PROSE

in the Key of Life

Volume One

A collection of four short stories:

The Kidnap Miracle
A Song in a Storm
Indiscretions of a Carnival Queen
Secrets of a Frantic Housewife

Roland P Joseph
 For my mother, Vilma Joseph

Copyright © 2010 Roland P Joseph

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1453848169
ISBN-13: 9781453848166
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010914470
Prose in the Key of Life, Volume One, is the first installment of short
stories by artist and hobbyist writer Roland P. Joseph. The stories are
set against Trinidad and Tobago’s cultural and social landscape and are
gleaned from real-life experiences.

“The Kidnap Miracle”: Mrs Pearl Rampersad, a genteel middle–

aged housewife, grapples with midlife insecurities. She seeks comfort in
the arms of a thuggish youth who blackmails her and places her family
in grave danger.

“A Song in a Storm”: Kerron Ali, a.k.a. Ocean Samuel, a talented

youth from an impoverished village in Trinidad, wins a prize in a local
talent contest to audition for a New York music producer. He soon
realizes that the glitz and fame of stardom comes with too high a price.
He returns home to Trinidad and discovers that the serene life he took
for granted is crumbling before his eyes.

“Indiscretions of a Carnival Queen”: The marriage of a former

Carnival Queen, Annabelle Castello, to a motorcar magnate forty years
her senior, ends in a bitter divorce. In an attempt to rekindle her lost
youth, she befriends a notorious young playboy who brings excitement
and intrigue to her life—along with an unpleasant surprise.

“Secrets of a Frantic Housewife”: Originally planned as the pilot for

a local soap opera, “The Wives of Ocean View,” the story unfolds in an
affluent residential area of South Trinidad where one of the residents,
Chandra Lutchman, craves social acceptance and the high life but
must hide a dark secret not only from her neighbours, but from her
husband.
 About the Author: Roland P. Joseph is an artist and hobbyist writer
from Trinidad and Tobago. His works capture real people, places, and
life’s experiences in his homeland. He is currently working on new short
stories and an abridged version of his first novel, A Fading Rainbow. His
artwork is featured on the front and back covers of this publication.

The Kidnap Miracle

The sound of the approaching helicopter triggered a state of extreme

trepidation. Her frail hands clutched the grubby bedspread as she wait-
ed for the door to be flung open. It was, and in a split second, her limp
body was once again snatched from the bed; this time her mouth was
gagged tightly with a dingy towel.
When she came to, an ominous silence had replaced the whir of the
helicopter. She cowered in the corner of the fetid cesspit, praying for
deliverance from her ordeal. As she drifted in and out of consciousness,
she heard the sound of approaching feet. She was hauled from the hole
and shoved into the choked room.
She awoke in a disoriented state but the crude surroundings and the
cacophony of croaking frogs snapped her back to reality. She lay supine
on a bed, praying for a miracle when again the door was flung open with
violent force. A thin man with a bandana tied around his head threw a
newspaper at her and flumped a rusty enamel cup on the earthen floor.
She pretended to be asleep and prayed that he would leave. She heaved
a sigh of relief when she heard the door slam and the sound of his heavy
boots walking away.

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 PROSE in the Key of Life
The light beaming through the cracks and crevices of the shack sug-
gested that it was sunset. She grasped the headboard and pulled herself
up with all her might. Her trembling hand grabbed the newspaper in a
desperate fit; she riffled through the paper, yanked out a page and held
it up to the fading light. After two days and another kidnapping, she was
no longer front page news; the story had shifted to page three: “Kidnap
Victim Still in Hands of Abductors….” The body of the feature was torn
in half. She glanced at the date of the newspaper—December 26, 2005.
Must be the 27th, she reasoned. Judging from its distressed condition, it
was probably yesterday’s newspaper.
She sat on the bed pondering her fate. Death seemed like the only
way out. This was all her doing; her husband had been adamant about
the trip. The adverse travel advisory for the island…
***
It was December 22nd; Anastasia Khan, a petite, precocious seven-
teen-year-old girl with a round face and thick body, who shared more
than a friendship with the depraved youth, Navin Gopaul, hugged and
kissed him, “Next birthday we’ll be toasting with champagne, Navin!”
“Cham-ping?” he snickered, “what is that, a wine?”
“Think so,” she replied.
“Everything working out as planned?” she asked excited.
“Not here, someone might hear we!” he rebuked her severely.
They went back inside before they aroused any curiosity.
Like Navin, she too was a school dropout. They had known each
other all of their lives, being from the same village and attending the
same school.
***
2 3
T h e K i d n a p M i r ac l e
Mrs Seeta Maharaj’s description of Navin Gopaul as “a handsome
thug with no ambition” elicited a fit of laughter from her cronies, all
except for Mrs Pearl Rampersad, whose face twisted into a coy grin.
“Depends on your perception of ambition,” Mrs Paul declared. “His
résumé could land him a job in my bedroom anytime!”
“Ladies behave, we are supposed to be genteel, society ladies,” Mrs
Maharaj replied in jest.
“Ax-cuse-ah-me!” Mrs Sherry Chin Lee—a cantankerous woman
whose broad, Chinese face was red from wine—shrieked.
“Ladies, on a more sober note—”
“Sober? Sober? Anyone here sober?” Mrs Paul, the mild-mannered,
dark-skinned lady jested. “But yes, I agree it’s time to go.”
Pearl Rampersad, a well-kept, elegant woman in her early fifties,
grappled with her ambivalent feelings as she drove her BMW home: Oh
my gosh! They’re all looking at Navin too! She was stunned. There she was,
all riddled with guilt and feeling dirty; now she felt strangely proud
and enviable. Beads of perspiration emerged on her face and arms as
she rehashed with a sense of conquest the first day she had laid eyes on
Navin Gopaul: She had circled the drive to—she scuffed at the ringing
of her cell phone which startled her back to the stark reality of her flac-
cid marriage.
Theirs was a cliché relationship: Deonarine Rampersad, a short,
dark-skinned, dowdy businessman and politician in his seventies, and
she, an attractive woman—round flat face with slim lips, a small point-
ed nose and slightly bulging eyes. She had met her husband only once
before they were married. Her father had brought him home to see his
pretty, fair-skinned, sixteen-year-old daughter. Deo was pleased with
what he saw and two months later they were married under bamboo.
The union produced two children—a boy who was now a surgeon,
and a daughter who was a successful corporate lawyer who resided in
London with a family of her own. After the children were born, the
tepid intimacy between her and Deo had waned into a casual friendship.
 PROSE in the Key of Life
Pearl eased the ennui of a boring marriage by spending leisurely time
with her cronies—a group of women from the upscale neighbourhood
of Ocean View.
The idea of a younger man grew more intense after she and the
ladies viewed a rerun of The Graduate on HBO. She fantasized about a
Dustin Hoffman of her own. There she was, an attractive woman ap-
proaching old age with her urges and sexual fantasies unexplored. It
was a bleak prospect. Imbibing wine, she described the attributes of
her prospective gigolo—all physical, except for the fact that he must be
respectful and discreet.
The words of Marjorie Paul reverberated in her mind. “They are
all around, looking to bilk you of your money in exchange for tawdry
sex.”
“That’s a dangerous thing!” Mrs Maharaj replied.
Pearl Rampersad silently quashed the insinuation.
“Pearl, where the wine, like you drank it all?” Marjorie shouted.
“Wait a minute,” Sherry Chin Lee quibbled, “how come you all so
preoccupied with young men and gigolos? In the words of an aunt of
mine, ‘Old age is a bitch!’”
“Why you so deceitful?” Marjorie Paul quipped. “Look here, Sherry,
don’t make me open my mouth ’bout you and Mister…”
A bout of laughter erupted at Mrs Chin Lee’s expense. She was not
amused.
“While we on the topic, there’s even a better movie than The
Graduate,” Seeta Maharaj, the maternal-looking, round-faced, East
Indian woman added. “You all ever saw the movie with Vivien Leigh and
Warren Beatty? Gosh, he was so young and handsome in that movie.”
“What’s the name of the movie?” Pearl enquired.
“The Autumn of Mr. Stone,” Sherry shouted in an authoritative tone.
“You all don’t find we should trade in our decrepit husbands by
Courts Furniture Store?” Seeta said mockingly.
“I might not even get a swizzle stick for mine!” Mrs Paul replied.
4 5
T h e K i d n a p M i r ac l e
The statement incited a riot of laughter.
Two days earlier, while on her way home from the gym, Pearl
Rampersad had glimpsed a young, toned stud lugging around a lawn-
mower. She slowed down and surveyed him from head to toe. A stream
of excitement seeped through her body; he personified her Dustin
Hoffman and Warren Beatty. His grubby appearance did not deter her;
on the contrary, it excited her. She circled the drive until she built up
the nerve to stop the car. She eased the glass down. “Excuse me, I’m
looking for someone to trim my lawn,” she blurted out.
“Em, yea, I does do that, but ah going to cut Miz Mahabir lawn now,”
he replied in a gauche, colloquial tone.
“What time will you be through?” she asked politely.
“Em, what is the time now?” he enquired.
“Quarter past ten,” she responded.
“Ah go check yu by half eleven. Where yu does live?” he asked.
She gave him her address and told him how to get there.
It was twelve-twenty when he reached her home. “Madam, ah run-
ning late; ah went to the mall to eat lunch,” he explained.
“Well, I should have told you that lunch was available here,” she
replied.
The offer surprised him. After all, she didn’t know him at all.
“This lawn doh need cutting, madam,” he observed, “like it cut
recently?”
“Well I really need some help with the plants,” she fumbled.
At first, he was a tad uncomfortable with her overly friendly ges-
ture and generosity, but figured that she acted that way toward every-
one. When he was through, she offered him a cold drink, but he refused
it. She tucked an envelope in his pocket without even asking him the
cost of the job. He opened the envelope to find five hundred dollars and
her name and telephone number.
“Five hundred dollars for a hundred dollar job?” he let out a loud
two-syllable whistle.
 PROSE in the Key of Life
After two weeks, Navin Gopaul was on her husband’s payroll, work-
ing every day around the house.
Deo Rampersad had recently expanded his oil and gas investments
and was contemplating a senate appointment. In the little time he spent
at home, he had observed the glow on his wife’s face and her changed
demeanour; she no longer carped and nagged him. He pretended not
to know the reason. In any event, he had grown old and lethargic; his
motivation was wealth and power and, to a lesser extent, his children
and grandchildren.
Navin Gopaul’s profound street sense more than compensated for
his illiteracy. He had run away from a drunken and abusive father when
he was eleven and learned about self-survival early in life. His mother
did odd jobs to support his three siblings. Navin assisted her whenever
he could, but avoided the feud that ignited between himself and his fa-
ther whenever they crossed paths.
Navin had already sized up Mrs Rampersad, so that when she in-
vited him to view The Graduate with her, under the guise of a much-needed
break, he had already figured out her ruse. But life had taught him that he
had to play and excel at the game, even when the rules were someone
else’s.
“Did you enjoy the movie?” Mrs Rampersad asked.
“It was okay,” Navin replied nonchalantly.
She gulped down her wine. “Think you’ll ever do that with an older
woman?” she asked in a coy tone.
There was no reply; his face remained indifferent to her bold ques-
tion. She turned red with embarrassment. In a feeble attempt to rebound
from her humiliation, she diverted the course of the conversation.“You
didn’t touch your wine,” she said with a slur in her voice.
“I is not really a drinker,” he replied with a malicious grin on his
face.
6 7
T h e K i d n a p M i r ac l e
Navin’s street sense had kicked into overdrive. He analyzed the situ-
ation carefully, applying his own sense of logic. He guzzled down the
wine and pretended to be drunk, just as she had intended.
“About your question, madam, yea ah go do it if the lady look good
and she had plenty money like you.”
The seductiveness in his eyes more than answered her question.
“Where de bathroom?” he asked.
He groped her leg as he lifted himself from the sofa.
Pearl Rampersad squeezed a generous mound of skin cream into
her hand and massaged her smooth legs and body before gulping down
three more glasses of wine. She slipped into a pair of lace panties and
matching bra and threw herself into the oversized bed. She retrieved a
bottle of perfume from the dresser and sprayed under her arms and neck
and smudged some on her cleavage. The opening of the door caused her
to twitch. She was propped against a pillow when Navin Gopaul entered
the room, stark naked. His firm arms and tight stomach were the epit-
ome of youthful virility. He was better endowed than she had imagined
he’d be. As he approached her, she noticed for the first time how thug-
gishly handsome he was—sprouts of soft virgin hairs framed his long,
slim face. His straight nose with slightly flared nostrils twitched with
passion. An emerging moustache contoured his thin shimmering lips,
and strands of hair emerged from his strong chin. A charge of sensual
ripples rushed through her quivering body. She felt like a young girl
about to relive a fantasy which she had repressed for all of her life. She
was riddled with guilt, excitement, and fear. This was the first time she
had done something this bold. It felt strangely adventurous and dan-
gerous. Here she was, fifty-two, and he—seventeen? He could be her
grandson, she thought. What if her children found out? But it was too
late to ponder those moral issues; he had climbed into bed.
Over the weeks that followed, the trysts had become routine, and
Pearl had grown immune to the guilt. Tongues wagged behind her back,
but as far as she was concerned, no one could prove a thing. For once,
 PROSE in the Key of Life
she was enjoying life! On the other hand, Deo Rampersad did not be-
come a millionaire by being naïve. He had his hunch, but once he felt
sure that no one else knew, he remained indifferent. But his temper
flared when he could not explain a debit of fifty thousand dollars from
the company’s account. He confronted his wife.
“There was no money in the savings account and I needed the
money!” she replied.
“Well, what was it for?” he enquired.
“A family emergency,” she shouted.
“Okay, I’m sending the accountant to you for an explanation, you
fool!” he snapped.
The subtle indifference between husband and wife had exploded
into an overt slinging of words. He accused her of infidelity, and she
blamed him for neglect.
It was approaching Christmas; she trudged around the house ner-
vously with Navin treading closely behind. “I want the house to look
perfect when Vashti arrives!” she insisted. “But where’s the picture? It
was here yesterday!” Mrs Rampersad carped.
“Doh worry nah, yu go find it,” Navin responded half-heartedly.
Her daughter was coming home for Christmas with her family, and
Mrs Rampersad wanted everything to be perfect. She had framed and
displayed the picture of her daughter and her grandchild which FedEx
had earlier delivered.
“Navin, did you look everywhere?” she asked.
“Yes!”
Vashti Rampersad was nineteen when she left Trinidad for London
to study law. She had returned home sporadically over the years, and
three years ago, Pearl had attended her wedding in London. She had
married the son of Deo Rampersad’s long-time friend—a successful
businessman, now deceased.
Pearl was saddled with guilt. Although they never complained, she
felt that she had not been exactly the best mother to her children. So
8 9
T h e K i d n a p M i r ac l e
when Vashti told her she was coming home for Christmas, she jumped
at the opportunity to rekindle their somewhat strained relationship.
Getting rid of Navin for the holidays was costly, but she couldn’t risk
having him around the house with her daughter there. He had become
irascible and abusive. Marjorie Paul’s words, “They are all around, look-
ing to bilk you of all your money,” haunted her. Before leaving, he repri-
manded her like an errant child: “Give me a million, and you’d never see
me again, you ole whore!” he said in a strident tone; his hands morphed
into threatening gestures.
“I’d rather die than give you my husband’s hard-earned money!” she
retorted.
The ominous look in his eyes caused her to flinch.
Her eyes brimmed with tears.
She had vowed there and then that she would deal with him! But
this would have to wait until her daughter returned to London. For now,
she would have to muster up all the courage and strength she could to
mask her desolate frame of mind.
***
It was Christmas Eve. The festoons of lights and Christmas trees
were surprisingly turned off at the Rampersad’s mansion. The house
was void of life except for two cars and a police vehicle parked along
the curb. Thirty minutes ago, Pearl had been laying the table for a spe-
cial Christmas Eve dinner. Her daughter, along with her son-in-law and
grandson, had gone to visit family and friends. She glanced at the clock
again; it was seven-twenty-five; they were supposed to have returned an
hour ago. The ringing of the phone startled her.
“I’ll get it,” Deo shouted from inside.
She waited for a response, but there was none. The silence was
menacing.
 PROSE in the Key of Life
“Oh gosh, not a vehicular accident!” she whispered to herself as she
walked slowly to the living room where she encountered Deo slouched
in the sofa, a callous look on his face and a notepad in his hand.
“What’s wrong?” she asked expecting the worst.
He stretched out his arm and offered her the notepad.
She nervously retrieved it and perused the content. She froze. Tears
rolled down her cheeks. It all seemed surreal.
“What time did you receive the call?” the officer asked for the third
time.
“He’s in shock, he can’t hear you!” the doctor replied.
“I told you, around seven-thirty!” Pearl said emphatically.
The officer looked at the note again: one million—yellow bin on prom-
enade opposite school…
Deo Rampersad ignored the advice of the police and ordered the
bank manager to package half a million.
Pearl eventually broke down and named Navin Gopaul as the prime
suspect.
“He is our prime suspect, but he was at home in bed,” the officer
confirmed. “But he’s being questioned; he’s still in custody,” the police
officer said.
The Christmas edition of one newspaper reported: “A former lover
of a close relative is being interrogated in the kidnapping of south mil-
lionaire’s visiting daughter, Vashti Rampersad-Singh…”
Pearl was devastated. The detective had told her that all information
would be treated in the strictest confidence. She later accused him of
soliciting a bribe from the media.
Vashti’s husband came out of unconsciousness but the gash on his
head was still oozing blood. In response to the family’s request, he was
denied access to television, newspapers, and visitors. The toddler was in
good health and had been released to his grandparents. Vashti remained
in the hands of her abductors.
10
T h e K i d n a p M i r ac l e
Deo had followed all of the instructions outlined by the kidnappers
and was hoping and praying for his daughter’s safe return. But the poi-
gnant newspaper photograph of the last kidnap victim, stabbed to death,
mitigated his optimism.
A Hindu prayer was in progress when a taxi pulled up in front of the
Rampersad’s home. Against doctor’s orders, a peeved-looking Anand
Singh carried his son and rushed his wife out of the house and into a
waiting taxi. The flight to London was scheduled to depart in under an
hour. A few hours earlier,Vashti had been dropped off at the nearby mall
in a disheveled state. While the doctor examined her, Anand was on the
phone to the airline.
Try as they might, the police could find no tangible evidence to
indict Navin Gopaul in the kidnapping and were forced by law and a
human-rights lawyer to release him. He was asked not to leave Trinidad,
as he was still needed to assist with the investigations.
The weekly newspaper had a field day with Mrs Rampersad’s alleged
incestuous fling with her youthful gardener—and hinted that she might be
linked to the kidnapping. Behind closed doors, Deo reprimanded his
wife for his daughter’s ordeal and promised that she would never be
forgiven. Overcome with shame and scandal, she fled Trinidad. Deo
fired back at the media with lawsuits in a feeble attempt to salvage some
dignity.
A week had passed, and the police were still unable to make any
headway in the Vashti Rampersad-Singh kidnapping case.
Anastasia Khan, still in shock over the incident, confronted Navin
Gopaul at his shack. “You didn’t tell me about this!” she screamed. “You
said you were going to blackmail the lady for money. I doh know what
to think now!” Her eyes turned red with affront.
“Listen, it jes happened that way, okay!” he shouted. “She say she not
giving me a cent. What you wanted me to do? Eh! Eh!” He walked over
to her and attempted to hold her hand.
She flinched.
11
 PROSE in the Key of Life
His temper flared. He launched himself at her, causing her to fall on
the bed. “Yu ungrateful bitch!” he yelped. “All this was for you! We had
plans! This fucking shit! If you rat on me ah go kill yu tail!”
He kicked the rickety door wide open and bolted outside. She could
hear the sound of hurled objects falling to the ground.
Later in the night, Anastasia was awakened by a loud scuffle outside
the shack. It was pitch-black; she eased herself quietly off the bed, tip-
toed to the door, and peered through a crack. A flambeau illuminated
the faces of four enraged men shouting threats and obscenities at Navin,
who was propped against the trunk of a tree. One of the men was bran-
dishing a sinister-looking knife. “We go kill yu ass boy! Where de fuck
yu hide the money!”
Navin choked as he spoke. “Ah tell all yu that is all the money!” he
pleaded.
“Dude, yu think we fucking stupid or something! Is five hundred
grand! We want a hundred grand a man!” the gruff man demanded. He
moved toward Navin and placed the shiny knife to his throat and bel-
lowed, “Yu dead tonight dread!”
Anastasia’s loud shriek echoed through the deathly silence.
“What the hell is that?” one of the men asked.
In an instant, all heads turned in the direction of the shack.
The men converged on the front door and listened attentively be-
fore kicking the door wide open. They found Anastasia in a fetal posi-
tion, trembling profusely.
Navin looked on helplessly as two of the men pulled her out of the
shack and disappeared in the blackness of the night, shouting repeatedly,
“If we ent get the money, she dead! We go be in the old hut by the river.”
***
Anastasia’s father’s worry turned to panic when his daughter did
not return home for the entire day. He knew that she had visited Navin
12
T h e K i d n a p M i r ac l e
against his severe warnings, but she had never before stayed away for
more than a few hours. The following day, he accompanied police of-
ficers to Navin’s shack, where they found Navin tied to a tree bruised
and weak.
The police held a media conference to appease the politicians. They
gloated that astute investigations by the police in the Vashti Rampersad-
Singh kidnapping had unearthed valuable information and that arrests
were imminent. Government ministers and senators rebuffed claims by
the opposition that the government was incapable of dealing with the
escalating crime situation in Trinidad and Tobago. The unfolding story
was carried on the CNN and BBC news networks.
Upon his release from the hospital, Navin Gopaul was arraigned
on kidnapping and attempted murder charges. He led the police to the
hut in the forest where Anastasia Khan was held captive. The twelve
o’clock news broke the story: “Three men who allegedly abducted
teenager Anastasia Khan were fatally shot in a confrontation with
police. Police are on the trail of another two assailants who were shot
and wounded…”
Navin Gopaul was incarcerated and subsequently sentenced to
eleven years hard labour.
Anastasia Khan gave birth prematurely to a son.
When her son was seven months old, her father arranged for her to
marry a distant relative. After weeks of confrontation, she moved out of
her father’s home and returned to Navin’s shack. Friends and neighbours
lent a hand to restore the place to a livable condition. She sought welfare
from the government and did odd jobs to care for her son, whom she
had named Richard Paul. A friend lured her to the nearby Pentecostal
church where she became a member of the flock.
Life was laborious. She swore on her mother’s grave that she would
provide a better life for her son. Although the pastor prayed with her for
deliverance from her ordeal, the nightmares continued.The roof started
13
 PROSE in the Key of Life
to leak; the outhouse crumbled and crashed to the ground during a
rainstorm.
Anastasia looked at her toddler and cried. She cursed God and swore
that she would never again set foot in a church. The pastor beseeched
her to come back to church. He recited scriptures about persecution
and promised that she would soon be delivered from her predicament.
But it was in vain.
After weeks of torment and temptation, her father showed up one
rainy Saturday morning with a crew of workmen and proceeded to re-
pair the shack.
The Sunday morning sun peered through the blanket of clouds as
Anastasia negotiated the muddy track to the latrine. As she sat in the in-
complete structure, she observed the top of a crocus bag in the mound
of mud. She retrieved a shovel and spent most of the morning digging
around the bag until it became loose.
“My God, what if it’s a dead person or something disgusting?” she
muttered. Armed with a piece of wood she hit the soggy bag as hard as
she could. Feels like cardboard or clothes or something, she thought. After
cutting through the rope that tied the bag, she turned around and sur-
veyed the area to ensure that no one was around to implicate her if the
bag contained something illegal, like drugs.
A stream of anxiety trickled through her body as she opened the bag
and discovered hundreds of small packages wrapped in brown paper.
“Shit, cocaine!” She flinched. But curiosity got the better of her. She sur-
veyed the area once again before timidly reaching for one of the packag-
es. She took it inside and opened it. Her heart raced; her knees became
weak. Strewn across the floor were wads of hundred-dollar bills. After
recovering from the shock, she spent the better part of the afternoon
toting the packages inside and counting the money, hoping that no one
would come by.
She had counted two hundred and fifty grand before she stopped.
She taxed her brain trying to figure out where she could conceal that
14
T h e K i d n a p M i r ac l e
large sum of money; the workmen were due very early in the morning.
It was two-fifteen when she threw a bedspread on Richard Paul’s newly
made bed. She lifted him from the floor and placed him on the firm
mattress.
***
At church on the following Sunday, the pastor’s sermon was about
miracles. Anastasia had packaged fifty thousand dollars and placed it on
the pastor’s doorstep like a thief in the night. A note read: For the poor chil-
dren. Do not make this public. If you get it, preach about miracles.Take ten grand
for yourself; no one will ever know. She hoped and prayed that the pastor
would not report or investigate the donation. Did he suspect her? Was it
a stupid idea? After all, he knew about Navin and the kidnapping!
She fidgeted.
That night, little Richard Paul drank his milk from a store-bought
glass bottle and hugged a teddy bear he had christened Boo-Boo. She lay
in bed contemplating her next step. She had to move to a place where
no one would suspect her and where Navin Gopaul would never find
her. But she must not worry about that now; she had ten years to think
about that.
But whom was she fooling? There was no escaping Navin Gopaul;
all she had to do was to look at little Nav. She smiled endearingly each
time she did.
She went to bed holding little Nav against her breast.
Her mind preoccupied with MIRACLES!
15
 A Song in a Storm

