Crickets' Serenade

by Blythe, Carolita

  “What?”

  “I’m trying to tell you that I’m not into any black magic or obeah or the occult. I was baptized a Catholic, and I’ve completed most of my sacraments.”

  “Is funny, ’cause when Greenie was talking to me outside de clinic, him was getting all jealous, but me tell him nuh fe worry. What could dis big politician mon want fe chat to me about? Well, I guess you fool me. But why you ask me such a ridiculous t’ing, Mr. Montrose? Is not very funny.”

  “It’s not a joke,” he said as he pushed his plate aside. “I need a wife.”

  “I suppose lots a people do, but dem don’t ask people dem nuh know. Wha happen to de women in Kingston? You must know lots a pretty, rich ones. Look at you. Why would you want to marry me?”

  “It goes beyond being pretty or rich or any of that sort of thing, Souci.” He inched his chair closer into the table and leaned forward. “I need you to promise you will never repeat what I’m about to say to you.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  The flame from the kerosene lamp flickered against his face. Our shadows were long and drawn out against the wall. He looked into my eyes, and I could sense the calmness of the sea.

  “Why pick me? Why not pick somebody you know, or somebody you been dating fe a while now?”

  “Maybe if you’d allow me to ask you a few questions, things might be easier to explain. Now, what do you know about our political system?”

  “What me learn in school … prime ministah, Parliament, senate, representatives, supreme court where de judges wear dem big, ugly white wigs. Dere’s a governor general dat represent de queen …”

  “I don’t think I asked the right question,” he said. “What I mean is, what do you know about politics as it relates to elections and to the political parties?”

  “I don’t really know if I follow you.”

  “Do you vote?”

  “Of course. You miss out on voting, you miss out on all de good arguments going on ’round here fe de next few mont’s aftah de election.”

  “How do you decide which candidate to vote for?”

  “Well, some people vote by party. It don’t mattah much who’s running. Some will only vote fe de Labor Party. Some t’ink de Labor Party too much fe business an’ money, so dem vote National Party. Some don’t really care. Like Farmah Bygrave. Dat mon t’ink you all in league wit’ de devil, so him vote fe whoever seem to be telling de least amount a lies.”

  “Maybe if more people took that stance, we wouldn’t have so many problems during the elections. But it’s not that simple. You see, the political system here is very interesting and very complicated. As you said before, many people vote along party lines. So if somebody was loyal to the National Party, of which I am a member, I could run down the street naked, pulling out my hair and it wouldn’t matter. Their father and brother voted National, so they’re going to vote National. But there are many others who aren’t sure who to vote for. This is where campaigning makes a difference and the personality at the forefront of the party can swing an election. To lead your party these days, to get elected, you have to be somewhat of a showman. You have to be able to tell a good story. Qualifications are secondary. My Uncle Cecil belonged to the National Party, my father to Labor. They ran against each other in that first election. My uncle won, but not so much because he was better qualified. He wasn’t. My father was a political genius, but he was also incredibly reticent. His speeches were filled with well researched facts and numbers and statistics. Very informative, but not the most interesting thing to listen to. And he wasn’t necessarily a get out into the streets and mingle and small talk kind of guy. Though uncle was nowhere as sharp as my father, policy wise, Souci, if you could have seen him perform—dancing in the streets, doing karate moves with young boys, riding on the tops of cars posing and winking at the women.” As he spoke, he tapped the pointer finger on his right hand against the table as if he were keeping the beat to a song. I don’t think he realized he was doing this, and it didn’t really make much of a sound, especially with the rain still falling, but I found myself looking at that finger almost as much as I was looking at his face.

  “I’m no slouch in the performance category, but my opponent in this election, the present Prime Minister Douglas Carlysle, he’s the undisputed master. My uncle was very aware of this when Carlysle became leader of the Labor Party in sixty-five. In sixty-six, when Uncle Cecil realized he was dying and would not be able to hold office for another term, he called for an early election. He wanted to guarantee that the National Party would be in office another term, and I think he used all the energy in his body to help Teddy Barnes, who had been groomed to be his successor, win that election.

