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the underbrush by the ravine.Sangita looked over her daughter’s shoulder. She recognized Rajesh’s stocky build, Om Narine’s protruding gut, Faizal Mohammed’s long-legged gait and the stooped shoulders of a disgraced young man—Krishna. The fifth figure was slighter than the rest. She walked at Om’s side, hugging herself as she went, a crumpled curtain of black wayward hair hiding her down-turned face.
    Minty wheeled on her mother, eyes flashing. “Mammy, look how you get Vimla in trouble!”
    Sangita faced her daughter. “Minty, Vimla is seventeen years old! What business she have rollicking with the pundit’s son in the bush? She is a loose little jammette!”
    Minty’s expression was stony. “As much business as
you
had
rollicking
with Dr. Mohan. And Faizal Mohammed. And—”
    Sangita cuffed Minty across her mouth before the rest of her paramours tumbled out into the night.

Faizal Mohammed’s Barrel Bath
    Monday August 5, 1974

    CHANCE, TRINIDAD
    F aizal Mohammed swung his long legs to the floor and extended his arms in a luxurious diagonal stretch. “Praise Allah!” He leaped to his feet and peered out the window onto Kiskadee Trace. A mangy stray dog blotched with black patches trotted up the deserted road through the early-morning gloom, raising dust in his wake. He stopped abruptly in front of Faizal’s home and squatted in the dirt to nip at a family of fleas on his underbelly before carrying on. Faizal surveyed the road again, narrowing his eyes and straining at the shadows, peering into the front yards and windows of every home he could see from his bedroom. There was no movement, not even the kiskadees had stirred awake yet. He nodded with approval and set off to make ready for his morning prayers.
    After zipping into his second room, Faizal crouched before the large wire cage he’d built with his own hands. “Allahu Akbar,” he purred, lifting the white sheet that covered the cage and bringing his face close.
    Sam, Faizal’s blue-and-gold parrot, squinted back at him and then bobbed up and down on his perch. “Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.”
    Faizal beamed as he unlocked the cage door and allowed Sam to step onto his extended index finger. He bounded down the stairs and set Sam on the floor then rounded the corner to his bathroom. The room, separate from the house, was a chamber of three walls constructed from large sheets of silver galvanized steel. The open side faced the back of Faizal’s home, allowing two feet of space between the house and one wall for him to slip in and out of. The structure had no roof so that rainwater could fill his oversized rain barrel. A frangipani tree arched over the bathroom, creating a spectacular leafy awning with fragrant white blossoms.
    This morning, the barrel in Faizal’s bathroom was half filled with rainwater. He fished a soggy leaf and a sopped flower out of the water with his long fingers and tossed both over his shoulder, just missing Sam. Faizal felt a sharp pinch at his ankle and apologized profusely to his parrot, who squawked in return. Then, with magnificent agility, Faizal gripped the sides of the barrel and hoisted himself up so that his tucked knees hovered just above the barrel’s mouth. “Praise Allah,” he said, and plunged into the rainwater. Sam stomped about in the water that cascaded over the edge to puddles on the cracked concrete ground, spreading his wings wide and chuckling in the back of his throat.
    Inside Faizal’s rain barrel was a crescent moon bench fastened to the sides with brass hinges. Constructed with his own hands, this movable bench allowed Faizal to sit or bob around freely, depending on his mood. This morning Faizal pulled the bench down and sat quietly on its edge as the chilly water seeped over his shoulders to his chin.
    He wondered, not for the first time, what his neighbours would think if they knew he bathed in his rain barrel instead of using the standpipe like everyone else. The secret sent