“Whatever happened to unbiased journalism?” James mumbled after some time.
“Sam Bennett, that’s what. His paper has been taking sides since day one. And why? Not because Carlysle’s any good, but because of that God damned editor-in-chief’s personal hang-ups. He’s not a journalist. He’s a vindictive bastard with a pen; the worst evil in all the world.” His nostrils flared. “And to think it all stems from something that happened a lifetime ago; something that didn’t even involve me. It pisses me off that those two idiots couldn’t iron out their differences.”
“I suppose hell does have a fury greater than a woman scorned … Sam Bennett scorned,” James said.
“I don’t know how he’s managed to keep that job for so long. He has such a planter mentality. He’s still brooding over the end of colonialism.”
“You know, Lewis, maybe you shouldn’t knock him so much. If your mother had decided the other way, he could have been your daddy.” After James finished speaking, I braced for more anger from Lewis, but instead there was a smile. James’ words seemed to have calmed him.
“We just have to have faith in the people. They’ll see the truth,” James continued.
“I want to believe that, James. Problem is, most of them aren’t listening to Carlysle well enough to realize that he speaks some kind of nonsensical mumbo jumbo. He tells jokes all day long. They just listen long enough to hear the set-up, then their laughter interrupts the punch line.”
Lewis straightened up a bit and continued on in a calmer voice. “I have to win this thing, James. When I do, I will remember those who tried to put obstacles in my way as much as I remember those who helped me.”
“Lewis, you have the most practical theories on what direction to take this nation in. You’re familiar with its political office, and you have such an effect on people. Not to mention, the women would much rather look at you than Carlysle.”
I lowered my head to cover a smile.
“Besides, Carlysle couldn’t lead a camel to water.”
“Perhaps. But he knows how to create a mirage, and so much is in the presentation. Carlysle might not be strong on appearance, but he’s got that one ace in the hole.”
“You’re up in the polls.”
“A whole three percentage points,” Lewis said sarcastically.
“There is nothing Carlysle can do that you can’t do better, Lewis. I’m certain of that. As for The Gleaner, you’ll have to do it without them.”
“The Gleaner,” Lewis mumbled. “The Gleaner … Do you know how many Jamaicans live by its words, James? How many take it as gospel? They don’t know me. They haven’t met me or heard me speak, so they go according to what The Gleaner says … and when they read that … that … dribble. I can’t say that those Camperdown High boys didn’t get shot as a result of the violence associated with the politics. I can’t dispute that one of those boys was the brother of someone who supports the National Party and who can get aggressive about his political beliefs, but to insinuate that it was something beyond a boy being in the wrong place at the wrong time …” Lewis stopped speaking and began staring out the window. He was silent for much of the remainder of the trip.
By the time the bus made it to Lucea, a heavy fog had descended over the land. Lewis was skeptical about the turnout, but as the van pulled into the square there, a sea of people appeared.
Lewis commanded attention as he took his place on a small platform. His athletic frame rose above the crowd. He had a bullhorn, but didn’t use it. Instead, he projected his voice, which sounded crystal clear and powerful against the hush of the crowd.
“There is no reason why anyone should have to do without in a land so rich and so fertile. This nation has suffered far too long from mismanagement. Government spending has too long only benefited the rich. We are all equal in God’s eyes, so why should one man be so wealthy and another so poor? There needs to be more of a balance in our earnings; there needs to be less greed. The poor should not be allowed to suffer while the rich reap the rewards of the system. Class distinctions must cease. One student should never be allowed to feel inferior to another. A baby should never be allowed to feel the pain of hunger, and a husband should never be without a way of supporting his family.”
“Jamaica is too fertile a land for its farmers to be paupers. We must learn to take hold of our destinies and not rely on America, Canada, Great Britain and the so-called first world nations to carry us. Our destinies are all entwined. We must gain control of our land and our lives. We must wean ourselves off these foreign loans. We cannot defeat hunger and unemployment and our lacking feeling of self-worth until we learn to fend for ourselves. And Jamaica must have leadership that is guided by these beliefs. The current leadership is not. The only way to change things is to make your way to those polls election day.”
