“You don’t play—”
“I’m telling you, and I’ve been practicing.”
From the kitchen came a crash and a curse. Solomon had been in a cooking frenzy all afternoon, chopping garlic, thyme, and scallions, banging pots around, answering criticism by saying he was practicing for Shad’s wedding reception next weekend. Two batches of fried chicken and three versions of curry goat had been on the stove when Eric had last visited the kitchen. The old chef had been standing in the middle of the room slurping from a spoon. Never one to read a recipe or admit that he couldn’t read, he always relied on his seasoned tongue.
“The curry goat still not the way I like it,” he’d snarled. Fifty years of white rum had finally killed the man’s taste buds, Eric had decided before retreating to the bar.
Thankfully, there’d been more customers than usual. Though only six o’clock, five tables had already ordered, and Eve had been trotting back and forth to the kitchen, slapping her drink orders on the bar counter like a pro. Eric wished he had a video camera to capture her counting and recounting money from her departed customers, matching it with the invoices, stashing her tips in the pocket on her chest, and giving him the balance for the cash drawer.
“Making quite a haul, huh?”
She nodded, patting her pocket before rushing to a table.
Eric gazed off at the island with its ruins, looking mysterious now in the gray cloak of early evening. He usually rowed over once or twice a year to inspect the condition of the ruins and the grounds, more often when Simone was out there. A couple weeks to go and she’d be here. Would things be the same? Would she be the same? She sounded a little different on the phone since she’d gone back to Atlanta, more cheerful, not as sardonic. He flipped on the switch next to the refrigerator, bringing to life one lightbulb above the bar and two above the restaurant. Running his hand over his ponytail, trying to distract himself from thinking of Simone’s running into Shannon, he made a note to stop by the beauty salon for a trim. Thick and nice, his hairdresser, Rose, would comment as she brushed it.
He watched Eve’s back in the baggy dress, her slightly bowed shoulders reminding him of his mother. She was going to be tall like her parents, had already stretched up while she was here, he was sure. He was glad she was working with him tonight, seemed to have either forgotten his rude comment about her friends or gotten over it. Her directness, her honesty, was thirst quenching, like springwater to a man tired of alcohol.
Chatting to some customers, thanking them for the tip, she was waving, telling them to come back. A smile lit up her face when she returned to the counter. “You should see the tip those people left me. I feel kind of guilty taking this money away from you.”
“As long as they pay my bill, I’m good.”
“They bought a lot of food, four thousand five hundred dollars!” She added the tip to the money in her pocket and washed her hands at the sink.
Eric folded his arms. “What are you going to do with your money?”
“Buy some souvenirs, I guess.”
“For yourself?”
“Yes—and a friend.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Girl, of course. We don’t—we’re not tight, but we’re friends.”
“No boyfriend?”
She sniffed, trying hard to control her mouth while she dried her hands. “Why’d you think that?”
“You’re kind of cute—and you’re thirteen this week. Shouldn’t I expect it?”
“I’m cute?”
“Of course you are. You have gorgeous blue eyes, a nice—athletic figure, and your hair is shiny like your mom’s.”
“It’s frizzy here.”
“Everybody’s hair is frizzy here.”
“I have to clear that table.” She dashed off.
“Do you know,” she asked at her next break, “why my name is Eve?”
“Your mother chose it.”
“She wanted my name to start with an e, like yours.”
“She never told me that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Eve said with a look of old-soul wisdom. “You didn’t know the name of that shell—”
“I know you like a certain boy.”
Her eyes popped wide. “I like a boy?”
“I saw you walking with Jethro yesterday. You thought you could just sneak past the bar, didn’t you?”
She blushed a shade pinker than her sunburn. “We were going up to the house to practice drumming, that’s all. We’re just friends.”
“I saw how you looked at him. You were giving him that—that look that girls have when they like a boy—you know, all attentive with a big smile on your face.” Eric remembered how Jethro had looked at his daughter as they walked along, his dreadlocks shaking as he talked, and how he’d started gesturing with one arm, the other wrapped around a drum. Although it was a bald-faced lie that he’d seen Eve smile, because she was turned away from the bar, he’d been able to tell she was fully engrossed, nodding, as they made the turn into Lambert’s driveway.
He’d wanted to call out and interrupt them. Instead, when he’d gone up later to the Delgados’ to spend the night, he’d asked Eve if she’d help him out on Sunday afternoon when her mother and Shad went off to Gordon Gap. It would give him a chance to say something. He’d say nothing to Shannon, who’d accuse him of being anti-Rastafarian, fitting him into the slot of the aging conservative.
Up to the instant he’d seen the two young people together, Eric had thought of his daughter as a permanent child, her detached cynicism when she’d first arrived as a childish game. His abrupt reframing of Eve as a teenager had begun minutes after watching the two young people walk up the driveway. He began to remember what he’d been like himself at that age, randy, trying to get girls to like him, rubbing against Nadine O’Connor behind the high school athletic building.
The image of Jethro working his way into Eve’s underwear kept coming back to him, adding to his restless night in the Delgados’ bed. In one version of the scene he’d pictured their hands drifting off the drums and onto each other. Another scene had them lying in the bushes; in another, pressed together behind a shed. Then the horrible thought of Eve’s being pregnant—had she even started menstruating?—had made him resolve to say something.
