My Trouble With Books

By Roger McTair

My Trouble With Books by Roger McTair

Set in Trinidad and Tobago, Toronto, and the tourist fringe of Barbados, the thirteen short stories in My Trouble With Books are filled with memories of childhood and adolescence, as well as with snapshots of the Roger McTair's flat, calm, stoic style of writing. These are valuable, humorous, poignant stories, moored in a Caribbean literary aesthetic while also touching on themes of diaspora and exile.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Creation Company
• Release date: May 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781775193517

Book preview

VISITING

There should be bridges between islands, Solomon said, looking over the bay.

Clapham wiped the bar’s counter thoughtfully, and said, Yes, sir.

Hey! Cut out the ‘sir’ business, Solomon said, all my friends call me Sol, or Sol-oh; get it? Sol-oh. I’m just a Trinidadian from over the sea; one hour by plane. If we had a bridge between Bridgetown and Port of Spain, you could drive it in eight hours.

Can’t drive, Clapham replied. All I have is an old Raleigh bicycle. He wiped the already spotless counter again and again.

A light, warm breeze agitated the palm trees and well-cut decorative shrubs, and the hot scent of flowers mixed with the salt tang of the sea. The music from the hotel stopped and the sound of the rolling sea took its place. Clapham stopped wiping the counter and waited attentively.

A small group of men and women walked down the gravel path that led from the hotel grounds and parking lot. They sat on the other side of the circular outdoor bar, exchanging jokes, laughing and talking. Solomon turned on his stool to contemplate the bay.

This was the last day of his vacation and he felt a little melancholy. He wished there was a moon over the bay. He whistled some bars from Mood Indigo. There were lights twinkling out at sea. Must be an ocean liner touring the islands, Solomon thought.

That’s Ellington, isn’t it? Clapham asked under his breath.

Yes, Solomon said. The Duke himself.

Clapham moved smoothly and quietly in his limited space. His voice was soft and soothing as he served the laughing tourists. The three men and four women joked loudly with the old barman. He just smiled. There was a whining nasal twang to their voices. Solomon could not decide if the accents were mid-western or southern. Not that he was an expert on American accents, he told himself. He kept his back to the thatched bar and watched the waves rush on the sand. He tried to block out their voices. It was his first visit to another island. The damn place felt like home—somewhat. This bay could be Salybia or Point Cumana, but it wasn’t, it was in another island, 200 miles away, Clapham’s soft accent reminded him.

A white-haired white man, immaculate in evening wear, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged black man, walked slowly down the gravel path. He sat on a bench under a palm tree some yards from the bar. He wore a red carnation in his lapel. His manservant was dressed in a black chauffeur’s tunic from a thirties English movie. The old man settled himself on the bench and leaned his hands on his cane. He stared out to sea. His manservant stood impassive and erect, a little distance behind the bench.

Ah, the Antilles, Solomon thought, sipping his rum and closing his eyes. He had intended to go to New York for this vacation, until Beckles asked him if he had ever been to Grenada.

No, he had said.

You ever been to Barbados? You ever been to Jamaica?

No!

Beckles smiled, You ever been to Toronto?

Yes, he had said.

Montreal?

Yes!

Brooklyn?

Yes!

Beckles smiled again.

Solomon booked for two weeks in Barbados.

He was about to whistle the Ellington tune when someone sat next to him.

He opened his eyes; it was an attractive, blonde woman.

She smiled at him. Solomon smiled back. She had very good teeth and looked thirtyish. Solomon caught a pleasant whiff of perfume. She was tastefully dressed in a light summer dress that moved lightly when she moved. Her hair was cut short and looked as if it had just been styled. She kept putting her hand to her head, as if she had more hair to feel. Then she would gingerly touch the short cropped cut. Clapham came over and took her order. Solomon nursed his drink.

The woman made small talk with Clapham. Solomon watched the dark expanse of sea.

Do you work around here? she said, looking at Solomon.

Solomon swung around very slowly on the stool. Clapham wiped the formica counter again with clean precise motions. Solomon thought he saw a hint of a smile on his face. This is my third visit here. You do have a very lovely island.

Solomon said nothing.

Sometimes, in winter… in Ottawa… I’m from Ottawa, she paused, looking intently into Solomon’s face. In Canada…

Solomon nodded.

Sometimes in winter, in Ottawa…

In Canada, Solomon said, helpfully.

Yes, in Canada! I see these people eh! Immigrants? You know, not only like Negroes eh? Black? But East Indians, Latin Americans, even Portuguese, like they are from a warm climate eh? And they look so miserable in the cold and snow, and I always wonder.

Solomon smiled. He knew the old barman was smiling behind his straight face and lowered eyes.

How could they leave their lovely, warm countries? She seemed relieved to have spilled it out. Solomon was relieved too. He had heard the sentiment many times before.

Three more people joined the Americans, a thin man in a white safari outfit and two women in evening dress.

We’ve been doing the limbo, the thin man said.

There was another exchange of banter and laughter. One of the party ordered more drinks. The newcomers stood in a knot behind the seated group. They laughed loudly at any remark one of their number made.

The old man in evening dress looked over reprovingly. His manservant’s face was blank.

Clapham served them their new drinks. The men made a great fuss about getting the cheque.

Noisy, aren’t they? the woman from Ottawa said to Solomon.

The band from the hotel began playing again. A calypsonian sang along with the band. The calypso was the hit of the season. The Americans began singing too:

She say she don’t like bamboo

But she don’t mind meh cane

She say cane juice real sweet

It does reach to she brain.

The cane getting soft

the juice pulping out

Sweet cane juice dripping

all over she mouth.

We jump in a taxi

She get on the plane

She say next year she coming

For cane again and again.

One of the Americans did not sing. He just danced on his stool. His hair fell in his face as he moved to the music. He waved his hands a lot. His hands and his forearms were really big. His friends thought he was very funny. The thin man in the safari suit began doing a limbo on the sand. The others followed in a twisting line, laughing, dancing around the bar, kicking up sand, singing loudly:

She say next year she coming

For cane again and again.

Clapham impassively washed glasses. Occasionally, he glanced at the revellers. He moved in the cage of the enclosed bar like a grey-haired ghost.

The old man in the evening dress whispered something to his manservant. The manservant walked briskly down the gravel path toward the hotel. The old man leaned forward on his walking stick, frowning. The Americans did not notice.

This is really disgusting, the woman from Ottawa said, do you want to go to the hotel bar?

No, Solomon said, I’m okay here. I’m talking with Clapham.

I came with some people, she said. They are all in there dancing to that.

You’d better get accustomed, Solomon said. You’ll be hearing it every day until you leave.

She pulled her mouth down in a little gesture of distaste. Solomon smiled a little to himself.

The Americans danced down the beach and to the edge of the surf. They formed a conga line, high-stepping and laughing. They were breathing heavily when they returned.

I don’t know your name, the woman from Ottawa said.

Solomon, he said. Eric Solomon.

"Mine’s Margaret, Margaret Robinson. I’m staying at the Hilton. Do you live around here? Are you, ah, connected with the