“You cyan guarantee our safety at the voting boot’s?” came from a voice in the crowd.
“The violence that has been plaguing Kingston has not filtered to these far regions of the island. You have nothing to worry about at the booths here in Montego Bay. But to anyone who might be here from Kingston, or who might have family in Kingston, you tell them they cannot let evil dictate their lives. You can’t fight evil by ignoring it, only by facing it head on, showing you’re not afraid and driving it out. The worse thing that can happen is that people don’t go out to vote on election day, and the leadership remains the same and Jamaica continues on the destructive economic and social path it’s on now.”
Lewis projected so much warmth and so much strength. He reeled people in just enough, then he stood back and waited until they clamored for more. I had never heard one of his speeches before. I had never seen him perform. He managed to cast some kind of spell over the four hundred or so people there, but his magic wasn’t felt by the crowd alone. I actually believed he could end hunger. I believed he could solve any and every problem he came up against. He was already a tall man, standing over six feet, but he now seemed no less than a giant to me. But what I was feeling at that moment wasn’t just awe or admiration. It was something more basic, more physical. He was so beautiful and masculine and powerful. I couldn’t help but wonder what it must feel like to be touched by him, to be kissed by him, to lay with him. I kept thinking of that word I had learned—platonic. It seemed funny when I first heard it, but now it just seemed kind of cruel. How could any woman think “platonic” when she was around Lewis Montrose?
After he finished speaking, Lewis listened quietly as women told stories of not having enough milk to feed their children with. Men whispered to him in confidence about how, unable to provide financial support, their wives had lost faith in them and had sought company elsewhere.
I studied the hopeful faces in the crowd. The younger women, sporting their Sunday best, strutted up to Lewis and tried to maneuver a hug from the hand he had extended to shake theirs. I couldn’t figure out how he could have any doubts about winning the election. I couldn’t figure out why he needed me when he had such an effect on people. I didn’t realize I was staring until Lewis’ eyes met mine and the sides of his mouth curled up into a small smile. At that one small moment in time, I felt more special than I had ever felt before in all my life.
- 16 -
“I’m just afraid that some criminal with a crazed look in his eye is just waiting to slit my throat, or worse yet, rape me, take all my jewels and my money, then go into my house and kill my family.”
This was not exactly the type of conversation I had imagined would take place at one of Paulette Benson and Marilyn Walker’s garden parties. Then again, I didn’t know what to expect. I had never been to or heard of such a thing as a garden party before arriving in Kingston. If I had still been in Stepney and someone had told me to come over to their “garden” party, I would have put on my most unappealing set of clothes with the expectation that I would be on my hands and knees pruning weeds and planting vegetables alongside some of the other villagers. The “party” part would come int
o play after the work had been done, when the reggae was turned up, the pork jerked, and the Red Stripe chilled.
This particular garden party had nothing to do with planting or pruning—and no one was dressed less than their best—the best in Kingston casual that is. The get-together was held on a Saturday morning at Paulette’s home in the suburb of Barbican. Actually, mansion might be a more appropriate term. You pull up to this tall black iron gate and beyond it are trees and grass and fields and horses and people walking the horses and people pruning the trees. There must have been twenty rooms in that place, and the furniture was like something you’d find in a museum. Paulette had made her nervous comments as we sat under a large tammarind tree in the back of the yard, sipping pineapple juice. Of the ten women present, I was the only one not wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, so Paulette loaned me one from her extensive collection. Among the other guests were Debbie Dean, wife of the head of the defense forces, two women married to members of Parliament, the wife of a popular cricket player, and the wife of a judge.
“Paulette, no one’s about to kill you,” Debbie Dean said.