  “Teddy Barnes’ term was racked by mismanagement and various other problems. It also marked the beginning of inter-party violence, which is not as prevalent as the papers make it out to be, but it is worrisome. It escalates during elections, though it’s usually confined to a few restricted areas of Kingston. Now, the first election was very calm. People were still high on all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the end of colonial rule and the hope that self-governing offered. The second election was at times explosive. Between my uncle’s gift for theatrics, Teddy Barnes’ hot temper and Doug Carlysle’s ability to fuel a fire, things often became quite tense. There was often pushing and shoving and shouting at rallies, but it amounted to little more.” I took a sip of tea, but it had already gone cold. I had to concentrate really hard to keep my shaking hand from slamming the cup down onto the saucer. But I suppose I didn’t do a very good job, because the cup almost fell over. Lewis Montrose paused for a moment, and his finger stopped tapping. When he resumed speaking, he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  “Things started to become very polarized while Barnes was in office. He rewarded certain areas of Kingston for their loyalty to the National Party by putting money into their communities—improving housing there, building up schools. Carlysle and the Labor Party did the same in areas loyal to their cause. This built up very distinct, very strong feelings of party loyalty in these areas.”

  “As I said before, Barnes didn’t have a solid term in office. The Jamaican dollar began losing strength on the world market; Carlysle started calling Barnes a criminal. Things started to get real ugly. It didn’t help matters much when Barnes called an early election in nineteen-seventy. The rumor was that he did so because he was involved in shady financial dealings that would likely have come to light during the year left on his term. Barnes denied this and countered by saying that Carlysle was arming thugs and urging them to intimidate National Party loyalists. You could just feel the tension mounting between the two groups. Tempers flared and a few shots were fired. Casualties were minimal, but the bad blood has been festering for close to five years now.” He suddenly fell silent. He just sat there staring at the spilled tea on my saucer. I wasn’t quite sure whether or not the story had ended

  “Well, Mistah Montrose, you tell me all about politics an’ de election, an’ dat’s nice. But not’ing you say really explain why you would evah ask me fe marry you.”

  “It’s quite simple, actually. I was trying to show you how fragile this political thing is. Carlysle will do whatever he can to get a stronghold on things. I think he thought he had this prime minister thing locked up for years and years to come, but I pose a serious threat to him. Because of my pedigree, I’m a link to a calmer, gentler past that Jamaicans want to return to. My last name is Montrose, and regardless of what people think of me, because of who my uncle and my father were, that name carries a great deal of weight. Well, Carlysle’s found a way to lessen its impact. Earlier you said that only black people know Anansi stories. You don’t think I’m black?”

  “Don’t really know what you are, Mr. Montrose.”

  “Well, you look at Carlysle and you know exactly what he is, no questions asked. He might be lighter skinned, but he is a black man. You look at me and that’s a different story. When people see m
y mother, they see a White woman, not a woman whose grandmother was black. When they see my father, they see a man of some indeterminate mixed heritage. It’s taken me a long time to understand what my mother used to say, and though it was often said in denial, there was some truth to it. She said that no one asks what kind of blood runs through a man’s veins.” He put his left arm on the table and pointed at it with his right hand. “They go by the pigment they see in his skin.”

  “It’s 1974 and there’s still residue of the Black Panther movement in America, black pride in London. The kids play their radios outside sometimes and you know what I hear? I hear songs about Marcus Garvey. I see Rastas who talk about going back to Africa and the unity of the black man. They think Selassie is God and Marley is the second coming. Carlysle’s already started playing the race card, and I haven’t even officially declared my intent to run yet. In this age of nationalism and black pride, Douglas Carlysle is lauded for being able to trace his roots to the Coromantees of the Gold Coast.” As I shifted a little in my seat, he seemed to anticipate my question.

