Table of Contents
___________________
Part I
I
II
III
IV
V
(Arturo Sarmiento)
I
II
III
IV
V
Part I, Continued
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
Part II
I
II
III
IV
(Sheila Rawlingson)
Part II, Continued
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
Part III
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
Part IV
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
About Montague Kobbé
Bonus Excerpt: The Night of the Rambler
Copyright & Credits
About Akashic Books
To Adrian, for all those games we played so many years ago.
Here’s the result.
A Marisol. Tu favorita, al fin.
At Antón we couldn’t get into the church to see the miraculous Christ. The church was locked and no one seemed to know where the priest was. “Never mind” said Chuchu. “On the way back.” It was the second time he had used the phrase and suddenly in my mind it became the title of a novel which, alas, I was never to write.
. . . Captain Wong, the miraculous Christ, the Haunted House, all were promised on the way back . . . In my book the promised return would never be fulfilled—there would be no going back for the chief character.
—Graham Greene, Getting to Know the General
In the tropics one must before everything keep calm.
—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
PART I
I
I am the Dragon. My real name belongs to my father, Nathaniel Jones. We both bear the exact same name, the exact same curse. There isn’t even a distinguishing Jr. between us. One night, many generations ago, during a family reunion somewhere in rural Illinois, one of the Jones women called out for Junior. At that point, father, grandfather, and son simultaneously got up from the table to attend to the call. That night, it was decided that no other Jones would ever use the qualifying annex behind his proper name. Fifty years later, the second son of the youngest of the Joneses present in that family reunion filled out the forms that acknowledged the legitimacy of a baby born from a young German woman with sparkly blue eyes, calling him Nathaniel Jones. Not Nathaniel Jones V. Not Nathaniel Jones, Jr.—partly because he, the father, was himself not called Nathaniel, but Horace—simply Nathaniel Jones.
As soon as I heard that stupid tale, at the age of eight, I, Dragon Jones, first and only son of such Nathaniel, refused to follow the unimaginative tradition of the family that abandoned my father long before the blueprints of my being could be sketched in the ducts of his testes. It was then that I acquired the identity of a man who would forever be taken for a Welsh peasant. I, Dragon Jones, am not Welsh. In fact, I’m half-German—twice: my father, half-American, really German, met my mother, half-German, really Australian, in the place where I was born: the Federal Republic of West Germany. When my family discovered the fact that a country with soaring economic growth doesn’t necessarily provide the entirety of its inhabitants with economic well-being, they decided to move to a place where they could put to use their Teutonic American and thick Australian accents. The closest one was England. I don’t feel identified with any of these countries, none of those nationalities seem to apply to me. However, given that very few people in England know either my real name or the bizarre dimension of my true story, very few people in England believe me when I say that I am unequivocally not Welsh. (After all, is there anything more Welsh than Dragon Jones?) Nevertheless, in due time, I learned that it was better to be what I was not, than to be what people wouldn’t believe I was, so I embraced the motto rather Welsh than German (if only marginally) and stopped asserting what it was that I wasn’t.
Though I have tried my best to disentangle myself from Nathaniel’s name, I still share his curse. Fate and Nathaniel have brought me to this flat islet with the shape of a snake on the northern edge of the Caribbean. Anguilla is a recondite destination: sixteen miles long, three wide, little vegetation, and no history. But Anguilla is also surrounded by an enormous coral reef. Take that fact and combine it with the effect of the tides and a large, large dose of time, and you will be left with the most beautiful beaches in the world. In the world.
It was seeking beauty, comfort, and seclusion during Easter over one year ago, that Nathe stumbled upon the unattractive name of Anguilla. He was considering returning to the Seychelles until the moment when he opened Hotel Anguilla’s website. From then on, there was no turning back. Had he not randomly landed on that page, he might have gone to the Seychelles. Had he not come to Anguilla, he would have never met Sheila Rawlingson. Had he not met Sheila Rawlingson, he never would have married again.
