The venetian window opened upon a harsh Magritte sky, not turquoise, not cerulean. He adjusted the blinds before it gave him a headache. A small electric fan with rubber blades whirred like moth wings on the night table. His wind-up traveler's clock had stopped. He sat on the bed. The jade green bedspread had a paisely pattern so dense it gave him the hives.
Jesus Christ, I'm sweating like a dromedary's ass.
A discreet knock at the door.
"Extra linen," came the voice. It was that earthy woman whom he desired.
"Please come in."
Hannah was quite voluptuous, as most women on the island were. Black women, white women, and all shades in between. Her gingham gown clung to her bosom and belly, but swished about her ankles as she strode in. Her canvas-top wooden clogs scooted like boats across the pinewood floor.
He watched her as she stocked the linen closet. He ogled the curve of her buttocks and the cleft between them. The exquisiteness of the moment moved him. This was no ordinary sea change. An enormous drawing up had occurred along a shore flecked with the jetsam of his previous life. His lust for Mango and all the boys of Mann, swept off. The coming tsunami would be swift, terrible.
No turning back, you old prick.
*
Happy with his bottle of Pinch, Mister Radcliff was up before Creation.
Homeric hues of rose and coral arose in a fan of light. Moments later the sun emerged from its womb chamber in the sea. Perfect as one of Hannah's glorious breakfast yolks.
His head was clear and he felt hungry.
The scotch had brightened his appetite. He capped the bottle and slid it into the side pouch of his knapsack.
This is so fucking grand. God, let me die now.
The Cinzano umbrella wafted pleasantly above his head. He had spread the pages of his brief upon the table, using his pocket watch as anchor. Was reading the particulars when a boy's voice announced with a melodic island tang: "Your Gleaner, sir."
Once again Jimmy-Scamp had crept up and startled him.
"Thank you, lad. I believe your early arrival demands a gratuity."
"Yessir."
He opened the newspaper and there it was.
LOCAL SOCCER CELEB MURDERED
Reuben "Angel Eyes" Guzman
Found Sunday in trophy Jeep
Following game loss shocker!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
burnt rum 4
Mango felt no desire to become acquainted with the father he had never known. Over time his psyche healed. Horrific scars crisscrossed his developing mind. Consciously he did not hate Henri Bertrand for abandoning him in the womb. But dreams were another matter. He burned the Haitian roue upon a thorny telegraph pole. Trussed and bound with baling wire, a faceless Henri Bertrand screamed for mercy as blue flames consumed him. Through the dream wafted a porcine stench from the grease and ash. Upon waking Mango could recall every detail. Lucid as his face in the mirror.
The Philco radio played the music of love. Above the static and keening of airwaves, Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington seranaded the two people writhing upon the couch with "Mood Indigo."
The woman held the man with all the strength of her soul and moaned. Henri Bertrand re-inserted himself and plumbed deeper than ever before. Suddenly he was gushing into her bottomless lake of desire.
*
It was her nature to apologize for things beyond her control. Fretting with the radio, she said, "Reception has always been poor."
The bluebeard chuckled deeply. He lit a Virginia Number 3 cigarette, gazed into her darkness, and blew smoke. Contented.
She felt his eyes and shook her head, thinking this was such folly. Entertaining this diabolical faun, this Baphomet.
He opened a brown paper bag and extracted an exotic brand of gin, tainted with rose petal and cucumber. Suddenly she felt free to tease him.
"You promised me absinthe."
Without a word, he poured the delicate liquor into her dram glass. His animal magnetism was a palpable entity, untamed. Violent odors assaulted her. He had not bathed in days. Armpit and scrotum reeked. Yet she detected a pleasant splash of Lilac Vegital.
*
Her pungency reminded him of calamari. His stomach rumbled. She lifted her face from the plane of his belly and murmured, "You need feeding."
As she padded toward the kitchen he snatched her from behind and thumped a buttock as he would a watermelon.
"Sit back down," he commanded.
Then with a royal grunt he shifted close to the radio, then tweaked its fine tuning, hoping that the gods of the ionosphere were in good humor.
"There is a musical culture in Africa," he said. "Club bands duplicate the sounds of radio and mix them with their melodies. Listen to King Sunny Adi's recordings and it's as if you're out in the bush twiddling with a radio dial. King Sunny Adi is very popular with people I visit in Africa."
"Are those people black?"
"Blacker than you, mon cher."
He stroked her mocha breasts and suckled her coffee bean nipples. His tongue moved upon her like a serpent. Again she saw how his penis aimed like a divining rod toward heaven. That night she conceived Mango.
The Philco radio played the music of love. Above the static and keening of airwaves, Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington seranaded the two people writhing upon the couch with "Mood Indigo."
The woman held the man with all the strength of her soul and moaned. Henri Bertrand re-inserted himself and plumbed deeper than ever before. Suddenly he was gushing into her bottomless lake of desire.
*
It was her nature to apologize for things beyond her control. Fretting with the radio, she said, "Reception has always been poor."
The bluebeard chuckled deeply. He lit a Virginia Number 3 cigarette, gazed into her darkness, and blew smoke. Contented.
She felt his eyes and shook her head, thinking this was such folly. Entertaining this diabolical faun, this Baphomet.
He opened a brown paper bag and extracted an exotic brand of gin, tainted with rose petal and cucumber. Suddenly she felt free to tease him.
"You promised me absinthe."
Without a word, he poured the delicate liquor into her dram glass. His animal magnetism was a palpable entity, untamed. Violent odors assaulted her. He had not bathed in days. Armpit and scrotum reeked. Yet she detected a pleasant splash of Lilac Vegital.
*
Her pungency reminded him of calamari. His stomach rumbled. She lifted her face from the plane of his belly and murmured, "You need feeding."
As she padded toward the kitchen he snatched her from behind and thumped a buttock as he would a watermelon.
"Sit back down," he commanded.
Then with a royal grunt he shifted close to the radio, then tweaked its fine tuning, hoping that the gods of the ionosphere were in good humor.
"There is a musical culture in Africa," he said. "Club bands duplicate the sounds of radio and mix them with their melodies. Listen to King Sunny Adi's recordings and it's as if you're out in the bush twiddling with a radio dial. King Sunny Adi is very popular with people I visit in Africa."
"Are those people black?"
"Blacker than you, mon cher."