  “They were brave warriors. Rebelled against slavery when they got to the island a couple of centuries ago and escaped into the mountainside where many of them became Maroons, and that’s from where Carlysle claims to have descended. A sudden revelation, mind you, since he was unable to trace those same roots three years ago, nor was his father thirty years ago.”

  “But why would Carlysle lie about somet’ing like family?”

  “Half the things politicians say are twisted. Not always lies, but hardly ever completely the truth.”

  “But you t’ink people really care, or even notice dat kind a t’ing.”

  “People believe Carlysle can help them more because he can empathize with them. They believe my white ancestry has so diluted the black blood in my veins that I’m somewhat above the problems of the black man; that the problems of mass Jamaica have never affected me. They believe I’m an elitist and live in a world far different from their own. However, with a black woman by my side, things are changed considerably. In essence, whatever affects my wife, affects me. It evens things out, and Carlysle will have to talk about the issues and not what color my great-grandfather was. That, my dear Souci, is the whole truth.”

  I realized that the man sitting before me was indeed serious. I tried to get up, but felt trapped in the chair. When I was finally able to stand, the chair shot out from under me, crashing against the wooden floor. Lewis Montrose walked over, picked it up, then stood quietly at its side.

  “Mr. Montrose, you don’t know a t’ing ’bout me.”

  “I know that you’re not married and that you have no children, nor kin really. You’ve spent your whole life here in Stepney, in this very house. You’ve completed secondary school, combat your boredom at the clinic by reading paperback romance novels and enjoying the entertainment pages in The Daily Gleaner. I also know you’d be fascinated with Kingston.”

  I stared at him.

  “As I said before, your neighbors are very warm and open. All you have to do is ask.”

  “You nevah tell dem how come you was asking?”

  “No.”

  “Dat’s probably why dem nevah tell you I was engaged. In t’ree weeks, me will become Souci Greene.”

  “Souci, if you’re going to marry someone you don’t love, I don’t think you could get a better proposition than the one I have given you. Potentially, to become Jamaica’s first lady, to travel to other lands, to have a staff and driver at your disposal, to shop the most beautiful boutiques in Kingston.”

  “But why me?”

  He returned to his seat at the table before responding.

  “I don’t know why, Souci. It’s just a feeling. I had it the moment I met you.”

  “But I don’t know how to be anybody first lady.”

  “That’s why you’re so perfect.”

  “I cyan’t believe you would trust somebody you don’t know wit’ all dis.”

  “It’s a gamble I’m willing to take. First of all, I don’t think you will be able to decline my offer. And secondly, even if you were to talk about it, who would believe you?”

  “But Mr. Montrose, me nevah say me nuh love Greenie.”

  “You never said you did.”

  I wondered if Aunt Mattie was listening, or my mother, and if they were, what they were thinking. For the longest time, it didn’t seem like I would ever get married. Now I had not one, but two offers. I could feel the giant grin spreading across my face. It was more the result of shock than of pleasure. Maybe this was finally my chance to follow the main road to its terminus.

  “I realize how overwhelmed you must be by all of this,” Lewis Montrose said as he stood and stepped away from the table. “I’ll be returning to Kingston. Take some time to think about …”

  But before the poor man could even finish his sentence, I belted out a resounding, half-mad, “Yes!”

  “Yes you’ll take some time to think about it?”

  “No. Yes, I will … marry you.”

  “You don’t want to think about it at all?”

  “Not’ing at all fe t’ink ’bout.”

  “Very well then, Souci Alexander. We have ourselves an arrangement.”

