De Next Bacchanal

By Sparkle Richards

Seven couples intersect in this novel about the struggles of balancing love, sex, drama and money in the beautiful backdrop of Trinidad and Tobago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387702909

Book preview

De Next Bacchanal

DE NEXT BACCHANAL

The author wishes to thank her family; Mummy, Daddy, Dwaynie. I could not do this without your tireless support. Thank you for nurturing my talents, and funding my dreams. I love you.

To Chris; Babe we did it!

To Jevon Glasgow- Thank you for all the feedback and input. I am a better person for having you as a friend.

To all the fans whom believed in the possibilities of this book; Feli, Cindy, Maria, Fayola, Warren, Dave, Andre, Martin, Sheena, Metisha, Josiane, Natasha, Jamila, Hannah, Omari, Melissa, Nicholas, Dominic, Lesedi, Treschanna, Aaron, Kim-lee, Tanya, Tenille, Keisha, Dion, Alicia, Evelena, Seema, Alex, Deen, Yuri, Dotun, Kuma, Mark and the countless others who took the time to read and give feedback on the novel, there are no words of appreciation or thanks which would be adequate. This is all because of you.

To Dennis; thanks for the wings.

To James; thank you for believing in me.

To Rubadiri; thank you for the resource of information

To David Phillips; for telling me to finish the book, for believing I could do this. Thank you for the drive.

My cousins, Stacey, Giselle, Stefan, Kieve and Chris P- you are my siblings and from you I draw strength to do all the things which seem impossible.

Lastly, I would like to thank God, the Almighty Father from whom all good things come.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Jocelyn Johnson and Ivy Awoo Michael

Cover Art by Andre Roberts exclusively for De Next Bacchanal

Edited by Donesia Roberts Cummings and Sparkle Richards

Original back cover art by Travis Narine

THE CAST

Antonio Chacin- the oldest son of car dealership and oil tycoon, Scott Chacin, Antonio is the product of his marriage to his now late wife Ann Marie Chacin.

Tonica Graves- the fiancée of Antonio Chacin and mother of his son Solomon.

Solomon Chacin- only child of Antonio and Tonica.

Tyrone Chacin- younger brother of Antonio. Boyfriend of Angel.

Angel Colt- formerly gang affiliated, Angel seeks a brighter future. What price will she pay?

Camille Duchess Clarke- Lover of Baby, her fate has now been decided by gang politics.

Janine Baby Ramirez Singh- mother of the former gang lord's children, she must now find a way out of the unfolding drama. Can she save her children and her lover too?

Prince and Paris Mc Neal/ James and Justice- the product of Tiba's relationship with Baby.

Attiba Sanchez Mc Neal- Drugs/Guns/Women... the crime lord of Port of Spain.

Cassandra/ Sandy Brown- the new girlfriend of Tiba, currently enjoying the rewards of the money.

Malcolm Williams- rapist/murderer/glory whore...Malcolm is thirsty for power by any means necessary.

Seema B. Lall- Her love for Challo has been a powerful catalyst in her life. However, this catalyst has put her directly into danger.

Chadwick Challo Cummings- In his bid to make a better life for himself and for Seema, what will he be willing to sacrifice?

Trina Ng Liang- Bishop's sultry boss at the bank. A seductress of the highest degree.

Charles Matthew Bishop- Antonio and Challo’s long time friend, struggling to keep up with the classic dream of a happy home.

Keisha Bishop- the always angry and suspicious wife of Bishop.

Brent Cryer- sweet man visiting Trinidad after many years in New York.

Evelena B. Smith- former fling of Antonio Chacin, recently re immigrated to Trinidad.

Rebecca - mother of Dominic's son.

Nicholas Velasquez- son of Dominic and Rebecca.

Dominic Velasquez- Valerie’s husband. Dominic battles to reclaim the relationship with his wife, return to making music, and finding his writing voice.

Valerie Velasquez- our story began with Valerie. Will she be able to overcome all her hardships?

And now...on to De Next Bacchanal...

De Next Bacchanal

Prologue

She beat him- Movado

The shot had gone off with an impulsive click and a rapid sound like an elephant thump to concrete flooring. Valerie stood at five feet and six inches tall, with tense shivering fingers that locked and unlocked around the now warm firearm. The north wall had been splattered with a spray of red that reminded her of paint; the pattern had a feel of a brush shaken with no discernable flair. There was no scream. They had all cascaded down this line of terror.