He stroked her mocha breasts and suckled her coffee bean nipples. His tongue moved upon her like a serpent. Again she saw how his penis aimed like a divining rod toward heaven. That night she conceived Mango.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
burnt rum 3
Saturday began with a topsail wind gusting through green bananas. A lemon merangue sky haunted the east. Feeling depressed, Hannah sought the cozy "sunrise" nook in Cap's pub for a quiet coffee. Looking through the leaded panes of the Tudor window she viewed the chaos of the world from an artful perspective. A wan light reflected from the waxed wood of the table and touched her with melancholy. Strangely, vaguely, she was reminded of something she could not quite capture.
Phhht-pock!
A bird had struck the window.
She went outside and found a dead tern. There was a wickedness in the wind now.
Grit stung her eyes. Clearing them, she saw a man approaching. Tall and lanky, with a forward pitch to his stride, he climbed the path onto the lawn like a daddy-longlegs. His wavy blond hair had been tossed up by the ascending gale. He carried a Panama hat, its brim partially scrolled in one hand, and lugged with the other a piece of leather luggage. Angry elementals tugged at his trousers and threatened to peel the seersucker blazer from his back. Classic Ray-Bans shielded his eyes. Mask-like.
Referring to the bird, he said, "Too bad."
Then he stepped inside. She followed, eyebrows knitted in disapproval.
He seated himself at the empty bar.
"May I help you?" she inquired coldly.
"I'd like a room upstairs and a double scotch while we negotiate."
"Bar's closed."
He lowered his sunglasses and reproached her with terrible gray eyes. "Surely, you can see I am one of those people who need a stiff riser in the morning."
Not the slightest thaw: "I'll see what I can do."
"Pinch would be fine."
*
"Thanks so much," he said expansively after being served. "How may I call you?"
"Senora. And you?"
"Radcliff. Robert Sinclair Radcliff."
Hannah recoiled in shocked disbelief. This man? This man was the land speculator who had alighted in their midst like a carrion bird and snatched up the old copra plantation out on Horseshoe Crab Key?
His notoriety in the Daily Gleaner had led her to believe he was some kind of Donald Trump.
Nothing but a clutch of pick-up sticks, he wore elegance like a shroud.
Sitting in the diffused Vermeer light, he seemed incorpreal. As if between her world and the next. Only his Masonic tie-chain glittered for real.
*
Its color shifting from sago to sorghum, the sun descended into late afternoon. Ochre patio tiles lazily baked underfoot. At five o'clock Hannah seated herself in the shade of a Cinzano table umbrella and treated herself to a Fuzzy Navel. All was well in her world.
She watched the purple shadow, cast by the second story, inch along, tile by tile, toward a total eclipse.
At dusk her thoughts were of Mister Radcliff. The spectral lodger in Room 202.
Dressed rather formally in loose comfortable white for dinner-by-the-sideboard at the Jolly Roger, he reminded her of those effete gentlemen in old British movies. Claude Rains. Leslie Howard. She could not place his accent, so she asked him about it.
Furtively he replied, "I'm a Manxman."
"Very well. I'm not a nosy person."
He smiled, showing clean, yet crowded and crooked teeth. "I can see that."
There was nothing substantial about him, except his eyes. Gray, with violent violet irises that held you like those of a mesmerist. His manner of walking through the room resembled drifting fog. The thing that had struck her most was his aura of utter dissipation.
Phhht-pock!
A bird had struck the window.
She went outside and found a dead tern. There was a wickedness in the wind now.
Grit stung her eyes. Clearing them, she saw a man approaching. Tall and lanky, with a forward pitch to his stride, he climbed the path onto the lawn like a daddy-longlegs. His wavy blond hair had been tossed up by the ascending gale. He carried a Panama hat, its brim partially scrolled in one hand, and lugged with the other a piece of leather luggage. Angry elementals tugged at his trousers and threatened to peel the seersucker blazer from his back. Classic Ray-Bans shielded his eyes. Mask-like.
Referring to the bird, he said, "Too bad."
Then he stepped inside. She followed, eyebrows knitted in disapproval.
He seated himself at the empty bar.
"May I help you?" she inquired coldly.
"I'd like a room upstairs and a double scotch while we negotiate."
"Bar's closed."
He lowered his sunglasses and reproached her with terrible gray eyes. "Surely, you can see I am one of those people who need a stiff riser in the morning."
Not the slightest thaw: "I'll see what I can do."
"Pinch would be fine."
*
"Thanks so much," he said expansively after being served. "How may I call you?"
"Senora. And you?"
"Radcliff. Robert Sinclair Radcliff."
Hannah recoiled in shocked disbelief. This man? This man was the land speculator who had alighted in their midst like a carrion bird and snatched up the old copra plantation out on Horseshoe Crab Key?
His notoriety in the Daily Gleaner had led her to believe he was some kind of Donald Trump.
Nothing but a clutch of pick-up sticks, he wore elegance like a shroud.
Sitting in the diffused Vermeer light, he seemed incorpreal. As if between her world and the next. Only his Masonic tie-chain glittered for real.
*
Its color shifting from sago to sorghum, the sun descended into late afternoon. Ochre patio tiles lazily baked underfoot. At five o'clock Hannah seated herself in the shade of a Cinzano table umbrella and treated herself to a Fuzzy Navel. All was well in her world.
She watched the purple shadow, cast by the second story, inch along, tile by tile, toward a total eclipse.
At dusk her thoughts were of Mister Radcliff. The spectral lodger in Room 202.
Dressed rather formally in loose comfortable white for dinner-by-the-sideboard at the Jolly Roger, he reminded her of those effete gentlemen in old British movies. Claude Rains. Leslie Howard. She could not place his accent, so she asked him about it.
Furtively he replied, "I'm a Manxman."
"Very well. I'm not a nosy person."
He smiled, showing clean, yet crowded and crooked teeth. "I can see that."
There was nothing substantial about him, except his eyes. Gray, with violent violet irises that held you like those of a mesmerist. His manner of walking through the room resembled drifting fog. The thing that had struck her most was his aura of utter dissipation.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
burnt rum 2
"Whuh?" Aghast, the Alpha Male surrendered his wallet to the Raggedy Man.
Black face, dreadlocks, tombstone teeth, eyes burning with Rasafarian faith, hope, and charity. This would be all the white man could remember. Normally aggressive, he sat back with astonishment. Thinking: What pluck this bastard has! I could shoot him dead where he stands.
