Decadence (17 page)

Lips pursed, I left that at that. Bret had never pried into my world, had never asked questions, and I didn't want to become the type of woman who felt like she needed to unravel his mysteries and secrets. Even though I wanted to tell him about Chris, about that part of my past, about that unforgettable season, about Siobhán, I didn't want to end up trading horror stories, or war stories, each of us trying to convince the other that we'd been to a deeper part of hell. But still. Curiosity owned its own power and it had slain many inquisitive cats.

I asked, “Did she get arrested?”

“Didn't press charges. Couldn't do that to the mother of my children. But I did let them pick her up and take her down and let her cool off and let being fingerprinted scare the bejesus out of her.”

“Where were the children when she was acting out like that?”

“In the window. Saw it all. I had gone out there to try and stop her, but I wasn't going to put my hand on her. She'd turn it around if I did. So I stepped back while she screamed and cursed and made threats and let her have a fight with my truck. She has terrified my kids.”

“She sees them?”

“Supervised visits. I don't want them to
not
see her. She's their mother, good, bad, or otherwise. I know that if it were reversed she would cut me out of their lives and take as much of my money as the government would allow, call me out of my name all day long, but my heart ain't . . .
isn't
 . . . evil like hers. Yeah, I know how to pick 'em.”

“Printers Alley. Music City is rocking like that?”

“Nashville is probably the best city in the South. Nothing better. I'll never go that way again, that's for sure. Never again in my life.”

“Bet she was passionate in bed.”

“She was. A wild woman unchained. The crazy ones always are.”

“The crazy ones.”

“Present company excluded.”

“So you do remember.”

“I remember what is unforgettable.”

“What do you remember?”

“We were no-holds-barred. Me, you, and the girl from Montreal.”

“Vancouver. She was from Vancouver.”

“All the same to me. She was good. But you were something else.”

That was his first acknowledgment of our passionate night.

I said, “You were something else too. Towels. Hot towels. That was nice. I'll never see towels the same way. Hard not thinking about that every time I see you. Hard not wanting that again.”

“Same here.”

He smiled. Sexual tension existed between us. It was strong.

I said, “You were in college. What's . . . what was your major?”

“Electronics. That's behind me now. That was another me.”

“Amazing how one person can change your life. One person can turn your world upside down.”

“Sure is.”

I asked, “Was she your first love?”

“Nah. She wasn't my first love and I wasn't hers. She let me know that more than once and I let her know that more than twice. She went back to dating her high school sweetheart for a while. Probably saw him while I was deployed. Being gone a year at a time has a lot of us standing in divorce court. Lots of marriages fall apart while men are fighting for the country. Wives stay home, get antsy, and have affair after affair and soldiers abroad are lonely and doing the same.”

“The government doesn't issue chastity belts?”

“You're funny. I like that. You make me laugh.”

He opened the passenger door of the oversize truck and helped me climb up inside. I compared myself to him. We were so different.

I was Kipling and Tolstoy, Ruskin and Lewis Wallace, Anaïs Nin, Plath, Steinem, Rand, Alison Hinds and Rihanna and Minaj and carnival and
moko jumbies
and Lady Young Road and boat racing at Pigeon Point Beach in Tobago, and I was a child of Los Angeles, a child of Hollywood, a West Coast baby as well.

He was
Sports Illustrated
and ten-dollar haircuts and guns and Brantley Gilbert and Tim McGraw and AC/DC and Toby Keith and Sugarland and four-wheel drives and Southern drawl and boot-stomping country music being played on a gravel road that led to a riverbank and his choice fishing spot.

Bret asked, “You sure that you're okay?”

“I'm fine, Chris.”

“Wrong guy, Nia.”

“Sorry, Bret. Wow. I'm so sorry for that.”

“You seem distracted. Been that way since I picked you up.”

“Tired. And I have to do a phone interview in a couple of hours. Girl from the top newspaper in Trinidad calling. Anxious about that.”

He paused. “Who is Chris, if it's okay to ask?”

I shifted. “Ex from college.”

“He must be on your mind.”

“He had just sent me a friend request on Facebook, that's all.”

“He sent you a friend request. He must be looking for you.”

“I wonder how his wife would feel about him sending a request.”

“Depends on the definition of friend. She might not like it.”

“She wouldn't.” I almost grinned. “She wouldn't like it at all.”