Thunderous applause erupted in the packed Manhattan stadium as the

emcee introduced him. Shrilling whistles and deafening shouts of ap-
proval followed him as he pranced about the cavernous stage to the
pulsating rhythm of the bass line; his name, Ocean Samuel, flickered in
red neon. Teenage girls wept openly as they gawked at this lascivious-
looking tanned youth from the islands.
He was on his way to the top, said one entertainment writer. His
photo was plastered all over the New York entertainment media, his hit
song blasted from radios, and his music video littered the local television
networks. A Facebook site cropped up to celebrate this twenty-four-
year-old singing sensation from Trinidad and Tobago. Ocean Samuel was
on his way to stardom!
“Another scorcher out there,” the radio DJ announced before going
to commercials. “When we come back, the man making cool waves
amid this New York heat, yes, the name on everyone’s lips these days,
that electrifying Trinidad youth, Ocean…”
Seated at the sidewalk café, languidly tapping his foot to the famil-
iar strains of Ocean Samuel’s number one hit, “Yesterday’s Love Song,”
Kerron Ali refastened a red bandana that held his long, curly hair togeth-
er. He resumed his former posture—head propped against his knuck-
les—his thoughts far away. Over at another table, two men dressed in

17
 PROSE in the Key of Life
black glanced routinely over at him. A cell-phone call cued them; he
retrieved a leather bag from the table, and all three hastened inside a
stretch limo, which had barely come to a halt in front of the café.
The limo manoeuvred its way in and out of freeway traffic until
it stopped in front of the hotel. The three alighted and darted into the
lobby, dodging a small crowd of fans. They entered the penthouse suite,
where a dapperly attired man stood facing the window with a cell phone
stuck to his ear. He turned around briefly to acknowledge them and con-
tinued to talk on his mobile in a strident tone. When he was through, he
turned to the group and pointed successively at the two men. “You!You!
Get out of here; I want to have a word with my man here, Ocean!”
As the two hustled out of the suite, he swaggered toward the door
and slammed it, sending a loud echo through the large, well-appointed
room. He turned his back to his rising star. “OC, my man,” he mumbled
in a dreadful tone, “look around and ask yourself who’s responsible for
all this?” He swept his hand across the room, plastered with life-size
posters and newspaper clippings of Ocean Samuel.
He turned around to stare Ocean straight in the eye, stamping his
foot like a petulant child on the shag-carpeted floor. “You were nothing,
man! Nothing, when they brought you to me!” His raspy voice grew
louder; affront mirrored in his deep blue eyes.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded as he held a document high in
the air. “Answer me, man!” he blared.
Ocean Samuel mumbled under his breath, “A good offer from an-
other label, sir.”
Tyrone B. Johnston, music industry magnate, erupted in a parox-
ysm of mocking laughter which fizzled out into an ominous silence.
Once again he turned his back to Ocean. “Let me tell you something
boy, you are a dime a dozen, easily made and easy to break. You have a
non-negotiable contract with me. Honour it, else all you’ll leave New
York with is the blasted shirt on you back, if you’re that lucky!”
He bolted out the door, slamming it so hard that the room shook.
18
A Song in a S to r m
Ocean threw himself on the bed and pressed his face against the pil-
low. He was seething with anger and humiliation ... The ringing of the
cell phone catapulted him out of a light sleep. He sat up, wiped his face
with his hand, and answered.
It was the call he had dreaded: his father was hospitalized. A week
ago, Nyla had called to say that his dad had fallen ill and had been taken
to the doctor. Yesterday, he was well, he pondered; at least that’s what
Nyla had told him.
Suddenly, the world around was spinning out of control. He felt as
though he had been sucked into a black whirlwind of despair and guilt;
he desperately needed to go home. The bright lights of New York, the
heady taste of fame, the adulation, the magazine features no longer oc-
cupied his mind. The mundane rural village in Trinidad, the comforting
allure of the old shack, his pa, his pet dog, gnawed at him. He asked
the bodyguard to make an appointment for him to see Tyrone and then
threw himself on the bed, sobbing like a child.
“Mr Johnston keeps a tight schedule,” the secretary insisted. “He’ll
see you next Wednesday.”
Ocean pleaded with her. “I’m begging; please, my dad’s ill; this is
urgent. I must see Mr Johnston now!”
She returned a moment later. “Get here as fast as you can. Mr
Johnston’s plane departs in exactly an hour.”
Tyrone B. Johnston, the brash South African, made millions in the
music business in North America. He had emigrated to New York with
his father when he was fourteen years old. The family ran a small but lu-
crative restaurant in downtown Manhattan, and his father, a skilled gui-
tarist and arranger, produced a few successful hit records for struggling
artists. After graduating law school, Tyrone, an accomplished musician
like his dad, developed an affinity for the music business and opened a
small studio, where he auditioned fledgling artistes and songwriters.
When big-name labels expressed interest in the artists, he would release
them from their contracts for large inducements. But his strategy soon
19
 PROSE in the Key of Life
changed; he no longer released his talented discoveries to rival labels.
Instead, he bonded his promising stars to tight contracts. Besides his
expert talent as a musician, Tyrone B. Johnston possessed an innate
talent for wheeling and dealing. He knew every executive and unsavoury
character in the music industry.
He had heard of Kerron Ali from a music scout who telephoned him
from a sleazy nightclub in the Bronx. “Boss, you have to hear this guy;
he’s what you’re looking for.Ten grand, and I’ll bring him by tomorrow.”
“Dude,” Tyrone replied nonchalantly, “five grand if he’s any good.”
Kerron felt as though he had been released from a prison in
hell; he was on the brink of absconding back home when the shady
man approached him with a “deal of a lifetime.” He was sceptical but
desperately needed to get out of his present predicament. The prize
he had won back home—to audition for a New York producer—was
nothing short of a scam.When he arrived in NewYork, he was taken to a
sleazy nightclub to perform for a paltry fee and sleeping accommodations
in a choked-up, dingy room at the back of the club. When he questioned
the owner about the prize, the man replied derisively, “Dude, talent
scouts frequent this joint; just be grateful you not out in the streets.” On
two occasions he had been mugged—the first time his chain was tugged
off his neck; the other time he narrowly escaped being stabbed. Is this
hellhole really NewYork? He wondered.
A week later, Johnston signed Kerron Ali to his TBJ label. The scout
was paid an additional two grand as he was, in Tyrone own words,
“convincing and perfect for the job with a great voice, youth, and exotic
looks to drive the girls wild.”
“What’s your middle name, youth?” Johnston asked.
“Samuel, sir, Kerron Samuel Ali,” he replied.
Johnston rocked back in his oversize chair and pondered for a
moment before blurting out: “Ocean Samuel.”
But Tyrone B. Johnston had underestimated the naïve boy from the
islands, as he described him to his affiliates. Kerron Ali was actually
20
A Song in a S to r m
twenty-six years old, but Tyrone reasoned that twenty-four seemed
more alluring to the girls. The hardships and disappointments he had
endured in his life had rendered him cynical; nothing was as easy as it
seemed. The bright lights of fame and fortune didn’t exactly blind him,
though at first he was awed by the vastness and glamour of New York.
Two weeks after his arrival he told Nyla that New York was a cold and
lonely place, infested with criminals and distrustful people.
When Kerron left Trinidad, his goal had been to earn a couple of
United States dollars—perhaps ten thousand, if he was that lucky—and
return home to help his pa with the medical bills and repair the old
shack. Not even in his wildest dream could he have imagined he’d have
a hit song. Nyla was all excited when she telephoned him from Trinidad
to say that they were playing his song on the radio. “They used your real
name, too,” she gushed.
Kerron often wondered about the money, or “royalties” as Tyrone
put it, from the song—and if and when he would be paid. He was
provided with everything he needed: a luxurious suite, designer
clothing, a BlackBerry phone, credit cards, and bodyguards that aroused
his curiosity; after all, he was no megastar, but for some strange reason,
Tyrone had a lot of bodyguards in his “inner circle,” a phrase he often
used. Kerron came to the sudden realization that Tyrone was in total
control of his life and that made him uncomfortable. He desperately
needed a large sum of money, not the paltry allowance he had been
transferring from the credit card to the bank back home for Nyla to
take to his father. Nyla said that the bypass surgery would cost over a
hundred thousand dollars.
“You almost missed him,” the secretary snapped, as he finally arrived
at the posh high-rise office of Tyrone B. Johnston.
“Sorry, there was a lot of traffic,” he replied.
He followed her along a dimly-lit corridor to a door labelled
Conference Room, which she opened and gestured him inside. To his
surprise, there were four other persons besides Mr Johnston seated at
21
 PROSE in the Key of Life
the huge table. Johnston was, as usual, brash and sarcastic. “So, my man,
you need a vacation?” he asked.
“No, sir. My dad is very ill and I need to go take care of him,” Ocean
stuttered.
“Aren’t there doctors in Trinidad to take care of him?” Johnston
asked sarcastically.
“Yes, but I have to arrange—” Ocean started to say before Johnston
interrupted him with a reproachful discourse:
“Dude, I run a business—not a charity. I need not remind you that
I rescued you from the brink…” he paused to answer his cell, then
continued. “Hit records and pop stars do not fall from the sky.Talent and
looks are a small part of it. Influence, power, and money are the magic
words in this business. Just the other day you tried to deceive me by
secretly negotiating with my rivals. I should have dismissed you—see
how far they would have taken you.”
“But, sir,” Ocean interjected.
The others in the room stared at him compassionately as Johnston
stopped him. “Don’t interrupt me while I’m speaking,” he shouted.
“Regarding the money you asked my secretary about, you need to
understand how this business works. For all you know, you might be
indebted to me.
Ocean’s eyes shimmered with a veneer of tears as Johnston
continued with his demeaning barrage.
“You think a hit song happens just so, because people like the
song? Hits happen because you pay large inducements to disc jockeys,
reporters, journalists, TV producers, and club owners! Then there’s
the image—the cars, the bodyguards, the hotels, designer clothing,
restaurants. You think you were chosen to open at that star-studded
concert in Manhattan because someone liked you? Dude, that one really
cost me!”
Ocean was enraged; he felt like telling Johnston off but his Christian
upbringing deterred him. He was cognizant of the fact that it was
22
A Song in a S to r m
the other way around, and that he was earning Johnston hundreds of
thousands. The agent from the other label had explained it all to him.
Tyrone rose to his feet. “I’m already late, dude,” he said.
Ocean was swallowed up by a feeling of dejection and hopelessness.
He agonized over how he would get the money for his pa’s lifesaving
surgery.
When they had all left left the room, Ocean got up with a look of
dejection etched on his face. As he schlepped out of the room, he found
the woman who had been sitting next to Johnston waiting for him in
the corridor. She flashed a maternal smile at him and patted him on the
shoulder. On his way out, the secretary stopped him and asked him to
sit. She handed him an envelope. “I need to get back the signed copies,”
she said.
He nonchalantly opened the envelope to find an airline ticket, a
gold credit card, and a contract requiring his signature. It simply stated
that he would return to TBJ Music Corp. in a month’s time to resume
his contractual obligations.
Tears flowed profusely from his tired eyes; only this time, they were
tears of joy.
At JFK, he agonized over the announcement that the flight was
delayed due to a technical problem. He grew more and more agitated as
the minutes ticked away. He ambled around the airport aimlessly, then he
noticed a gift shop; it had only just dawned on him that he hadn’t bought
any presents for his pa and Nyla and his friends back home. He hurried
inside and was riffling through the items when the announcement came
through that his flight was now boarding. He grabbed a few gifts and a
newspaper and hurried for the boarding gate.
His mind wavered between his surreal experience in New York and
his pa in a hospital bed. Desperately trying to be optimistic, he prayed
silently for his pa’s recovery. Everything will be all right, he told himself.
He groped around in his backpack for the newspaper just as the seat
belt sign was turned off. As he flipped through the pages, he cringed at
23
 PROSE in the Key of Life
the headline, “Music Mogul Questioned in Murder Investigation.” He
skimmed through the report to see if the music Mogul could be Tyrone
Johnston, but heaved a sigh of relief when he saw no mention of the
name.
But the comment that Bradley—the agent from the rival label—had
made to him that Tyrone was not all he seemed, reverberated in his mind.
Suddenly, the comment took on an ominous meaning. Then a horrific
thought crossed his mind. It could be Tyrone; after all, the newspaper
report didn’t name anyone. But it just couldn’t be; he dismissed the
insinuation. He harboured curious thoughts about Tyrone, but murder?
He placed the headrest in a reclining position and lay back, trying
to figure out if there was any connection between Tyrone Johnston and
Bradley. But his thoughts drifted to his pa. He closed his eyes and said
a silent prayer that he’d be all right. He pulled the window shade down
and drifted off into a light doze. Montages of his childhood played in
mind like a trailer for a movie about his life:
It was Saturday. Kerron Ali was up at the crack of dawn to feed
the chickens and cut grass for the goats. As he made his way down the
rickety stairs to the kitchen and lit the lamp, the darkened silhouette of
his mother startled him. “Why you in the dark, Ma?” he asked.
“Go and feed the fowls, and stop asking questions!” she shouted.
With a look of dejection in his eyes, he obediently went about his
chores.
Kerron knew why she was there and what time she had awakened;
after all, it had become a habit: the quarreling, the threats, the commotion,
and what he feared most, the loud noises and the screams that followed.
Carl was a burly, brown-skinned man with a receding hairline and
a sinister expression etched on his scarred face. Dorothy had shared an
intimate relationship with Carl, whom she had met at the nightclub,
long before she had known Kerron’s father. Though she had vehemently
denied that Carl was Kerron’s biological father, there was widespread
speculation that he was.
24
A Song in a S to r m
For two years, Kerron prayed and hoped that they could go back
home to his father where life was peaceful and happy, but no one
answered his prayer. The Sunday school teacher said that God answers
your prayers if you ask hard enough, so he continued to pray.
In his naive, Christian mind, he couldn’t understand why his ma
wouldn’t leave Uncle Carl and go back home to Pa. At times, he felt
hate toward Ma, who did nothing to stop Uncle Carl from beating
him mercilessly. Whenever he ran back home to Pa, his ma would go
with the police to bring him back. She used a word which he only
understood when he was much older—custody. His father pleaded
with her in his frail voice to leave the boy with him, but this only
served to agitate her; she would shout at the top of her voice, I have
custody!
***
Kerron kept looking at the clock; he reminded Ma that it was three
thirty and choir practice was at four.
“Listen, don’t annoy me, boy. I done tell you that your uncle not
home; if he come home drunk and find that you gone, he will come by
the church and beat you again,” she snapped.
With a glum look on his face, he replied, “Okay, but ah could go and
play with Davie?”
“Just go, but come home before six,” she replied.
He ran upstairs to retrieve his guitar from a box under the bed
and scampered out of the house for the church. In any event, she was
dressing to go out.
Choir practice was his respite from his tormented life at home.
Singing and playing the guitar dispelled the sadness, if only for a few
fleeting moments. The minister often told him that he possessed innate
talent; his teacher explained that “e-nate” meant natural or being born with
a special talent.
25
 PROSE in the Key of Life
September 18, 1999, was a special day for Kerron Ali. It was the day
he turned sixteen, sweet sixteen, Nyla reminded him. He had bought a
special shirt for the big event, a birthday party in his honour planned by
his friends in the choir. It was a double, or rather a triple, celebration
for him. His dad had returned home from prison a few days earlier, and
although he had been taught that it was a sin to entertain bad thoughts
for others, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of justice at the fate Uncle
Carl had been dealt. He had suffered a stroke and Ma suffered along
with him, as she had the tedious job of caring for him with her failing
health. In spite of everything, he gave her some of the money he earned
from odd jobs around the neighbourhood.
Kerron had returned home to his dad when he was fourteen.
After several beatings at the hands of his stepfather, the neighbours,
accompanied by the priest and a welfare officer, went to the home and
threatened Uncle Carl and Ma that they would return with the police
if Kerron was not allowed to go home to his father. A week before, two
neighbours had beaten Uncle Carl into a stupor after he accused Kerron
of stealing money from him; he then fractured the boy’s arm.
“Let the ungrateful bitch go! I fed up of minding him,” Uncle
Carl shouted, as Kerron packed his clothes and the patched-up guitar
