A Kind of Eden Read Free

table which she said her husband had made when they first got married in 1955. It was an easy night, and he managed to avoid discussing anything too personal about his life in England. They mostly talked about Trinidadian politics, the recent Miss Universe competition, and the appalling rising crime. He was always taken aback by how seriously Trinidadians thought about their ruling government; in England he could not imagine having a similar discussion about New Labour around the dinner table. When Safiya said goodbye at the door, he knew she was pleased; the evening had gone extremely well.
    But a month later, when he went back to the house, Marjorie did not come to say hello; she stayed in her bedroom and watched
CSI Miami
. She had found a birthday card in Safiya’s bedroom. There was a poor choice of cards in the mall andhe’d settled for a soppy American Hallmark. On the front was a cute Labrador puppy with a red bow around its neck:
To the world, you may be one person. But to me, you are the world
. Marjorie confronted Safiya, who told her, yes, they are having a relationship, and yes, it is complicated, and no, she isn’t worried about what she is getting herself into.
    That night he waited to speak to her in the living room; Safiya made him a sandwich, brought him a cold beer. She wished that he would let it go, there was nothing more to say. But he waited, all the while listening to the American voices coming from her mother’s room. Eventually, when he got up to leave, Marjorie appeared in the doorway.
    â€˜I don’t want you in this house again,’ she said, calmly. She looked as if she had been crying. ‘My daughter is all I have.’ Then, ‘An old man like you, you should know better.’
    He drove away into the night, around and around the Savannah, until eventually he pulled into the car park at the Hilton Hotel where he shut off the lights, pushed back his seat. It was shocking to him, at his age, to be reprimanded by someone’s mother.
    He steps quietly through his apartment, stopping to collect a beer from the fridge, to the back where his small veranda is in darkness. He unlocks the wrought-iron gates, and pushes them open. He dislikes the bars, but they are necessary. He has become less security-conscious in the last few weeks, and he knows that he needs to be careful. Just last month a woman in her fifties was found dead not too far from here. Someone had seen two men at her door, and she apparently let them inwithout struggle. She’d been renovating her house, extending her porch, and people were coming and going all day. No one noticed anything unusual. Later that evening her son stopped by and found his mother lying on the floor in the utility room tied up with a garden hose. Then he saw that one end had been forced down her throat into her stomach, and the pipe, like a giant green plastic noodle, was sticking out of her mouth.
    Next door’s security lights are on, and he can see the glow of their L-shaped swimming pool through the fence. The couple are often away. He has met them a few times—at their house, when they invited him to a pre-Christmas party, and occasionally over the fence. They seem pleasant enough.
    He is certain that the wife, Jeanne, has had breast implants; she wears them boldly, with tight shirts and tube tops. She is friendly, but in a self-conscious way, often adjusting her straightened hair or her straps while complaining about the heat or the rain. He wonders if she ever plays away. He has discovered that it’s possible, in a relationship, to present to the world a picture quite different from the truth. These days, when he meets other couples, he finds himself looking for signs; he contemplates, he speculates. Are they in love? Are they happy? Faithful to one another?
    Yes, there is something about Jeanne that seems available, feckless. Satnam, her husband—immaculate, in long-sleeved shirts and slacks, works for the