"Thank you, mon. May Jah bless you."
With a flutter of cloth, red and green and yellow, and khaki sleeves flapping like a magistrate's Union Jack, the robber leaped a nearby croton hedge and disappeared.
"Well, I'll be damned."
Our American friend was too surprised with himself to be angry. The incident was stimulating, to say the least, and far more fun than losing money at the racetrack.
*
Cap was mortified to hear of it.
He swore an oath to the man that the wallet and all of its contents would be returned.
"How?" Anton Mueller, big noise from Winnetka, wanted to know.
"I have ways."
*
Sweeping the patio, Cap chuckled to himself. The show he had put on for that Yank was worthy of John Ringling. On the afternoon following the robbery he handed over the wallet, most of Mueller's money (and a little of someone else's) still crisp as fresh lettuce. Credit cards untouched.
"We settle things quickly," Cap said.
"Hope there wasn't trouble."
Cap grinned wickedly. "No more than in your Wild West."
He did not feel the need to explain that the Raggedy Man was his own stupid cousin, the conch-blower.
A fold-away card table had been set up beneath a mimosa tree, pink silky blossoms swaying in globular clusters, where dappled shade felt adequate. Raggedy Man and his three fat sweaty lady friends contemplated a swastika of domino tiles. He waved to Cap. "Hey, mon, how you doin?"
*
"Good morning, my captain." Hannah Ramirez had rolled out a cart with coffee pot and mugs.
"Well, hello!" Face bright as dawn. "How are you this new day?"
Hands upon her hips, she arched her spine. "My joints are aching. Gonna be a storm soon."
Cap saw how wonderfully arranged she was within her airy butter-rum gown for bare shoulders. "Never mind dat storm. I know a special medicine for joints."
Her mirthful heart echoed like a log drum. "Sit with me for a cup."
"Mighty kind. Yes, I will."
He stirred cream into his coffee until it was the color of her skin. Her cheeks wore a schoolgirl blush. Blue eyes twinkling, amber hair piled high in a frizzy cumulus, flat African nose. He wondered if this forty-year-old quadroon woman had a drop of Captain Morgan in her blood. As she poured for herself he admired her bounteous cleavage. To a dried-up old man her beauty was immeasurable.
*
Holiday over, Mango began a new semester at the prep-school. Mister Radcliff paid his tuition. The boy was grateful, knowing his mother could never afford the princely sum required to attend Saint James Academy. Still the prospect of the fool fop selling Horseshoe Crab Key made him sore.
Visions of chainsaws biting and chewing magnificent coconut groves into parcels of waste, and bulldozers shoving aside glorious dunes and decimating the mangrove ecosystem provoked him into red rage. At lunch he couldn't eat. He strode across the emerald lawn, failing to notice the sweetsap scent of freshly mown gtass. A huge banyan tree offered shade and solitude.
He called his father on the cell.
"What's up, son?"
Henri Bertrand had invested all of his money in buying the Dutchman. The great house reared up like a fortress behind a battered coquina seawall. Tropical gothic.
His idea was to be close to his son. Mango refused to visit.
"I was wondering if anything had come up."
"No, Mango. Nothing has changed."
Mango had proposed a grand benefit, international in scope. Figuring his bigshot promoter father could pull strings, rein in great do-gooders like Bono and Sting. Maybe even that manatee guy from Florida, Jimmy Buffett.
Now he was learning, that the world of showbiz considered Henri Bertrand a joke.
"I've got a friend who can design a webpage."
"Hmm. Let me get back to you."
Dad, you are such a fucking flake!
Black face, dreadlocks, tombstone teeth, eyes burning with Rasafarian faith, hope, and charity. This would be all the white man could remember. Normally aggressive, he sat back with astonishment. Thinking: What pluck this bastard has! I could shoot him dead where he stands.
"Thank you, mon. May Jah bless you."
With a flutter of cloth, red and green and yellow, and khaki sleeves flapping like a magistrate's Union Jack, the robber leaped a nearby croton hedge and disappeared.
"Well, I'll be damned."
Our American friend was too surprised with himself to be angry. The incident was stimulating, to say the least, and far more fun than losing money at the racetrack.
*
Cap was mortified to hear of it.
He swore an oath to the man that the wallet and all of its contents would be returned.
"How?" Anton Mueller, big noise from Winnetka, wanted to know.
"I have ways."
*
Sweeping the patio, Cap chuckled to himself. The show he had put on for that Yank was worthy of John Ringling. On the afternoon following the robbery he handed over the wallet, most of Mueller's money (and a little of someone else's) still crisp as fresh lettuce. Credit cards untouched.
"We settle things quickly," Cap said.
"Hope there wasn't trouble."
Cap grinned wickedly. "No more than in your Wild West."
He did not feel the need to explain that the Raggedy Man was his own stupid cousin, the conch-blower.
A fold-away card table had been set up beneath a mimosa tree, pink silky blossoms swaying in globular clusters, where dappled shade felt adequate. Raggedy Man and his three fat sweaty lady friends contemplated a swastika of domino tiles. He waved to Cap. "Hey, mon, how you doin?"
*
"Good morning, my captain." Hannah Ramirez had rolled out a cart with coffee pot and mugs.
"Well, hello!" Face bright as dawn. "How are you this new day?"
Hands upon her hips, she arched her spine. "My joints are aching. Gonna be a storm soon."
Cap saw how wonderfully arranged she was within her airy butter-rum gown for bare shoulders. "Never mind dat storm. I know a special medicine for joints."
Her mirthful heart echoed like a log drum. "Sit with me for a cup."
"Mighty kind. Yes, I will."
He stirred cream into his coffee until it was the color of her skin. Her cheeks wore a schoolgirl blush. Blue eyes twinkling, amber hair piled high in a frizzy cumulus, flat African nose. He wondered if this forty-year-old quadroon woman had a drop of Captain Morgan in her blood. As she poured for herself he admired her bounteous cleavage. To a dried-up old man her beauty was immeasurable.
*
Holiday over, Mango began a new semester at the prep-school. Mister Radcliff paid his tuition. The boy was grateful, knowing his mother could never afford the princely sum required to attend Saint James Academy. Still the prospect of the fool fop selling Horseshoe Crab Key made him sore.