the priest had given him. Uncle Carl had banged it against the wall
threatening to smash it up if he heard it played in the house again.
Kerron had heard the remark—“You feel you could sing or
something!You will never amount to nothing, boy”—perhaps a hundred
times, but cried inside each time he heard it.
***
He was jolted from his reverie into the past by the voice of the flight
attendant asking if he wanted a snack. He rubbed his eyes, and asked for
coffee and proceeded to flip through the newspaper to finish reading the
article about the murder of Bradley. His mind was taken back to the first
26
A Song in a S to r m
time he had met Bradley. It was after a television recording.This guy had
walked up to him and told him he represented a label that specialized
in Latin American and Caribbean music—he especially liked the unique
fusion of Ocean’s music—of calypso, soul, and a tinge of East Indian.
He said that his name was Brad and jotted down his email on a piece of
paper. “Calling card’s a bad idea—your boss might find it. This business
is war, you know,” he said.
Ocean observed that he was very respectful and courteous,
a refreshing change from the gaucheness of  Tyrone Johnston. He
provided Ocean with a financial proposal for a full length CD, which
guaranteed an upfront payment of over two hundred thousand dollars.
Ocean was spellbound. The agent was confident that it was just a matter
of time before Ocean would be freed of Tyrone, but Ocean wasn’t too
optimistic. After all, he knew the tyrant of a man they were dealing with
and the influence he wielded in the music industry.
***
It was ten-twenty when Ocean left the hotel in a limo with a
bodyguard traipsing behind, to meet a fashion model who would
accompany him to an art opening in Chelsea. Earlier that day, he had
called the model, whom he had met at a backstage bash after one of
his performances. She had slipped him her number on a napkin, which
he thought he had discarded, but conveniently found again while
rummaging through his drawer for any number he could call for a date.
His ploy seemed to work since Tyrone raised no objection, except to say
on the phone, “Steer clear of the media, as you don’t know the reputation
of the model! Oh, use two condoms and don’t go to her place; she could
set you up! I have a suite in Chelsea; check me for the key.”
Come to think of it, Ocean had not seen Tyrone for the entire
afternoon. He suspected that he was up to one of his auditioning
shenanigans with some gullible girl with high hopes of stardom.
27
 PROSE in the Key of Life
The posh gallery was abuzz with genteel men and women engaged
in hushed conversations. Bow-tied waiters waltzed about, carrying trays
of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Ocean Samuel and his model escort
were conspicuously young amid a gathering of old fogies attired in
designer outfits and obnoxious, shimmering jewelry. He peered through
the crowd for Brad but didn’t see him. He wasn’t quite sure if he would
recognize him, as they had met just once, and he had been decked out
in jeans and an oversized sports jacket. Tonight he would don a designer
suit and groomed hair; but he needn’t worry; they both had each other’s
cell numbers.
Ocean Samuel felt ill at ease in this setting; no one seemed to
recognize him—and after all, he did have a top-ten hit. He would
soon realize that the women and a few of the men who gawked at
him thought that he was also a model. More than a fair share of
the elite guests acknowledged his escort, Kerry Kenny, the pencil-
thin, green-eyed platinum blonde from Australia, who had recently
earned supermodel status. In fact, she introduced him to a few
designers, photographers, artists, and heirs. It was mortifying that
none of them had heard of him, except for one woman who, after
listening to a long discourse by Miss Kenny about his success on the
charts, drably declared that her granddaughter was quite an avid
fan. Ocean heaved a sigh of relief when the lady pulled Kerry away
to show her a painting she had bought; her pretentious manner was
becoming irritating. For a moment, he imagined that it was Nyla
who had accompanied him.
As he craned his neck to gaze around the gallery for Brad, he flinched;
his heart raced. In a corner, Tyrone and a young girl were sipping
champagne and chit-chatting beneath a huge orange and blue abstract
painting. What the hell is he doing here? he asked himself. He wondered
whether Tyrone had gotten wind of his plan to meet with the agent from
the other label. He glanced at his watch; it was ten fifteen. Brad had said
he would be there by nine-thirty, after his meeting.
28
A Song in a S to r m
Ocean headed for the bathroom and whipped out his personal cell
and frantically dialed Brad’s number; there was no reply. He texted him,
saying that he could no longer wait and that he would call him. He had
reason to believe that the cell phone Tyrone had given him was bugged,
so unbeknownst to Tyrone, he had bought himself another cell.
He glanced around the room for Kerry while attempting to dodge
Tyrone. He was relieved when he spotted her caressing a man’s chest.
He had his arm wrapped around her naked back. She was saturated with
champagne, he figured. Whores, all of them, he said to himself as he made
a hasty retreat to the elevator and headed for his suite. He showered and
planked himself into the cozy bed.
He had hardly gotten any sleep at all when the alarm clock began
its annoying ringing. He slowly climbed out of bed, anxious to catch his
prerecorded interview on the Entertainment Network. He stripped off
his clothes and hurried to the shower, his toned, naked body reflected
in the surrounding mirrors in the suite. He smiled conceitedly; since
his meteoric rise to stardom, as the lady at the agency put it, he had
had at least four proposals from major magazines to do artistic nudes
and a plethora of offers to model. He flashed a cocky gaze at his naked
reflection in the mirror—perhaps he was “a strikingly handsome island
youth” after all, as the model scout had described him, he thought in jest.
After he had showered, he groped around the bed for the remote
and flicked through the channels. He was as nervous as the day he had
done the interview. Coming from a rural village hardly prepared him for
such eventualities, but English was his best subject in school and Tyrone
had hired the best public-relations tutors to train him for interviews.
Tyrone’s advice to him was: “Be yourself; speak from the heart; show
humility and a bit of naivety—let them pity you a bit. Most of all, they
won’t look for faults unless you attempt to use big fancy words to
impress them. What they want is you—your sex appeal, your talent,
your inner thoughts. They don’t care if you can or cannot read. Here,
wear this.” Tyrone had thrown him a pair of tight jeans and a skin-tight
29
 PROSE in the Key of Life
tee-shirt. Just before taking his seat on the set, Ocean cried, “What was
in that soda!”
“Just a blue pill,” Tyrone quipped.
He felt a pang of excitement as he sat on the bed to catch the
interview, which was being televised all over New York.
The interviewer opened the interview with a question. “I hear you
won a contest back home in your native island of Trinidad?”
“Yea, I did; that’s why I’m here now,” Ocean replied, with a tinge of
nervousness in his voice.
The interviewer smiled approvingly. “Good one, Ocean. I caught
one of your performances on monitor before coming onto the set, and
like so many scintillating performers of your genre, you seem to be the
antithesis of the guy on stage,” he said.
Observing a baffled look on Ocean’s face, he said, “I mean, take
MJ, for example. Face to face he is shy, not the energetic guy we see on
stage.”
“Well, I surprise myself, too. I think a spirit takes over your body
and you just give in,” Ocean replied.
“Makes sense,” the interviewer replied.
Ocean covered his eyes when he saw what Tyrone had orchestrated.
When he stood up to lip-synch his hit song with the studio band, it
looked as though he had stuffed a sock or two in his crotch. He was
mortified. He hoped no one else noticed it.
Aside from the embarrassing prank, Kerron was pleased with his
performance; there was a cockiness in his gait and a smug look on his
face as he scurried about the suite, tidying up. It was the first time since
his “meteoric rise to stardom” that his personal opinion had been aired.
He read things in magazines and newspapers about Ocean Samuel that
were foreign to him: “esurient gaze of an aspirant star”; “vaunting his
success to a magazine reporter.” But he admitted that, at times, Ocean
Samuel seemed like a complete stranger, even a dream from which he
would awaken.
30
A Song in a S to r m
After tidying up, he went to the refrigerator to fetch a glass of juice,
just as the morning news commenced with the headline: “A bullet-
ridden body was discovered in the subway station ...” He sank down into
the large sofa and listened attentively as the anchor continued with the
news report. “It was suspected that the man was killed elsewhere and his
body dumped there. The man was in his forties, Caucasian, five feet, ten
inches. The body was clad in a black suit…” Ocean cringed when he saw
a picture of the victim on the screen. “Oh my God!” he whispered. He
knew the victim only by his first name, Brad.The news feature identified
him as Bradley Sabatino. Ocean turned off the television and sat in deep
contemplation—all the time he was attempting to reach him he was…
A knock on the door startled him. A loud pounding followed, and
then his cell phone started ringing frantically. It was the bodyguard,
imploring him to open the door.
He stood stock-still; his jaw dropped. Police officers were at the
door holding up identifications. One of them pushed his way inside the
suite and, before he knew it, at least five people huddled around him.
“Are you Ocean Samuel?” the officer asked.
Ocean nodded.
“Get dressed.We are taking you down for questioning regarding the
murder of Bradley Sabatino,” the officer commanded.
Ocean was terrified. His feet grew numb. The bodyguard placed
his arm around him and whispered, “Don’t worry; it’s just routine, I’m
sure. A top attorney will meet you at the station, just in case.”
As he was being driven to the station, it crossed his mind that
Tyrone was nowhere around this morning. Could he have anything to
do with this? He was scared. After all, he knew very little about Tyrone
Johnston.
Ocean Samuel heaved a sigh of relief when the tedious interrogation
was over. He told the police he would catch a taxi to the hotel, if
that was okay. The lawyer, who was allowed to accompany him at the
questioning, had told him it was routine, as he was the last person to
31
 PROSE in the Key of Life
contact the victim on his cell phone. But now he had another dreadful
matter to confront. It was now in the open that he was secretly pursuing
the deal with the new label, and it was just a matter of time before
Tyrone found out, if he hadn’t already. It did cross his mind that Tyrone
could be involved in the plot to murder Brad. But for what? Trying to
lure him to his label? Was the music business a cover-up for some illegal
activity? It was a terrifying prospect. He quashed the thought from
his mind.
***
A momentary jerking of the plane incited panic in the cabin; the
captain allayed the anxiety of the passengers by announcing that it was
caused by a slight turbulence. Ocean asked for a cup of coffee before
again going over the events of his past.
His mind was assailed by ambivalent feelings and self-contradictions
about his mother, and the beatings he had suffered at the hands of Uncle
Carl while she did nothing to rescue him. He wondered whether he hated
her or hated the way she treated his pa and him. And Pa—why did he
still love her after all the pain and humiliation she had put him through?
It was a marriage made in hell, so said friends and relatives of Lall Ali
when he announced his marriage to Dorothy Davis. She was a sprightly,
stout, thirty-something immigrant from Dominica with brown eyes and
long wavy hair, and he was a scrawny East Indian man in his mid-forties.
He was no taller than five feet, four or five inches, with a thin long face
and a conspicuously large nose and big ears fringed with a thick fuzz of
hair. His deep-set, small eyes were almost concealed by bushy, graying
eyebrows. A tan-coloured fedora was adjunct to his character, as were
his bicycle and pipe.
No one thought that Lall would trust another woman after his first
wife had eloped with his own brother. And, too, Dorothy’s reputation
preceded her—a subtle whore who worked as a waitress in a rundown
32
A Song in a S to r m
bar. Everyone caught on to her scheme. The marriage would provide
her with citizenship, and she would have a steady home. Lall owned
the small shack and the large parcel of agricultural land on which he
lived, as well as an old Ford Bedford, which he used to transport his
produce to market. But Lall was hopelessly in love. “They are jealous
that I landed a nice-looking woman,” he told his friends at the bar. He
insisted that he wasn’t drunk when he asked her to marry him. But he
too was taken by surprise when she dropped by his home the following
day to make wedding plans.
In the first year of the marriage, she had given Lall a son whom
he adored more than anything in the world. Some said it was not his
biological son, as Dorothy had not given up her previous lifestyle. But as
far as Lall was concerned, the boy had his nose and most of all, his name.
He took the boy everywhere he went, and everyone commented how
beautiful he was with his lush, curly hair and big brown eyes, which he
had inherited from his mother’s side. But behind his back, Lall was the
target of banter and villager gossip.
After the birth of their son, Lall asked his wife to give up her waitress
job as that sort of occupation was improper for a married woman. But
she bluntly refused. “No man eh go tell me what to do!” she shouted.
Lall eventually grew inured to the gossip and found contentment in
his son. He took him to school and to church until he was old enough to
go on his own. By that time, arthritis and diabetes had rendered Lall frail.
Dorothy was hardly ever around; she still worked nights at the bar and,
during the day, she always had somewhere to go—a funeral, to visit a
sick friend, the store, the grocery. Eventually it didn’t bother Lall where
she went, as long as she didn’t take Kerron along, and she never did.
At school, the other children teased him about his stupid father and
whoring mother. He would run off and cry, but after a while the teasing
stopped and he made a few friends. He was a brilliant student, and he
played the guitar and sang at school functions, which earned him the
respect and envy of his fellow classmates.
33
 PROSE in the Key of Life
On Saturdays, he went to choir practice and guitar lessons and on
Sundays he donned his white shirt and bow tie for church. On special
Sundays, he was asked to play the guitar and sing a solo. Soon enough,
he was performing at weddings, funerals, and birthdays.
At school, the teasing resumed once again, but this time, instead
of feeling humiliated, he blushed. The prettiest girl in the choir, Nyla
Hosein, was madly in love with him, and the feeling was mutual. She
was a year younger then he, and she attended the same school. Kerron
was drawn to her somewhat maternal charm and the permanent smile
etched on her round face. The dimples on her chubby cheeks deepened
when she laughed, and the mole above her upper lip appeared more
conspicuous. A mass of long black hair, like a mantilla, partially covered
her large dark eyes.
During recess, they would sit beneath the mango tree and talk;
they walked home together; they ate lunch together and even did duets
together at school functions. “Kerron loves Nyla” was written all over
the school in pen, chalk, stone, and pencil.
“God doesn’t give you more than you can carry,” the priest said, in
an effort to comfort him when his father was condemned to a year in
prison. It had rained all day and night with thunder and lightning; he had
secured the cow and chickens and let the dog inside when he heard a
knocking on the door. He listened attentively through the sound of the
pouring rain and heard someone calling, “Lall, Lall.” He went to fetch
his father, who had fallen asleep. When they opened the door, Uncle
Carl was in a frenzy, “Lall she take in sick; I need transport to take she
to the doctor!”
Lall was flustered. He shouted at Kerron to get the keys for the
Bedford and turned to Carl. “You’ll have to help me push the truck to
jump-start the engine.”
On their way to fetch Dorothy, Lall reflected on their lives together.
In a way he believed he still loved her. Kerron, on the other hand, felt no
compassion for his mother. That fateful day he had caught her with Carl
34
A Song in a S to r m
resonated through his mind. The hurt and humiliation came rushing
back at him.
***
It was recess. He and his friends raced toward the old shack behind
the school. A rumour had spread throughout the village that, the night
before, a soucouyant had been spotted on the roof of the shack by a group
of hunters.
“A ball of fire floated above the shack and then landed on the roof
and disappeared inside,” the son of one of the hunters enthusiastically
regaled the group of boys.
On reaching the shack, the boys stopped for a few moments to
contemplate their next move. One of them pelted a stone on the roof and
waited to see if the soucouyant would run out. But nothing happened.
Overwhelmed with adventure and curiosity, one of the boys suggested
that they draw a cross on the ground. Kerron volunteered. He retrieved
a stick and proceeded to etch a cross in the sandy soil. Again, nothing
happened. Then four boys broke away from the group and dared anyone
who was brave enough to go inside the shack. There was a momentary
silence before two of the boys put up their hands. One of the boys dared
Kerron, “Ent you is a church boy, Kerron. You should be the first to go
and run the soucouyant.”
The others chimed in, “Kerron is a coward! Kerron is a coward!”
He impulsively decided to prove that he was no coward. He made
his way up the rickety stairs and stood in the gallery facing the door. He
looked back and was jeered by the boys. “Coward! Coward! Coward!”
they shouted.
He turned around to face the door, made a cross with his
fingers held up to his chin, and kicked the shaky door open. His
heart palpitated; he paused to look back at the boys and saw a flush
of anticipation and latent fear in their faces. He couldn’t turn back
35