The front of her shirt was opened almost to the navel; a black lace bra peeked out to reveal enough that, had she been in public, would have warranted a second, longer stare. Her hands did an unsteady dance with a muzzle that shifted off and on its target, seemingly at its own will. This was of course trivial, all of it. This body in front of her surely meant a lot more.

Gooseflesh broke out on her neck and arms, she was in a shock unknowable and unable to be shared, surpassed or replicated. Her footing -uneasy- led her forward to investigate, then backward again, unsure of how to proceed.

Someone skittered to her left, with eyes widened and jaw slack. Tense and frustrated, Valerie glared at the young woman. What was she doing here? In her home? In her bed? When did all of this become the routine of her life? None of this was acceptable. Had they all gone so far down this road that even the insanity had become its own vindication? The woman’s wide eyes fixated on Val who was the hunter for all of those ten first minutes and this strange woman, the unwitting prey. Valerie turned it over and over in her mind.

If she was not shot, then who was?

Dominic lay in a pool of his own blood; his eyes stared up at her with a mixture of shock and wonder that she would later describe as genuine respect. She had bought the gun, sat and learned how to clean it; had walked with it in her purse for weeks, and for weeks had wanted to empty the chamber into that girlfriend of his- the half Spanish girl who was nothing more than a cashier and a mistress. She had even let herself park in the empty lot and thought of what it would be like to just…squeeeeeeze. She imagined how good it would feel to pull the trigger and rid herself of her biggest problem-a problem that was stunning and beautiful making it that much easier to hate her. How she wanted to make their child an orphan, to be selfish, greedy, to really exact her revenge! It had become an obsession. Her own madness was so pronounced it had completely taken over.

Yes, she had bought the gun, cleaned the gun, and loaded the gun, been afraid she might mess around and shoot herself, or really grow desperate enough to take herself with the bitch, but good sense had prevailed. It had come down to him or her and the stupid bitch had gotten in the way as she always did.

The stupid bitch had made her shoot her Nicky.

Now her precious Dominic; the writer, the poet, the talented musician, he who had helped build this house and spurned this marvellous empire, laid there choking. She hesitated for the phone; she hesitated to move, to think, to stop herself. She had not imagined one gunshot would sound that way, nor did she expect to turn the gun on the only witness, Rebecca who was now diving across the bed for what seemed the bedside drawer. What did she hope to find; another gun perhaps? Would this be another Western movie where instead of two cowboys, two women would pace and shoot at dawn? And there she did have it, waving it in front her face like a metal flag, daring Val to shoot, telling her she'd kill her that her Nicky was dying.

Val's head was filled with too many thoughts. Hadn't she wanted to kill her? Wasn't it she that had stolen it all from her? She who had ruined it all? She had made even the simplest pleasures turn grey. She wanted so badly in that moment to forget sense, abandon humanity, make two mistakes instead of one and just kill her. Did she really mean that she could kill her? Was that even fair that she called her Dominic, Nicky? Val finally reined in her rage and snapped the gun rigid, another shot registered in the bed head, where Rebecca lunged naked for the table, pin wheeling her arms to the floor, Yuh fucking crazy ah wha!

Val's throat was dry, all sense and reason robbed, the purse long abandoned to one side like toys packed up by a four-year-old.  Becky's gun was empty, and Val knew it, and if Becky didn't, Val didn't care. She broke down finally, begging Val to spare her, that she had a son, that she was sorry, that she would give her anything she wanted.

What could she give her that she had taken? Could she bring Dominic back? Could she unmake those long nights when she cried into a pillow for love that failed her?

Val looked at Dominic again. He had been a sweet- faced demon, a sweetheart and a shrewd and now as he lay there dying, was there anything between them that was salvageable? Maybe if he could tell one more convincing lie, make love in that bed one more time, have his baby, a replica of their Nicholas, who she had had to concede to so many times; Rebecca's son, Dominic's heir. He had even given his bastard son his last name, and treated her like the barren wife who despite trying for years had not been able to give him a Nicholas. Was that her fault? With sudden revulsion she saw his eyes change, and real panic seized him as he begun finally to cry. She dropped to her knees and checked his pulse, as minutes seemed hours, each hair standing on end as she was forced to reconstruct a dramatic moment in life. She needed to get her story right.

