foreign governments. Winner of eleven Calypso Monarch competitions. Over seventy albums produced. In New York, 18 March was the Mighty Sparrow Day. In Trinidad, Sparrow was a god every day.
George remembered the young hustler of the 1950s: even then he was a hurricane, blowing other singers off the stage. The resounding baritone, his charismatic persona. Sparrow could do it all: extemporise, satirise, sing with the grandeur of opera, with the sleaze of vaudeville. His calypsos were often political, all were original. They swung votes. Early on, the PNM courted Sparrow and he became their number one vote-getter, the only other black man on the island who could pull a crowd like Eric Williams. Sparrow penned many calypsos supporting the PNM, until even he turned against them. ‘Get to Hell Outta Here’ was the song which nailed Williams.
A headache chewed at the back of George’s skull. They came every other day now, in hot, acid waves. He arrived early and sat for several moments in the close cabin of the truck, massaging the back of his head, the pain dulling as he rubbed. He stared into the rear-view mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like shit. Like he was dead. His skin was liverish. Damp. He patted his cheeks dry. Was he ill? Finally?
He got out of the truck and rang the doorbell. A young coffee-skinned woman of around twenty-five appeared gazelle-like at the gate.
‘I’m from the Trinidad Guardian . I’ve come to interview Mr Francisco.’
She raised her eyebrows, openly surprised. ‘Come this way. Daddyy . . .’ she called out.
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.
George remembered the young hustler of the 1950s: even then he was a hurricane, blowing other singers off the stage. The resounding baritone, his charismatic persona. Sparrow could do it all: extemporise, satirise, sing with the grandeur of opera, with the sleaze of vaudeville. His calypsos were often political, all were original. They swung votes. Early on, the PNM courted Sparrow and he became their number one vote-getter, the only other black man on the island who could pull a crowd like Eric Williams. Sparrow penned many calypsos supporting the PNM, until even he turned against them. ‘Get to Hell Outta Here’ was the song which nailed Williams.
A headache chewed at the back of George’s skull. They came every other day now, in hot, acid waves. He arrived early and sat for several moments in the close cabin of the truck, massaging the back of his head, the pain dulling as he rubbed. He stared into the rear-view mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like shit. Like he was dead. His skin was liverish. Damp. He patted his cheeks dry. Was he ill? Finally?
He got out of the truck and rang the doorbell. A young coffee-skinned woman of around twenty-five appeared gazelle-like at the gate.
‘I’m from the Trinidad Guardian . I’ve come to interview Mr Francisco.’
She raised her eyebrows, openly surprised. ‘Come this way. Daddyy . . .’ she called out.
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.
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