Bret popped in a CD; Bruce Springsteen,
Born in the U.S.A.

This time yesterday I was en route to Decadence.

It seemed like a dream.

Most of it had been beautiful. With Chris and his egotistical, humanitarian wife being there, part of it had been a nightmare.

When we made it to the Sheraton Riverwalk Hotel,
Bret paid for two rooms.

Disappointment rose, but I kept it at bay, maintained a poker face. I should not want the company of a man, not after yesterday; I should be satiated, but it was a new day, and this was a different man.

At check-in they said that our rooms connected. That was fine. We would be on the same floor, one wall away. Each room cost close to one hundred and fifty dollars. I offered to pay for both, since he had driven and paid the race registration fee, but he kindly refused.

He said, “I invited you. When somebody invites somebody somewhere, they are the guests.”

“There are exceptions to that rule.”

“Not in my book. I invited you. I pay. End of story. I know that some women will invite a man out to dinner and expect him to pay. They invite a man out to lunch and the man thinks that she's actually treating him and the bill ends up on his side of the table.”

“I'd never do that.”

“I've been out with you enough to know that you're not that tacky. That is something else that I admire about you. I wouldn't go out with that kinda woman, not two times. When a woman does that, she's not inviting the man out, she's inviting his money out. Women do that and wonder why a man stops calling or loses interest. No respect for a woman like that. Anyway, I invited you. Put your money away.”

I didn't argue.

A man's ego is a fragile thing; as fragile as a woman's heart.

When we were upstairs in front of the doors to our rooms, he glanced at me. It was the same glance, the same lustful expression that was on his face when first we met. Again there was a long pause.

Inside every pause lived a contemplation.

He said, “Don't forget about your interview.”

“I won't. I don't forget anything.”

He went inside his room. I went inside mine. His door closed. I closed mine. When I locked my door I walked to the door that separated both rooms. I imagined that Bret was inches away, imagined that he was doing the same thing, imagined that he was standing there with his hand on that door. Siri sang her alarm. I know he heard. She told him that I was on the other side of his door, listening.

After I had taken a long,
hot shower and practically used a bottle of shampoo to clean my hair, I dried my hair the best that I could with the small dryer that was in the bathroom. I did that with my iPad in front of me. Browsing Chris and Siobhán's wedding pictures on Facebook. I wrapped my body in a white hotel towel. It felt like I should have had on high heels. I took out information that had been left especially for me. Ricardo and Yesenia. Margareta's information was there too. I was tempted to call one, if not both. But there wasn't time. Work over pleasure. Pleasure was but a hobby. I fell into professional mode, checked e-mails. Mommy had squeezed in another interview and I saw the message just in time to make that call to a reporter with the
LA Times
. As soon as that twenty-minute chat was done, I took a deep breath, felt excited, and made the call to the interviewer back home in Trinidad. This one was the most important. At least it was to me.

I said, “You are with the
Trinidad Express
?”

“That is correct.”

“And your name is Rae-Jeanne Quash?”

“Yes, Miss Bijou. This is Mrs. Quash. I have been assigned the task of interviewing you for the newspaper.”

“This is my first interview with someone from Trinidad regarding this project. I am both very elated and honored to have this privilege.”

“You are the daughter of Hazel Tamana Bijou. I have heard of her practically all of my life. Finally, I get to speak with her child.”

I cringed like a wasp had stung me in my ego. My mother's shadow, it kept me cool, but at this moment it was unwanted. I was the writer. I had my own name. But I let it go. Just like that she turned me off and I tuned out, shifted and found other things to occupy myself.

She said, “They are really pumping up the film. The Bijou name is everywhere, inescapable.”

“That's great.”

“Your mother really makes things happen.”

“She does. She is a daughter of the island and in her heart she will always be Trini.”

“It doesn't matter if you are near the Caribbean Sea, Atlantic Ocean, Columbus Channel, or the Gulf of Paria, the film is being promoted all over the archipelagic island like it's carnival.”

“That is great to hear.”

“Let's see. Lola Mack's face is prominent on most of the adverts here. She has the prettiest brown skin.”

“I love that. She's a wonderful actress.”

“Is she from the islands?”

“She's African American.”

“She's Black American. If she was not born in Africa, how can she be
African
anything? Americans don't move to Africa and have children and call them American Africans. It sounds ludicrous.”

