The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (13 page)

Sparrow’s house, Sparrow’s Hideaway, was famous, too. Gigantic, gaudy, it was a sprawling arrangement of buildings, more a mansion turned memorial park than a home. The house was Trinidad’s Graceland. Sparrow’s daughter led George to a garden out back, to a round wrought-iron table and chairs.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked.

‘A cup of tea would hit the spot.’

She made a face, disappearing.

George found he wasn’t just nervous. Waiting for Sparrow was like waiting for a panther to pounce on him.

‘Eh, eh!’

The voice. God, the voice was enough to kill him off.

‘Is
you
dey sendin’?’

George was upright without consciously moving, his hand crushed in Sparrow’s steel grip. Sparrow laughed long and loud and sonorous. Baseball cap, wraparound sunglasses, shorts, an American-style checked shirt, Nike flip-flops. Like Elvis Presley crossed with Idi Amin.

‘Where de young chick? Dey tell me dey sendin’ a nice young woman to interview me today.’

‘She has a cold.’

‘I know you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, man. Yous famous. George Harwood, man. Dey send me de crack shot. De ace reporter.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’

‘Good.’

Sparrow’s daughter brought out a mug of tea, a glass of orange juice and a bottle of pills on a tray.

‘Ahhh yes.’ Sparrow groaned as he sat down, taking the weight off his legs and rubbing one knee. He had recently turned seventy. He was an old man now.

‘Excuse me while I take some of these little beauties for mih bones.’

George smiled. ‘Actually, I think I’ll join you.’ He fumbled in his top pocket for a strip of aspirin.

‘Cheers, man.’ Sparrow held up his orange juice, throwing the pills down his throat.

‘Cheers.’ George toasted him with tea and aspirin.

Sparrow licked his lips and shook his head so his cheeks wobbled like a big cat’s. His black skin was hairless, polished. The man was huge, lean in the arms and legs. Even his paunch looked lean. George found himself staring and realised that Sparrow was letting him, getting it out the way. The face was familiar in more ways than one. The young boy, Clock; could he see a resemblance?

‘You’re a father,’ George began.

‘Yes.’

‘Your daughter is charming. How many, if you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Two daughters.’

‘Have you been a good father?’ It slipped out.

Sparrow looked taken aback. ‘Jesus, you get stuck in der quick, man.’ He inhaled sharply. George squirmed. ‘I’m a famous man. What do you think?’

‘Famous people are famously bad parents,’ George dared.

‘Hmmph. I doh know about
dat
. You go aks mih daughters.’

‘Your children must be very proud of you.’

‘Dey
better
be.’

‘You have thousands of children.’

‘Howyuh mean?’

‘You’re one of the Fathers of the Nation.’

Sparrow laughed. ‘Das bullshit. I’s an entertainer.’

‘The clown is a serious figure. Always the straight man in disguise.’

‘Calypso give de poor man a voice. De poor man usually have nuttin to laugh about.’

‘But you’re rich.’

‘I born poor.’

‘I have a friend who sings like a bird. Sings in the choir at his local church.’

‘I was a choirboy, too.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, man. Latin and ting. I was head choirboy at St Patrick’s Church in New Town.’

‘My friend is a boy, about eleven or so. He leads the choir, too. At the church in Winderflet.’

Sparrow froze momentarily, staring hard at George. George was sure he’d be thrown out. Ejected over the wall.

Then, wearily: ‘I know de boy you mean. Dat little cripple boy from de village down der in Winderflet? Look. Man, you is stickin it to me. De one dey say is my son?’

‘That’s the local tittle tattle.’

Sparrow leant forward. ‘Do you know how many women claim dey have a chile from me?’

George shook his head.

‘Plenty.’

‘One in every village?’

‘At least.’

‘See, you’re a Father of the Nation. You and Eric Williams.’

Sparrow steupsed. ‘Ohhh, gorsh. Pressure, man. I cyan believe dey send me you. I want de girl. De nice young ting.’