She emptied her purse and grabbed the cell phone. The police would be here, they would ask questions, Rebecca would tell the truth and she would not be afraid once they arrived. But yes, it had to be done, she was no murderer.

Yes, I need help, my husband's been shot. His name is Dominic…

She heard herself say the rest in a mechanical, hysterical manner that reminded her of a play she had seen when she was younger. Where had she even seen the play? Little Carib Theatre? The past seemed to come in a sudden flood. She saw Dominic’s smile on the day they had been married, the way he sometimes dipped his head when in deep thought.

Rebecca snatched the phone and was forced backward with one closed- fisted whack that sent her nearly across the room in a humbling whimper.

If you touch me again, I will kill you!

The phone was shut abruptly as she applied pressure to Nicky's wound.  Dominic who had worn his baggy jeans on the block, with no real care to ever see the inside of a corporate office and to whom she had given the club; a few nice threads and a few nice toys. Dominic who was handsome in a suit but never lost his hood boy appeal. Dominic who was her teacher, her mentor, her lover, her nemesis. He, who with his shy face and authoritarian's voice had helped her achieve all of this. Could love turn black? Had money made her senses dull, turning from sweet to sour? The girl she'd been could never do this, not to her Nicky whom she had kissed for the first time when she was thirteen. But this wasn't the same Dominic Velasquez. This Dominic had been seen with Becky, who had a penchant for leaving messages on his cell phone; spending big on her, crashing cars she bought him for their amusement, and often breaking her heart. Becky who had gotten herself pregnant, who had ruined it, and at the age of twenty represented everything hateful and wrong with marriage.

Valerie had been the good wife, the silent wife, the dutiful wife and what had she gotten as her prize? Nothing, nothing and more of nothing.

The front of her white shirt was smeared with blood as she lay on top of him, applying pressure to the wound. What movie had she seen this in?

The blare of the sirens washed out any more thoughts; she hardly saw Rebecca leave or cared where she went.

She begun to tell the lie, when the medics took him away, and then in the arms of a detective she begun finally to break down and cry.

ONE

She say she love the Badman- Bunji Garlin

Laventille

9: 00 p.m.

Sandy Brown applied the last of her lip gloss staring into the mirror as Tiba lay asleep in the bed. Sandy is not her real name, and Tiba has never really bothered to ask. There were still some formalities left to their budding relationship, many of which he had not busied himself with changing.

She came to her feet, undoing a mass of curls with a hairbrush. Her thoughts trailed, she couldn’t help but think of the lifestyle she'd been enjoying. It was far from her middle-class upbringing where she had been told always to value the things she had. She was living – with his expense- like a queen.

He had offered her so much, most of these things had been goals of hers; things she could only have hoped would someday come. Of these gifts he had offered, and which she had politely refused were a house, a car, and a wedding ring. Of the many things Tiba could offer, commitment and loyalty had not made the list.

Sandy had come up that narrow walkway like so many girls before her. Some of them wore mini skirts, some of them were models, some were here to stay, and most were here to go, but all of them considered themselves Tiba's girlfriends.

What was really so special about Tiba anyway? He was good looking but not an Adonis, bad but not a butcher, good in bed but not a porn star. Yet Sandy already knew one thing about him that satisfied her mind, she knew that she loved him and probably would whenever the police showed up to take him away.

You see, unlike the girls before her and undoubtedly the ones sharing him with her, she was sure that Attiba Sanchez Mc Neal loved her back too. No, don't disillusion yourself into thinking that he was at all the marrying kind. She had seen him do all sorts of things. It was not a classic sort of love. It was a more modern explanation of love. The kind of love in late night movies where the guy goes to Mexico and the girlfriend is driving the car while he shoots out the window at Babylon.

Sandy had high hopes of driving that car. She day dreamed a lot about a two-seater; no room for another girl, where finally the beep on the phone line was not a baby mama, a friend, a client, or some whore.

But wasn't she a whore?

She shook the thought from mind, settling alongside him in the bed, deciding to stay uninvited for the night instead. She loved looking at him as he slept; the man who had been a villain looked like an angel.