“But can you be sure? Look at what’s going on in the city today. I read in The Gleaner that the death toll reached four hundred thirty-five yesterday. Four hundred thirty-five? When has four hundred thirty-five people in Jamaica ever been murdered? And let’s be real about this, probably about four hundred of those murders took place in Kingston.”
“Exactly,” one of the women responded, “In Kingston. The urban areas. They have gangs and hoodlums duking it out all the time. It’s been that way for some time now. That doesn’t affect people who live up here in Barbican or Cherry Gardens or Liguanea.”
“What about Leonard Goode?” Paulette asked.
“That’s right,” Marilyn joined in.
“Yes, but that boy was a head case,” Debbie said. “He was a rebel who spent most of his time down in areas of Kingston I wouldn’t drop my worse enemy off in. That boy wanted to become a reggae star and figured he had to live some rude boy lifestyle to do it.”
“They say he had so much rum in him, he didn’t feel the knife puncture his spleen,” said Judge Morgan’s wife, Ayleen. She had large, protruding eyes that made it seem as if she was always surprised. “He was involved in some sordid business and had ventured into foreign territory in the dead of night.”
A maid brought out a basket filled with little sandwiches. I reached for one, but wished I hadn’t. There was no meat in the thing, only mayonnaise, or some such spread, and cucumbers.
“Unfortunately, Leonard’s story is no different than that of many other young men,” Debbie said.
“But those other young men don’t have parents who are successful doctors—parents we’ve sat down to dinner with,” Paulette said. “Those young men aren’t one of us.”
“Regardless, I really don’t think you have to worry about anyone breaking in,” Debbie Dean said. “Besides, they have police patrolling these areas all the time.”
“David bought a gun,” Paulette said almost giddily.
Marilyn gasped. “Paulette, you never told me this,” she said. Only, her words were just the slightest bit off. I looked at her glass. I got the feeling there was a lot more than pineapple juice in it.
“I won’t touch the thing. It’s so cold and heavy. But it’s good knowing that if anything happens, if any of those ghetto hooligans make it uptown and threaten our home, we have protection right there.”
“Look, unless you plan on walking through Denham Town or Trench Town or thereabouts, I don’t think you’ll have a problem. Besides, right now, many of these people aren’t so much interested in your jewelry as they are in politics,” Debbie Dean said.
“Souci, what does your husband say about all this?” someone asked.
I was in mid-sip of my juice when this question was posed to me. I put my glass down on one of the small tables that had been provided for each of us. I wanted to sound as if I was privy to Lewis’ inner thoughts. I wanted to sound as if I was his confidant. Problem is, I had no idea what went through Lewis’ mind—politically or otherwise.
“Lewis doesn’t like to really discuss politics,” I said.
“But he is a politician, isn’t he?” asked Debbie Dean, who was sitting directly to my left. She leaned over and adjusted herself in her seat so that her face was right next to mine. I wanted to ask her to move.
“Well, yes,” I said as I moved over a little to my right “What I mean is, he doesn’t like to talk about it at home.”
“David doesn’t bring his work home,” Paulette said. “I have to pry to find out what I know. The man can be such a Neanderthal. He doesn’t think women belong in business.”
“The paper keeps insinuating that Lewis … and Carlysle have something to do with all this—that they’re trying to strong arm the other’s constituency out of voting.”
I recalled Lewis’ reaction to The Gleaner article during the campaign trip to the western end of the island.
“That makes Lewis very angry,” I said. “He’d never do anything to hurt anyone.”
Some of the women seemed a little bored with the conversation. They were fanning themselves and looking off at the mountains in the distance. I heard someone or the other suggest riding, and soon, half the party was headed for Paulette’s stables. I remained under the tamarind tree listening to stories involving people I vaguely knew. These stories were all pretty similar, usually concerning who was being unfaithful to whom, who had worn an inappropriately low cut dress to a conservative outing, or who was experiencing hardships financially. Sometimes my mind drifted off. The Leonard Goode story had gotten me thinking about how far removed from what was going on in the city these women were—how far removed I was. What I read of in The Gleaner was another city, another island, another world.
