Christmas was a month away, so parang music, Trinidad’s peppy tropical equivalent of carols, was playing on the radio, making us all grate our teeth at the atrociously pronounced and often nonsensical Spanish lyrics. And though the house was undecorated out of respect for Aunt Celia, any outsider who’d seen us all gathered together, the parang setting the seasonally jovial atmosphere, would’ve thought our family lunch was downright festive. But we could all sense the subtle tension. No one ranting about Venezuelan politics, no playful banter, none of Sancho’s inappropriate blue jokes or Aunt Milagros’s depressing stories from the Opus Dei charity – just stilted chitchat about nothing at all.
When everyone had eaten, Mamá announced that she was going to tidy up the kitchen. She found discussing money to be in poor taste, so I knew the whole issue of Aunt Celia’s, and now our debt, was painfully uncomfortable for her. That kitchen was her only escape.
My father walked to the centre of the living room, tacitly calling us all to order. He scanned the room. ‘Where are Sancho and Vanessa?’
Eyes skipped nervously from the ceiling to the floor to cuticles, all avoiding my father. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Vanessa and my brother flirting earlier.
A second later, Papá spotted them by the mango tree at the far end of our yard. Vanessa was backed up against the trunk, batting her eyelashes and tittering while Sancho regaled her with some presumably riveting tale. My father hollered for them to come inside, then, without further ado, our blackmail briefing began.
I said I wasn’t panicked about the whole thing, and I still wasn’t. But anxiety and panic aren’t one and the same, and now the anxiety was really kicking in. What were we going to be forced into doing? I’d never found myself in a position before where I had no choice – none whatsoever – but to obey someone’s orders on pain of death or deportation. It was surreal. It was scary.
Looking around, you could see that everyone felt the same. Features had hardened suddenly. Mouths were stark lines. Nails had been chewed clean off. Mauricio looked the worst out of everyone. Eyes red and unblinking, he looked like he hadn’t slept in years. I didn’t care. I blamed him for everything, even more than Aunt Celia. Why had he left her out on a limb doing deals with Ugly on her own when he’d always been the breadwinner in their household? I couldn’t understand it.
Aunt Milagros wasn’t too far behind Mauricio in terms of appearance. She looked like she’d forgotten a hairbrush even existed. Though she was only in her late forties, she’d let her herself go completely grey – ‘So those uncouth Trini men will stop harassing me in the streets!’ – and now her hair looked like a silver storm cloud electrified by lightning. I’d never seen curls stand on end before. It gave her a sort of Einstein look. The visit from Ugly that morning must’ve scared her senseless. I even thought I’d smelled the lingering stink of cigarette smoke on her paisley blouse when I’d kissed her hello earlier, evidence of a nerve-induced nicotine fix. Which was especially concerning given that Aunt Milagros wouldn’t even drink Coke because she said its origins lay in the ‘evils of the coca leaf’, far less indulge in a proven carcinogen for anxiety relief.
‘So,’ my father began, ‘Ugly and his colleague Román spoke with Mauricio, Milagros, Sancho and me this morning, as you all know. But not all of you know what was discussed. Essentially, we’ve been given the terms of our “deal” with Ugly, if you want to call it that. It’s the only option we have to clear Celia’s debt. We’re all going to be involved – even you girls.’ He gave the twins a nod. They were sitting side by side, mirror images in matching pink gym gear, ponytails streaming behind them, chewing their bottom lips.
Then Papá laid out the terms under which we’d all avoid having our throats cut and tongues pulled through the slit like neckties. (To stress the importance of us not going to the police or talking to anyone about our situation, Papá felt the need to quote Ugly word for word.) But first, my father explained how Ugly’s operation worked: Ugly brought illegal Venezuelan immigrants into the country for certain (extortionate) fees. He arranged the pick-ups in Venezuela and the drop-offs in various fishing villages in South Trinidad. As part of his ‘relocation packages’, he sorted housing, forged documentation, under-the-table employment, and whatever else was necessary for the migrants to start a whole new life, just like he’d done for Aunt Celia. It was a massive operation, presumably involving an extensive network of bribed government and police contacts, which, according to Ugly’s bragging, had allowed him to bring thousands of Venezuelans across the slim strip of ocean separating the South American continent from Trinidad.
And where would the Palacios family fit into all this?
‘Ugly will be using our homes as safe houses for the Venezuelans coming in.’ There was no missing the bitterness in Papá’s voice. ‘Families, people on their own, groups … however Ugly wants to configure things is up to him, but Román will be doing the drop-offs. We deal with him only, never Ugly. We just have to be standing by at all times to receive and accommodate whoever Román brings. We’ll be providing comfortable shelter and food, at our expense. They’ll stay for as long as necessary until Ugly is ready for them to be moved. Then Román will collect them again.’
‘And it’s all of us doing this? Every household?’ I asked.
My father nodded.
‘I, like, totally cannot believe this is happening,’ moaned Zulema, twisting the silky rope of her hair like it could turn back time to before we were living at Ugly’s mercy. ‘How long will we have to do it?’
‘For as long as Ugly feels it will take for Celia’s debt to be paid.’
‘But that could be years, Uncle Hector,’ said Ava. ‘What if he sends strangers into our houses for like a decade?’
‘We have no choice in any of this. Ugly is not a man to make empty threats, trust me. And Román is equally dangerous.’ He rubbed his neck and I knew he was remembering Román’s hand around it. A twinge of guilt tugged at me.
‘Whatever Ugly and Román want us to do,’ Papá continued, ‘we just have to suck it up and do it. There’s no alternative. Keep your heads down and we’ll all get through this.’
‘So we have no way out?’ Alejandra was incredulous.
‘No, none! NONE!’ Voice cracking, Mauricio clutched at his hair and threw his head back.
I scoffed. ‘Cool it, Scarlett O’Hara.’
Mauricio looked at me, bewildered. ‘Who?’
My father motioned impatiently for us both to shut up. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I know this is a mess, but at least Ugly has given us a way to work off the debt. Sooner or later this will all be over.’
‘But these are illegal people we’ll be sheltering!’ Aunt Milagros was wild-eyed, her silver curls demented in their disarray. ‘What if the police find out?’
We all turned at the sound of a hoarse laugh from my mother, standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘We are illegal, Milagros. ¿Se te olvidó?’
That shut everyone up. It was true. We were all criminals living in a country without permission, without the protection of the police or government. Snails without a shell, totally exposed.