 PROSE in the Key of Life
now. He treaded timidly inside to find one of three doors closed. The
soucouyant must be hiding behind the closed door, he reasoned. He
hashed out a plan in his head: He would kick the door open and then
make a run for the front door. He moved slowly toward the door,
taking care not to disturb the unsteady floorboards. He was now at
a safe distance; he stood motionless for a few seconds and then he
kicked the door wide open. His jaw dropped; he was dumbfounded.
“Ahhhhh!” he mumbled. His feet grew numb with fear. Then, with all
his might, he mustered up all the strength he could and darted out the
front door and down the stairs, breaking a lath of wood in two and
almost damaging himself. He ran past the group of boys, who chased
after him toward the schoolyard.
He paused to catch his breath before he told them what he had seen.
“The soucouyant,” he said, “she tried to kill me.”
He had to say something to get the boys off his back, but what he
had seen was more intimidating than he could imagine: his mother and
Carl in a compromising position. He didn’t know what it meant, but he
was old enough to know it was something bad. Even worse was that she
saw him. Their already strained relationship grew even more strained.
A week later, she moved out.
***
The jolting of the plane as it hit the runway awakened him from
a light snooze. He placed his hand over his mouth and let out a wide
yawn. A spasm of excitement trickled though his body, as he recovered
from a fleeting state of disorientation and realized that he was home. He
followed the green line to customs, but as he had nothing to declare,
the customs officer merely riffled through his bag and gestured to him
to go. The Trinidad air would otherwise have seemed refreshing and
comforting, but his thoughts were confined to his pa. He stopped a taxi
and ordered the driver to take him to the San Fernando hospital. “Please,
36
A Song in a S to r m
it’s important, hurry nah driver!” Without realizing it, his speech had
spontaneously segued from standard English to Trinidad dialect.
He dialed Nyla’s number, but there was no answer. He texted her:
Will be in San Fernando in half hour.
It was around nine-twenty when the taxi stopped in front of the
hospital. He scampered out and headed inside the lobby. A security
guard informed him that visiting hours were over. He pleaded, “Gosh,
I just came all the way from New York to see my father, please.”
“Sorry, you have to come back in the morning!” the guard replied
callously.
He hurried toward a nurse in the corridor and pleaded with her. He
was allowed fifteen minutes.
He sprinted up two flights of stairs to the deserted corridor
frantically searching for ward sixteen, which he eventually spotted a
short distance ahead. There, seated on a bench, staring aimlessly at the
wall was the petite contour of Nyla. He felt strengthened and comforted
by the sight of her. Seven months seemed like a lifetime. As he made his
way toward her, he felt optimistic that everything would be all right
now. She turned around and saw him approaching; he hurried toward
her and lifted her until his lips connected with hers. In spite of her
ruffled hair and tired eyes, she was still the prettiest thing in the world.
She slowly unlocked her arms and turned her face away. Her silence was
worrying.
“Where is Pa? I want to see him,”  he demanded. From the
despondent look on her face, he knew.
She avoided his eyes; her head was bent down as she whispered in a
teary voice, “He passed away ’round seven-twenty.”
He stood still, his face void of expression.
She placed her hand gently in his and in a soft, sombre voice said,
“He asked me to tell you not to worry, that he was happy and he loved
you.”
Tears flowed profusely.
37
 PROSE in the Key of Life
Nyla placed her hand on his shoulder and gently shook him. “There’s
nothing more you can do here, Kerron, you need your strength for
tomorrow.”
He lifted his head and gazed at her with a dazed look in his eye.
“Let’s go home,” Nyla pleaded.
“There’s no home without Pa,” he replied. His mind was a montage of
memories. Suddenly, Pa was infallible; everything he did was justifiable.
It was Pa’s undying love for Ma, he smiled endearingly….
***
The rain was still pouring when the Bedford pulled up in front of
the house, which held dreadful memories for him. Carl alighted and
hurried up the shaky wooden staircase, while Lall hobbled behind as fast
as he could. Kerron remained in the truck. Minutes later, Carl hustled
toward the truck, carrying Dorothy in his arms like a child, while Lall
held an umbrella high in the air, making a clumsy attempt to keep up
with Carl’s pace.
The next day, Carl came over to the house with a sense of urgency
asking to see Lall. Kerron strained his ears to eavesdrop from the
bedroom but was unable to decipher what they were talking about.
When he left, Kerron rushed over to the gallery to find Pa sitting on the
stair. He threw himself in the hammock and asked, “Is Ma okay?”
There was no response from Lall; his thoughts were far away.
“Pa, how’s Ma?” he asked again.
Lall looked straight ahead. “Not good boy,” he replied. “She need
plenty money for a operation.”
“Pa,” Kerron said, “Ma left you a long time ago; you not thinking
about giving she the little money you managed to save?”
“She is your mother, boy,” Lall replied angrily.
“How much money she need, Pa?” Kerron asked.
“Carl say it would cost ’bout ten grand,” Lall replied.
38
A Song in a S to r m
“What?” Kerron shrieked. “Pa, you don’t have that kind-a-money!”
Lall did not respond.
Kerron shook his head in disgust and retreated back to his room. At
times his father’s gullibility was annoying. For all he knew, Carl did not
want to spend any of his own money on Dorothy and was trying to bilk
Pa out of the little savings he had. What was even more repulsive was
the despicable way his pa was treated by Ma and Carl. And besides, Carl
was responsible for her now.
Two days later, Lall woke Kerron at three in the morning to tell him
that he was leaving and that he would see him in two days. He had gotten
a job to transport coconuts to the city and would be staying on the estate
as the job entailed a few trips over a two-day period. Kerron was not
happy that his ailing pa would be away from home for two days, but he
thought that his being away from Carl and Dorothy might do him some
good. He crawled out of bed to make coffee and sandwiches and, after
seeing him off, crawled back into bed.
The next morning, Kerron agonized over a dream he’d had: The
Bedford had crashed into a river and when it was eventually pulled out of
the murky water, it was empty. He wondered what it meant, if it meant
anything at all. He related the dream to the neighbour, Miss Mamin, a
staunch Baptist, who comforted him by saying that dreams most times
have the opposite meaning. By midmorning, the dream had drifted from
his mind.
Around four in the afternoon, just as the rain had started, he put
his literature book down and whistled for his dog, which jumped on the
bed alongside him; the dulcet sound of pounding rain induced him into
a sound sleep.
It was after ten when Kerron awoke with a gnawing premonition.
A deathly silence echoed through the pitch-black night, as he threw
himself on the couch in the dark drawing room, which was enveloped in
ominous shadows from the mango tree outside the window. But he was
comforted by the presence of his dog lying at his feet, and fell fast asleep.
In the wee hours of the morning, Kerron was awakened by the
39
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snarling of his dog; the sound of approaching footsteps brought him
to his feet. He walked to the front door and pulled the curtain aside to
observe Miss Mamin approaching the house with a sense of urgency. He
opened the door. “Morning Miss Mamin, something wrong?”
“Oh my God, Kerron, my God,” she repeated dramatically, “let me
sit down.”
Kerron held her hand and led her to the hammock in the gallery
where she sat to catch her breath.
His anxiety peaked. The dream and the uneasy feeling rushed
through his mind. He dismissed any thought that his pa was in any kind
of trouble, but his worse fear was soon realized. His feet grew numb;
a nervous twinge trickled through his stomach, he dropped himself on
the floor and placed his head between his knees. The dog whined and
licked his ear while Miss Mamin went inside in search of Bay-Rum to
sap his head.
Lall Ali had been arrested for transporting marijuana. She said she
heard that he was also shot.
Kerron cringed when he saw his father for the first time after his
incarceration. He had grown frail and thin; he hobbled toward Kerron,
grasping a walking stick; Kerron could not hold back the tears. He sat
at the visitors’ table in disbelief at what Pa was telling him in a frail
voice, regularly interrupted by a dry cough. The compassionate look on
Kerron’s face morphed into anger and repulsion, not so much for Pa,
but for Ma and Carl.
***
A week before, Lall Ali was sitting at the bar sipping a glass of
rum and water with his village buddies when the topic of “making easy
money” cropped up. The men complained that farming was becoming
more difficult, and the money less and less, when one of the men who
had had more than his fair share of rum, said that he knew a way to make
40
A Song in a S to r m
ten grand in two days. “And end up in jail after,” another man jested.
But Lall’s interest was piqued; after the others had left he bought a petit
quart of Puncheon Rum to the table to entice the man into revealing
more about the scheme that would earn him ten grand. Lall lit a cigarette
and listened attentively to the man’s discourse between drunken slurs:
“Ent you have a truck, Lall boy? Well, this is a good wok for you. All you
have to do is transport four trips of marijuana to the city. It safe, boy,
I do it twice already. How you think I buy the van I driving?”
Lall arrived on the coconut estate at exactly four a.m. as arranged.
He was met by two unsavoury looking characters, who searched the
vehicle and ordered him to drive a quarter mile and then stop behind a
white car. He alighted from the Bedford and was beckoned inside a hut
by a masked man.While inside, he was handed a brown paper bag, which
he opened to find a wad of hundred dollar bills and a sketchy note with
a series of instructions and a cell phone. There was little conversation
among the three men. All he was told was “Follow the instructions;
when you get to point D, you will receive a call on the cell. There’s
five grand in the bag; the other five will be given to you when the stuff
is delivered to point F. If you foul up the plan, you will be killed.” The
three men departed through a back door, while Lall proceeded to the
front door en route to his truck. As he was about to open the door, two
police cars appeared from nowhere; Lall ran toward a nearby shack and
crawled under it. A volley of shots rang out; when the officers pulled
him from under the shack, they discovered that he was shot in the foot.
At the prison, Kerron beseeched his pa to forget about his ma.
“Carl will get the money for her operation,” he begged his pa. But
Lall persisted to the point of sounding pitiful. “She’s your mother,” he
reminded Kerron, “promise me you’d do it, please.”
Kerron hesitantly agreed.
***
41
 PROSE in the Key of Life
Kerron alighted from the taxi at the point Lall had described to him
and proceeded along the dirt track. There were at least seven or eight
huts but only two appeared to be abandoned. Exactly as Lall described,
there was one on the right with vines on the front wall. As he was
about to crawl under, a group of sea bathers approached the area; he
pretended to collect dried coconuts. When they were a safe distance
away, he crawled under the hut and there in front of him was the mound
of stones, which he pushed aside. He paused to look around to make
sure that no one saw him before he retrieved the brown paper bag and
made a hasty retreat for a taxi back home.
In spite of what his pa had told him, he was not about to place
five thousand dollars in the hands of Carl. Instead, he travelled by bus
to the hospital and asked to speak with the doctor, who told him that
Dorothy’s husband had promised to return with four thousand dollars.
He handed the doctor the money and asked him to tell Dorothy that
Mr Lall Ali had sent the money for the surgery. He followed the doctor
to Dorothy’s bed but was relieved to find that she was asleep. “Don’t
wake her,” the doctor insisted.
He was repelled by the sight of Carl waiting in the gallery when he
returned home. “What you doing here?” he asked in a brash tone.
“Did your pa leave something for me?” Carl asked.
“Haven’t you heard that Pa was shot and arrested?” Kerron snapped
and slammed the door behind him.
Carl walked down the stairs with a dejected look on his face.
Kerron called out to him and maliciously told him that his pa sent
the money to the doctor. Carl did not respond; Kerron gloated at the
profound disappointment on Carl’s face; he knew that he had wanted
the money to gamble with.
After almost a year in prison, the magistrate dismissed the case due
to lack of evidence.The police had forced a confession from Lall, but the
trial turned into a comedy of errors. The police could not produce any
substantial evidence to corroborate their story, and the marijuana had
42
A Song in a S to r m
mysteriously disappeared from the police station. Rumours were rife
that a high-ranking officer was the mastermind behind the marijuana
trade.
***
The embryonic light of dawn streamed through the trees when
Kerron awoke on the hospital bench. He reached in his pocket for a
handkerchief to wipe his face when he noticed for the first time since he
had left NewYork that it was the blue handkerchief his pa had given him.
Spasms of excitement enveloped him as he donned the new shirt
he had bought for his birthday party. Besides the gifts his father had
given him on his past birthdays, this was his first real birthday party. He
opened the box of handkerchiefs Pa had placed on his bed and chose
one with a blue border to match his shirt. Pa tottered into the room
with a walking stick, gushing with pride at his son’s handsome looks
and the good boy he had grown up to be. He insisted that he drive him
to the party in the Bedford, which he’d spent all morning cleaning and
shining.
It was a most congenial occasion, one that Kerron would remember
for the rest of his life. The small, drab church hall was transformed into
a festive room. All his friends were there, decked out in their Sunday
best. Festoons of colourful paper decorations and balloons danced in the
breeze above a large table draped in a white tablecloth and laden with
cakes and sandwiches. In the opposite corner, an ice-cream pail and a
tub brimming with soft drinks oozed melting ice into a puddle of water
on the floor. That night, Kerron lay on his bed imbued with wonderful
memories of his sixteen birthday party, the spanking new guitar Pa had
hidden in the Bedford, his first dance; but the most memorable of all
was the magical and lingering kiss on the lips from Nyla, as they stuck
the ornate, iced cake with sixteen blue candles. Everyone swore that
his birthday wish was to become a singing star, or perhaps to marry
43
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Nyla, but as he closed his eyes to blow out the candles, he asked God
to bless his pa.
Kerron sat in the gallery strumming out a melody for some lyrics he
had written. Pa came home and asked if it was a song for his girlfriend.
He blushed with embarrassment; he didn’t know Pa had the slightest
inkling about the budding romance between Nyla and him. After all,
they were school friends, and she had been visiting their home since
elementary school. Pa returned with a cup of coffee and commented
that the song was real nice. He sat smoking his pipe with a smirk on
his face, as he listened to his son compose a song for a girl. It was one
of those rare moments when Lall was seen without his tan-coloured
fedora. His short white hair which fringed a bald spot on the crown of
his head made him appear frailer and much older.
Two days later, the priest stopped by to show Lall and Kerron an ad
in the newspaper for a talent contest. The first prize was a trip to New
York to audition for a music producer. Lall was sure his son would win;
Kerron was esctatic.
The priest drove Kerron and Lall to the contest in Port-of-Spain.
Kerron accompanied himself on the guitar and performed his own
composition, “It’s Just a Matter of Time,” a rhythmic love song that
sent the crowd into a frenzy. Lall’s heart fluttered when Kerron was
announced the winner. But the elation waned into disappointment
when it was learned that the winner had to pay his own way to New
York. Kerron protested when he found out what Pa was about to do, but
the priest told him it might be a good thing, after all, as his Pa had grown
too feeble to drive. The money he got for the Bedford was enough for
airfare, and although accommodation was to be provided, Lall ensured
that Kerron had extra money in his pocket.
The entire village went to the airport to see their star boy off to
NewYork. Lall brimmed with pride, trying desperately to hold back the
tears. Kerron made him promise for the third or fourth time that he’d
rest and take care of himself and Rover. “I’ll call Nyla every day to see
44
A Song in a S to r m
how things are at home,” he said, and made Nyla promise to look in on
Pa every day….
***
Kerron was racked with guilt. He felt responsible for Pa’s death; if
only he had sent the money earlier—or maybe he should have never left
Pa alone. No amount of prayer or consoling words could release him
from the bondage of grief and remorse that engulfed him.
“The TBJ label,” he reiterated to the bank clerk as he waited for a
response with Nyla standing close to him. The clerk eventually returned
with forms for his signature. “So it’s approved?” he asked with a hint of
surprise in his voice.
“Yep,” she replied.
He turned to Nyla, excited. “So they didn’t stop the credit card
after all!”
He was adamant that Pa get the most elaborate funeral ever. He
hired a funeral agency from the city and dictated every aspect of the
service in fine detail. Pa would be dressed in an expensive navy-blue suit,
white shirt, and burgundy tie. He chose navy-blue, as it was the colour
of Pa’s old suit, which he wore to weddings and funerals. He lapsed into
a sentimental trance recalling the time Pa showed him a faint stain on the
jacket. “You peed on me in church the day you was christened.”
“Sir, sir,” the man called out to him.