Visions of chainsaws biting and chewing magnificent coconut groves into parcels of waste, and bulldozers shoving aside glorious dunes and decimating the mangrove ecosystem provoked him into red rage. At lunch he couldn't eat. He strode across the emerald lawn, failing to notice the sweetsap scent of freshly mown gtass. A huge banyan tree offered shade and solitude.
He called his father on the cell.
"What's up, son?"
Henri Bertrand had invested all of his money in buying the Dutchman. The great house reared up like a fortress behind a battered coquina seawall. Tropical gothic.
His idea was to be close to his son. Mango refused to visit.
"I was wondering if anything had come up."
"No, Mango. Nothing has changed."
Mango had proposed a grand benefit, international in scope. Figuring his bigshot promoter father could pull strings, rein in great do-gooders like Bono and Sting. Maybe even that manatee guy from Florida, Jimmy Buffett.
Now he was learning, that the world of showbiz considered Henri Bertrand a joke.
"I've got a friend who can design a webpage."
"Hmm. Let me get back to you."
Dad, you are such a fucking flake!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
burnt rum
Horseshoe Crab Key had not been hit by a hurricane in over a century and neither had the neighboring island of Saint James. Creole crones believed this to be the kiss of goodwill from Morgan the Pirate. The colonial township by the Bay had always welcomed him, offering safe harbor and a fat store. With the Royal Navy in absentia, Captain Morgan became chief protector. Slaves from Yoruba claimed he was an Orisha incarnate.
Shaped like the eponymous ocean cockroach, the cayo provided a natural causeway to the island. It was called "the stinger tail." Islanders trekked across this landbridge of sandspur, cracked seashell and coral shoal toward a humpback islet with a profusion of coconut palms from a defunct copra plantation, home to wild black pigs. Beyond lay a pristine shored famous for its sand-dollar. Like Moroccan nomads these trekkers pitched tents for cabanas, and like members of the Y they frolicked naked in waters reflecting all the colors of the shifting sky.
No frozen Puritan eye beheld these libertines. In this Eden there was only freedom and consequence. After a brisk swim, brown bodies would embrace without shame. Jocks could slamdunk one another in a game of Nerfball. Up in the dunes trysts began and ended beneath the murmur of sea-oats, and sodomy seemed akin to collegiate wrestling.
Cool and dry in the shade of a red-striped tent Mango opened a tin of French pate and gave it to a middle-aged man wearing white longsleeves, trousers and buckskin shoes, as if dressed for cricket in Somerset.
"Thank you, lad. Care for a bite? These wafers are delicious."
"No, sir," Mango replied. His tiger eyes darted toward the wicker basket that contained a thermos of chilled gin and tonic. Still bubbly.
The man sniffed. "Go ahead. Have a drink."
"I won't get drunk, Mister Radcliff."
"Better not."
Mister Radcliff smoothed back a blond forelock with a manicured hand and gazed at the youth. Mango is like the rest of them, he was thinking. An innocent savage.
On the contrary, Mango was a creature of charm and cunning. A wicked schoolboy versed in violent carnality. Sex and soccer.
Out of spite Mango donned his blue Ralph Lauren blue chambray shirt, depriving his patron the pleasure of viewing his sepia mahogany torso. The washboard abs were a source of venial pride. Yet when he stole a glance he saw that Mister Radcliff was preoccupied, gazing into the distance.
Mango queried: "What is it?"
"I've been offered a princely sum for this piece of property."
"The Cayman bank?"
"Yes. I told you that if I held out long enough, the real-estate would appreciate. As we speak, interests in Dubai are awaiting my wire."
"Are you going to sell?"
"Perhaps."
"M'mates say you're going to chop down all the trees."
"Perhaps."
"And sell the land to a multinational."
"Perhaps."
"No more free beaches! There'll be a resort hotel! Maybe investment condos, with fences all around!"
"Sharp lad."
Tantalizing me with that perfect body. O darkskinned angel. With such dangerous eyes. Burning with the fires of perdition!
*
Cap was sweeping the patio and terrace of the Jolly Roger. His pub shared the old Beachcomber Inn with Hannah Ramirez' bed-and-breakfast, the Pirate's Hideaway. Rennovation costs had been rather steep. It took a year for either of them to break even. A rough haul.
On breezy balmy nights folks sat out, drinking beer and rum. After midnight they began to drift away into the land of winking, blinking and nod.
Most of Cap's clientel was non-white. Sailors, fishermen, singers and poets.
Cap and Hannah were the odd couple.
He was a grizzled barrel-chested ex-diver wracked by the deepwater bends. A feisty black man from the wild coast of Greater Cayman. She was a busty forty-something Quadroon with nutmeg eyes. A refined woman with a taste for French art.
Great business partners.
*
Traditional deadbeat riffraff: hobos, tramps and bums (with subtle differences), were all warned to stay clear. Cap especially wanted his place free of panhandlers, worst of the lot. Hannah didn't allow prostitution. Her beds were clean.
Al fresco at the Jolly Roger was Caribbean nirvana. A private place for idle thoughts.
You could snag a table. Maybe read a soccer newsrag, or a Miami Herald or Daily Gleaner. Sip coffee or knock back the hard stuff. No one would bother you.
Except on a blue moon.
*
One of Hannah's guests, a white business fellow from the States, (archetypal George Babbitt, Main Street, Zenith City) was sitting out, smoking a Cuban cigar and sipping a mug of Mexican coffee laced with Tia Maria, thinking grand thoughts.
Suddenly: "Hey mon, gimmee yo wallet!"
Shaped like the eponymous ocean cockroach, the cayo provided a natural causeway to the island. It was called "the stinger tail." Islanders trekked across this landbridge of sandspur, cracked seashell and coral shoal toward a humpback islet with a profusion of coconut palms from a defunct copra plantation, home to wild black pigs. Beyond lay a pristine shored famous for its sand-dollar. Like Moroccan nomads these trekkers pitched tents for cabanas, and like members of the Y they frolicked naked in waters reflecting all the colors of the shifting sky.
No frozen Puritan eye beheld these libertines. In this Eden there was only freedom and consequence. After a brisk swim, brown bodies would embrace without shame. Jocks could slamdunk one another in a game of Nerfball. Up in the dunes trysts began and ended beneath the murmur of sea-oats, and sodomy seemed akin to collegiate wrestling.
