Moving Forward Sideways Like a Crab by Shani Mootoo Page A

children, their backs to the drama of the sky unfolding, being photographed by a man. The children’s antics escalated as they waited for the man, likely their father, to take the picture. He was admonishing them to behave, to be still. Then he became animated and said, “Now!” The camera clicked.
    The sun had hit the water. Zain’s eyes were fiercely set on it. She seemed calm and, for the first time that evening, serious. A minute or so later, we turned our attention to the scene around us. With our backs to the horizon, the trees were now softly lit and in sharp focus. What a surprise, a gift it was, to realize that the hills on either side of the bay were splashed generously with chaconia, which had been obliterated earlier by the harsh light, sweeping arms of redness reaching outward as if to fan the bay. And the sky directly above was the most translucent and yet luminous shade of phthalo blue I’d ever seen. We stood staring up andZain gripped my arm, pointed to the sky over the parking lot, and said, “How strange. So blue in this direction after sunset. And what a strange shade of blue. Almost green.”
    Even as I saw what she saw, and marvelled, I was watching to make sure that her touching my arm had gone unnoticed by the strangers around us. I stepped forward, moving slightly out of her reach, and said, “It’s the colour of the Barbados sea as seen from the air.”
    She asked, “Do you know what makes the sky blue?”
    I opened my eyes wide in a gesture of invitation, and she obliged, laughing, because she knew I was making fun of her, and as she wove in words the tale of oxygen and nitrogen and argon gas and dust particles and light waves and electromagnetic fields and colour wavelengths and frequencies, I thought, you are the mother of two adult children, the wife of a businessman, you are a Trinidadian woman, you are an Indian woman, a Muslim woman, you live here in this country, but who are you, really?
    Zain said, “You’re not listening to a thing I am telling you, are you?”
    “I heard every word,” I lied. “Now, tell me what makes thunder.”
    Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. She tried to smile, but it was as if her face had broken. I wanted to put my hand on her cheek, but I dared not. I wanted to take her hand and pull her to me, but that would have been foolish. Any other two women on this beach could have interacted so, and others would have seen one woman comfortinganother. But I didn’t look like other women. I indicated with my head that Zain should follow me and I walked as casually as I could, toward the stairs, back to where the car was parked.
    It was when we were climbing back up the stairs that we saw the men with the snakes. The stairs were poorly made, angled downwards, and as you ascended you had to not only step up, but also grip the rusting railing tight and
pull
yourself along so that you didn’t slide off. And those stairs were wet, too, made slippery from bathers returning to their cars. We were concentrating, and we weren’t looking ahead. Zain was ahead of me, and immediately behind me were three young women chatting loudly—I don’t remember about what, but I do remember their high-pitched voices, their raucous, daring laughter. They were a new, different breed, I remember thinking. Zain and I had never been like them. I thought they were a bit too loud, and at the same time admired them for it. Zain was making her way up at a good pace. One of the laughing young women snapped suddenly, in an arresting voice, “All yuh!” and her companions went momentarily silent. Zain and I were instantly alert. I looked up to see what was happening, and in that moment Zain cried out and twisted her body back almost to face me, blocking the view with her hand. The women now uttered various shrill sounds of fear and displeasure. I looked back at them and they, too, had their views blocked with their hands, and so I wasn’t sure where to look. But I could see the face