A Kind of Eden Read Free Page A

local airline. His senior position means they can fly wherever they wish, and that means mostly Miami, Florida, where she can shop, and where they own two houses.
    It is curious to him—a steady, quiet person like Satnam,caught up with a woman like Jeanne. He has seen it before, and it doesn’t always go the way you think; time usually sorts things out. Yes, with time people reveal themselves. He’d put money on Jeanne trading in Satnam at some point down the road; cashing in the houses, the car, half of his annual income, which, by any standards, Trinidad or England, must be considerable. And swiftly marrying someone else; someone younger, more adventurous, better looking. Is this something Satnam ever worries about? Perhaps not.
    The day they were leaving for Miami, he saw them in their black 4x4 Hyundai Tucson. Jeanne peeped over the blacked-out electric window, her long earrings dangling.
    â€˜Any requests from Uncle Sam?’
    And he had felt embarrassed, and without thinking found himself blurting, ‘I actually hate America.’
    He knew by the way she looked at him that she was thrown.
    â€˜Just kidding,’ he added. ‘Have fun.’ He seems to remember they are back on the weekend.
    Ahead, he can make out the hills. It is incredible to him how quickly he has grown accustomed to sitting here in the veranda, on the ugly aluminum chairs with the plastic white straps. More than one of the straps has broken, and two of the chairs are more or less useless. Around the veranda is a little brick wall about three feet tall, and in the middle, a white plastic table. It is hardly luxurious. But he has grown to love these hills and the way they change colour; sometimes, particularly in the gentle morning light when he sits outside with his first cup of coffee, they are pale and blueish. By noon they are a hard yellow-green; and in late afternoonthey are tinted with shades of violet and mauve. Now they are so very black.
    He wanders into the yard. This tropical grass is thicker, tougher than the grass of his English lawn. The blades feel coarse and springy when you walk on them. Recently he has discovered something: he likes to feel his bare feet on the earth, particularly in the early morning when the ground is moist. In the rainy season it turns muddy, and the mud is reddish brown like clay. There is an old sink by the side of the apartment where he can wash his feet. He has to watch out for the tiny ‘ti marie’ that prick the skin. There are ants too, millions of tiny ants. According to Safiya there are twelve different types of ant in Trinidad. He has yet to see the gigantic leaf-cutting bachacs that live in the forests. One day, Safiya will take him there.
    He looks out at the dark shapes, the shadowy trees, the small concrete shed, and he wonders about Fanta. Usually at this time, Fanta is sitting on the veranda wall, or sleeping in his wicker basket. He hasn’t seen him all day. Maybe he has things to do: a cat is a lion in a jungle of small bushes. Three months ago, he found the stray kitten curled up in a shady corner outside the supermarket. Small enough to sit in the palm of his hand, his ribs protruded and when he stood he had no tail. But his orange coat was pretty and surprisingly soft. Without thinking too much, he put the cat in a brown paper bag, and placed him in the back of his car. At home, Fanta slept and ate milk and crushed water biscuits. Before long he was strong enough to run about. Now he is used to Brunswick tuna and IAMS biscuits imported from America, and Safiya says he is spoilinghim. She doesn’t like the name, either. He has explained to Safiya that Fanta is a fizzy English orange drink.
    â€˜I’m hungry,’ Safiya says from the doorway, her voice a sleepy drawl. ‘Are we going out to eat, or should we have something here?’
    She is wearing a long yellow T-shirt. She sits, and draws her knees up to her chest. ‘I could do