Cool and dry in the shade of a red-striped tent Mango opened a tin of French pate and gave it to a middle-aged man wearing white longsleeves, trousers and buckskin shoes, as if dressed for cricket in Somerset.
"Thank you, lad. Care for a bite? These wafers are delicious."
"No, sir," Mango replied. His tiger eyes darted toward the wicker basket that contained a thermos of chilled gin and tonic. Still bubbly.
The man sniffed. "Go ahead. Have a drink."
"I won't get drunk, Mister Radcliff."
"Better not."
Mister Radcliff smoothed back a blond forelock with a manicured hand and gazed at the youth. Mango is like the rest of them, he was thinking. An innocent savage.
On the contrary, Mango was a creature of charm and cunning. A wicked schoolboy versed in violent carnality. Sex and soccer.
Out of spite Mango donned his blue Ralph Lauren blue chambray shirt, depriving his patron the pleasure of viewing his sepia mahogany torso. The washboard abs were a source of venial pride. Yet when he stole a glance he saw that Mister Radcliff was preoccupied, gazing into the distance.
Mango queried: "What is it?"
"I've been offered a princely sum for this piece of property."
"The Cayman bank?"
"Yes. I told you that if I held out long enough, the real-estate would appreciate. As we speak, interests in Dubai are awaiting my wire."
"Are you going to sell?"
"Perhaps."
"M'mates say you're going to chop down all the trees."
"Perhaps."
"And sell the land to a multinational."
"Perhaps."
"No more free beaches! There'll be a resort hotel! Maybe investment condos, with fences all around!"
"Sharp lad."
Tantalizing me with that perfect body. O darkskinned angel. With such dangerous eyes. Burning with the fires of perdition!
*
Cap was sweeping the patio and terrace of the Jolly Roger. His pub shared the old Beachcomber Inn with Hannah Ramirez' bed-and-breakfast, the Pirate's Hideaway. Rennovation costs had been rather steep. It took a year for either of them to break even. A rough haul.
On breezy balmy nights folks sat out, drinking beer and rum. After midnight they began to drift away into the land of winking, blinking and nod.
Most of Cap's clientel was non-white. Sailors, fishermen, singers and poets.
Cap and Hannah were the odd couple.
He was a grizzled barrel-chested ex-diver wracked by the deepwater bends. A feisty black man from the wild coast of Greater Cayman. She was a busty forty-something Quadroon with nutmeg eyes. A refined woman with a taste for French art.
Great business partners.
*
Traditional deadbeat riffraff: hobos, tramps and bums (with subtle differences), were all warned to stay clear. Cap especially wanted his place free of panhandlers, worst of the lot. Hannah didn't allow prostitution. Her beds were clean.
Al fresco at the Jolly Roger was Caribbean nirvana. A private place for idle thoughts.
You could snag a table. Maybe read a soccer newsrag, or a Miami Herald or Daily Gleaner. Sip coffee or knock back the hard stuff. No one would bother you.
Except on a blue moon.
*
One of Hannah's guests, a white business fellow from the States, (archetypal George Babbitt, Main Street, Zenith City) was sitting out, smoking a Cuban cigar and sipping a mug of Mexican coffee laced with Tia Maria, thinking grand thoughts.
Suddenly: "Hey mon, gimmee yo wallet!"
Sunday, March 13, 2011
sam the rickshaw man
Sitting in a green bedside chair, Johnny Luck smiled. Bright as Fat Tuesday.
Pirate Jenny gushed, "Oh, God! You're all right!"
"I'm all right."
"Not hurt?"
"Not hurt."
Her chest could barely contain her heart. "I was so worried."
"It was pretty hairy for a while."
"What happened?"
He pointed to the black boy unconscious in the bed. "Jimmy-Scamp. Or Jaime, as McEwan used to call him. He was crabbing down at the Dutchman's. Just as I got there myself, he slipped and fell into the
water. The waves pushed him against the rocks."
"The poor dear."
"Good thing I arrived when I did. He'd 'ave been a gonner."
"How did you get him here?"
" I fetched him out of the sea and carried him up to the Big House. I was surprised that it was open, with phone and lights. Someone must have just bought the place. Jimmy-Scamp's head was bleeding. He was out, but still breathing. Fighting off shock. I wrapped him in some new blankets. Amazing luck!"
"Looks like he's doing poorly."
"Yeah. But like most of m'lads, he's tough."
"One of your scavengers."
"Yeah. Brings me the damnedest stuff from all over the island. Hangs with Mango."
Doctor Lee poked in owlishly. "Excuse please. Must examine patient."
Hoisting himself stiffly, Johnny Luck replied, "Certainly. Come along, Jen. Let's go home."
*
On the way out she asked, "Are you up to a walk? I'd rather not ride with Daddy Doc anymore tonight."
"Why? I thought you two were tight."
"He's with this totally strange Frenchman from Haiti."
"Henri Bertrand?"
"How did you guess?"
"Mango used to describe him, even though they had never seen each other."
"No wonder. The guy is a telepath. And you told me that Mango is an empath. Writes poetry."
"I see the connection."
"And I see a storm on the horizon."
As they passed by the Reception desk Pirate Jenny noted that the nurse was curled up with a book on Lady Di. Lilac perfume.
*
The lovers ambled romantically toward the bohemian green lattice district. A cigarette boat boomed toward the channel. A night run. Something untaxed. Nobody cared.
"You never told me how you managed to get Jimmy-Scamp to the hospital."
"Sam the Rickshaw Man."
The mahagony box contained the treasures of family and ancestors. There were crumbling pages of a handwritten Chinese Freemason weekly newspaper. The Minzhi Zhoukan. His grandfather was a Hakka from Huiyang. He landed in Jamaica and was required to speak and write at least fifty words in three languages to gain employment. The extent of his erudition astounded them all. British civil servants, planters and pirates. Sammo delicately held a page with trembling fingers. Amazed by its stylish caligraphy. Wit and wisdom.
Typhoid fever killed most of Li Fang's family in Jamaica. Sammo survived, and so did his Chi-Gro mother. They bought passage to the island of Saint James. His face was Chinese, perfectly formed Hakka. His uncle had been in dry-goods and had taught Sammo the business. He was the perfect storekeep. Thus he landed a humble position at The Old Jew's Hardware Store. He and Sol Guzman got a long all right, but Sol died, and his son Ruben acquired the store. Soon all assets had been liquidated and Sammo was let go. Thirty years old, with no job. No prospects. He would not retreat into opium.