‘Why did you go to the PNM celebration in January, the one in Woodford Square to mark their fiftieth anniversary?’

Sparrow paused, looking at George with dawning caution. ‘I is part of their history. PNM history. I was invited, nuh.’

‘But you turned on them.’

‘We all did.’

‘Didn’t you love Eric Williams once?’

‘Yes, man. Everyone loved Eric at first. We were all in awe of him. All excited by what he might do. Of course. He was a great man.’

‘And then he failed.’

‘Yes.’

‘I met him once. With my wife.’

‘Eric was popular wid de ladies. She liked him?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘Howyuh mean?’

‘My wife . . .
wrote
to Eric Williams.’

‘What?’

‘For years. Hundreds of letters, actually. I found them recently. I think she developed . . .
feelings
for Eric Williams.’

‘Feelins?’ Sparrow’s eyebrows danced.

‘Like you. She saw him speak once, maybe twice. In Woodford Square. She was taken in. I think she . . .
respected
him.’

‘Your wife loved Eric Williams, too?’

‘She had feelings.’

‘What kinda feelins?’

George exhaled loudly. ‘Compassion.’

Sparrow whistled. ‘Crazy. Eric didn’t like white people.’

‘I know.’

‘Massa day done, eh?’ Sparrow chuckled.

‘Yes. Quite.’ George felt his throat tighten. So far he’d toughed it out. But since finding the letters he’d thought of little else. What she had said, what had been going on behind his back. She’d
cared.
Just like Sparrow, like everyone else. There had been a love affair going on for a short time, when Williams was alive: Williams and the whole damn island.

A look of regret came into Sparrow’s eyes. ‘Eric hurt everyone who loved him.’

‘Why?’

‘He was very . . . up and down.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Eric was a moody man. Light and dark. Happy, joking and then vexed. He trusted no one.’

‘You hurt him back.’

Sparrow’s eyes went dark. ‘Yes.’

George nodded.

‘You never ketch your wife writin’ dose letters?’

‘No.’

‘Never suspect somptin goin’ on?’

‘No.’

‘I tink I can understand why she write to Williams. Eric was brilliant, man.’

‘My wife was very naive when she first came to Trinidad.’

‘You jealous?’

‘No,’ George lied.

Sparrow noticed his discomfort. He smiled. ‘Yous an old man, Mr Harwood. You telling me your wife had a ting for Eric long time past and you not jealous? You still man and wife?’

‘Just.’

Sparrow laughed.

‘You ever worry about losing your wife, Mr Francisco?’

Sparrow laughed so hard the hairs on George’s arms stood up. ‘
What
! If I ketch my wife writing letters to Eric Williams, boy . . . dat would be a story, too. Of course, I is a jealous man. Write to Eric? Man, dat woulda been trouble fer she.’

‘What would you do if you found your wife’s love letters to another man?’

‘I’d sing fer her, man. Win her back.’

‘What if you couldn’t sing?’

‘Nah man, I’d win her.’

‘But I can’t sing.’

‘What about dance?’

‘I can dance.’

‘Den we go launch an attack. I go sing fer she, under your window, and den you take her in your arms, dance wid her. She’d love it.’

‘Like Cyrano de Bergerac. That’s ridiculous.’

‘Das romance.’

‘I was romantic once.’

‘You still are. You write like a man who have a romantic heart. I does read you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, man. Write poems fer she. Like William Shakespeare and ting. You know . . . ’

‘Yes, I know. Poetry isn’t my thing.’

‘Women like poetry. Red roses.’ Sparrow’s eyes shone. He was a performer through and through, a persuader with devastating charm, a man of love.

‘Take my advice. You say she write letters to Eric. Write letters for
she
. Write back to her.’

‘Maybe I can try. In my own way.’

‘Yes, man. Write to she.’

Sparrow cackled.

‘When are you going to write a calypso about the blimp?’ George asked.