  -6-

  After Lewis Montrose left, I ran into the bedroom and threw myself face first onto the bed in a fit of laughter. I’m not exactly sure when the tears came. There were so many strange thoughts going through my head. Did he really ask me to marry him? Me. Souci Alexander. It was the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened to me. It was more like one of the plot lines in one of my romance books. The enormity of my saying yes was beginning to sink in, as was the realization that there was no way I could live up to what Lewis Montrose might have been expecting. I don’t know how long I remained with my face buried in my pillow. I probably wouldn’t have moved if I hadn’t remembered that Greenie was coming by for dinner. I wiped my eyes and moved out into the living room just in time to see Greenie walking up the path toward the front door. He held a droopy, wet newspaper over his head and the water streaming from it ran down his arms, soaking his button down shirt.

  Our dinners were usually quiet affairs. Greenie didn’t talk much about anything aside from cricket and mending clothes, and I wasn’t particularly interested in either. He didn’t care much for romance books or the gossip in the newspaper’s entertainment pages, but still I wouldn’t consider our dinners unpleasant. But this night, having dinner with Greenie was the last thing I wanted to be doing.

  “So, him just want fe ask you ’bout de clinic an’ farming an’ t’ing?” Greenie asked. “Bwoy, dese rich people don’t know wha fe do wit’ demself. Spend all dat time an’ effort an’ gas money fe come all de way back up here.”

  “Well, is cause him know me would tell him like it is.”

  Greenie smiled as he shook his head and took a big bite of the saltfish. He clinked out a little song by tapping his fork against his plate.

  “You know, Farmah Bygrave bring in a pair a shoes today,” he began.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, mon. Nevah see dem before. Him nevah wear dem to church. Usually, him have on dat run-down canvas brown pair. But dis was a nice pair, as nice as anyone here own. Him a go a some wedding—some cousin down in Milk River.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. But dese shoes need lots a help. You should see dem. Come down to de shop tomorrow before you go down to de clinic an’ I will show you.”

  Greenie placed his fork against his plate and giggled.

  “Is a good leddah pair. Me t’ink him say de cousin get it from somebody who was in England or somet’ing. Must a been at least twenty years ago. Dem nuh mek shoes a dat quality no more. Anyway, you should see de sole on dese t’ings. De front walk down into de toe an’ half de heel missing. Me was working pon it while you was down here wit’ dat politician mon. You know, trying fe keep me mind off t’ings. But me cyan’t find a similar heel, so look like me just a go
have fe mek one. Me almost out a glue, you know. Next time you in Brown’s town, pick up a vat fe me?”

  “Sure, Greenie.”

  “Souci,” he said, as he clutched my hand at the fingertips. “Me happy ’bout dis, you know. Now, every night will be like tonight, only bettah.”

  I couldn’t prevent my eyes from drifting down to the tablecloth. How exactly do you tell the person you have been engaged to for six months that you have now also promised yourself to a man you met for the first time only a couple of days before; a man you know nothing about?

  “Anyt’ing wrong?” Greenie asked. I just looked at him.

  “You just look, you look … oh, I know. You don’t have fe worry ’bout not’ing. Me will finish you wedding dress. Farmah Bygrave shoes will just have fe wait.”

  He brought my hand up to his lips, but seemed unsure of what to do next. A small grin formed on his face, and he pecked at my hand quickly. He did the same to my neck, then my cheek, then my lips. I could feel his hand fumbling at my breast, and I scooted my chair away a bit.

  “De dinnah will get cold,” I said. He shook his head, then went back to eating and humming his little song, all at the same time.

  * * *

  I didn’t tell anyone what really took place between Lewis Montrose and me. Not even Michele. I decided to wait for a follow up message from Mr. Montrose. After all, who knew how many whims came over a man who would ask a complete stranger to marry him. Maybe he had run into another pig in the road on his way back to Kingston and found someone better suited for the job. One day quickly drifted into the next, and with it no word from Kingston. The day of his visit slipped farther into the past while the day of my marriage to Greenie drew closer. I spent most of my time at the clinic reading Jimmy Mason’s two-day-old newspapers, trying to find some news, any news on Lewis Montrose. But the news I was looking for would be delivered in a more personal manner than a newspaper article.