I said, “She is an American who happens to have brown skin. Each culture has its own rules. If that is fine, we'll leave it at that.”

“If Miss Lola Mack has roots in the islands I would have loved to chat with her as well.”

“Not to my knowledge. Anyway, so far as the interview, you e-mailed me a specific question—”

“I asked you about the imbalance in numbers between men and women and—”

“It's exaggerated in the film. Most films use hyperbole to make a point.”

“It may be exaggerated in the film, to a certain extent, but it's pretty much the way that we women are now, often beguiled by love and left to feel disposable, to quote one of Lola Mack's lines in the film, only in the reverse. It's a man's playground. Your movie, interesting concept. I had never really considered the side effects or problems created from there not being a one-to-one ratio between man and woman.”

“Most don't. But numbers don't lie. Ask the fact-checkers.”

“So given the model of the church, meaning that for every woman there is a man, but there isn't, at least nowhere that I have read about, so many women will not have a man to reproduce with, will not give birth, and maybe not be seen fully as a woman by other women, maybe by the same society that creates and upholds those same rules, possibly will not be seen as a true woman by most of the world.”

“Sounds like you connected to the film on some level.”

“The backdrop of the film to me reminds me of the Laventille area in Trinidad.”

“Really? My father was born there. He lived in Laventille.”

“I know that area very well. I lived there when I was much younger. A very dangerous area. The police were up there shooting tear gas at the hooligans not long ago. Your father is there?”

“He was killed a few months before I was born.”

“Your mother was pregnant when your father was murdered?”

“She has endured a lot.”

She regarded her notes, then asked, “Your stepfather is French?”

“Yes. He adopted me.”

“Your mother found a rich man and married for security.”

“I would like to believe that she married for love.”

“Do you mind if I ask for your stepfather's name? He sounds like a remarkable man. It would be great to mention him in the article.”

“His birth name is Francois Henri Chevalier, but when in America, he changed his last name to Wilson, maybe to fit in. He maintained his business, his corporation under the name Chevalier.”

“That's your stepfather? Your mother married Francois Henri of the Chevalier Group?”

“He's my stepfather. My legal father. He adopted me, so be sure to say that he is my father.”

“So you consider him your father and not your father who was born in Trinidad.”

“That could read bad in print. Derren Liverpool from Laventille was my father. I am of his Trini blood. But Francois Henri is the only man I have called Daddy. He is the only father that I've known.”

“Lucky woman. The daughter of Hazel Tamana Bijou and the adopted daughter of the CEO of the Chevalier Group. Sounds like you have had a cushy life, compared to those who live here in Laventille.”

“No matter where a person is on the socioeconomic ladder, life brings challenges. Money doesn't make love any easier.”

“Chevalier.”

“He uses the last name Wilson, rarely uses his true surname. He was actually born in a city a few miles outside of Paris. Forgot which one. Clichy, Yerres, or Le Kremlin-Bicêtre. Again, I am not sure. But he quit France for a while, moved to Los Angeles after he had come here to attend Princeton. He was in Trinidad on business, met my mother, love at first sight, and the rest is, as they say, history.”

“How long have your mother and new father been married?”

“They are divorced now. He returned to France after the divorce.”

“So your mother moved and became prominent in Hollywood.”

“She did. I would prefer it if we could focus on the film.”

“In one moment. Couple questions. The drugs and what have you in Laventille, was your mother part of the same dealing as well?”

“My mother never really gets into that part of her old life. But that's not my mother's style.”

“Do you have more siblings here in Trinidad?”

“I'm an only child.”

“Are you sure? You may be your mother's only, but men are village rams. My father was. Practically every man in my family was.”

“There is a lot of static. Can you hear me, Mrs. Quash?”

“It is raining pretty hard here. Let me get back to the film.”

“I think they did an excellent job casting the project.”

“Hopefully you can arrange to cast Trini actors and actresses in your next project.”

“So far as this one, I hope to see my project in the next Trinidad and Tobago Film Festival.”

She paused and her tone turned cold as she asked, “Why?”

“Because I'm Trinidadian.”

“You were gone before you could talk. You never live here. You never go to school here. You come here and go, visit like a tourist.”

“I was born there.”

“Well, I think you are American. I can't really feel you being a true Trini. At best you are what I call a pretend Trini. Not authentic.”

