kuangning | feet of clay

One of the curious things about my growing up is how none of my heroes were pure heroes. My adored male cousins frequently abandoned me to my own devices, unable to deal with the strange, bookish girl child I was for long periods of time. My beautiful female cousins, whom I helplessly admired, were often too busy speculating about boys to pay me much mind -- except, of course, to tease me because I thought boys were just the other, rougher half of the population, and could not see the appeal. But those things were normal, mundane realities for a young girl.

Uncle Justin and my Dad, on the other hand, were definitely larger than life.

They were strange friends at the best of times. My father, the policeman, full of idealism and proud of his uniform, and Uncle Justin, Trinidad's answer to the Mafia, who had his hands in every shady scheme one could envision.

He wasn't really my uncle, of course. In some alternate world, he is my father. He and my mother had carried out a long-running relationship, and even then, I knew my Dad would have preferred that my mother not remain as close to Justin as she did. Still, he was there through my growing up. We spent long days at his house; I learned to play checkers with the friends he entertained there. His real nephew and I fed sheep and goats together, boiled plums right off the tree in milk cans of water, and shared a healthy respect for Justin's parents. Or, more specifically, for the reach of Nana's hand and Mister's cane.

When I turned ten, Justin's birthday gift to me -- the only one he ever gave directly to me -- was a diamond ring. I still remember the careless flourish with which he produced it from some hidden pocket. More properly, it was an engagement ring, much too elaborate and expensive a gift for a child, but I was his princess, he said. Now, I have to wonder if it was stolen. It would have been like him. Perhaps my mother wondered too, because I had it for only a few minutes before she took it away for "safekeeping", and I never saw it again.

That would have been shortly before the advent of Emily.

Emily was the catalyst behind the first and only time I ever saw my Dad and Uncle Justin in opposition. Their rivalry ran deep below the surface, and it took a large obstacle falling in the way to cause even the ripples of rancor they allowed to show.

Emily had come to Trinidad from Venezuela; she spoke no English. She worked in Uncle Justin's club, they told me, and she was Uncle Justin's friend. To us, that word, given a certain intonation, implied a sexual relationship, and Emily was welcomed into our home as if she were Justin's bedpartner. Well, no doubt he was using her for that, as well.

One evening, Justin and Emily came to have dinner. During dinner, however, Justin got a phone call from the club, and as he left the room to take it, he told Emily to get her things together. She began to do so, but she also began to cry. My parents, surprised at that, began to question her in a mixture of English, hand signals, and broken Spanish. Why was she crying? She didn't want to go back to the club. Why not? She began to sob harder.

When the story was finally revealed, it turned out that Emily had come over as a student, had come to stay with a friend who promised to help her learn English, but had been trapped by the friend, who worked for or with Justin. The two had taken her passport, knowing she spoke too little English and knew no-one who could help her, and had put her to work as a prostitute in the club. She was desperate to go home, but had no way of doing so.

The way they worked it, the men would come to the club and purchase time with Emily. Justin or his friend would then take Emily to the room, give the man the key to the room, and wait nearby to collect her again once the man was finished. She had no chance to run, and even if she had, she was in a strange country and did not speak the language. How far could she go?

My father the idealist decided that Emily would not remain in Justin's hands. My father the tainted policeman, instead of reporting Emily's position and arranging a raid on Justin's club, enlisted the aid of a few friends and literally kidnapped Emily away from the club. One of the friends purchased time with Emily. Another distracted the man who had brought her there. She was led to the waiting getaway car, and taken to one of my mother's relatives in Tacarigua, who in turn passed her on to a friend who smuggled her back across to the mainland, since her papers had not been recovered. And the friendship between my father and Justin turned to thinly-veiled enmity, sharpened by the fact that they still owed each other. Dad could have landed Justin in jail. Justin could have lost Dad his badge. I still do not know whose position on the sliding scale of corruption and redemption shifted more.