Before them the land sloped down to the city far below, and to the harbor, where the bulks of several shipwrecks lay side-up. Long feathery grass, green and brown-tinted and like young sugarcane in texture, rippled in a light breeze. It moved in great spreading greens down the hillside, dry-brown tints reflecting gold, a child’s version of a sea. They both watched it. Some of the last mountains of the Northern Range, the highest on the island, rose dark and silent behind them, the beginning of another world. Beyond the mountains lay the sea and the deep blue air of the Atlantic.
“Are you involved with De Souza?” Fiona asked quietly, staring at the gulf.
“I’m acquainted with him. We see each other at meetings, conferences, like the one where we met. You know that.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
Roy shrugged. “The rumors are there. Trinidad is loaded with them. How can people not make assumptions? It’s how the island amuses itself, Fiona.” Roy hesitated. “There’s no evidence on De Souza. You couldn’t have seen anything in his house. And even if you had, you wouldn’t have taken it.”
“Damn right, I took nothing. But I saw something.”
He waited.
“An address book with names of members of the judiciary, the business elite — your father among them — and contacts in Antigua, Curaçao, St. Maarten. There were also Russian names, fax numbers, cell phone numbers — many crossed out, some not — and odd names, like nicknames or codes.”
Roy scratched the side of his neck, gripped the skin between his thumb and forefinger, and pinched. “So De Souza, who once did business with my father, and does on occasion with me, who’s presently buying paint for condos he’s sprucing up in South — and don’t ask me where he got the money — De Souza, who was at the signing of the drug treaty with the Americans three years ago, this De Souza, you think, is a criminal? And as for the Russians, they’re everywhere these days. Look at what they’ve been through. I mean, so what if De Souza has those contacts. He should. He’s in government and he’s a businessman.”
She was quiet before asking, “Roy, do you love me?”
Vultures, their wings fixed like black machetes, glided southward over the ruined restaurant. For the last five hundred years, Roy thought, this image was the most consistent for the Caribbean and South and Central America.
The tall grass rustled near Fiona. She shrank back against Roy. Out of the bush, separating it with a walking stick, and head held high, walked Dr. Edric Traboulay, his wristwatches reflecting the last of the afternoon sunlight.
“Ah! We meet again! I am presently experiencing a period of reasonable clarity,” he announced. “Those hummingbirds I mentioned earlier, these were the mountains Dr. William Smith and I climbed in search of them, but more to the east.” He waved the stick in the general direction. “Funny, but I still can’t recall the story I wanted to tell you at the zoo. My mind, these days, makes its own random selections. Anyway, during the dry seasons of the 1950s, we did not experience such arid conditions as occur today after every Christmas season. Hence, we were able to travel comfortably as there were few fires during that time.” He stood the stick in front of him, resting his hands on its gnarled end, his watches glinting in the light like the arm-sheaths of a knight. Roy wondered if the watches worked. Dr. Traboulay looked up at the mountains, his eyes soft, as if lost in some fond memory. Thin cuts from the tall grass crisscrossed his upper arms and ribs.
Fiona said, “You’re back, sir.” She glanced at Roy, unsure of everything around her.
“Please, Miss Lady and Mr. Gentleman, I mean no harm. I don’t often get to talk to such nice people. How, may I ask, did Lollipop seem?”
Roy said, “Who?”
“Oh! Forgive me. The jaguar, his name is Lollipop — at least that’s what some people think. Someone removed my sign last month. I made another then, but the new manager was reluctant to put it up. He said it did not cater to the public’s tastes. What, I ask, is wrong with a little poetry by Blake?”
“‘Tiger tiger, burning bright’?” Fiona asked, relaxing.
Dr. Traboulay’s face lit up. “Precisely, my dear! Just because Blake was writing about the Indian tiger does not mean the poem cannot be applied to Lollipop, a name I strongly recommend they change. But, alas, the manager will not hear of it. I haven’t given up, though. Imagine calling a jaguar Lollipop. You might as well name him Popsicle, or Kit Kat, names not worthy of the status of the jaguar. Surely this is obvious.” Dr. Traboulay, chin up, awaited response.
Fiona said, “I agree.”
“It’s a very beautiful animal,” Roy added.
“Exactly. You both are educated,” Dr. Traboulay continued, “unlike these foolish politicians, little boys they are. I’d send them back to school if I could. Nothing but a bureaucratic herd determined to master mediocrity — and worse.”
“And I’d help you,” Roy said, thinking of De Souza while edging to the passenger side of the car where Fiona had left the window down. “Perhaps you can tell us another story,” he suggested. Roy’s cell and a revolver were locked in the glove compartment. He slipped his hand into his pocket, and when Dr. Traboulay turned, he quickly removed the keys and unlocked the glove compartment. He stayed leaning on the car door.
“Everywhere I go these days, I recall another story, though details, some quite significant, often elude me,” Dr. Traboulay said. “My walk here was filled with memories, many I’d not recalled for ages. Chapters of my life sailed through my mind, around every corner, under every tree... They came to me out of the blue, literally.” He laughed. “I am rather partial to the odd cliché, now and then, if you’ll excuse me.” He walked toward the ruined restaurant. “For instance, this relic. I mean—” He broke off, became flustered, mumbled to himself in Latin, then reverted to the local dialect. “Jew man get he place burn down. Investigation say is arson. Police commissioner tell the Jew man to leave. Just so. And the insurance get seize.” Now he said, “The ways of the business community on this island have never ceased to amaze me.”
Watching Dr. Traboulay’s back, Roy got the revolver and cell from the glove compartment. He dropped the cell on the seat and pocketed the gun. Fiona noticed the gun and gave Roy a questioning look. “Just to be safe,” he whispered.
She slipped an arm around Roy’s as they joined Dr. Traboulay, who raised his stick at the ruins. “Allow me to tell you something about this restaurant. It was at the height of its popularity in 1960, shortly before Marlene Dietrich came out with, ‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone?’ I remember... memories are everywhere you turn. Too many for me now, though.” Dr. Traboulay sighed, began again: “I was a waiter, had started working here in the mid-1950s, when I met Dr. William Smith at the bar one afternoon. Quite by chance we spoke about hummingbirds, about the fauna and flora of the island. He hired me as his assistant the following week. The restaurant gained some notoriety when Ernest Hemingway visited one evening. He was on his way back from Peru. Very decent to me he was! He asked many questions about the island, its natural history. He was returning to Cuba, and when I asked if he was sympathetic to Fidel Castro, he smiled and said yes, it was time. Sure enough, four years later — confusions within confusions.” Dr.Traboulay waved a hand past his head. “There was a picture of Ernest and his wife over the bar. I have never met such a free spirit. There was something remarkably human, good about him — and, as I learned after his death, something mean and cruel. People were so eager to judge his character. His work suffered as a result. Is nothing sacred? Sad the way he died. But they say there’s nothing quicker than a gunshot to the head. Is that not correct?” His tone was somber. He looked at Roy.