The Lawman and Ray January 10
Today is my meeting with TT’s top lawman.
The Attorney General explains how difficult his job is. The level of police corruption is “exponential,“ he says, such that he requires military security. Undercover and inconspicuous, they are around my school and neighborhood throughout the day, to protect his daughter, who just happens to be my student. He does not go so far as to say that his agents know where I live, but of course they must. I am an open book to him. He is as opaque as everything else in this city.
Faris Al-Rawi has movie star good looks and wears a smart English-tailored suit. His son studies surgery at Queen’s Royal College, and his other daughter attends a convent school, but his middle child Jinan seems to be his favorite. She bridles against the restrictions and inconveniences created by her father’s high-profile work. “There are bullets for me,“ he freely admits, but his job is more important than ever. These are dangerous times, “dark days for Trinidad,“ and he humbly accepts his mission to be the heroic reformer, using his command of the law and moral fortitude to fight the wolves. He has told his story many times already, the polished presentation gleams.
As a skilled litigator, he indicts me for not having a written contract which says that his daughter is not allowed to cheat on exams. Meanwhile, as a politician (Al-Rawi is also an elected parliamentary minister), he uses poison-honey language to ingratiate and to flatter. “Mr. Shaw, my daughter loves your class!“ Of course she does, Mr. Attorney General—she thinks she gets to cheat on exams!
The man speaks out of two sides of his mouth. It must be a job requirement. He says he supports my decision to deny credit for the work she copied from someone else, but he calls it “unfair.“ I immediately regret not getting his verbal support in writing, but I do not think it matters. I have no lawyer to defend me, and I only have lanky Naipaul as building security. The AG’s agents know where to find me.
They will find me at the seawall with binoculars.
Ray has returned to the marina, and reports say he has gone mad. He attacked an older woman by the pool, grabbing her hair and scratching at her face, until she threw the rogue into a royal palm. They say he is not talking, no perky whistles, no hello’s. Ray was one of the first to greet me five months ago, and now he is assaulting women. Another lady says that he followed her into her upstairs apartment, after leaping from the rail of her porch. He left behind a dump. What’s up with Ray?
He is a spoiled Macaw. And his growing familiarity with our kindnesses is breeding contempt. No, he does not want a hot dog, silly white man—he wants your lady friend! I do nothing to assuage the sunbathing expatriates of their concerns, informing them that macaws have a jaw-strength ten-times that of a human.
“He banged on my window before the earthquake,“ says a sunbathing neighbor matter-of-factly.
Her friend’s mouth falls. “Yuh ne-vaa say!“
This was news to her, and I added to strange coincidences by describing my hysterical pelican encounter immediately before the quake.
“Oh, yes, those birds know things,“ my neighbor says, rather accepting of the supernatural implications. She does not seem at all intimidated by Ray’s mood swings. Her graphic account of grabbing his bony ankles and flinging him into a planter strongly suggests a familiarity with bagging wild fowl.
“What do birds know?“ asks her friend.
“They have magnets in their brains, for flying. In flocks, you know? For the migrations, and so on. So they can sense things.“
“For orientation maybe,“ I say, “but predicting the future? Really?“
Both women lower their eyes. I think I may have just made light of their honest metaphysical exploration, which is not my intention, I think. They frown in precise coordination, at the same moment, as if aligned by the poles. Ray is going to catch hell for this, and it sounds like he deserves what’s coming.