Sheila Rawlingson is my father’s wife. Sheila Rawlingson is half Nathaniel’s age. Sheila Rawlingson might well be the reason why I’m here. Nathaniel met Sheila on the second week of his two-week vacation during Easter, over one year ago. After a short period of courting and a large amount of controversy, Nathaniel and Sheila married. Their long honeymoon was followed by a decision to return to the homeland of their love, perhaps to appease the clamor raised by their private wedding. It was at some point after their return that Nathaniel came up with the extravagant idea of setting up a commercial airline based on Anguilla to feed the rest of the Leeward Islands, to connect with European destinations, and to link with the most important of the Windward Islands. Sheila told him he was crazy; I had to read the e-mail he sent me twice, to make sure he wasn’t joking. But Nathaniel is tenacious to the point of stubbornness and his persistence has made me travel to an island of which I had barely heard before to form a partnership with a woman I had never met. Sheila Rawlingson is a gorgeous woman: she is exuberant, beautiful, elegant. I, the Dragon, have a secret to tell you: I’m in love with Sheila Rawlingson, my father’s wife, our business partner.
II
The plane will arrive at seven thirty in the evening, please have me picked up at the airport. Four weeks of uncomfortable silence came to an end with the short, polite phone call Dragon Jones paid his father and business partner on the eve of May 7, one year and one month after Nathaniel’s departure for his two-week Easter holiday. Nathaniel Jones had already resolved not to have his son picked up at the airport, but to go fetch him personally. Consequently he waited, alone, in the emptied hallway of Clayton J. Lloyd International Airport as the ATR 42 that carried Dragon Jones from V.C. Bird International Airport in Antigua to the northernmost of the Leeward Islands landed on Anguilla later that evening, two hours behind schedule. Welcome to your new home. The embrace that ensued cut through the bile that, like an ocean, had lodged itself between the two during the preceding weeks.
Despite the jetlag, the fatigue, Dragon Jones immediately expressed his approval of the house Nathaniel had rented for him on the western quarter of the island, far enough from his own home in East End to avoid the friction that comes with overexposure. Dragon’s two-bedroom hous
e was perfectly located for him to enjoy and assess the bores and privileges of the lifestyle of the obscenely rich in Anguilla without having to be isolated in the fantasy-island exclusivity offered by Viceroy, by Cap Juluca, or by any other upmarket hotels of the kind. Nathaniel wanted his son and business partner to have a taste of the very best Anguilla had to offer—the existing brand, the development potential—but he also wanted—needed—him to formulate his own version of the possible pitfalls, of the risks of failure faced by any venture in this place. If this plan was to work, it was going to have to stand up to the entirely different perspectives, motivations, and ultimately objections he and his son would raise against it. Convincing Dragon of going ahead with the venture was the least of Nathaniel’s problems: what he needed most was for him to develop his own arguments against the investment—and the West, as islanders called it, with its half-derelict mega-developments and its preposterously underused professional golf course, provided the perfect environment for him to produce just that.
During a spell of little sense and much indulgence, Dragon basked in the sun and experienced firsthand the unique splendor this obscure island had to offer: he embraced the chance to putt (on his own) in a golf course with a view to the turquoise sea and to the rundown skeleton of a failed real estate project that once upon a time had reputedly cost a certain Mr. Tinkerman his place in the Forbes list of billionaires; he rejoiced at the sight of his white skin tanning under the scorching tropical sun; he found in the solitude of a deserted beach the forgetful solace that allowed him to distance himself from the misgivings that had followed him on his excursion, and then he was able to enjoy his rum punch, piña colada, or cuba libre as he gazed into the sun every evening—just before six o’clock—when it sank into the ocean to bring the day to a peaceful end. Unlike his father, Dragon did not need to fall in love with anyone to fall in love with Anguilla.
Nathaniel Jones allowed Dagon to revel for a full week in the amnesia that the island had brought to his senses. In the meantime, he redoubled his effort to have everything in place before the defining day when the two men who constituted the board of directors—the high command—of Jones Investments would get together to discuss the feasibility, practicality, even the desirability of entangling in the most ambitious of fantasies: establishing a local commercial airline to serve the Leeward Islands and the rest of the north Caribbean.