“Sorry,” he said, “my mind was far away.”
There will be white flowers and the choir will wear white and
burgundy.
Although the elegant funeral contrasted conspicuously with the
banal ambiance of the rural village, it could not mask the raw sadness
and emotions that prevailed.
Kerron Ali made sure that Ocean Samuel did not manifest himself
in any way; Pa did not know that guy, but he could not stop the whispers
45
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and curious gazes from those who knew that he was “a big star” in
America.
He was about to give the best and most important performance
of his life. He took deep breaths and made a brave attempt to contain
the tears. He gestured Nyla away with a wave of his hand; he had to do
this alone. He avoided looking at the mahogany casket which lay on a
gurney next to the freshly dug grave.With all the inner strength he could
muster, he slipped the strap of the guitar over his head and plucked each
string to make sure each was properly tuned. After breathing in and out,
he announced to the crowd which had gathered around him that the
song he was about to sing was in memory of his father.
“This song was the first song I remember singing in public. I was
eight years old…” his voice broke, “and Pa carried me to sing at a
wedding. He was so proud…”  Tears streamed down his face. “He told
everyone that one day his son would be a star.” But the only star I ever
wanted to be was being my father’s son. Today, Pa… I want to sing that
song for you… I want to thank you for being a kind and loving father,
the best father ever.” The tears flowed profusely. “If I had to change
anything, I would not go to New York, if I knew I’d never see you again.”
He retrieved the blue kerchief from his pocket and blotted the tears
from his face. Above, a blanket of dark clouds sprinkled a light drizzle of
rain, prompting the mourners to open up their umbrellas.
As if by divine intervention, Kerron gained renewed strength; he
strummed the guitar Pa had given him on his sixteenth birthday and
started to sing:
May the good Lord bless and keep you
Whether near or far away
May you find that long-awaited golden day, today
His eyes followed a white pigeon, which seemed to appear from
nowhere.
May your troubles all be small ones
Never mind what might have been
46
A Song in a S to r m
The rain was pouring, the mourners scampered for shelter, but
Kerron was unfazed; he kept on singing.
May the good Lord bless and keep you ‘till we meet again
Bright lightning lit up the dark skies, accompanied by loud thunder,
which echoed through the sombre milieu.
May the good Lord bless and keep you ’till we meet, ’till we meet, again
He looked up to see the pigeon perched on a branch of the large
tree above the grave.
May the good Lord bless and keep you ’till we meet, ’till we meet, again
Kerron sat at the graveside until it was pitch black. Nyla came and
placed her arm around his shoulder and begged him to come home.
***
A year later, Ocean Samuel received a letter from Donny Hadhi in
New York.
Hey Ocean,
The guys who produced some of the songs for the CD you were
working on when you left New York want to talk business.
I guess by now you’d be in the know as to what’s happening with
Tyrone and TBJ Music Corp. (see copy of news report).
BTW, your song peaked at number two.
The assets of TBJ, including your royalties, were held in escrow
pending the outcome of the trial.
Last week, the Feds gave the okay to release the funds, so the money
was sent to your account.
I started a label with some other dudes, and would like your
approval to release some of the tracks you did with me. We listened to
them and, dude, they sound like hits.
Call me please.
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P.S. Hope the old man is good now.
Donny H.
Attachment:
Breaking News:
Music Industry magnate Tyrone B. Johnston was arrested in Mexico by
Interpol police for his involvement in a cocaine-trafficking ring. According to
reports, Johnston had been watched by police for the past year…
It is alleged that Johnston used musicians and staff as drug mules to
smuggle…
In other related news, police are looking at a possible link in the murder of
Bradley Sabatino, whose bullet-ridden body was found in a New York subway. It
is believed that Sabatino knew of Johnston’s involvement in the cocaine ring and
attempted to blackmail him.
Kerron was taken aback by the news, which didn’t exactly come as
a surprise. He recoiled to think that he could have been easily set up,
too. He silently thanked God for guiding him.
As for returning to New York to pursue his singing career? He’d
think about it in a year or two.
But right now he had a more rewarding and satisfying career as
Kerron Ali, husband to his childhood sweetheart and father to a
bouncing baby boy. Nyla named him Mark Samuel Ali, but when she
was not around he called him Lil Pa. And, whenever he laughed for no
apparent reason, Kerron would look up and say,Your grandson, Pa.
48
Indiscretions of
a Carnival Queen
She was most definitely not the ingénue in the photographs his mother
had kept in the family album; after all, he had met her a few weeks
back when he interviewed her for the newspaper feature on prominent
citizens of Trinidad and Tobago. The overwhelming response from
readers prompted the editor to do a follow-up interview.
He was twenty-five and she was now what, approaching eighty? Why
the hell did he accept this assignment when he could be at the Queen’s
Park Oval covering the much anticipated cricket match between England
and the West Indies? His mind was assailed by doubts. He thought about
calling the editor to switch assignments, but her life intrigued him—the
stories he had heard from his mother and grandmother—and besides,
his mother would never forgive him if he abandoned the assignment.
She was elated that he was doing the interview. He had borrowed
the newspaper clippings about her life, which spanned three decades
1947–1979, from his mother’s treasure chest.
He was perplexed that the mere mention of her name still excited
baby boomers. How could it be possible that a woman who had flashed
a few smiles on a stage and later became embroiled in scandalous
49
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relationships with questionable men had managed to defy posterity and
still occupy the consciousness of so many people? Incredible, was the
only word to describe it!
The name Marilyn Monroe flashed through his mind. She died
over forty years ago and still continued to make headlines in this era of
throwaway culture.
But this is Trinidad; this is not the world stage! Yet he grew up in a
home where the name Annabelle Castello was kept alive.
He put aside his own prejudices and reasoned to himself: It was the
forties; there weren’t many local heroes in Trinidad and Tobago. White
colonial supremacy still reigned and carnival queens, the superstars
of a still naive generation, were white goddesses—daughters and
granddaughters of petroleum and sugar cane expatriates. So when for
the first time a black native girl won the coveted title, it was phenomenal.
After a long hiatus from the public arena, she had resurfaced. Town
was rife with rumors that she was about to be married for perhaps the
third or fourth time, this time to a fifty-seven-year-old former track and
field athlete, Angus Christopher. Scandalous and disgusting, he thought.
Damian Chang arrived at the café after a tedious drive in heavy
traffic. He turned on the radio to see whether the cricket match had
started. It hadn’t, due to a delay, so he got out of the car.
The lunchtime crowd had converged on the café so he stood in the
entrance peering through the clutter in search of Annabelle Castello
Johnson Reed. As he negotiated his way through the crowd his eyes
were drawn to an elegantly attired woman in a green suit trimmed with
white lace. Her purplish hair framed her impeccably made-up face and
signal red lipstick contoured her thin lips; her chubby cheeks with their
veneer of red rouge sandwiched her slim, slightly flared nose. She sat
haughtily, cognizant of stares and hushed comments from some of the
patrons.
As he approached the table she turned toward him and her elongated
dark eyes with green lids clumsily collided with his astonished eyes. She
50
Indiscretions o f a  C a r n i va l Queen
blurted in a refined accent, “Oh my gosh, Damian Chang, don’t you
know it’s impolite to keep a lady waiting?”
He gawked at her for a lingering moment, surprised at the transformation
she had undergone since the last time they had met.At their first meeting her
hair had been black and she did not appear as fair-skinned as she did today.
But there was something else about her that looked incredibly different—
but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Had to be plastic, he concluded.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I almost did not recognize you,” he apologized.
“Why, do I look that different?” she asked with a sense of urgency
and self-consciousness in her tone.
“No-ooo,” he replied.
“Different how? Better or worse?” she demanded.
He engaged a bit of strategy that always worked with the fair sex:
“Younger, much younger,” he replied.
He observed with humour the comfort and satisfaction the
comment provoked.
He paused to answer his cell and asked for to be excused. He rushed
outside to turn on the car radio to catch the latest on the cricket match.
The match was underway, with England winning the toss and sending
the West Indies to bat. He eventually tore himself from the broadcast to
proceed with the interview.
Basher’s “Time and Tide” provoked a sentimental blush on
Annabelle’s face. She sat at the table tapping her finger as she awaited
Damian Chang’s return. When he returned a short while after, he was
quarreling with someone on his cell. He eventually let out an angry sigh
and slammed the phone on the table.
“Something wrong?” she enquired.
Not your blasted business! He retorted in his mind.
He regained his composure and began the dreaded interview, “So
Mrs Reed, here we are again. Shall we begin?”
“Call me Annabelle, please,” she insisted with affront in her eyes.
“So, what do you want to drill me about today?” she asked.
51
 PROSE in the Key of Life
“Oh, my editor loved the last piece from our first interview—” he
replied before she butted in.
“So, am I getting royalties?” she asked in jest.
Royalties my ass, you flaming ole bat, so flipping glad for the publicity! he
said to himself.
“Well, you can discuss that with the editor,” he suggested.
“Maybe I will,” she replied. “Oh, I love the song that was playing on
the radio,” she said.
“Sorry, I did not hear it,” he mumbled.
“It was “Time and Tide,” she replied.
“Yea, nice song,” he muttered nonchalantly.
He had only now opened the note the editor had handed him earlier:
DC,
We have received a deluge of mail from our readers—they want to
know about her second husband, Bradley Reed.
“You know, Damian, that song opened up a floodgate of memories,
both sad and happy and everything in between. Time and tide waits on
no one,” she reminisced with a tinge of remorse in her voice.
“I want to stay on track today, Annabelle,” he interjected. “The editor
received a lot of responses from the last interview and has directed me
to ask specific questions that the readers—”
“Okay, I get it,” she said. “Ask away.”
“What would you consider the happiest time of your life? I mean, if
you could go back in time to a particular period in your life.”
She smiled and reached into her handbag for her Benson and
Hedges, one of which she attached to an ornate filter and gestured to
him to light.
“That depends! But for the sake of argument, I’ll narrow it down
to a time when I was most happy. I can tell you, Damian, money can’t
buy happiness. These days, I battle with the demons from my past,
the mistakes I’ve made, and things I should have done. There are five
things that are irreversible: the spoken word, the discharged arrow, lost
52
Indiscretions o f a  C a r n i va l Queen
opportunity, youth, and something else—But you have to promise me
that I will have some say in what is actually printed. There are some
things I might have second thoughts about.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Maybe one day, when I’m dead, you can write it all. I’m sure it’ll
be better than that nonsensical novel that inept guy wrote about my
supposed life.”
She pulled on the cigarette and with a slur in her voice proceeded
to reminisce about her childhood in the rural hamlet.
She was fifteen. It was mid-December, the end of the school term
and the end of her school life. From next week she would start sewing
lessons at Miss Simon’s, Bristol village’s seamstress. She and her siblings, a
younger sister named Rosabelle and her brother Danny, skipped playfully
along the desolate road on their way home with elongated shadows
trailing behind them. Upon reaching the small wooden house, Annabelle
rushed over to the cocoa house and into the arms of her sweaty father,
George Castello. Danny headed for the goat pen to pet the goats, while
Rosabelle hurried into the house to find their mother, Rosey, asleep.
Though he dismissed the insinuation, Annabelle was George’s
favourite child. She was a blessed distraction from a loveless marriage to
Rosey. When she was born, she brought renewed happiness to George,
and too, she looked a lot like his mother. George would gush with pride
whenever someone commented on how pretty she was.
“Mrs Reed! Annabelle!” Damian interrupted, “If I may be blunt, the
readers want to know about your second husband, Mr Reed.”
She pulled on the cigarette and stared at him with a blank expression.
“I’m sorry,” she replied emotionally, “I don’t talk about him at all. I’ve
erased him from my mind!”
She got up and headed for the ladies room.
He sat in a daze.
She returned ten minutes later in a sombre mood and retrieved her
things from the table. “Not feeling well. Got to go,” she said.
53
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He sat for a while stewing with repulsion. “That temperamental
ole bat!”
Damian jumped in his car and headed for the office. He was
too entwined in his own personal drama to worry about Her Royal
Highness, Annabelle Johnson Reed. His fling with a former T&T beauty
queen five years his senior had turned into a living nightmare. He
wondered whether the child was really his—or was it a ploy to gull him
into marriage?
Maybe his mother was right about her after all. He had to find a way
out of the relationship but she was very neurotic and manipulative. Being
a former Miss Trinidad and Tobago, she wielded a fair share of influence
and power. Her affair with a certain government minister was widely
known and so, too, was her lust for handsome young men. Why hadn’t
he listened to his mother? He pouted his cheek like a petulant child.
Damian Chang, a graduate lawyer-cum-journalist, was a prolific
writer with a penchant for sports who played minor league football
for a Port-of-Spain club. He prided himself on being a ladies’ man,
standing a strapping six-foot-two, with strikingly handsome features—
brown curly hair, reddish complexion, and a gym body. His girlfriend
(though he prefers the word companion) was the former Trinidad and
Tobago beauty queen with a five-year-old daughter whom she claims
was fathered by a foreign lover who had died in an accident. She was
despised by Damian’s mother, a single parent who worked as a public
relations officer for a large gas company. She often warned Damian that
his “companion” was an opportunist. On the other hand, his companion
tried to impress upon him that his mother was a control freak who
would never approve of anyone he dated. He was caught in the middle
of a battle of wits between his doting mother and his controlling
companion.
But right now he had another problem to deal with. Two days to
submit “The Sunday Story, Carnival Queen” to the editor. He rushed
into his cramped office and pulled his desk drawer wide open, groping
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Indiscretions o f a  C a r n i va l Queen
around until he located the novel. He would have to extract his story
from there. “Any litigation will be dealt with by the editor,” he mumbled
derisively.
He spent the next few hours doodling on the PC. Before long,
the ashtray brimmed with butts and ash. He observed with profound
frustration that what he had written was pure bunk:
“Annabelle Castello, the pretty country girl who captured the
hearts and imagination of a 1950s Trinidad and Tobago had married the
eminent business tycoon Tom Johnson, a strapping blue-eyed man in
his fifties. The story which was plastered on the front and society pages
incited speculation and disgust, a queen in her twenties and a rich man
in his fifties? A cliché Hollywood story!
Rumors had circulated that he was her aunt’s gentleman whom she
had lured…” Shit! I’m digressing.This is not about Tom Johnson!
Damian aggressively slammed the lid of his laptop and sped off to
the pub.
His phone rang. It was his companion. “No, I’m not coming over
tonight!” he yelped. He blurted expletives and turned off his cell.
Damian awoke the next morning in the arms of a sultry young
woman. He scampered off the bed with a dazed look on his face. He was
stark naked. His memory of the previous night gushed through his mind
in incoherent flashes.
“Oh shit! What if she has AIDS?”
He scrambled his clothes together and scampered out of the hotel
before she awoke. He hadn’t a clue as to who the hell she was. He spent
the next few days fraught with worry that he might have contracted
AIDS. He did, however, manage to submit his story, “Indiscretions of a
Carnival Queen” in time for the Sunday edition.
Annabelle was furious!
The newspaper printed a retraction: “The story was not based on
an actual interview or on facts. Excerpts were taken from a fictional
account of the life of a carnival queen which purports…”
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 PROSE in the Key of Life
Indiscretions of a Carnival Queen
By Damian R. Chang
In the May 22, 1947 edition of the Trinidad & Tobago newspaper,
Annabelle Castello was unanimously voted the most popular and
endearing carnival queen. According to the feature, Pretty Country Girl
WAWS ‘EM, she was the first queen who represented the predominately
black population which in the past had crowned a bevy of white beauties.
And too, she emerged from the humble rural stratum of society.
A subsequent society page story, “Annabelle’s Exceptional Beauty
Stumps Millionaire Tom Johnson,” stunned the population with an