Sparrow laughed again, long and loud. ‘Dat blasted ting. Oh gorsh. I write one already. I recordin’ it all now.’

‘Can you sing it for me?’ George took his tape recorder from his briefcase and placed it on the table.

‘You want de exclusive?’

‘Of course.’

George switched the tape recorder on and Sparrow began to sing the catchy tune, closing his eyes. The rich baritone brought on a rash of goosebumps, a spreading feeling of guilt. George’s eyes filled. The great man crooned his caustic words, eyes sober and bright as stars. The voice, of course, was related directly: father of the child’s higher, purer voice. He, George Harwood, was somehow related, too. Sparrow sang. George could hear the little boy singing along. Sabine once wrote letters, crazy, mad, desperate, honest, even loving letters to Eric Williams; she wrote with thoughts and intimacies she’d never shared with
him
. She was young, beautiful and she ran into Eric Williams one hot afternoon, when he was in full flow, launching a political party, an angry black man in his prime, at a time in history when black men around the world were standing up and saying the same thing.
Massa day done
. Eric Williams. Just one of a generation of black leaders who wanted to wake up the world. He thumped his fists on the lectern, bellowed for change. Sabine had encountered a scholar, a player, a man poised to mean something and be someone. She’d witnessed that powerful potential and she was still mourning its failure.

Sabine woke with a groggy head. She’d overslept, something more common these days. A cup of tea gone cold stood on the side table. George had brought her a cup of tea before he left; he’d brought her a cup of tea every morning of their life together. She put the cup to her lips and grimaced at the tea, sipping it first and then knocking it back with a few stiff gulps. She inspected her body under her nightie, its runaway curves and generous swells; she poked at her breasts and hips, sinking a finger into the flesh. ‘
Mon Dieu
,’ she gasped, and felt a spasm of self-disgust, and loneliness for her youth, for the loss of her husband’s attentions. She tried to spring out of bed. The muscles in her back groaned, her knees cracked. She tried again, this time lifting off from the bed in a more optimistic manner, hoisting herself upright. Her eyes were wet from her dreams. What had she dreamt about? She couldn’t remember, only that she’d woken with that lost, thick-headed feeling. She put her feet into slippers and threw open the curtains. The garden quivered with a pure white light. Two dragonflies, battimamzelles
,
their slender bodies locked in sexual battle, skimmed the surface of the pool. The keskidees bickered. Vermilion, saffron, ochre, scarlet ‒ her eyes smarted at the garden’s lewd and rapacious blooms, ginger lilies, chaconia, heliconia, anthuriums, moussianda. The stout-bellied iguana was already inching its way up the bough of the coconut tree. Every morning Sabine recognised her competition. This island flexed its charms, laughed in her face as she withered.

A skittering sound echoed over the terrazzo. Dog nails on a hard slick surface; one of the big dogs trotting over?

Click, click, click
.

Then ‒ Sabine rejected what she saw. Henry, one of the big ridgeback dogs, George’s dog, was on the run, an entire deck of sponge cake between his jaws. The cake had been swiped from the kitchen table again; it was a perfect fit, a coin in a slot. Jennifer must have already started making cakes for the weekend.

‘
Henryy
, damn dog!’ her voice bellowed from the kitchen.

‘Henry, drop that cake!’ Sabine commanded. But the dog paid no heed. Henry was trotting straight towards her. More skittering, the dog’s claws flailing, unable to grip the glassy surface. ‘Henry!’ Sabine tried to corner him, arms outstretched. Henry dodged easily. Then he was off, tail low, cake clamped.

‘You stupid animal!’ Sabine shouted, and charged after it, her nightie billowing.

The dog galloped round the side of the house. Sabine followed. ‘I’m going to
kill
you this time. Jesus Christ! This goddamn dog and those stupid cakes. Give it back!’ Under a mango tree she spotted pieces of the abandoned sponge, a trail of crumbs scattered on the ground.