the moonlight.
Vincent woke to the voices as insistent as the sea.
M Y EYES get big big. My ears nearly drop off with Mama talk, hot from big house. I on top the bed jumping up and down. Mama brisk brisk, taking off she dress, standing in front the window in she white silky petticoat, Mistress give she. She drop it on the floor. It look like a pool of milk for Curly, the cat, to lap up.
Mama caress she self in panty and brassiere. Mama gaze out the window. Breeze rustle the sapodilla tree. It go quiet. Fowl peck the soft dirt under the window. Now and then, cluck cluck.
Stop that jumping. All the coconut fibre busting out, already. Who go bring mattress for Mama? Who go make feather pillow? Look at the bed. Straighten up the counterpane.
Mama gaze. I look up at she. She gaze out the window. Gaze at the blue hills. The sweet breeze move the curtains.
Mama talking talking all the time, talking, talking, talking.
No one go stop Mister, walking in Esperance. Or, stop Mistress and the children take a train into town from Pond Road Station, to stand on the station and wait for a train in the afternoon.
That is what Mama say. Mama say it like, she is Mister. Like she is Mistress self.
It was like many voices all at once. Vincent was frightened by the strange lucidity.
A ND THEN , Emelda say, No one going come with hoe and spade and big stick to march up into Mister yard. No one going come with iron and rock stone to pelt this house. She raise she self up. Big house on the hill. This is a house that hide secret in turret room. Is a house that have cellar for the best wines bring from Burgundy and Beaujolais. I see the label them. Special room with special aquarium for crab, for the special crab and
callaoo
soup that every Monsieur Marineaux like to suck.
Trouble go come, Emelda say, with a look in she face which saythat she know more than Mister. She feel more than Mister. Emelda know more than Mister. All know, all who in the yard, all who meet under Chen shop, that these people who Mister call
niggers
and
coolies
on the march from Fyzabad to San Fernando, go reach town with their noise and demand. They go out do Mr A. A. Cipriani in town which still echo with the 1919 calypso.
Gal, who you voting for?
We don’t want Major Rust to make bassa bassa here.
Cipriani
We don’t want no Englishman, we want Trinidadian
Cipriani.
One good apple in a rotten barrel. Captain A. A.! Mister say he gone England and come back with Labourite ideology. Now he walk barefoot with
coolie
and
nigger
. He own people self watch him, and know that this kind of thing dangerous. Even if they feel is from inside their own house he come out. They have him down as a madman.
Like they have Butler down like a madman too.
But they bound to think he mad. Buzz!
Mama boy read the news, cut out the picture and writing from
The Gazette
.
Mama, you see Butler! They take out he picture in San Fernando bandstand, Harris Promenade. She boy read like an Exhibition Class boy, who never go in San Fernando, or move from Pepper Hill self, but plenty time get a promise to go town to ride tram and trolley bus.
Child what nonsense you reading, and messing up the house with all this cut up newspaper? Is that they does teach you in Exhibition Class?
All the time Mama talk, she look over her shoulder and pretend to read the news. Mama can’t read.
‘Theo. Stop now.’ The boy was in a sweat, as if wakened from a fevered sleep, thrashing around, gesticulating, inhabiting now this voice, now that, himself a character in his own story. Vincent understood Father Dominic using exorcism. But of course it had not worked. How could it?
‘Come, Theo, let’s get you to bed.’
The fluency of this night-time tale, this calypso, as the boy had called it in the nights before, was as if it were written down. Indeed, it did go here and there and then come back to the main road, as Father Dominic had said it would.
What was the drama between Mister and the
Vincent woke to the voices as insistent as the sea.
M Y EYES get big big. My ears nearly drop off with Mama talk, hot from big house. I on top the bed jumping up and down. Mama brisk brisk, taking off she dress, standing in front the window in she white silky petticoat, Mistress give she. She drop it on the floor. It look like a pool of milk for Curly, the cat, to lap up.
Mama caress she self in panty and brassiere. Mama gaze out the window. Breeze rustle the sapodilla tree. It go quiet. Fowl peck the soft dirt under the window. Now and then, cluck cluck.
Stop that jumping. All the coconut fibre busting out, already. Who go bring mattress for Mama? Who go make feather pillow? Look at the bed. Straighten up the counterpane.
Mama gaze. I look up at she. She gaze out the window. Gaze at the blue hills. The sweet breeze move the curtains.
Mama talking talking all the time, talking, talking, talking.
No one go stop Mister, walking in Esperance. Or, stop Mistress and the children take a train into town from Pond Road Station, to stand on the station and wait for a train in the afternoon.
That is what Mama say. Mama say it like, she is Mister. Like she is Mistress self.
It was like many voices all at once. Vincent was frightened by the strange lucidity.
A ND THEN , Emelda say, No one going come with hoe and spade and big stick to march up into Mister yard. No one going come with iron and rock stone to pelt this house. She raise she self up. Big house on the hill. This is a house that hide secret in turret room. Is a house that have cellar for the best wines bring from Burgundy and Beaujolais. I see the label them. Special room with special aquarium for crab, for the special crab and
callaoo
soup that every Monsieur Marineaux like to suck.
Trouble go come, Emelda say, with a look in she face which saythat she know more than Mister. She feel more than Mister. Emelda know more than Mister. All know, all who in the yard, all who meet under Chen shop, that these people who Mister call
niggers
and
coolies
on the march from Fyzabad to San Fernando, go reach town with their noise and demand. They go out do Mr A. A. Cipriani in town which still echo with the 1919 calypso.
Gal, who you voting for?
We don’t want Major Rust to make bassa bassa here.
Cipriani
We don’t want no Englishman, we want Trinidadian
Cipriani.
One good apple in a rotten barrel. Captain A. A.! Mister say he gone England and come back with Labourite ideology. Now he walk barefoot with
coolie
and
nigger
. He own people self watch him, and know that this kind of thing dangerous. Even if they feel is from inside their own house he come out. They have him down as a madman.
Like they have Butler down like a madman too.
But they bound to think he mad. Buzz!
Mama boy read the news, cut out the picture and writing from
The Gazette
.
Mama, you see Butler! They take out he picture in San Fernando bandstand, Harris Promenade. She boy read like an Exhibition Class boy, who never go in San Fernando, or move from Pepper Hill self, but plenty time get a promise to go town to ride tram and trolley bus.
Child what nonsense you reading, and messing up the house with all this cut up newspaper? Is that they does teach you in Exhibition Class?
All the time Mama talk, she look over her shoulder and pretend to read the news. Mama can’t read.
‘Theo. Stop now.’ The boy was in a sweat, as if wakened from a fevered sleep, thrashing around, gesticulating, inhabiting now this voice, now that, himself a character in his own story. Vincent understood Father Dominic using exorcism. But of course it had not worked. How could it?
‘Come, Theo, let’s get you to bed.’
The fluency of this night-time tale, this calypso, as the boy had called it in the nights before, was as if it were written down. Indeed, it did go here and there and then come back to the main road, as Father Dominic had said it would.
What was the drama between Mister and the
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