announcement of the engagement of former carnival queen Annabelle
Castello and motorcar tycoon Tom Johnson, an Englishman who was
some forty years her senior.
In 2007, sixty years later, I was asked to interview her for this
magazine feature—CARNIVAL QUEEN—which has incited a riot of
response from readers. In her own words, her life has been a colourful
whirlwind.
She was married twice and now nearing eighty (she tells me she’s sixty-
nine) she is about to take the plunge again, this time to fifty-seven-year-
old businessman and former track and field athlete Angus Christopher.
After the story appeared we were inundated with calls from our baby
boomer readers wanting to know about her second husband, Bradley
Reed. One woman confided that Reed was of questionable character, and
the press had covered up or was paid to cover up the story. I suspected
that there was something sinister about the marriage, judging from her
response at the mention of his name.This was my first shot at investigative
journalism, and I must admit, it was an exhilarating experience.
Annabelle Castello Johnson Reed’s life has been anything but
fabulous. The truism, All that glitters… mirrors her life in more ways
than one. If fame and fortune could buy happiness and security, I would
not be writing this feature.
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Indiscretions o f a  C a r n i va l Queen
Tom Johnson had been portrayed as a villain who had enslaved
her and, according to some, abused her. But it was Tom Johnson—TJ
as he was popularly known—who had made the naïve country girl,
Annabelle Castello, the carnival queen and socialite she had become.
When he died, Annabelle was left with an enormous fortune. I hold no
brief for Tom Johnson, in fact I never knew the man, but I felt compelled
to unearth the true story.
Yes, Tom Johnson was a tyrant of sorts and Annabelle Castello was a
trophy wife. She was fascinated with the high life and the allure of fame,
which Tom Johnson dangled in front of her like a baited hook. Some
may argue that she was a victim of youth and naivete. But Annabelle was
quite cognizant of the fact that Tom Johnson was her aunt’s spouse and
that it was her aunt who provided the opportunity for her to move to the
affluent life in Port of Spain. To quote a reporter, “A bitch of a beauty!”
After the couple’s young son drowned in the swimming pool,
the public’s outpouring of grief and sympathy for Annabelle was
overwhelming. Tom Johnson, however, blamed her for their son’s fatal
accident. In his divorce deposition (he had succumbed to a massive
heart attack in the midst of the divorce proceedings), TJ claimed that
she was intoxicated and regularly neglected her motherly duties. It was
rumoured that TJ used his power and influence to stage an elaborate
ruse to malign her in court.
Their so-called marriage of convenience had grown tepid. TJ
threatened to divorce her and leave her penniless. It was the most
vulnerable period of her life—waning youth, insecurities…
***
She sat at the bar of the swanky Marina Restaurant sucking on a
brandy snifter and smoking a cigarette when the barman brought over a
double brandy. “You think I’m not drunk enough?” she jested.
“Well the young man over there sent it,” he said.
57
 PROSE in the Key of Life
She turned around to face a stunningly handsome guy with a leering
grin. Before she could respond, he walked over and sat next to her.
“Thanks,” she said, “but it was a bit presumptuous of you.”
“Who could resist the most beautiful queen?” he replied.
“Oh, you know who I am?” she blushed.
“Everyone does,” he teased. “I’m—”
“The notorious playboy Bradley Reed,” she interjected.
He chuckled. “My reputation precedes me?”
“So that’s your strategy?” she asked.
“What strategy?” he smiled.
“To mamaguy unsuspecting women!” she replied.
“Well if you claim to know me, you’d also know that I target sexy,
well-kept, fabulous- looking women,” he said as he stroked her hand.
“Well you got me there,” she surrendered to his tacky rhetoric.
Bradley Reed’s reputation—handsome, rich, dapper playboy—was
widely known. Women were flattered to receive even a glance from
him. His red, shiny Porsche was just as popular as he was. The sight
of Bradley cruising the streets of Port of Spain was in a way alluringly
obnoxious. Women found him irresistible. He was spotted driving his
car stark naked with the hood down and plunging into swimming pools
in his birthday suit. In some circles, he was viewed as a delinquent; he
had no job and no known relatives, but he lived a gilded life. He ascribed
his wealth to inheritance but some speculated that he was a highly
paid gigolo. He was invited to the best social events and held enviable
memberships in prestigious clubs. His membership to the Blue Island
Country Club, however, had been revoked: He was ordered out of the
pool by a group of formidable old ladies for using foul language. He left
the pool very obediently and sauntered toward the women with drops
of water sliding off his lean, toned body. Mrs Smith fainted, the women
scampered, their granddaughters giggled. Bradley was stark naked.
Besides the potent blend of youth, good looks, and wealth, Bradley
Reed possessed another attribute that opened prestigious doors in the
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Indiscretions o f a  C a r n i va l Queen
Trinidad social circle; he was white.But in spite of his fine physical
assets—chiseled jawbone which framed his androgynous face, a strong
Englishman’s nose, wide mouth, dimpled chin and blond curly hair—
his rakish reputation preceded him.
Annabelle awoke the next morning in a renewed state of mind. She
felt young and attractive again. It was the first of a series of clandestine
trysts. Her best friend, Suelyn, was concerned for Annabelle.
She loathed Bradley Reed but tolerated him because of their friendship.
She assured Suelyn, who had become Bradley’s decoy date at public
dinners and parties, that TJ would never find out.
“Can’t you wait until the divorce?” Suelyn asked.
Annabelle placed her finger on Suelyn’s lips, “Sue, trust me, he’ll
never find out! And besides, I’m having the time of my life!” she snapped.
“Just be happy for me, okay?”
Her testy tone cued Suelyn to change the topic.
***
There was something baffling about this rendezvous, Annabelle
thought, as she parked her car in the hotel’s private park. She tilted
the rearview mirror to freshen her makeup. Bradley lay in bed, stark
naked, browsing through the newspaper when she entered the room.
The session was as usual steamy and sensual, but Bradley sensed some
apprehension.
“Talk to me, babe, what’s wrong?” he enquired.
“It baffled me, Brad, that you left a message with my maid to meet
you here!” she replied.
“Hell no! I would never do that!” he said. “It was your friend who
called on your behalf.”
“Brad! Brad!” she said hysterically.
“What?” he asked anxiously.
“We have to get out of here! This is a set—”
59
 PROSE in the Key of Life
Before she could finish, the door was flung open. Two police
officers, the hotel owner, and TJ glared at the two naked people. There
was a sinister smile on TJ’s haggard face. Bradley erupted in stitches of
mocking laughter.
The next day she carped to Suelyn, “My life’s ended! TJ’s divorce
case is now airtight.”
“Annabelle, things are not all that bad—you still have your clothing
stores,” Suelyn comforted her.
“A heavily mortgaged clothing store chain,” Annabelle replied. “TJ
ensured that I would never enjoy financial independence.”
The court hearing had turned nasty, and Annabelle had moved
in with Suelyn. She was a bundle of nerves. TJ’s lawyer had told the
court that it was negligence on her part that caused the death of their
son. Photographs of the infidelity at the hotel were circulated in court.
Annabelle was now a compulsive alcoholic and a chronic smoker.
The “shrink” told Suelyn that the divorce settlement might bring a
sense of closure, and some degree of sanity might return to Annabelle.
Suelyn tried to comfort her by telling her that her lawyers had put up
a good fight.
It was close to midnight when the ominous ringing of the phone
pierced the deathly silence. Annabelle sat on the bed, anticipating bad
news. There was a slight tapping on the door. Annabelle turned on the
light to see the despondent look on Suelyn’s face. “He’s dead Annabelle,
a major heart attack!”
Suelyn walked toward her and patted her on the shoulder. Annabelle
harbored no feelings; her face wore a callous look. All she thought about
was that the divorce matter had also died.
Two weeks following the private interment, Annabelle’s lawyer
popped a bottle of Moet and raised a toast to the small lunch party. “You
are now a very wealthy woman!” he gleamed.
But the feeling was not as exhilarating as she had imagined it would
be. All her life there had always been someone she could rely on. Now
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Indiscretions o f a  C a r n i va l Queen
the prospect of having to take charge of her life—to make her own
decisions—was daunting.
Bradley Reed’s incessant calls—“When is she coming back?”—
incensed Suelyn. Annabelle had left Trinidad under the pretext of a
business engagement to undergo minor cosmetic surgery. Bradley,
decked out in tight blue jeans sans underwear, met her at the airport.
When she got into the car, he groped her legs. “A change from the old
man, eh?” he quipped.
“Gosh, Bradley, I can’t go home in this disheveled state,” she
protested.
“Who’s taking you home?” he teased. “So did you get your business
done?” he added.
“Some of it, but I have to go to Brazil before year’s end to source
some accessories,” she replied in a soft, tired voice.
“Reach into my pocket, please,” Bradley told her.
“Yea right, you’re not wearing underwear and I’ll grope your—”
she replied unamused.
“Babes, this is not a joke. In any event, you know I hardly ever wear
underwear. Come on, please,” he insisted.
She shoved her hand in his pocket and pulled out a sparkling
diamond engagement ring.
“Oh my gosh, Bradley, rumors have it that you are not the marrying
type. I’m stunned,” she replied.
“I’m serious, babes. Getting old; need to settle down,” he said in a
serious tone of voice.
Three months later, Annabelle’s Mayaro beach resort was gaily
decorated for the small wedding reception.The media and photographers
were kept at bay. Suelyn looked ravishing in blue. Her petite frame,
oriental eyes, round face, and long, jet-black hair conspired to give her
the appearance of a porcelain doll. She tried to disguise her reluctance
to serve as matron of honour but the disillusioned look on her face
revealed her true feelings. There was something sinister about Bradley
61
 PROSE in the Key of Life
Reed, as she had told Annabelle time and again. News of the nuptials
was plastered all over the newspaper.
A month after the honeymoon Annabelle decided it was time to get
back to work at her boutique chain. She boarded a flight to Brazil to
meet with new suppliers.
The airline announced a further delay to the already seated passengers.
Annabelle’s patience had run thin and she was about to get out of her
seat to find out the reason for the delay when two police officers entered
the aircraft and moved toward her.To her dismay she was asked to follow
them to the office. She was led to the main security station, where she
encountered a barrage of police officers. She attempted to speak to an
inspector whom she knew quite well but was restrained from doing so.
“What the hell is going on here?” she demanded.
She was taken to the police station, where she was searched and
brutally interrogated. Annabelle was frazzled and mortified when her
lawyer eventually got there. He advised her to go along with the deal the
inspector had offered her.
She called Bradley to inform him that she was still in Trinidad. She
said she felt seriously ill as the flight was about to take-off and was taken
off the plane and to the nursing home. “Could you pick me up at the
nursing home in an hour’s time?” she said.
His red Porsche was parked outside when she exited the nursing
home.
“Where’s your luggage?” Bradley asked with a profound sense of
concern.
“The airline said I can collect the suitcases tomorrow,” she responded.
Bradley became hostile and agitated. “They kept your fucking
luggage?”
Just then a police vehicle pulled alongside Bradley’s Porsche and
ordered him out of the vehicle. One of the officers proceeded to ask
him some routine questions while another insidiously slipped a package
inside the vehicle.
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Indiscretions o f a  C a r n i va l Queen
When the officers left, Bradley erupted in a tirade: “What the fuck!
Don’t they don’t have anyone else to harass? Don’t they know who I am?
Was I speeding? Well, was I?”
There was no response.
He turned toward her. “You are awfully quiet. Something wrong?”
She groped around in her handbag for a cigarette. “Drop me home,”
she murmured.
After taking her home, he sped off for the club.
It was after eleven when the phone rang. Annabelle picked up the
receiver to the abusive tone of Bradley Reed, “You fucking bitch! I’ll
get—”
She dropped the receiver and headed for the kitchen with a callous
look on her face.
The ordeal at the police station reverberated in her mind: She could
still hear the strident tone of the police inspector: “Madam, consider
yourself lucky that you are being given a sweet deal. For all I care, you
could rot in jail for the rest of your life. A million dollars worth of illicit
drugs carries life imprisonment!”
“Do you agree to our terms and conditions?” the Inspector demanded
Annabelle trembled with fear.
How could I be that stupid?Was I that vulnerable? she asked herself.
She listened keenly to the police officer as he rehashed the deal:
“Bradley Reed, madam, is a notorious drug dealer. It is believed that
he belongs to a ring called The South American Pirates, an organization
with transhipment points in certain Caribbean countries. He uses
unsuspecting women as mules to transport the drugs. You were a good
target—a businesswoman who travels extensively to Europe, the US
and South America, and you’re a well known socialite. In fact, madam,
the idea to search your luggage was motivated by your recent marriage
to Bradley Reed. We, along with some regional agencies aided by the
US, have been tracking Bradley Reed for years, but he was always able
to stymie our best efforts.”
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Streams of nervous spasms cramped her stomach as the officer
continued:
“This is what we want you to do. If you fail, you will spend the rest
of your life in jail!”
He paused and looked her fixedly in the eye. The cold look on his
face intimidated her.
“We want you to help us plant the package of illicit drugs in your
husband’s car. He must not suspect a thing. Face it, madam, he knew if
you were caught you would spend the rest of your life in jail! Do you
agree to this?”
She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at her lawyer, who
nodded in agreement. “Yes!” she replied.
***
Annabelle sat on the windy deck of her Mayaro beach villa and
pondered her life while staring aimlessly at the fishermen throwing
their nets. Stripped of the inhibitions of urban life, her ruffled hair blew
carelessly in the wind; her slightly wrinkled face with visible age spots
framed by a pair of large hoop earrings, was void of makeup except for a
hint of lipstick. She placed the cigarette in the ashtray to fasten the white
scarf which held her hair together.
She felt trapped in a maze of life’s complexities and must figure out
a way to find happiness.
The ringing of her cell interrupted her contemplation. It was
Damian Chang, whose calls she had ignored for the past week. She
hesitantly pressed the answer button. “Hi, Mr Chang, how have you
been?”
“Good, I’m sorry about your little incident. Glad that everything
worked out,” he said.
“Well, I read about your little incident too, and I’m sorry,” she
replied.
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Indiscretions o f a  C a r n i va l Queen
“My editor—” he commenced before she interrupted him.
“Sorry Damian, I don’t think I want to be interviewed anymore,”
she snapped. “But one of these days I’ll invite you to my resort, where
we can chat privately.”
She hung up but couldn’t help but wonder how different, yet similar,
people’s lives can be. Who would have thought that Damian Chang had
all this drama going on in his life?
He had been arrested and interrogated for the murder of his
companion.
After a protracted investigation it was discovered that the murderer
was a former lover—the father of the former beauty queen’s daughter.
She had used her contacts with the government minister to swindle him
out of hundreds of thousands of dollars and had illegally left the United
States with his child.
After days of brooding over whether she had done the right thing by
calling off her engagement to Angus Christopher, life it would seem had
given her a much needed absolution.With every iota of her body she felt
good about her decision.
The dulcet sound of breaking waves, the soothing trade winds, and
a bottle of Moet, all conspired to induce a deep and much needed sleep.
Not even the thunderous sound of the low flying helicopter could have
awakened her.
(Adapted from the novel, A Fading Rainbow)
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 Secrets of a
Frantic Housewife
Chandra Lutchman was overwhelmed with excitement. She agonized
over many trivial issues: What to wear? How to comb her hair? Was her
dress elegant enough? What do they talk about? Would she fit in? But
more than anything else, would there be anyone there who knew her
before she moved to Ocean View? That thought terrified her!
She had lived there for two and a half years, and this was the first
time that the queen of the Ocean View society had seen fit to invite her
to the Christmas party. She was ecstatic. She bolted out of the bedroom
and into the TV room, shouting at the top of her high-pitched, nasal
voice. “Nand, whey the ass you think it is at all! Time to get dress! The
people expecting we just now, and you ’ent even bathe yet. Yu want to
embarrass we?”
Before she could finish her rant, Anand jumped off the chair and
let out a long cheups, “You ’ent play you stupid and dotish nah, trying
to impress people. You think them blasted people care ’bout we. They
only invite we to show-off what they have! But you trying to work your
way in the people society. They ’ent want you! You does look up to that
’oman like she is some god. She can’t fart hard enough if you ’ent reach