“Jethro’s nice,” Eve said with her standard shrug.
“He’s also already gotten you into trouble, don’t forget.”
“We’re not doing anything, Dad, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I didn’t say anything—I mean—nothing that any father wouldn’t say. He’s a couple years older than you, isn’t he, and you know what boys—”
“Don’t even go there.”
“I meant that he’s not—you have to be careful.”
“We’re not—”
“He’s from a poor family, I saw where his mother lives, and he sees you as a rich white girl. He’s probably looking for what he can get, you know what I mean?”
“I’m not a rich white girl.”
“To him you are.”
“A customer is calling me,” she snapped, and stalked away.
Eric sighed, closing his eyes. Sheesh, a man couldn’t win for losing.
CHAPTER THIRTY
* * *
The dark, silent seconds were measured by the clackety-clack of the windshield wipers as Carlton drove through the village of Gordon Gap. Shannon patted her purse holding the envelope with J$18,000 in cash, US$200, as Redemption had said. She’d gone with Carlton to an ATM in Port Antonio to withdraw it, and the fat, white envelope had made her nervous. Eighteen thousand bills looked a lot more than two hundred. She’d stored it in her bedside table, checking on it morning and evening to make sure it hadn’t gone anywhere.
It had been sunny in Largo when they left, but the weather here changed quickly from one part of the island to another, from one hour to the next, as unpredictable as its inhabitants. Carlton had asked if he could stop off in a village on t
he way to give his cousin some mangoes, and the three had had to wait in the car for half an hour after he disappeared inside.
Shad had passed the time asking Ransom questions about where he was from and what family (no relation to the Ransoms in Ocho Rios, he was from Kingston) and how he came to be a professor (through scholarships and universities in London). It had started to rain just before Carlton jumped back into the car without an apology. By the time they’d reached the road to Gordon Gap, darkness had fallen, and the passengers’ silent stares were paralleling the headlight beams.
Shannon rubbed an itch on her back against the car seat. Spatters of water were sneaking through the inch-opened window onto the long sleeve of her shirt, but she was too warm to close it. Beside her, Ransom sat looking toward the bellows of frogs. He seemed the only relaxed one in the car, didn’t seem worried about what the evening might bring, and his presence reassured her. She’d begun to doubt if being paid four times what she normally received was worth all the trouble, but now she was feeling better. Being with the most respected scholar of Rastafari couldn’t hurt.
She reached into her purse and felt the envelope. The money for Redemption was her personal donation to the quest. Expenses were included in what Angie was paying her, but the bribe would be worth it to get to the bottom of the business. No information on Katlyn, no payment from Angie. Equally important was getting out before Eric’s girlfriend arrived in Largo. She already had reams of notes and hundreds of photographs, enough to put an insightful article together at home in Toronto; the only thing needed for her departure from Jamaica was Redemption’s input.
“What you think,” asked Shad, turning in his seat, “if we pay a little visit to another camp on the way? It’s a Rasta farm, and I hear—”
“I thought Ras Redemption was going to help us,” Shannon said.
“We can’t put all the farm eggs in one basket.” Shad grinned at his own humor.
Shannon looked at Ransom, who’d been briefed on Katlyn earlier in the drive. He tipped his head, as if he thought it would be worthwhile. “Just a few minutes then,” she said.
Shad told Carlton to turn onto an unpaved road before I-Verse’s camp, and they bumped along for half a mile.
“You sure this is it?” Carlton said.
“I not a hundred percent sure,” Shad replied in a low voice, audible in the back.
It was even darker here, the overgrowth and trees narrowing the already narrow road. Outside, the screeching of crickets had turned to a steady drone.
“I don’t know,” Ransom put in. “We don’t know where we’re going, it’s dark, and it’s raining. Maybe you should do this another day.”
“Have to,” Carlton said, stopping suddenly. Ahead of them, the lights showed a gully full of rushing muddy water.
“Let’s go to the Nyabinghi, then,” Shad said.
“Thank you,” Shannon whispered to Ransom after they’d gotten back to the main road.
He put his hand on top of hers and squeezed it lightly. “I could hear what you were thinking.” He didn’t lift his hand and she didn’t move hers, the warm comfort spreading from his hand to hers.
“By the way,” she said, “I have a few facts to ask you about that are not in your books.”
“You’ve been reading them.”
“I read them already—in Canada.”
They laughed together, making the hand-touching easier.
Outside, the rain had stopped. “We reach,” Shad said. The gates to the camp were open tonight, and as they wound along the drive to the compound, the car lights picked out the eucalyptus trees towering over them like dripping sentries. Around the corner, a row of kerosene torches low to the ground announced the celebration, and in front of the first building, a large flag hung soggily from a bamboo pole.
A cluster of young men stood at the clearing in front of the buildings, some talking, some drawing on spliffs, turning one by one to look at the approaching car. The torches lit their faces from below, making them look like skulls, their chins and cheeks gleaming yellow. When Shad rolled down his window, the sound of drumming throbbed into the car, and Carlton leaned over the wheel as he crawled to a stop.