Around 11:00 p.m. when he turned over in the sheets and felt her there, he took her again, half asleep and sweetly, with giggles and sighs that were almost intimate, even for a man like Tiba. She uttered words then that she could never take back, unless to injure his pride or to wake deception within herself.

At 3:00 a.m. when he finally slid from her embrace to wash up, she rolled onto his side of the bed. The warm pillow where his head had lain was where she laid hers and smiled. She slept there in comfort as Tiba dressed himself and went out to take care of business. This was of course the same business that paid for this expensive lifestyle Sandy was beginning to enjoy. The lifestyle Tiba was sick of maintaining.

She longed for him in the bed again, and missed him having not known how far he had really gone.

It was at that time that Tiba adjusted his gun, under the cloak of darkness. His car rolled away from the corner of Henry Street and further into the city of Port of Spain.

For Tiba all this love stuff was unchartered territory. When he returned at six, wanting to slip in on her, he found her gone. This was the first time Tiba Mc Neal ever missed someone. He sat on her side of the bed, and touched the phone on the bed stand about to call her to apologize. He however found he had run out of the words.

As the sun came up across town Sandy slid her key into the lock of her father's house door, and awaited the argument inside.

TWO

Never Find- Jah Cure

There was a soft lapping on the shore line, as waves rolled wonder-less and forgotten to wipe away the last footprints indelible in the sand. A navy sky was blanketed by stars that sparkle endlessly, carelessly, as if dropped by a child.

Cool breezes swayed through several trees, welcoming the sweet slow sleep of the nearby patrons who had all turned in for the night never to see the beauty that is displayed in the mystery of dark.

At my home I rolled over in bed, waking to the spray of almost blue light streaming through the curtains. The shadows played along her hips and face as she snuggled more securely into the pillow. There was something peaceful here, something beautiful and peaceful and sacred. I stroked her face, and all the hair that had covered her cheek. She rumbled, smiling and affected the words, Ah tryin to sleep, Dread.

I kissed her cheek and whispered the words, I can't sleep.

She giggled, turned to me and wrapped her hands around my neck, Try to get some rest.

I had tried to get some rest, but it never came. I turned to the pad of paper on the desk and I begun to tell the story of what happened on this page. The truth here is so unbelievable, a series of events that we all wished had never come. However, to others it would seem a yarn, a story, a lie.

I am not a lucky man; I am not a greedy man. I will say of myself I am a man that loved a little strong once in my life and found out that there was always that moment of sacrifice required by love.

The house was uneasily quiet as I navigated my way down the narrow-carpeted hallway to my son's bedroom. He was going to be seven soon; he sensed, I supposed, a noise and turned his face into the pillow, Five more minutes… and trailed off again into sleep. He has always bore my charms, having the same golden hair, same curly mass of knots, same pale skin and sly smile.

It seemed as the rain fell unheeded atop windowsills and the whistle- whip of wind tore on tarpaulins and galvanize rooftops that something was at unrest in the world. I couldn't shake this feeling as I closed his bedroom door.

How long ago was it that the bad dreams began? How long ago did the air in this house seem to weigh a tonne as things became impossible to ignore? The room at the end of this hall that was once the master bedroom- my parent's bedroom- one dead and the other was still missing. I had become an orphan at twenty-three. But haven't I been an orphan since my mother's death? I, who had been the oldest son who bearing like my son, my own father’s features save for the full lips and curls to my hair.

Oh, how I have hated my father, the man never taught me how to tie a shoe or ride a bike, yet he bore title of father. How obscene! I have often seen myself lacking as I tried to teach my son to walk upright in the world. Why is life such a practice in memory?

But yes, we are here about the bad dreams.

We are here about the past.

When there was no Tonica, no Solomon…when there was just an endless expanse of time and loss and pain. This was a time when the fabric of world and space shrivelled to nothing but seclusion, and tears into my pillow, a grown man unable to escape the terror of the real world.

What can you take from a man when he has nothing?

I guess in that time I was not a man at all, the dark was like a curtain dropped between myself and reality to protect me from seeing the beauty that was in light.

However, if you ask me, I would smile, pretend it never happened. The real story was so utterly incomprehensible that I would be proven a liar, a lunatic, a lost cause. To begin I must tell of the accident; the unsavoury details of the day when I lost it all and lost myself.

THREE

One More Time- Machel Montano

Sierra Leone Road

2:00 a.m.