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 PROSE in the Key of Life
to smell it! Oh shit man! I ’ent feel I going nowhere! Take the blasted
car and go!”
She paused to affix her earrings before she retorted, “Is my blasted
car! What the hell you telling me to take the car. Like you forget is my
father...”
He retrieved the bunch of keys from the dining table and pelted it
at her, “Take your kiss-me-ass car.Your father had to bribe me to marry
to you.You blasted ugly whore! You and your father try to stick me with
a next man child!”
He rushed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
She continued to dress, unruffled by his stinging tirade.
The party was in full swing when the silver BMW negotiated parking
between another car and a heap of gravel. It was an affluent setting.
Festoons of Christmas lights dangled from the eaves. Gaily attired men
and women mingled to the strains of soft music. Food and drinks fit for
royalty. It was the social event of South Trinidad.
Chandra Lutchman alighted from her shiny new vehicle as though she
were the guest of honor. Anand fidgeted with the keys as she walked ahead
of him. He was of two minds about going, but as usual Chandra got her way
and he, too, had his own agenda. He was about to turn around and leave
when his cell phone rang. He had anticipated the call. It was his repulsive
father-in-law, calling to find out how things had worked out between them.
After their arguments, Chandra’s father would call to deliver a lengthy
discourse to Anand on how he saved him and his ungrateful family from
the brink of vagrancy.The words, eff you were on the tip of his tongue, but
he resisted the temptation for the sake of his own family.
Chandra Lutchman’s Ocean View name was Chantal. She insisted
that it be pronounced “Shan-tel.” She told her husband it had a more
sophisticated ring than Chandra. Of course, he derided her change of
name and continued to call her Chan, as he had since they were married
some twelve years ago. To her, it sounded like Shan, so she was not at
all perturbed.
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Secrets of a Frantic Housewife
But any fool could see that there was something amiss about the
union of Anand Lutchman and Chandra Roopchand. She was a pudgy,
dark-skinned woman in her forties who owed her decent appearance
to modern science: liposuction, age-defying creams, a skillful make-
up artist, a tactful hairdresser, and a magical girdle, and, of course,
her father’s wealth. When she moved to Ocean View, she craved social
acceptance and the affluent life. She emulated the lifestyle of her
neighbours, but to enter the Ocean View society, one required the
blessings of the society queen, Madeleine Gobin.
Madeleine Gobin loathed her. She totally ignored her until it was
learned that Madeleine’s husband, Calvin Gobin, was related to her.
This revelation stunned Chandra; she was elated.
***
Chandra’s mother had come to visit, and while on a drive through
the neighbourhood Chandra slowed down in front the Gobin’s
mansion. A dignified man emerged from a Benz, which he had just
parked in the driveway. He was hardly ever there—always away on
business. Chandra had never really met him, but she figured that he
was Madeleine’s husband. Her mother became excited. “Stop here!
Stop here for a minute!” she commanded. Chandra’s curiosity was
aroused. Her mother alighted from the car and called out to the man,
“Bouge?”
He immediately knew it was a close friend or family. Everyone else
called him Cals or Mr Gobin. He turned around with a curious gaze.
She asked emphatically, “Bouge, you know who I is?”
He stared at her for a few seconds. “Baby?” he replied. He took them
inside and introduced them to his wife. Chandra was on cloud nine.
***
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 PROSE in the Key of Life
She wore a black, shimmering dress that stretched precariously
across her stomach. The Christmas lights illuminated the gold flecks in
her flamboyantly-coiffed hair. The diamond necklace called attention to
her stumpy neck and double chin. Her caked face was noticeably too fair
against her otherwise dark skin. She stepped gingerly in a pair of sleek
high-heeled gold slippers stuffed onto her clumsy feet.
Anand Lutchman, on the other hand, was a fair, handsome man
with enticing grey eyes. He looked no more than thirty-three, thirty-
four. His slim, boyish face wore an uneasy look as he restlessly caressed
his trimmed moustache. He was attired in khaki trousers and a black
short-sleeved shirt, which barely covered his hard, bulging muscles.
The adage, clothes make the man, certainly didn’t apply to him. On the
contrary, he had the build and looks to appear dapper in almost anything
he wore. He sat all alone, jiggling a bunch of keys in time to the parang
music, while Chandra yapped the evening away with a group of women.
“These fake bitches,” he whispered to himself, as the group, led by
the hostess, Madeleine Gobin, and Chandra sauntered toward him. He
got up from the chair and forced a smile.
“Hello ladies, how you all doing?”
“What’s wrong with you, Lutch boy? Not enjoying my party?”
Madeleine enquired as she craned her neck to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Chantal, you better watch him, I already told you he looks good
enough to eat,” one woman in the group jested.
“Miz Gobin, it’s really a great party, but I’m not feeling very well.
I think I’m coming down with the virus,” he replied apologetically.
“Well, take the car and go home. I’ll get a lift,” Chantal offered in
her affected accent.
He was relieved.
Three women flirted with him shamelessly before he left, but
Chandra was unmoved.
His glum face morphed into a smirk as he got into the car. He
hurriedly turned on the cell phone and dialed a number. There was
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Secrets of a Frantic Housewife
an enthusiastic ring in his voice and an excited gleam in his eyes as he
spoke. “Sweets, where you?”
The car tyres skidded on a scree of gravel as he reversed carelessly with
one hand on the wheel. When he was a safe distance away, he accelerated
and sped off into the night with the cell phone glued to his ear.
It was twelve-fifteen and the party spirit had waned. A small group
of men stood in the driveway having their last drink, while a few women,
including Madeleine Gobin and Chandra Lutchman, gossiped in the
ornate gazebo. Chandra was surprised by the lights, which were turned
on in the house directly behind the Gobins’. She turned to Madeleine.
“Someone moved into that house?”
“Oh, yes, I forget to tell you all,” Madeleine replied. “I went to
the mall yesterday and when I returned I noticed a truck offloading
furniture there.”
“After so long, and the money they were asking for it, I thought no
one would be interested. I hear they were asking one point something
million,” Chandra said.
One of the women interjected, “You know, I live obliquely opposite
that house. Well over the past few days, I see people in and out. In fact,
Harry knows the man. He is an insurance executive. Harry said he heard
his wife’s father was from Biche; he won the lotto and gave his daughter
some money.”
Chandra flinched. Her jaw dropped. Her voice weakened as she
repeated, “Biche?”
“Yea, you don’t know Biche? It’s a village in the East.”
Chandra had a faraway look on her face.
Madeleine asked curiously, “Chantal, are you okay?”
“Yea, just a bit sleepy,” she replied.
She reached for a cigarette which she lit and took a deep pull from
before offering the pack to the group. Chandra nervously pressed the
cigarette butt in the ashtray and again asked about the woman who had
moved into the house.
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“Why you keep asking about her?” the woman asked.
“No reason, just curious,” Chandra replied.
“Well, I really didn’t see her that well, but she tall and slim, not bad
looking, kind-a-dark skinned. I think her name’s Shanti Alston.”
Shanti? Chandra’s heart skipped a beat. She searched the dark recesses
of her mind, trying to figure out whether she could be the same Shanti
she knew. No, this could not be happening to her, she cried silently.
Anand was at home when she returned from the party, but she did
not acknowledge him. She showered and went straight to bed. She lay
awake, contemplating whether Shanti Alston could be Shanti Dass, the
woman who knew her deep dark secret. From the description she got, it
had to be her. She was enraged. How she wished her hunch was wrong,
but she had a bad feeling about this.
***
Anand observed his wife’s subdued demeanor; she did not flare
up at him. She was less feisty, and she stayed indoors much more than
usual. But it was neither here nor there with him. Whatever the reason,
he was unperturbed. He had his space, and she did not nag him about
his whereabouts. His only concern was the closeness that had developed
between Chandra and her mother; they talked for hours on end on the
phone. He hated that old bat.
The maid had the day off. Chandra was frazzled. She trudged around
the house, preparing for the Ocean View New Year’s Eve party. It was a
gala affair held at the Mohammeds’ mansion with its spacious grounds
and large swimming pool.
Unlike the social events hosted by the Gobins and the other affluent
families in Ocean View, invitations for this event were issued to all
residents who were willing to pay the high entrance fee to fraternize
with the rich and famous. The event was invariably featured in the
society pages of the newspapers. Everyone dressed to kill.
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Secrets of a Frantic Housewife
Anand was not going to the party. He said that he wasn’t, and
Chandra offered no objection.
The Gobins’ maid arrived in time to help her get dressed. Anand
was looking at television in the back bedroom. She knocked on the
door, “Nand, I gone.” When he was certain she had left, he came out of
the room and headed for the kitchen.
The maid’s back was turned, so he alerted her that he had entered
the kitchen. She turned around with a sheepish grin on her face, “Hello,
Mr Anand, I is Miss Gobin maid.”
“Yea, I know. Thanks for coming over to help out,” he replied.
She responded with a silly grin.
“You want anything, Mr Anand?” she enquired.
“Nah, I good, but you could help yourself,” he replied.
He was about to turn around and leave the room when she asked,
“Yu eh know who I is, Mr Anand?”
He looked at her closely. “Nah, but you know me?”
“Yea, I is Alicia sister,” she grinned.
“Who Alicia?” he asked curiously.
“Mr Ali and them maid nah,” she answered, “but she not working
for them again. She leave two days ago. She working for the new people
who moved in the empty house,” she told him. “She is mih sister,” she
giggled.
“Oh, well yea, I know she a little bit. I sometime give she a drop to
the mall,” he replied.
She giggled maliciously.
“Why you laugh?” he asked.
“Well, she tell me ‘bout you and she. She like you plenty,” she added.
Anand pulled a chair next to her. “Well, we is jes friends, you know.”
“Mr Anand, I not stupid you know. I know you and she together.”
He thought that she was a bit forward. He was dumbfounded. He
didn’t know what to say.
“Well, she is a nice girl. We talk; that’s all,” he insisted.
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“Yea, right” she chided. “Anyhow, I could trust you with something?”
she asked.
“Yea,” he answered curiously.
“Alicia, did tell me something ‘bout your wife and Miss Shanti,” she
continued.
“Who is Miss Shanti?” he enquired.
“The lady who moved in the area,” she replied. “Alicia working for
she now you know.”
“Oh, yea,” he said.
He listened attentively to the colourful repartee Shanti Alston had
regaled about his wife to the maid. When she was through he had a
profound look of contentment on his face.
“You know, Mr Anand,” she continued, “Miss Gobin doh like your
wife at all. She does say she pushy, fat, and ugly and want to be in the
high life. She say is only ‘cause she and Mister Gobin related that she
does tolerate she.”
“Yea,Yea,” he replied.
Anand was no longer concentrating on her discourse; he was
stunned beyond words. She had provided Ananad Lutchman with the
most revealing bit of information he could ever had imagined. None of
it surprised him, except that Shanti and Chandra once knew each other
intimately. He was now able to piece the puzzle together. He finally
figured out the reason for his wife’s glum disposition.
My God, her parents were more desperate to marry her off than he
thought. He felt empowered. He got up and had himself a celebratory
drink.
***
It was after nine, when Chandra and her cronies arrived at the
party. She preened like a bride about to enter a church as she got out
of the car, cautiously scanning the cars parked in the street. She heaved
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Secrets of a Frantic Housewife
a sigh of relief when she didn’t see Shanti Alston’s car. The atmosphere
was convivial, the place gaily decorated with streamers of lights and
balloons. Groups of people stood chit-chatting as waiters passed around
drinks and refreshments. All the women except Chandra, Madeleine,
and perhaps one or two others were escorted by their dapperly attired
spouses. Nonetheless, Chandra was in her element.
Around mid-morning on New Year’s day, Chandra clambered out
of bed and into the bathroom. She was devastated. She wished it were
a bad dream. She hobbled into the kitchen and made herself a cup of
coffee, lit a cigarette, and slumped into the chair. Anand came in to get
a drink of water from the fridge. He observed the dejected look on his
wife’s face. “What happen, too much champagne?” he quipped before
making a quick retreat to his room. He suspected that something was
wrong, as she hadn’t babbled about the night’s events, neither was she
on the phone gossiping. For the rest of the day her face remained fraught
with worry.
***
The party had been in full swing. Chandra Lutchman was immersed
in the opulent life. She chipped to the pulsating rhythm of live steelpan
and parang music. She flounced around the dance floor with all the
influential men, including the mayor. The New Year was greeted with
a resounding cheerful chorus, “Happy New Year!” Afterward, the ladies
retreated to the poolside to unwind.
“Wow, this party is almost as good as mine!” Madeleine declared.
“What do you think, Chantal?”
“Oh, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll give you my answer when
I come back, ‘cuse me ladies.”
While she scrutinized her face in the mirror and freshened her
make-up the door opened and a woman stood next to her, gawking at
her in the mirror. After a few seconds, the woman broke the silence.
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“Hey, remember me?”
Chandra Lutchman recoiled as she turned to face the woman. Her
lipstick fell in the face basin. She froze with surprise.
“Who, me?” Chandra replied.
“Yes, you! I hear you bad talking me all over the place. You think
I don’t know you tell Madeline Gobin not to allow me in the circle.You
think I want to lime with whores! I feel to tell everyone all about you!”
A silence ensued. Chandra did not reply.
The woman continued. “Let me tell you something. Leave me
alone, you hear! What you talking ‘bout class. I have more class than
you, you blasted whore.You no better than me! So leave me alone! You
tried to take away my man, and pretended to be my friend!” the woman
shouted, as she stormed out of the bathroom.
Chandra’s eyes brimmed with tears. She made a feeble attempt to
leave, but her feet felt weak. The bathroom door opened again.
“Oh, by the way, I wasn’t finished. I have a message for you,
Chandradaye Maraj. Sonny say to tell you he coming out of jail next
month, and he want the money, and he want to know what you did with
his child. He say he go kill your ass!”  The woman shouted.
Chandra, with tears streaming down her red cheeks, stared blankly
at the woman to whom she had once intimated her deepest thoughts, as
she continued her caustic outburst.
A few minutes later, Madeleine and the women were fanning her.
She insisted she’d had too much to drink.
***
Rampersad Roopchand, a proud, arrogant man in his late sixties,
was a self-made businessman. He came from a poor background in the
sugar cane estate of central Trinidad. His father had managed to send
eleven children to primary school from his meagre earnings. He was a
strict father who instilled discipline in his children. Rampersad’s mother
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Secrets of a Frantic Housewife
had been a submissive Hindu housewife who also worked on the sugar
cane estate. When Rampersad left primary school, his father agreed to
send him to study accountancy, providing he worked and contributed
half the tuition cost. Unfortunately, Rampersad’s father succumbed to a
stroke and, being the first-born son, it was his duty to support the family.
He found work as a labourer in the oil fields but aspired for more. He
scraped and saved and eventually bought a van and operated a transport
business in his spare time. Within three years, he was able to acquire five
vehicles and employ three persons. He moved the family to a two-story
house in central Trinidad, from which he operated his thriving business.
By that time, some of his siblings had left school and were earning enough
money to assist with running the household. He pleaded with his mother
to leave her tedious job in the sugar cane estate. When he was twenty-
two, he married and went to live in the deep south of the island, where
he acquired a large parcel of land from his father-in-law. His transport
business flourished, and he secured lucrative contracts in the oil fields.
But while his business prospered, his family life suffered. He
desperately wanted children, but his wife continued to miscarry. She
did manage to deliver a healthy baby girl after their twelfth wedding
anniversary. By this time, Rampersad had adopted two boys. But this
baby girl was special to him. She was his own flesh and blood, and she
looked a lot like him. He had a grand christening and named the child
Chandradaye after his mother.
Chandradaye Roopchand had a charmed childhood. She was given
everything money could buy. But when she turned two, Rampersad was
hardly at home anymore. He would say that his business was making
demands on his time, but his wife later found out that concubines were
the reason for his long absences from home. She turned a blind eye to
his infidelity and devoted her time to Chandra and the two boys. By
the time she was sixteen, Chandra was a rebellious, disagreeable young
woman. She dressed precociously and fraternized with an unsavoury
bunch of teenagers. Rampersad attributed her behaviour to a phase.
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But her raucous behaviour would later engage him in a nerve-wracking
battle. His wife would taunt him. “You only want to deal with the
situation when the harse get out the stable. If you was home, none of this
would ah happen!”
Though outwardly he appeared strong and unfazed, deep inside
Rampersad was tormented when Chandra went missing.
It was one o’clock in the morning. Rampersad was on the phone
to the police inspector, chastising the police officers for not doing their
duty.
“My blasted daughter missing since this last night and they telling
me shit! Like you want me to go higher with this!” he shouted.
Chandra Lutchman had eloped with Sonny Maraj—a burly, tattooed
man twenty years her senior. He was a notorious criminal who was in
and out of jail on narcotics charges.
It was no secret that Chandra was attracted to big, burly men. Decent
guys did not appeal to her. Rampersad reported that his daughter had
been kidnapped and he and the police awaited a ransom demand, which
never came.
He burst into the bedroom, where he found his wife in bed,
surrounded by relatives and friends.
“Any word from the kidnappers?” he demanded.
There was no reply.
He screamed more loudly, “Like you ’ent hear me! Any blasted call
from the kidnappers!”
Everyone turned to him with blank expressions on their faces. His
brother placed his arm around his shoulder and led him out of the room.
His temper quelled, fresh tears brimmed in his eyes. He was in denial,
but, all along he knew that Chandra had run off with Sonny.
Rampersad used his money and clout to rescue Chandra from Sonny
Maraj’s home. A few weeks later, Sonny was incarcerated. Rampersad
boasted that he had gotten rid of Sonny for good. He would die in jail!
he bragged.
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Secrets of a Frantic Housewife
One month later, Rampersad Roopchand was raising a toast to
the health and prosperity of his daughter and a glum-looking Anand
Lutchman.
“Where she get that good-looking boy from?” the women who
attended the wedding observed.
Anand had recently started to work for Rampersad Roopchand’s
company as an accounts clerk. Rampersad gleaned from Anand that his
father’s business was in some sort of receivership. Rampersad went to
Anand’s father, Boysie Lutchman, and finessed him into signing a deal.
He would pay off the bank and restructure the business, and in exchange
Anand would marry his daughter. Boysie would retain management of
the business and be allowed to stay in the house he called home. Boysie
reluctantly agreed. He loved his son dearly and felt profound guilt for
“selling him off.” Anand did not want to see his father lose his home and
business; he agreed to marry Chandra. But when the legal matters were
finalized, Anand discovered that Rampersad had duped his father. Boysie
Lutchman was relegated to an ordinary employee, and the business and
real estate were in the name of Rampersad Roopchand. From that day,
Anand prayed for retribution against Rampersad Roopchand and his
family.
***
Today, his prayers were about to be answered. Thank heaven for
gossiping maids and a woman named Shanti Alston! he gloated.
Anand knew what he had to do, but he had to be patient and
cautious. He confided only in his father.
“She was married before to a drug lord and was pregnant? You sure
about this, boy?” Boysie Lutchman asked his son once again.
“Well, so the woman named Shanti say. And she know she from
a long time!” Anand replied.“Pa, listen to me, you could get back the
hardware and the house!”
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“Boy, I don’t know if that’s possible,” Boysie replied, unconvinced.
But Anand was optimistic. He assured his father that they would
engage the services of a good lawyer.
Boysie reluctantly agreed. In any event, he had nothing to lose.
Two weeks later, Rampersad Roopchand’s secretary buzzed him to
say that a group of men were in front asking to meet with him.
“Who?” he asked.
“Some men, Mr Rampersad. One says he’s a lawyer,” she replied.
“Well ask them what they want,” he demanded.
“They say it’s a private matter, Mr Rampersad.”
“Okay, send them in,” he said curtly.
He was surprised to see Boysie Lutchman among the men. The
others were well-attired strangers.
“What the hell is this?” Rampersad asked.
“I’m Marvin Singh and this is my partner William and my client
Mr Boysie Lutchman.”
Rampersad squinted his eyes, “Client?” He lit a cigarette and took
a deep pull.
Attorney Marvin Singh delivered a well-rehearsed speech. There
was profound silence when he was through. Rampersad Roopchand’s
back was against a wall for the first time in his life.
Marvin Singh continued, “So you see, Mister Rampersad, there’s not
much you can do other than to accede to my client’s terms and conditions.
You blatantly and knowingly deceived these people. Additionally, you
conspired with your daughter to commit bigamy. And I can think of at least
a dozen other charges that can be brought against you and your family.”
Rampersad Roopchand sat twitching his thumb with affront etched
in his eyes. He looked like a wild animal ready to charge.
“I gave you my time, gentlemen, to listen to this nonsense!” he
blurted. “Now get to hell out of my office before I kick you—!” A dry
cough interrupted his tirade. “As for you, Lutchman, I should have left
you and your family to suffer and be humiliated. Ungrateful wretches!”
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Secrets of a Frantic Housewife
He tried to maintain a brave front, but inside, he writhed with
anxiety. He slammed the door and in a strident tone instructed the
secretary to make an appointment with his lawyer right away.
Weeks of negotiations and discussions had mitigated his efforts, and
too, he made a fatal mistake that further exacerbated an already bad
situation. Without telling Chandra, he offered Shanti Alston a bribe to
commit perjury. She was infuriated. After all, she did have money of her
own, and she hated Chandradaye with a passion. It was the tactfulness of
his lawyer that saved the day for Rampersad. And, lucky for him, Shanti’s
husband and Rampersad Roopchand’s lawyer were business partners.
After the incident, the lawyer managed to convince Rampersad that
he was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea and that he had
no choice but to tread cautiously.
“This is a no-win situation, Rampersad. You will only destroy your
daughter in the process. Your daughter ran off with Sonny Maraj of her
own volition. The marriage license is valid, and you conspired to have
the child aborted.You kept these facts from your son-in-law. Come on,
man, I’m talking to you as a friend! These are moral and legal issues.
You really want to subject your family and yourself to the humiliation?
I don’t think so. Think about it and give me a call in the morning.”
The lawyer patted him on the shoulder and left.
A month later, Anand Lutchman was attending a Hindu thanksgiving
at his parent’s home to celebrate their good fortune. Freedom and
independence felt great, but not as good as sweet revenge. His balls
were now his own, he jested.
Anand agreed to stay married to Chandra—but on his terms. They
moved out of Ocean View into a spacious building in the east of Trinidad,
where he ran a large hardware. He became quite popular with the ladies
and flaunted his charm and good looks.
Chandra Lutchman joined a full gospel church and dedicated her
spare time to doing charitable work. Once a month, she delivered a
rousing sermon on the decadent life.
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Boysie Lutchman became a well-respected businessman and
councillor.
Sonny Maraj was found dead with a single gunshot wound to the
head three days after he was released from prison. It was front-page
news: “Reprisal Killing.”
The killer was captured a few days later in a hut in central Trinidad
and was offered a deal by the authorities to identify the person who
had contracted him to execute Sonny Maraj. They believed it was the
same individual or group who had earlier abducted and murdered the
son of a prominent politician. A group of special-branch officers later
identified the man who had given the instructions to execute Sonny. He
was captured and brutally interrogated, following which he was offered
a deal to turn state’s witness.
A group of police officers journeyed to south Trinidad armed with a
warrant for the arrest of Rampersad Roopchand. A man they had taken up
from a rum shop who claimed to know Ram real good led them to him.
“Drive straight, it not far again,” he said.
Ten minutes later they pulled off the roadway and alighted from
the police vehicle. The man staggered up an incline. He pointed to a
flaming, crackling pyre on the shores of Mosquito Creek.
“Officer, look he over dey, the one in the middle.”
“What is this, some sick joke?” the officer retorted.
“Joke? I thought you know he dead and wanted to come to the
funeral,” the man replied.
The officers calmly got into the vehicle and drove off.
Rampersad Roopchand had succumbed to a heart attack a few days
before. He willed the bulk of his estate to his wife and two adopted sons.
As far as he was concerned, Anand Lutchman had already gotten more
than his fair share. An undisclosed amount of money was bequeathed to
Chandradaye.
He didn’t take the secret about his grandson to the pyre, as he
promised he would. He disclosed it all to his wife on his dying bed: His
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Secrets of a Frantic Housewife
deathbed confession shocked and surprised Mrs Roopchand. At times,
she wondered if he was in his right mind; she furrowed her brow as
Rampersad delivered his discourse in a weak voice:
Sonny Maraj was not the father of Chandra’s child. A few days after
Sonny was incarcerated, Chandra began to hemorrhage and was rushed
to the hospital. Rampersad had her transferred to a private nursing
home, where he ordered the doctors to abort the child. Three months
later, Chandra became pregnant again. Rampersad had a hunch that the
father of the child was Anand Lutchman, an accountant he had recently
hired, not so much for his skill as much as he was a prospective husband
for his daughter. But Anand showed no interest in Chandra, and as far as
Chandra was concerned, he was not her type.
Rampersad had devised a ruse to get them together. Chandra was
as usual in high spirits at the Christmas party and Rampersad instructed
the barman to spike Anand’s drinks. After the party Rampersad called
Anand’s home to say that he thought it was best for him to spend the
night at his home as he’d had too much to drink. He stripped off Anand’s
clothes and placed him in bed next to Chandra, who was out cold. The
next morning, neither of them said a word, but judging from their body
language, Rampersad suspected that his ruse had worked.
Shortly after the coerced marriage of Anand and Chandra, Rampersad
took Chandra to Canada with him under the pretext of conducting business
with a supplier and to visit his brother who resided there. Anand had no
choice in his wife’s affairs but was delighted whenever she was away from
home. Rampersad deliberately prolonged the stay in Canada until Chandra
went into labour. It was a long delivery, which left Chandra dreadfully ill.
Rampersad had bribed the doctor to tell Chandra that the child died in
childbirth. He arranged for his brother to adopt the boy and raise him as
his own. As far as he was concerned, it was the right thing to do. Sonny
would think that the child was his and stir up trouble.Anand would harbour
uncertainty as to whether the child was his, given Chandra’s promiscuous
reputation; besides, Chandra was too unstable to raise his grandson.
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 PROSE in the Key of Life