“Rawtid!” Shad exclaimed.
“A big night,” Ransom agreed.
One man, dreadlocks in a bun on top of his head, stepped over to the car and placed his hand on the driver’s window. “What your business here, brethren?” he said, clearly the gatekeeper.
“They coming to—” Carlton started.
“Ras Redemption invite us to the Nyabinghi,” Shad explained, leaning in front of Carlton. “Is not the first time we come.”
The gatekeeper called to another man, said something about Redemption, and the other man started toward the buildings.
The professor let go of Shannon’s hand and stuck his head out the window. “I’m Richard Ransom—from the university.”
The man with the topknot looked puzzled. “You coming to study us?”
“I come to partake, man, nuff respect,” Ransom replied, switching to a middle-class patois.
A post-rain breeze drifted into the car along with the drumbeats. The men kept looking at them, at Shannon longer, and she shivered. She wanted to reach for Ransom’s hand, but each of the car’s occupants was sitting upright in a silo of space. A minibus braked to a stop beside them, and a dozen Rastas stepped out, men in baggy pants, females wearing flowing dresses with colorful headgear. They greeted the men and walked inside.
The gatekeeper kept his hand on Carlton’s open window, only releasing it when I-Verse walked toward them. “Yes, you can let them in,” the tall wood-carver announced. In his embroidered white shirt and yellow turban he looked elegant among the youths.
“Park here,” the gatekeeper instructed Carlton, “and walk inside.”
“I staying in the car,” the driver replied.
Settling the camera bag on one shoulder and her purse on the other, Shannon stepped out of the car and joined Shad and Ransom beside I-Verse.
“This Mistah Ransom, the professor from UWI,” Shad said to I-Verse, gesturing to Ransom, who bobbed his head at the introduction.
“The Ransom who write all them books?” I-Verse asked, the scent of marijuana bursting from his lips. “Welcome, welcome, brethren, some nice reasoning with I and I tonight.” The Rasta started toward the buildings, and the men at the gate parted to let them through.
Shannon felt the wash of eyes as they passed, and she took an extra step to catch up with Ransom. “Stay close to me.”
“Joined at the hip,” he said under his breath.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
* * *
With each step they took, the drumming got louder, the haze of ganja smoke making it seem more insistent. From behind a building came the glow of a fire. A full moon had just risen above the trees, banishing the compound’s bedraggled daytime look and turning it into a dramatic scene lit by torches. It reminded Shad of a film he’d taken Beth to see in Port Antonio for her birthday, the one about an ancient kingdom that was really in the future, except there was no electricity and everything looked old-fashioned, just like these Rastas.
Dozens of people swarmed the grounds in graceful outfits and turbans trimmed with variations of red, yellow, and green. Some moved around the outdoor kitchen; some walked toward the center of the compound carrying bowls. Men called instructions to women; women called instructions to children.
“Greetings,” Akasha said, waving as they passed the kitchen. She looked pretty in a red head wrap, rows of beads around her neck.
“I and I getting ready for the feast,” I-Verse explained to the visitors.
“Ital food, good food that,” the professor replied.
“You hungry?” the Rasta asked Shad. “Is organic, so they call it in America.”
The group rounded a building to find a robust fire, six feet across, roaring in the middle of the compound. On either side of the fire were two long tables covered by white tablecloth
s and laid with bowls and silverware. Platters of food already sat in the center of each, and more food was being added. Encircling the whole area were torches on bamboo poles, and to one side was a large tree. Framed photographs of the emperor hung from the lowest branches of the tree, the panes of glass glimmering above the six men drumming in a semicircle below.
“Take a seat.” I-Verse gestured to a bench at one of the tables.
“Is Redemption here?” Shannon asked.
“Redemption busy now, reasoning with some brethren.”
She smiled without showing her teeth. “We had some business to attend to, remember?”
“Little patience, your turn coming.” I-Verse turned to Ransom. “Time for sacred herb. Everything taste better after a little smoke, right, Professor?”
Ransom looked up at the man, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, man.”
The drummers started singing, a wailing about taking us home that went along with a rat-a-tat rhythm and a higher-pitched drum. Before departing, I-Verse placed a spliff in Ransom’s hand as if he were the elder, the one to start the smoking, and Ransom glanced at his companions, eyebrows lifted helplessly, before placing the four-inch joint in his mouth. Shad wondered what Ransom was going to do—a man from Kingston used to being behind a desk—until the man took such a strong pull of the spliff, seeds popping, that his eyes crossed. Maybe it was part of his job, so he had plenty practice, Shad decided.
Shad took the joint and, after giving it a suck, offered it to Shannon.
“I’m working,” she hissed.
Akasha, the baby lashed to her chest with a sash, motioned them to join the circle that was forming around the fire. “Praise time.”
I-Verse appeared and gestured to the drummers to stop. They laid their drums down and joined the circle. I-Verse grabbed the hands of Shad and Ransom and raised them, his woodworker’s palms hard and scratchy, and everyone raised their joined hands.
The Rhythm of the August Rain Page 19