The Goddess Guanyin appeared in a dream.
On the morrow he found leaning against his garden wall an abandoned rickshaw.
Soon all the white-faces were calling him Sam the Rickshaw Man.
Pirate Jenny gushed, "Oh, God! You're all right!"
"I'm all right."
"Not hurt?"
"Not hurt."
Her chest could barely contain her heart. "I was so worried."
"It was pretty hairy for a while."
"What happened?"
He pointed to the black boy unconscious in the bed. "Jimmy-Scamp. Or Jaime, as McEwan used to call him. He was crabbing down at the Dutchman's. Just as I got there myself, he slipped and fell into the
water. The waves pushed him against the rocks."
"The poor dear."
"Good thing I arrived when I did. He'd 'ave been a gonner."
"How did you get him here?"
" I fetched him out of the sea and carried him up to the Big House. I was surprised that it was open, with phone and lights. Someone must have just bought the place. Jimmy-Scamp's head was bleeding. He was out, but still breathing. Fighting off shock. I wrapped him in some new blankets. Amazing luck!"
"Looks like he's doing poorly."
"Yeah. But like most of m'lads, he's tough."
"One of your scavengers."
"Yeah. Brings me the damnedest stuff from all over the island. Hangs with Mango."
Doctor Lee poked in owlishly. "Excuse please. Must examine patient."
Hoisting himself stiffly, Johnny Luck replied, "Certainly. Come along, Jen. Let's go home."
*
On the way out she asked, "Are you up to a walk? I'd rather not ride with Daddy Doc anymore tonight."
"Why? I thought you two were tight."
"He's with this totally strange Frenchman from Haiti."
"Henri Bertrand?"
"How did you guess?"
"Mango used to describe him, even though they had never seen each other."
"No wonder. The guy is a telepath. And you told me that Mango is an empath. Writes poetry."
"I see the connection."
"And I see a storm on the horizon."
As they passed by the Reception desk Pirate Jenny noted that the nurse was curled up with a book on Lady Di. Lilac perfume.
*
The lovers ambled romantically toward the bohemian green lattice district. A cigarette boat boomed toward the channel. A night run. Something untaxed. Nobody cared.
"You never told me how you managed to get Jimmy-Scamp to the hospital."
"Sam the Rickshaw Man."
The mahagony box contained the treasures of family and ancestors. There were crumbling pages of a handwritten Chinese Freemason weekly newspaper. The Minzhi Zhoukan. His grandfather was a Hakka from Huiyang. He landed in Jamaica and was required to speak and write at least fifty words in three languages to gain employment. The extent of his erudition astounded them all. British civil servants, planters and pirates. Sammo delicately held a page with trembling fingers. Amazed by its stylish caligraphy. Wit and wisdom.
Typhoid fever killed most of Li Fang's family in Jamaica. Sammo survived, and so did his Chi-Gro mother. They bought passage to the island of Saint James. His face was Chinese, perfectly formed Hakka. His uncle had been in dry-goods and had taught Sammo the business. He was the perfect storekeep. Thus he landed a humble position at The Old Jew's Hardware Store. He and Sol Guzman got a long all right, but Sol died, and his son Ruben acquired the store. Soon all assets had been liquidated and Sammo was let go. Thirty years old, with no job. No prospects. He would not retreat into opium.
The Goddess Guanyin appeared in a dream.
On the morrow he found leaning against his garden wall an abandoned rickshaw.
Soon all the white-faces were calling him Sam the Rickshaw Man.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
end of the ride
Pirate Jenny only knew she could find Johnny Luck at the hospital. Nothing more. There had been a communications breakdown at the Jolly Roger.
Whipping his belt from his pants, Cap brawled toward Boca Raton. He wrapped the leather strap around his fist and swung a roundhouse punch with all of his might. He felt the jaw give way and sling like the carriage-return on a typewriter.
"Damn you, Boca!"
Coldcocked, the rodent man lay cheek-to-stone sprawled amidst sawdust and oyster shells.
The lone oyster-eater stepped aside.
"I'm gonna stomp yo eggs!" Cap roared. Strong arms prevented him from mutilating Boca. "Unhand me!"
"Get the rat outta here!" A sailor shouted. "Befo' Cap kills 'im!"
"Awright awright. I'm cool. Lemmee loose, mates."
Cap dialed Speedboat.
"This is the Jolly Roger. Is Missy Jen still there?"
"No," Speedboat replied cautiously. "The taxi took her. Anything wrong?"
"Well, I'm sorry. I gave her some misinformation."
*
"I remember you very well, Monsieur Bertrand," Daddy Doc said without turning his head. "That parlor trick of yours in Pere La Chaise was impressive."
The Haittian leaned forward, folded his elbows upon the driver's backrest and rested his chin. Then softly he asked, "Afterward did you see me again?"
"You were the Sufi dervish on Pont Neuf and the vagabond guitar player in the Metro. Perhaps."
"Perhaps," Henri Bertrand chuckled, twinkling.
Listening to the two of them, Pirate Jenny felt as if she was sitting inside an atom-smasher.
Then Henri Bertrand was speaking to her. "Dites moi, s'il vous plait. Why are you called Pirate Jenny?"
"Since you can read minds," she replied faintly. "I suspect you already know."
"The Threepenny Opera."
Up ahead as the cobblestone lane curved into the asphalt pike known as Bayroad, a neon cube glowed in the dark. It was the hospital. People swarmed about it like fireflies.
*
In a frantic rush to get away from the two men exchanging wild weird vibes, Pirate Jenny banged her knee alighting from the taxi. "Dammit frammit!"
She hobbled toward the hospital entrance. She spied two nurses standing just outside the electric glass door. Smoking without a care in the world. That left only one nurse attending Johnny Luck, she figured. The door opened automatically and she hurried inside.
The ER resident doctor was a Chinese-African man named Lee. Five-feet-four and ninety-five pounds, already balding at age thirty. He was updating a flipchart.
"Doctor Lee!"
"Miss Rhys-Jones. Come this way." He ushered her into a recovery room. Noticing her wound, he frowned. "Let me look at that knee."
"Not now!"
"Soon then."
"Where's Johnny Luck?"
A familiar voice answered from behind a curtain. "I'm right here."
*
Washingtonia fronds rattled in the dodging zephyrs off Indigo Bay.