“My grandson will not be denied the love he deserve; that would
break my heart,” he said, as Chandra entered the room.
What’s he talking about? He has no grandson! she thought to herself.
But she was too wracked with grief and guilt to think about that.
She dismissed it as an erratic thought from a sick man.
She cried a deluge of tears as she bent over and hugged her father
for the very last time. A flood of poignant memories gushed through
her mind. But in spite of the turmoil between them, she knew he loved
her. She felt compassion for him. She could only hope that he knew how
much she loved him. Then again, he often said that he’d spoiled her too
much and that she expressed love in the only way she knew how.
She hugged her mother and they both cried.
Chandra’s mother was taken aback; she knew about the abortion
of Sonny’s child, but to think that Chandra’s other child didn’t die in
childbirth and was alive was too incredible. Should she tell Chandra
about her father’s deathbed confession?
She’d have to think about that.

***

It was drizzling in Ocean View when a real estate agent pulled up in

front of the former home of Anand and Chandra Lutchman and planted
a large sign on the front lawn:
HOUSE & LAND FOR SALE
A black SUV slowed down.
A refined woman eased the glass down and sounded the horn,
“Hi, ax- cuse me please, what’s the asking price?”
“One point nine!” the man shouted.
“Thanks!” she responded graciously. She entered the number in her
cell phone and drove off.

(An excerpt from TheWives of OceanView)

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