprised at how delicious it tasted.

‘I want to take you somewhere special.' He squats down on the floor beside her. ‘Take your pick,' he says. ‘Anywhere you want.'

There are a number of new restaurants on the long strip of road in the centre of the city. Since he arrived, Italian, Chinese and Mexican restaurants have all opened within a few weeks of each other. There is a bar that reminds him of a gastropub in England with its hanging lampshades and ambient music. Safiya likes it but he thinks it is pretentious, and a little young. It is also expensive. Everyone says the economy is booming; it occurs to him that Trinidad seems to be the only country in the world where this is so, where life is still ‘sweet', as they say.

‘A zinger,' she says, ‘that's what I want.' Then, ‘A zinger, fries and a large Coke.'

He understands why she doesn't want to go out. In some ways, making a big effort on their last night together makes the separation more poignant, and he doesn't want her to feel that this is in fact their last evening together. For two weeks, yes, but that's all. At the same time, an intimate dinner in an expensive restaurant might leave her with a better and more lasting memory; while he is away, he wants her to think of him at his best: supportive, loving, generous. Someone she can have a good time with; someone she can rely on.

He has noticed, since her father's decline, she is turning to him more and more. He has become a safe place to rest her troubled heart and he is pleased; he had hoped this would happen. The next two weeks will be critical.

They have overslept. Someone is tapping hard on the bedroom window; he hauls himself from a deep sleep and staggers out into the passageway. He can see a dark shape through the frosted louvers, and he is disorientated. Then he remembers: it is not a workday; he is leaving for Tobago, and he has asked Sherry, his housekeeper, to come today instead of tomorrow. She has arrived early.

‘Mr Rawlinson,' he hears her high call. ‘Mr Rawlinson.'

She is holding up a plastic bag. ‘I pick up some nice oranges on the highway, right there by the turning. I'll make a juice.' He lets her inside, and she goes to the spare bathroom, where she will change into a work dress and an apron. There is a place for her to hang her clothes, and a small shower. It is familiar to her, and he no longer has to instruct her—the way he likes things, the basics. He is not used to taking care of himself, so things are often left undone, unwashed, in a heap. He has to be conscious, make an effort. It doesn't come naturally.