“But Souci, what’s that about our current prime minister calling perhaps our future prime minister a communist, a Castro lover. The Gleaner says you were sitting right along side your husband when that happened.
“Only two nights ago … at the Blue Marlin.”
Marilyn lurched forward suddenly. “The Blue Marlin—the most difficult place in Kingston to get a seat for dinner.” “If John wasn’t a friend of the owner, we would also have to join that month-long waiting list. I’m sure your husband didn’t have a problem getting reservations though, Souci.”
“I suppose not.”
“Oh Marilyn, stop interrupting,” Paulette said to Marilyn with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Souci was just about to tell us what happened that night, weren’t you, Souci?”
“Well, just what you read in the paper. We were having dinner, and all of a sudden, Mr. Carlysle came in. I didn’t know he was so tall. He practically had to bend to walk through the door.”
“But why did he call Lewis a communist?” Paulette prodded.
“Lewis says it was just for publicity.”
“Publicity?”
“Yeah, it’s so close to the election, and some press people just happened to come into the restaurant with Mr. Carlysle. He goes from asking how the king fish was that we were having, to asking Lewis about some article he wrote on Castro and Cuba years ago.”
“The Gleaner got a hold of that article. They printed an excerpt. It doesn’t make your husband sound too good,”
“Makes him sound like he really admires Castro and communism.” “Oh, you’re missing the point, ladies,” Debbie interrupted, but before she could finish her thought, Paulette cleared her throat. The maid had approached with a new pitcher of refreshments. Debbie looked around uncertainly, then began speaking again.
“And, unfortunately …” But before Debbie couldn’t finish, Paulette cleared her throat again. Debbie stopped talking and shook her head. As the maid replaced the pineapple juice with lemonade, we sat in silence. Paulette just stared at the maid, as if that might have made her move faster. New glasses were placed on the side tables, and I noticed that Marilyn’s glass already h
ad something in it—some kind of clear liquid. The maid put the used glasses on a tray and walked away.
“Paulette …” Debbie began.
“Don’t you start, Debbie. You have your views and I have mine.”
“Your workers are not spies, Paulette. They don’t care what you think about politics or clothes or life in general. They’re just trying to feed their families.”
“How do you know what they go back and tell their people? Things are too volatile these days. I just refuse to talk politics in front of anyone I don’t know.”
“You know your help.”
“No she doesn’t,” Marilyn slurred.
I started laughing. I’m not sure whether it was because Marilyn had gone way past her limit, whatever her limit was, or because Paulette was crazy. Anyway, it was nice to have the interruption. I felt as if I were being triple-teamed before.
“Anyway, what I was trying to say,” Debbie began again, “is that I think most people who read the paper will also miss the point. I don’t think Lewis was saying communism is right or that it would be right for Jamaica. I think what he was saying is that he admired Castro’s initial ideas regarding a small nation finding ways to sustain itself, you know, not depending on financial and defensive and economic aid from other countries.”
“Maybe. But Lewis has visited Cuba a couple of times, and for God’s sake, let’s not forget that his right hand man—James Alvarez—is Cuban,” Paulette said.
“Half-Cuban,” Debbie corrected. “Lest you forget, his mother is Jamaican.”
“Yes, but he was born and grew up in Cuba,” Paulette countered.
“But only until he was six. The man is Jamaican at heart. More or less, he’s lived here since.”
A hummingbird floated by and dipped into and out of the tree leaves above us. I watched as his tiny wings fluttered at double speed.
“Well, anyway, I’m just suggesting how bad this must look to the average Jamaican who doesn’t know Lewis personally like I do—who only knows him via The Gleaner,” Paulette said.
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