Moving Forward Sideways Like a Crab (30 page)

I thought of my mother—of India, that is—and of Catherine. The two of them, and Canada, seemed a lifetime away and unrelated to all that I had just experienced.

I was told that Pundit had left shortly after Sydney’s skull was heard to break. He had accepted a ride with Jaan. At my show of confusion—for I knew that Anta had driven her father here—Rosita jutted her chin towards a grassy area not far away. Anta was sitting on a concrete bench in the shade of a tree, facing the river.

As I walked towards her, I thought of what I might do now that the funeral was over, now that Sydney was gone. Canada was far away from my thoughts; Rosita and Lancelot had become like family to me. We were one.

Anta stood when she heard my approach, then came quickly to me. Her hair glistened, and I thought I saw highlights of blue, like the wing of an
ani
in sunlight. She touched my face with her hands. “You have to bathe before I can kiss you. It isn’t just that it makes good sense. It’s part of the rituals,” she said apologetically. But her voice was soft, and she had touched me all over with it.

We stood quietly. The fast-flowing water, densely brown as it was, was calming. Into my mind, unsolicited, came the view from Sydney’s house of the grey, low land mass of Trinidad’s southwestern tip. Out of nowhere, a
hundred soothing voices rose in my head, murmuring in melodic unison a mantra that wove together Anta’s name, the names of the villages that Sydney used to point out to me, and the Kyrie, Eleison of Christian masses and music.

I thought of how, in between Sydney’s house on one tip and the other three corners of the island, there was an entire country—and all that is implied by that simple and common noun—to lend myself to and to learn about.

I could make this place my home.

There was some small commotion coming from the tent. The three who remained there were calling out to Anta and me, and pointing urgently at the cobalt sky. A flock of five shockingly bright scarlet ibis flew directly overhead, and were moving on now, slowly, tracing the length of the river out to where it met the sea.

The following people were kind enough to read a draft of this novel at one stage or another in its evolution: Karen Alliston, Dionne Brand, Faye Guenther, Janice Kulyk Keefer, Carlyn Moulton, and my brother-in-law Shekhar Mahabir. Their insights and comments were invaluable and greatly appreciated. Richard Fung certainly belongs in this list, but I must also thank him for allowing me to poach the wonderful and evocative story told to him by his mother, and later related to me, about cacao thieves moving through the Fung’s forested estate at night with lanterns powered by the light of fireflies.

I single out Smaro Kambourelli to thank her for reading drafts of the manuscript. Her continued interest and encouragement are invaluable to me, and move me greatly.

Sue Hierlihy sent me in the right direction for the answer to a question concerning a detail, nevertheless important. My brother Ramesh Mootoo, Zaphura Linda Chan, and my dear friend Brenda Middagh provided support and encouragement at crucial moments. To them I am indebted.

To Dr. Mark Fortier and The University of Guelph’s Writer-in-Residence Program; Dr. Paula Morgan and Dr. Funso Aiyejina and The University of the West Indies, Trinidad, Writer-in-Residence Program; The Ontario Arts Council Works in Progress grant program; and The K.M. Hunter Foundation’s Artist Award for Literature—thank you all for recognizing my work and giving me time, space and financial support to write this novel.

Thank you to Ellen Levine and Trident Media Group for taking care of business, and Kristin Cochrane and Doubleday Canada for taking on this book. It is my fortune to have once again worked with publisher and editor Lynn Henry. My admiration and appreciation for her have deepened with this book.

Despite the physical distances that separate us, my family of origin—my father, Romesh, my two sisters, Vahli and Indrani, and two brothers, Ramesh and Kavir—continue to play a significant role in spurring me on.

Deborah Root, not least, is owed everything. To enumerate the reasons, and the ways, is to embarrass us both (in a good way), and would, in any case, run the length of a small book itself. It is not enough to say that she saw, beginning to end, every draft of this book, and was tireless and generous with her time, prescience, insightful questions and provocations, and with her belief in me and in this story. A simple thank you must do, as words themselves are, in this instance, entirely inadequate.