Nosed toward the sea, the blue sedan afforded Daddy Doc and Henri Bertrand a magnificent view of the glimmer and glitz of distant bayside shops, bodegas, cafes and trattorias. Music and laughter from sloops and yachts only visible by lanternlight.
The night loomed close, indelible as india ink.
Henri Bertrand placed a firm, friendly hand upon Daddy Doc's shoulder. "You have something to tell me about my son."
"May cost you."
"I will drink the blood of the black pig."
"Don't be silly. You know that we two are beyond all rituals, all folly, all gods."
"C'est vrais."
Whipping his belt from his pants, Cap brawled toward Boca Raton. He wrapped the leather strap around his fist and swung a roundhouse punch with all of his might. He felt the jaw give way and sling like the carriage-return on a typewriter.
"Damn you, Boca!"
Coldcocked, the rodent man lay cheek-to-stone sprawled amidst sawdust and oyster shells.
The lone oyster-eater stepped aside.
"I'm gonna stomp yo eggs!" Cap roared. Strong arms prevented him from mutilating Boca. "Unhand me!"
"Get the rat outta here!" A sailor shouted. "Befo' Cap kills 'im!"
"Awright awright. I'm cool. Lemmee loose, mates."
Cap dialed Speedboat.
"This is the Jolly Roger. Is Missy Jen still there?"
"No," Speedboat replied cautiously. "The taxi took her. Anything wrong?"
"Well, I'm sorry. I gave her some misinformation."
*
"I remember you very well, Monsieur Bertrand," Daddy Doc said without turning his head. "That parlor trick of yours in Pere La Chaise was impressive."
The Haittian leaned forward, folded his elbows upon the driver's backrest and rested his chin. Then softly he asked, "Afterward did you see me again?"
"You were the Sufi dervish on Pont Neuf and the vagabond guitar player in the Metro. Perhaps."
"Perhaps," Henri Bertrand chuckled, twinkling.
Listening to the two of them, Pirate Jenny felt as if she was sitting inside an atom-smasher.
Then Henri Bertrand was speaking to her. "Dites moi, s'il vous plait. Why are you called Pirate Jenny?"
"Since you can read minds," she replied faintly. "I suspect you already know."
"The Threepenny Opera."
Up ahead as the cobblestone lane curved into the asphalt pike known as Bayroad, a neon cube glowed in the dark. It was the hospital. People swarmed about it like fireflies.
*
In a frantic rush to get away from the two men exchanging wild weird vibes, Pirate Jenny banged her knee alighting from the taxi. "Dammit frammit!"
She hobbled toward the hospital entrance. She spied two nurses standing just outside the electric glass door. Smoking without a care in the world. That left only one nurse attending Johnny Luck, she figured. The door opened automatically and she hurried inside.
The ER resident doctor was a Chinese-African man named Lee. Five-feet-four and ninety-five pounds, already balding at age thirty. He was updating a flipchart.
"Doctor Lee!"
"Miss Rhys-Jones. Come this way." He ushered her into a recovery room. Noticing her wound, he frowned. "Let me look at that knee."
"Not now!"
"Soon then."
"Where's Johnny Luck?"
A familiar voice answered from behind a curtain. "I'm right here."
*
Washingtonia fronds rattled in the dodging zephyrs off Indigo Bay.
Nosed toward the sea, the blue sedan afforded Daddy Doc and Henri Bertrand a magnificent view of the glimmer and glitz of distant bayside shops, bodegas, cafes and trattorias. Music and laughter from sloops and yachts only visible by lanternlight.
The night loomed close, indelible as india ink.
Henri Bertrand placed a firm, friendly hand upon Daddy Doc's shoulder. "You have something to tell me about my son."
"May cost you."
"I will drink the blood of the black pig."
"Don't be silly. You know that we two are beyond all rituals, all folly, all gods."
"C'est vrais."
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
cab ride continued
"Damn! You look like a Hollywood voodoo villain!"
A staccato laugh erupted from the chest of Henri Bertrand. "Quite right. I'm a promoter. I represent several reggae bands in the UK and the States."
Pirate Jenny laughed too, with relief.
"Are you French?"
"Oui. Actually I'm from Haiti. And I was having an intriguing conversation with our driver."
"I don't believe it."
"C'est vrais."
"Daddy Doc doesn't chit-chat."
"Well, we share a few interests."
She felt her guts squirm, and shrank from him as far as she could in the roomy sedan.
He chuckled with dark rapture.
At length he added, "It seems that our driver and I have both visited a very famous boneyard in Paris. He reveres Symbolist poets. I revere Jim Morrison."
*
The blue Chrysler jounced down the cobblestone cart-path laid in the 1790s by the British. Humingbird Lane. Tropical vines bloomed in the hot season and oozed a nectar these miniscule birds craved. The island bred a viciously competitive fighting hummingbird who would battle to the death for just one delicious flower. Daddy Doc drove with his window down, breathing in the sweet scent of night jasmine. He remembered meeting Henri Bertrand in Paris many years ago. How many encounters? He was not certain. The man possessed powers of the mind that enabled him to deceive the senses of people. On sidewalks, in cafes. In the cemetery Pere La Chaise
A winter drizzle turned into sleet as he stood among the graves and he yearned for the warmth of Saint James. A damp icy chill invaded his bloodstream, turning, it felt, his plasma into gelatin. Johnny Luck had given him a guidebook to the grave sites. Yes, young Johnny Luck was in Paris too, attending the Sorbonne. Many South American and Caribbean people flocked here for a European education. Daddy Doc delighted in seeing so many non-white faces in Paris. Sophisticates all, to a respectable degree. Like the chic ones with fedoras and scarves sitting in the Deaux Maggots and discussing the Bal Negre. He hoped the majority of them would glean valuable knowledge here and perhaps return to their jungles, pampas and islands and teach their impoverished bretheren all the marvelous ideas. It hurt him, nevertheless, to hear dogshit Frenchmen refer to black people as eggplants.
This bleak day as he stood in Pere La Chaise, Daddy Doc noticed a remarkable-looking man in a black wool topcoat standing bareheaded at a distant site. Curly hair, wet from rain and sleet, summoned to mind an image of a dead drowned poodle. The stranger's face was luminous and his chocolate eyes were magnetic. Daddy Doc recognized a kindred adept in the occult arts.
