I’m not risking being late for school again today so I get the 6,00 bus. It’s packed. Nic tells me she was graced with the presence of our neighbour John on her late bus into town. I don’t know which annoyed her most; the late bus or the leachy lad.
Today many students are kitted out in their Carnaval costumes. Girls wearing fishnet tights, ballerina socks and short skirts in vibrant and fluorescent colours parade around town. The lads sport bandanas; on their heads, around their necks and even on their knees. Most of the children in my school are also disguised and dressed up. Some wear traditional outfits. Others have Halloween costumes. Many turn up in normal clothes but produce wigs and make-up to add to the Carnaval cause. I take the opportunity to take some colourful pictures and some of the girls take the opportunity to colour-me-beautiful with their Pupa make-up kits and glitter hairsprays. I get off lightly with blue eye shadow, a tint of lip gloss and some sparkly hairspray. At break time the kindergarten kids parade around the playground in an array of wild and wonderful costumes. They are adorable. It turns out that there’s an event for them at another school and they’re soon all off to mingle with other made-up maternelle playmates.
I wish everyone well for Carnaval. Some teachers are participating but most are parting or reposing. Madame Pamphile comes up to me just as I’m leaving and tells me that in future I should not bring in food for the children as there have been past incidents, especially in colleges, where students have been suspiciously sick after such tasters. “Food forbidden! And exactly what did the kids bring in today for their Carnaval class celebrations? Homemade cookies and cake. Heaven forbid that I should try to nourish and nurture these starving kids culturally with my culinary care,” I think to myself before telling Madame Pomp that I’ll curtail any future tasting sessions.
Nic and I hit the Soup Bar for lunch. We’ve passed it many times but today’s the first time we’ve ventured in. Nicola thinks we could be in Paris as it seems so removed from Martinique. She’s looking into the dimly lit, old wood restaurant which is filling up with mixed clientele. I’m looking out at the concrete paths of Fort-de-France, soaking up stone-cold glances from passers-by wearing frowns and strange Carnaval get-up. I think the waitress must be wearing a plaster of Paris leg cast as she is so slow. Thankfully we’re not in a rush and the food makes up for the service. I get beef lasagne which is truly delicious; even Nicola has a taster. Nicola has the Cap Chevalier salad with salmon, goat’s cheese and walnuts. We’re tempted to have dessert but at €6 a pop we decide to resist popping.
Nicola tells me that 10 BTS students (Brevet de Technicien Supérieur) in Lycée Technique have the chance to undertake a 3-month stage in Ireland. There are 100 BTS students in the school altogether and she reckons that at least three of her students are eligible to go due to their reasonable grasp of English and their good grades. However, they are reluctant to apply – for a multiple of reasons; lack of confidence in themselves and their level of English, and the fear of leaping into the unknown. I tell Nicola I’ll gladly dress-up in a business suit and present myself to them as a HR or recruitment manager from some international company in Ireland just to get them motivated. Such a chance should not slip past them.
Nicola goes back to school. I’m officially on holidays J I’m waiting at the bus-stop shelter when the odd-clothed quartet arrives beside me. One of them almost knocks me over in his excitement to embrace another sheltered passenger. The bus comes a few minutes later and the mad-caps scurry on board like hyper school children. The driver is the pervy porky type. “Hello Princess,” he says to me as I flash my ticket. “Long time no see, eh?!”
At home I pass by our neighbours’ apartment. I expect to see Fred and Verner but no. There’s a long-haired middle-aged Blondie to greet instead. Who is she?
“Who is he?” Arlette must be thinking a while later when a uniformed short-haired tanned soldier enters the premises. It’s Lionel. He’s on a break from his weeklong stint and needed to get out. I offer him some pancakes but as per usual he doesn’t eat. Perhaps he thinks someone’s going to poison him. I’d do it accidentally – not intentionally I tell him. He tells me that he spent the morning helping to land helicopters. He once parachuted from one. He’s gone as quickly as he comes. I’m sure Arlette is mighty suspicious of these unusual comings and goings.
I retire to our hammock retreat in the garden for a siesta and a session with Nelson. When Nicola arrives home she saves me from the South African struggle and makes me put up with Meryl and her Kenyan peril in Out of Africa.
Philip calls out of the blue; well, not entirely as Nic received a recent email from him saying he’d contact her during the week. She wishfully thought he might call tomorrow; Valentine’s Day. He’s cut-off when Nic gets another call and when he rings back she’s in the toilet so I answer it. He sounds a bit distracted and I swear I can hear another voice – even that of a ladies. I don’t tell Nicola this yet as I pass her on. But once she’s done and has battered out her sentiments and uncertainties I confirm her own suspicions by revealing what, or who, I heard. I can’t tell what’s going on, neither can she. But time will...
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