I have always liked to write in the dark, with my pen pressed to notepad. I require the stillness as navy blue light streams through large bay windows. Whether or not that is good for my eye sight however, is a topic for debate.

My name is Antonio. Some of you will already know that, and for others, I offer a firm handshake. The intent of writing this all down is to quench the insatiable choke hold that seeks to release itself to insanity. It is to prove to myself that all that is happening is real.

The dreams began a couple weeks after the accident.

I woke up one night; not very sure I had found an end to the running, screaming, painful chase through the thick shrubbery of Los Bajos Forest. Then, fidgeting with the sheets, I found myself in bed, thankful, hopeful and desperately clinging to the vision of her sleeping face. There is nothing more beautiful than escaping bad nightmares, especially when you can escape them into the arms of a person who loves you.

A week later a young man was found dead in Los Bajos Forest. The news headline had stopped me cold. I had seen that. I was perhaps the only living witness.

The reports said he had been chased down and murdered and the investigations were still pending.

It was the first time I felt such a chill, as if I had somehow transported myself to another place, and sat court in another mind, privy to all its rage, its shock, its unyielding sense of terror. This is my story, but this is not just my story. This is the story of many. This is the story of the lives of my friends as I tell it, as I want for you to know.

Since the dreams begun I have loathed sleep, the way a drunk will loathe an AA meeting. I will go to the bed, in a slow fashion, hoping this night will be different and knowing if it is, it will only be a temporary fix to a growing problem. I tell myself they are only dreams, but wake exhausted the next morning, knowing that they are not. I have been gifted with the sight into the shortfalls of others, however macabre. It is the curse and blessing of my life.

It is no small feat that brought me through the accident alive. We all narrowly escaped death when a Kiss bread truck collided with my car. It would be better to tell you none of us escaped, indelible in my heart is the sense that something went wrong that night that can never again go right, and deep inside the sensation of forgetfulness, a sense of longing and losing and wanting to know.

Sometimes when I sleep, I see a very dark time; another me.

This other me, this man, has suffered death.

He has suffered the end of all imaginable suffering and come out scarred.

I saw a doctor in April. My doctor told me it is post traumatic stress. She has pointed out that with an accident as undeniably devastating as mine, it is natural to imagine possible outcomes.

I have found her explanation to be so telling, and yet so wanton.

How is it that I see in my Tonica, an escapable vision of serenity, a memory of loss?

Yes, I reiterate the accident changed the way I looked at life. It has made in me, a different man, inside and out.

Of the people in the car, I can only say that we have all had different responses and in so saying, even different memories of the occurrence. In some versions the car never collided, flipped over and landed up the street on that lonely morning on the Eastern Main Road. In most stories, we narrowly escape by a quick swerve, safely to recount that we got away from the misguided end of the fender that would have sent us all down this rabbit hole of fate.

But am I crazy?

Am I the lunatic shouting that the sky is falling, when a face which comes to me in dreams, will taunt me with the truth?

Am I the madman in the dark corner who rambles the truth, only to be refused by the guardians of honesty? Or am I just brain damaged by the events that played themselves out in broken glass and twisted metal?

I challenge you, Reader, to help me understand.

Help me find the answer…

FOUR

Panty Droppa- Trey Songz

3:00 am

Bagatelle Road

Diego Martin

Seema flung a mass of straight jet-black hair over her left shoulder. She stood in the far-left corner of the bedroom, yanking on her underwear most probably this time, inside out. The tall figure, drenched in daubs of colour not discernable in the dark, hurriedly put on her clothes in Challo's bedroom, just like many nights before this one

Their silent arguments were quenched by sex; silent tantrums of need.

Challo tied his hair back with a headband; his long locks grown thick, bulged two times the size of his head. Seema looked behind her, the chords of his muscle enticing her to touch, to be close, the wry expression on his face, keeping her at bay.

Why were there these long pauses of thought and no words? She hurriedly put her blouse on, forgetting the bra and tossing it finally into the waste land at the bottom of her purse. Challo's hands found his boxers and jeans, and in one fluid motion he got them on, walking her to her car as she did the final buttons on her capri pants.

Isn't it funny how you can get in the habit of having the same argument? Challo learnt his role with her and found it in silence. Seema however took solace in talking things through. There was going to be no resolve. Seema's father did not approve of the relationship. He was just the worst type