“Give har time,” he says, his teeth parting to reveal the pink flesh of his tongue.
“She already put her foot down,” Thandi says. “Everything for her is about sacrifice.” She rolls her eyes. “I think she enjoys telling me what I should do with my life, as if she’s trying to live it for me. Meanwhile, she’s at the hotel, where all the jobs in this country are. I’m supposed to be the one to go to medical school and come out a distinguished pauper, while she makes all the money from tourism.”
“Is that why yuh rebelling?”
Thandi looks up. “Who says I’m rebelling? I’m not your little sister’s friend anymore. I’m a woman now.” Charles raises his brow.
There is something urgent building inside her. She doesn’t know where it rises from — this occasional burst of fire inside her chest. She goes over to where Charles sits and stoops before him. Charles remains silent as though he knows her mission and has agreed to be her accomplice. To leap into the fire. She brings her face to his and their lips touch.
She unbuttons her shirt for him. One by one the buttons slide from the holes. The bleached turpentine hue of her chest, smooth with the elevated roundness of her breasts, which are small and full, tapering off at nipples the shade of tamarind pods. Charles stares at her breasts wrapped like HTB Easter Buns in the Saran Wrap plastic. He regards them for what seems like a long time, as though trying to convince himself of something. He’s blinking rapidly. She waits for him to do something, anything. To rip the plastic off so that she can finally breathe, to put his mouth to the small opening in her nipples where she hopes milk will flow someday for a child. All she needs is release. But it’s his silence that grows, shaming her. He contemplates her with the compassion of a priest. She feels herself shrinking under his assessment of her.
“Put yuh clothes back on,” he says.
“Why?”
“Jus’ put it back on.”
Charles raises himself up from the bed as though to get away from her as quickly as possible. He’s no longer looking at her. She blinks back tears. She sits on the edge of the mattress, listening to the grunting hogs in the yard and the barking dogs and Old Man Basil selling brooms and cleaning brushes made of dried coconut husks. “Broom! Broom!” Every sound exacerbates the awkward silence inside the shack, where Thandi buttons her blouse, her back to Charles; and the flame glows inside her still.
16
MARGOT FOLLOWS MISS NOVIA SCOTT-HENRY TO ONE OF THE on-site restaurants where the woman often dines alone. She knows this because it’s the fourth time she has trailed Miss Novia Scott-Henry here. Margot pretends to have things to finish up at work so she can be the last one to see the woman leave, the click of her keys sounding in the whole lobby. It’s one of the best restaurants in the hotel — one that requires guests to make reservations days in advance. It’s a fancy place with white tablecloths, sterling silver utensils wrapped in red cloth napkins, and violin music playing “Redemption Song” in the background. But Miss Novia Scott-Henry doesn’t need reservations to dine in the company of visitors, mostly couples. Alphonso has promised to take Margot here, but that promise — like the other promise he has made — has never come to pass.
Here, the waiters are graceful, carrying trays on upturned palms, necks dutifully elongated, chins jutted upward, and smiles pasted to their faces like ivory-colored masking tape. Miss Novia Scott-Henry is led to a booth in the back. Tonight the patrons are dressed down, but still regal — men in nice light-colored shirts and women in long maxi dresses with floral patterns. Miss Novia Scott-Henry is dressed as though she’s going to a business function, in a severely tailored red pantsuit. She is tall, a hibiscus in a weed garden. The waiters fuss over her, and other diners look to see what all the fuss is about. They are excited to see up close for the first time the big hazel eyes that light up the tourism billboard ads, and the golden-honey-toned skin on every moisturizing commercial, including Queen of Pearl crème, which is all the rage. Some of Margot’s girls use the crème, against her advice. Why would anyone want to permanently damage their skin to look like a beauty queen who was born that way?
Margot sits by the bar with Sweetness, and they observe Miss Novia Scott-Henry together. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Margot says to Sweetness, who has kept her eyes down.
Miss Novia Scott-Henry looks very much alone sitting there by herself while everyone else has a partner, their cheery voices carrying to the front of the restaurant. The waitstaff busy themselves pouring water into glasses, placing on the tables baskets of bread and saucers with butter. Each waiter has a task, a specific routine. Like a well-rehearsed performance made up of a cast of country boys groomed to be British gentlemen with bow ties, tuxedos, and plain accents with British inflections. “How yuh do, madame? How is yuh meal, sah? May I get you h-anything else? H-anotherrr drink, perhaps?” Margot cringes on the inside as she listens to them. For she’s sure they don’t speak this way at home.
“Yuh need anyt’ing fi drink, Margot?” Foot, the bartender, asks. They call him Foot because he has only one leg, the other one a rounded stump that he favors. Nobody knows what happened to his other leg, but rumor is that it blew off in the Gulf War. This doesn’t slow him down. He mixes drinks at the bar, delivering them with ease — from Bloody Marys to rum punch to just opening a bottle of ice-cold Red Stripe beer.
“A glass of water will do,” Margot tells him. But she orders a drink for Sweetness, something strong, because Sweetness has been jittery since her arrival.
“Why yuh didn’t tell me dat it’s her?” Sweetness finally speaks, her eyes darting nervously around the restaurant, her voice a sharp whisper. “Yuh putting me in a real bad situation. She was ah beauty queen. People love har!”
“Jus’ drink,” Margot says.
She returns her attention to Miss Novia Scott-Henry, who takes her napkin from the table and places it on her lap. Another waiter comes to the table with a bottle of wine. He opens the bottle, spinning a metal opener into the cork, which gives a small pop when it’s released. Miss Novia Scott-Henry lifts her glass, swirls it, puts it to her nose, then sips. She takes another sip. And another, smiling as though the wine is making her reflect on a shower of pink cherry blossom petals kissing her shoulders. So this is how she dines, Margot thinks—three-course meals and wine every night. Margot considers the wine list. The cost of a bottle could be Thandi’s lunch money for a week. A month, even. Clearly Miss Novia Scott-Henry makes a lot of money and spends it on herself. No children. No word of a husband. The glass in Sweetness’s hand is almost empty.
“Foot, gi har anotha one!” Margot orders.
Foot works his magic, hobbling from one end of the bar to the next on his crutch, pouring various hard liquors from the shelf into a silver mixer. He shakes it like a musician in a mento band and pours the drink into a tall glass. He slides it to Sweetness with a wink.
“Dis will mek yuh nice-nice.”
Meanwhile, Roy, Miss Novia Scott-Henry’s waiter, takes her order. He dutifully writes down everything like he’s supposed to, nodding politely and making suggestions. He makes eye contact with Margot, who nods. When he enters the kitchen she can see right inside: the chaos of men dressed in white hovering over pots under which blue and yellow flames blaze, and yelling in patois over crates of food. “G’long wid di food before it tun col’!” “Rattry, annuh your ordah dis? Why di food come back?” “Tek yuh time wid di oil, ’less yuh waan gi di people dem heart attack!”