Ava’s wakeup call came at six. She brushed her hair and teeth and put on her Adidas training pants, a clean bra, and a T-shirt. She pulled a copy of the Trinidad Tribune from underneath her door and left it on a table near the window. There was a kettle in the room; she turned it on and then sat down to read the paper while the water boiled.
There was a rehash of the television story from the night before, with pictures of all of the accused cabinet ministers. They looked like half a cricket team gone to fat. Ava skipped that story and read about the government’s concern over the rising crime rate and their search for a new police chief. A Canadian from Calgary was one of the candidates. Ava thought that had to be a bad idea. How could a Canadian understand the social dynamics and financial imperatives of a place such as Trinidad?
She poured hot water into a mug and made herself some instant. She had drunk one coffee and was halfway through the second when the room phone rang to tell her the car had arrived. She took the elevator to the lobby and was greeted by a different driver, who looked East Indian. As he drove away from the hotel and onto the road that circled the Savannah, she asked him what he thought about the corruption charges against the cabinet ministers.
“The blacks,” he said, as if that explained everything.
She asked about the drug trade.
“As long as the drugs don’t stay here, who cares? It could be good for the economy.”
Ava turned her attention to the passing city. The Magnificent Seven looked almost decrepit in the daylight, the bright morning sun exposing faded paint, chipped bricks, and raised roof shingles. The Savannah had lost some of its allure as well. She noticed that there was less actual grass than patches of bare ground pocked with clumps of crabgrass and weeds. Ava thought about something Uncle had said about older women in the morning light without makeup, then pushed it aside.
They rode quietly along the main highway. The factories and warehouses looked less oppressive now, and Beetham Estate seemed even more shabby. When they got to the intersection that took them to the airport, the car stopped for a red light. As it sat idling, a scrawny woman, her naked body streaked with mud and dirt, her hair matted, her breasts lying flat against her torso, jumped out and began pounding her fists on the hood. Her face pressed against the glass of Ava’s window as she screamed obscenities. Ava recoiled.
“No worries,” the driver said. “She’s here every day. Just a mad woman.”
“She needs help,” she said, still alarmed.
“No money, no help,” he said. “This is Trinidad. Go downtown at night, there are a lot more people like her. Maybe not so crazy, but crazy enough.”
“Shit,” she said.
“So where are you going?” he asked as the car pulled away from the intersection, leaving the screaming woman behind.
“Guyana.”
“Why?”
“Business.”
“The only business in Guyana is monkey business.”
“That’s not my business.”
“Just don’t drink the Kool-Aid,” he said, and laughed.
“What?”
“Kool-Aid — don’t drink it. You don’t remember Jim Jones?”
“Vaguely.”
“An American preacher. He brought his entire church to Guyana and set up a commune. It didn’t work out well.”
“How so?”
“They had troubles. The entire group drank Kool-Aid laced with poison. They all died. There were nine hundred of them, as I remember, maybe more. The joke around here is that if you had to choose between Kool-Aid and living in Guyana, Kool-Aid would win out most times.”