“Are you gone mad? Iz a Trini.”

“Ya Freshwater Yankee.”

“What is your problem? Are you Tobagonian?”

“Me eh no Tobagonian. Don't you dare call me a Tobagonian. All Tobago has is better beaches.”

“I was only asking. You seem to have a problem with me being Trini.”

“You no Trini.
I go to school here. From preschool, to primary school, to secondary school in Sogren Trace Laventille Community and afterward I work three jobs and pay my way through UWI. I go to school here. I work here every day. I liv
e here all me life. Iz a Trini.”

“
I born Port-of-Spain General
.”

“
You were born here
, true, but to be honest you have spent your formative years in the United States. And your film isn't Trinidadian. I mean, Nicki Minaj's video for “Pound the Alarm” was filmed here, used our people, so it's considered Trini. The festival will undoubtedly be searching for something that is uniquely Trinidadian and Tobagonian, with a Trinidadian and Tobagonian texture, a Trinibagan story and all that kind of thing. Your project was not filmed in Trinidad, it shows no Trinidadian characters, and there is no Trinidadian language such as creole. There is nothing about it that is not American. You depicted your postapocalyptic world as America does, as if America is the center of existence. In fact the director lives in America as well and all the characters shown are American. I truly can't see it being entered here.”

Her words kicked me in my teeth.

She said, “But with your mother's influence I'm sure that an exception will be made. Maybe they will vote her the new goddess of wealth and replace Mother Lakshmi with Mother Hazel Bijou.”

“Wow. What was that?”

She ended the call.

MOMMY, GUESS WHAT THE RAE-JEANNE QUASH BITCH SAY IN THE INTERVIEW?

SWEAR JAR, NIA. WATCH YOUR MOUTH. WHAT DID SHE SAY?

THE BITCH TALK DOWN TO ME AND TELL ME I'M NOT A TRUE TRINI.

SHE SAID THAT FOR REAL? OR IS THIS A JOKE? DON'T MAKE MOMMY VEX FOR PLAY.

NO JOKE. I'M ABOUT TO FILL UP THE SWEAR JAR. SHE TELL ME I'M NOT A TRINI.

YOU'RE BRILLANT. LET SUCCESS BE YOUR REVENGE. SHE GOES TO BED WITH YOU ON HER MIND AND TOMORROW SHE WILL WAKE UP WITH YOUR NAME ON HER TONGUE. HATERS ARE THE BEST AT GIVING FREE PUBLICITY. EVERY TIME SHE SPEAKS YOUR NAME SHE WILL UNKNOWINGLY BE YOUR CHEERLEADER.

TOMORROW WHEN I GET BACK TO ATL I MIGHT HAVE TO CALL THE NEWSPAPER AND COMPLAIN.

WHEN DID YOU LEAVE THAT HORRIBLE CITY? WHERE ARE YOU IF YOU'RE NOT IN HAPPY TOWN?

FLORIDA, MOMMY. TAMPA. DROVE DOWN HERE THIS MORNING.

WHAT YOU DOING IN FLORIDA?

WAIT. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE TOO BUSY TO TALK TO YOUR DAUGHTER?

WHY ARE YOU IN FLORIDA?

IT'S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND YOU CAN TEXT ME BUT YOU CAN'T TAKE MY CALL?

I'M BUSY.

MAN BUSY OR WORK BUSY?

WHY ARE YOU IN FLORIDA?

YOU'RE MAN BUSY. OH MY GOD.

I put my phone down and stared at the door that separated my room from Bret's room. I heard him over there moving around. He sounded as frustrated as I felt. That interview with Mrs. Quash had left me disturbed. I wanted to go to Bret's room. I wanted to vent. I wanted his company. I had left my side of the door opened in invitation. A moment later I heard him talking on the phone. He was arguing. Then the argument ended. Silence. Silence was where the truth lived. It was also where lies went to hide. The questions that the interviewer had asked resonated and left me disturbed. Her attacks felt personal, more than an interview, coated with jealousy. She knew my name. My mother's name. My true father's name. The French man who had raised me, she knew his name as well. Another reason I preferred to stay anonymous.

This was what fame brought to the table.

I didn't want to be in a bed alone, but I closed my eyes. It felt as if I were trying to stay awake for Bret, in case he needed me, in case he wanted me. But exhaustion wrapped its arms around me.