an economic decision. She likes money, my daughter. She loved a man before; he broke her heart. She married Jacques for his bank balance.’
‘Maybe he has a big cock.’
Sabine laughed out loud. ‘Maybe. I hope so.’
‘Maybe he does talk, maybe he just doesn’t like us.’
‘Maybe he’s a good man. I know. In fact, I’m sure he is. Just dull.’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘No.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Oh God, I just hoped . . . for more for her.’
‘Mum, Pascale is happy. She’s married, she has two great kids. They’re rich. She’s doing a lot better than me. I’m unmarried, I live off a salary. I love what I do but that’s it.’
‘You’re different.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You work for a publishing house in a big city. Your life is full of books, interesting people.’
‘Many of these people can be pretentious and spoilt.’
‘At least they read.’
‘Trinidad boasts several fine authors. Masses of fine poetry and prose comes from this region. Caribbean people are richly artistic and literate.’
‘Oh, look, don’t argue. You live in the real world.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘In a screw-up of a country the world has forgotten. Who cares about this dot on the map?’
‘Mum, please. Will you come in? I’ll make you some tea.’
‘In a moment, yes.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’ll just stand a while.’
‘See you inside, crazy lady.’
Sabine turned quickly. ‘Don’t tell your father.’
‘About what?’
‘About me talking to the hill.’
CHAPTER SIX
THE MIGHTY SPARROW’S ADVICE
In the morning, George woke and turned over in bed to gaze at the hills of his sleeping wife. Asleep, she looked at peace. Asleep, all the lines fell from her face and he could see who she once was. Sometimes he gazed for a long while and it was only then, in this early-morning time, before she was awake, that he could reclaim the memories which had amassed between them. He could gaze on her sleeping face with the same open love he’d felt from the moment he saw her. He still experienced a faint swell of wellbeing when he looked at her; she still affected him in a way he’d never understood. He stretched his hand out so that it hovered an inch from her, caressing the air above her shoulder, her stomach, her hip. He leant forward and pressed his lips lightly to the inside of the joint, the tender part he’d kissed a thousand times, his favourite spot on earth, this curved loin, this soft hidden place, his place in the world. ‘Eric Williams never loved you,’ he whispered into her flesh.
He rose and left the house at dawn and while Sabine and his son slept he drove up the Morne to Jennifer’s. It was just past dawn; the air was chilly, the hillside neighbourhood was tranquil. No other cars were on the road, which was hairpin bends all the way up. The grass on the verges was wetted down with dew. Jennifer was standing on the top step of the antiquated shack, holding Chantal’s baby girl; she looked surprised to see his truck. He parked and let himself into the yard.
‘How is he?’
‘Better, but he still get pain in he chest.’
‘Can I come up?’
She nodded, balancing the toddler on her hip, turning to lead the way.
This time George allowed himself to look around. Everything was neat ‒ shabby and gloomy, but well ordered. The inside of the house looked like the outside, everything so exhausted it appeared soft, as if made of silk. Objects stood in state, resting. There were more of their cast-offs than he first realised: the sagging double bed he and Sabine had thrown out years ago; a broken-down chest of drawers, now even more broken-down. Pillows, cushions, their pump-by-hand orange squeezer.
In the back room Talbot nursed a cup of black coffee. His face looked clearer, the swelling had reduced. His chest was still bandaged and he could sit up a little. George sat down on a stool next to him.
‘Talbot, how are you?’
‘Ah feelin’ much better except mih
‘Maybe he has a big cock.’
Sabine laughed out loud. ‘Maybe. I hope so.’
‘Maybe he does talk, maybe he just doesn’t like us.’
‘Maybe he’s a good man. I know. In fact, I’m sure he is. Just dull.’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘No.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Oh God, I just hoped . . . for more for her.’
‘Mum, Pascale is happy. She’s married, she has two great kids. They’re rich. She’s doing a lot better than me. I’m unmarried, I live off a salary. I love what I do but that’s it.’
‘You’re different.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You work for a publishing house in a big city. Your life is full of books, interesting people.’
‘Many of these people can be pretentious and spoilt.’
‘At least they read.’
‘Trinidad boasts several fine authors. Masses of fine poetry and prose comes from this region. Caribbean people are richly artistic and literate.’
‘Oh, look, don’t argue. You live in the real world.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘In a screw-up of a country the world has forgotten. Who cares about this dot on the map?’
‘Mum, please. Will you come in? I’ll make you some tea.’
‘In a moment, yes.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’ll just stand a while.’
‘See you inside, crazy lady.’
Sabine turned quickly. ‘Don’t tell your father.’
‘About what?’
‘About me talking to the hill.’
CHAPTER SIX
THE MIGHTY SPARROW’S ADVICE
In the morning, George woke and turned over in bed to gaze at the hills of his sleeping wife. Asleep, she looked at peace. Asleep, all the lines fell from her face and he could see who she once was. Sometimes he gazed for a long while and it was only then, in this early-morning time, before she was awake, that he could reclaim the memories which had amassed between them. He could gaze on her sleeping face with the same open love he’d felt from the moment he saw her. He still experienced a faint swell of wellbeing when he looked at her; she still affected him in a way he’d never understood. He stretched his hand out so that it hovered an inch from her, caressing the air above her shoulder, her stomach, her hip. He leant forward and pressed his lips lightly to the inside of the joint, the tender part he’d kissed a thousand times, his favourite spot on earth, this curved loin, this soft hidden place, his place in the world. ‘Eric Williams never loved you,’ he whispered into her flesh.
He rose and left the house at dawn and while Sabine and his son slept he drove up the Morne to Jennifer’s. It was just past dawn; the air was chilly, the hillside neighbourhood was tranquil. No other cars were on the road, which was hairpin bends all the way up. The grass on the verges was wetted down with dew. Jennifer was standing on the top step of the antiquated shack, holding Chantal’s baby girl; she looked surprised to see his truck. He parked and let himself into the yard.
‘How is he?’
‘Better, but he still get pain in he chest.’
‘Can I come up?’
She nodded, balancing the toddler on her hip, turning to lead the way.
This time George allowed himself to look around. Everything was neat ‒ shabby and gloomy, but well ordered. The inside of the house looked like the outside, everything so exhausted it appeared soft, as if made of silk. Objects stood in state, resting. There were more of their cast-offs than he first realised: the sagging double bed he and Sabine had thrown out years ago; a broken-down chest of drawers, now even more broken-down. Pillows, cushions, their pump-by-hand orange squeezer.
In the back room Talbot nursed a cup of black coffee. His face looked clearer, the swelling had reduced. His chest was still bandaged and he could sit up a little. George sat down on a stool next to him.
‘Talbot, how are you?’
‘Ah feelin’ much better except mih
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