He averted his eyes from the stranger, and, looking down, he saw a dead drowned poodle at his feet in the frozen grass. Immediately he looked for the stranger and saw, to no surprise, that the man was gone. Disappeared. Had he merely walked to another grave site? Then, without warning, the man appeared beside him, brushing his shoulder in passing by.
"Pardon, monsieur. I did not mean to bump you."
"Bien," Daddy Doc replied, watching the man go. The sequence of events had included a slot of missing time. A parlor trick. Showing off.
Thus he followed the shadowy figure and rambled the streets of Paris.
Now, many years later, Henri Bertrand was his passenger.
This added zing to his driving.
A staccato laugh erupted from the chest of Henri Bertrand. "Quite right. I'm a promoter. I represent several reggae bands in the UK and the States."
Pirate Jenny laughed too, with relief.
"Are you French?"
"Oui. Actually I'm from Haiti. And I was having an intriguing conversation with our driver."
"I don't believe it."
"C'est vrais."
"Daddy Doc doesn't chit-chat."
"Well, we share a few interests."
She felt her guts squirm, and shrank from him as far as she could in the roomy sedan.
He chuckled with dark rapture.
At length he added, "It seems that our driver and I have both visited a very famous boneyard in Paris. He reveres Symbolist poets. I revere Jim Morrison."
*
The blue Chrysler jounced down the cobblestone cart-path laid in the 1790s by the British. Humingbird Lane. Tropical vines bloomed in the hot season and oozed a nectar these miniscule birds craved. The island bred a viciously competitive fighting hummingbird who would battle to the death for just one delicious flower. Daddy Doc drove with his window down, breathing in the sweet scent of night jasmine. He remembered meeting Henri Bertrand in Paris many years ago. How many encounters? He was not certain. The man possessed powers of the mind that enabled him to deceive the senses of people. On sidewalks, in cafes. In the cemetery Pere La Chaise
A winter drizzle turned into sleet as he stood among the graves and he yearned for the warmth of Saint James. A damp icy chill invaded his bloodstream, turning, it felt, his plasma into gelatin. Johnny Luck had given him a guidebook to the grave sites. Yes, young Johnny Luck was in Paris too, attending the Sorbonne. Many South American and Caribbean people flocked here for a European education. Daddy Doc delighted in seeing so many non-white faces in Paris. Sophisticates all, to a respectable degree. Like the chic ones with fedoras and scarves sitting in the Deaux Maggots and discussing the Bal Negre. He hoped the majority of them would glean valuable knowledge here and perhaps return to their jungles, pampas and islands and teach their impoverished bretheren all the marvelous ideas. It hurt him, nevertheless, to hear dogshit Frenchmen refer to black people as eggplants.
This bleak day as he stood in Pere La Chaise, Daddy Doc noticed a remarkable-looking man in a black wool topcoat standing bareheaded at a distant site. Curly hair, wet from rain and sleet, summoned to mind an image of a dead drowned poodle. The stranger's face was luminous and his chocolate eyes were magnetic. Daddy Doc recognized a kindred adept in the occult arts.
He averted his eyes from the stranger, and, looking down, he saw a dead drowned poodle at his feet in the frozen grass. Immediately he looked for the stranger and saw, to no surprise, that the man was gone. Disappeared. Had he merely walked to another grave site? Then, without warning, the man appeared beside him, brushing his shoulder in passing by.
"Pardon, monsieur. I did not mean to bump you."
"Bien," Daddy Doc replied, watching the man go. The sequence of events had included a slot of missing time. A parlor trick. Showing off.
Thus he followed the shadowy figure and rambled the streets of Paris.
Now, many years later, Henri Bertrand was his passenger.
This added zing to his driving.
Monday, March 7, 2011
cab ride
Budding lantana and datura sheltered the coquina drive that took the big blue sedan to the wrought iron gate. Unlatched as a custom. Daddy Dock walked up the narrow footpath flanked by low hedges of podocarpus. He pressed the buzzer. It was the southside of midnight, yet he wore mirrorshades.
Pirate Jenny emerged and took hold of his arm. He nodded and said, "Bon soir, mon cher."
He ushered her into the taxi. Eerily courteous. She did not mind.
She instructed, "Hospital, please."
The island facility was a little more than an out-patient clinic. It had an ER and one surgery bay.
*
The taxi departed with a throaty rumble.
Kat watched it go, then returned to the den and said, "She left with that Zombie Master."
Speedboat squinted through kif smoke. "Daddy Doc never sleeps."
"You think it's true about his magical powers?" Kit asked the women.
*
Another passenger shared the backseat. "I hope you don't mind," he said, tipping the brim of a straw planter's hat.
"Excuse me," she blushed. "I'm actually hopping your taxi."
"Henri Bertrand, pleasure to meet you."
"Jenny Rhys-Jones."
The broad hat was worn with a rakish slant. It covered oily black hair that curled over nape and collar. An untied cravat and an unbuttoned shirt exposed a chest flat as a plank and carpeted with more curls, these flecked with gray. Other than his bedroom eyes the most astonishing thing about the man's face was his goatee. A thick bush had been braided into a black rope eight inches long and lashed with a silver fob shaped like a human skull.
Pirate Jenny emerged and took hold of his arm. He nodded and said, "Bon soir, mon cher."
He ushered her into the taxi. Eerily courteous. She did not mind.
She instructed, "Hospital, please."
The island facility was a little more than an out-patient clinic. It had an ER and one surgery bay.
*
The taxi departed with a throaty rumble.
Kat watched it go, then returned to the den and said, "She left with that Zombie Master."
Speedboat squinted through kif smoke. "Daddy Doc never sleeps."
"You think it's true about his magical powers?" Kit asked the women.
*
Another passenger shared the backseat. "I hope you don't mind," he said, tipping the brim of a straw planter's hat.
"Excuse me," she blushed. "I'm actually hopping your taxi."
"Henri Bertrand, pleasure to meet you."
"Jenny Rhys-Jones."
The broad hat was worn with a rakish slant. It covered oily black hair that curled over nape and collar. An untied cravat and an unbuttoned shirt exposed a chest flat as a plank and carpeted with more curls, these flecked with gray. Other than his bedroom eyes the most astonishing thing about the man's face was his goatee. A thick bush had been braided into a black rope eight inches long and lashed with a silver fob shaped like a human skull.
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