Carlos Talk
Carlos appears to be half deaf, which is not surprising, because the TV and the radio are always on at full blast. He is also a selective listener. He will hear you talk about food and liming, but not about hospitals and panic attacks.
“Did you have a good day?” For some reason, the man doesn’t have to raise his voice to make himself understood.
“I had a panic attack,” I yelled over the radio as he beckoned me across to his side of the kitchen. I’d decided to cut out the niceties and just get right to the point.
“Oh. So did you go to the beach?”
“No. I went to the ER. The hospital.”
“Oh, did you see somebody?”
For a giddy moment I thought he had understood, then I reasoned he meant as in had I seen a friend. The notion of panic attacks wouldn’t make any sense to him because I’m probably the first person on this island to have had one. I’ve made Tobago history. Not that anybody noticed. By the time I’d made it to the ER, the bad stuff was over. I sat there and shook slightly for a while, then it was OK and I was good to go home.
I hadn’t seen anybody.
“No—” I said, then levelled off. This wasn’t going to work. “Carlos, I need to be alone for a while.”
“Oh, OK. You come see me when you want to talk. OK?” He smiled, perhaps a little sadly.
It was that easy. Except that I’m sure this wasn’t the end of it.
We encountered each other again in the kitchen when, after a quick shower, I tried my best to cook some ramen noodles while keeping the mosquito coil close. Tobagoan mozzies are something else and I’d bought some Baygone coils, imported from Indonesia. They were better than the local Flamingo, but not by much. Nowhere on my travels have I seen mosquitoes weaving through the smoke of a lit coil to get to their victim. And they work fast; you can’t see them coming.
There were no preambles this time. “Do you like the wine?” Carlos was holding up a frosted bottle of local ‘Hard Wine’, no part of which is made from grapes.
I poured a very tiny sip. “Hm, not sure. It’s as with the Mauby drink—perhaps I’ll get used to it, then I won’t be able to get it anywhere in London.” I was trying to humour him, but I was still talking a little fast, even by my standards. My hands were shaking, and suddenly I wished I could talk to him, explain everything.
He didn’t appear to notice. “What drink?”
“Mauby,Maub—as in the bark.” Dammit, why can’t I get the pronounciation right? Mauby bark is used as a local spice but it tastes slightly medicinal. I’m not sure what it is supposed to be good for, or indeed whether or not it is good.
“Yeah, yeah.” He raised his hand, waving in the vague direction of the lounge-cum-entrance hall where the TV was on at full blast. “I’m going to watch the news now. I will chat with you later.” He seemed cheerful enough.
“I—erm—yeah, sure, OK…”
And with that he was gone, leaving me speechless. Carlos had brushed me off.
Maybe I’m getting him wrong. Maybe he isn’t the male version of a spider spinning a web, entangling its victim further with every move it makes to escape.
Maybe.
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Denni