When Dragon Jones showed up on the morning of Thursday May 15 at Nathaniel’s East End quarters with a briefcase full of numbers and a notepad full of questions, his skepticism had already been besieged by the staggering beauty, by the inebriating peacefulness of Anguilla. Nevertheless, the enthusiasm instilled in him by a week of fantasy in never-never land could not remove (at least not totally) the anxiety he felt at being swept into an enterprise whose main driving force was clearly the latest of Nathaniel’s whims. We cannot jeopardize the financial health of Jones Investments on the basis of a caprice. We will need at least three aircrafts, plus licensing, plus staff, plus rent. Local financing is out of the question, and any backing we might get will depend directly on Jones Investments acting as guarantor. We’ll need to commit at least one million dollars of hard cash before we can even dream of getting started.
Nathaniel knew Dragon’s first card would be sense, so his response was almost automatic: Suppose we manage to get independent means of funding the project, suppose we can manage to keep control of the airline without having to put in the capital to set it up. Nathaniel’s face lit up with the sort of rush gamblers get from wagering large amounts of money on a dark horse, the kind of kick that can only come from a fresh, unchartered challenge. His eyes hid behind a studied wince—a look of ambition and concentration replicated by his mouth, jaw slightly askew, the lips parted just enough to allow the top end of his lower teeth to show, glint almost, in expectation. Nathaniel, you could tell, was drawn to excitement, to risk: everything Jones Investments had always stood against.
Dragon could see exactly where Nathaniel was going but he stopped himself short of interrupting him. This is the perfect opportunity to embark on an activity that combines your interests and mine. We’ll be developing a real business, a very human affair, but we’ll have to depend on other people’s confidence, on the commitment we can extract from them. He listened attentively, gave away nothing at all, while Nathaniel, The idea is to concentrate the company’s attention—not necessarily its funds—on one ambitious undertaking. Dragon’s reason was engaged in an internal duel between the unnatural sympathy he felt toward this adventure and the prevalent sensation that it simply cannot work.
All I’m proposing is we take a risk that in the worst of cases might involve you spending a year of your life in this franchise of hell. Nathaniel noticed his son’s resilience giving way, and pulled the final trick—the one that, he knew, would tip the balance in his favor—out of his hat. I have a name that you’ll like: Dragon Wings. Dragon’s eyes gleamed with the fire of approval at the sound of his own name soaring through the skies, and Nathaniel saw immediately that he had sealed his first, the easiest, of what would need to be a long sequence of victories, if Dragon Wings was ever to become a reality.
Nathaniel and Dragon Jones spent all of Thursday morning and most of the afternoon negotiating, devising, calculating the pros and cons of such a risky enterprise. No matter how you looked at it, this was madness. But Nathaniel was determined to see his insanity through and Dragon was more inclined to back the venture than he ever thought he would be. With one condition: we will not inject any funds from Jones Investments into the development of this airline. That is where we draw the line.
Deal!
III
So one Sunday evening, about ten days after first getting to Anguilla, I meet Sheila. A long Thursday of negotiations had caused some friction between Nathaniel and me. Somehow, I had almost wanted to be convinced about this project and at the same time I resented the fact that I was being forced into a plan solely conceived, I was sure, for my father to enjoy the earthly pleasures offered by his wife. Much of this he disguised in schemes, strategies, calculations, but deep down inside both of us knew what this was about—and I wasn’t amused, though I didn’t mind that much either.
At least that’s what I thought. At least so I told myself.
We agreed, almost tacitly, to give each other some space, to take a small break from business dealings, to let time settle the old dust we had lifted from each other’s skins. In short, we decided to take Friday off. Come join us for dinner on Saturday night. Saturday night was not a good night but I would have said no to his first invite no matter what, simply out of principle, to get one back on him—even the smallest of paybacks—just to tick him off. Sorry, I already have plans for Saturday. So it’s Sunday night when I’m first confronted with Sheila Rawlingson’s gracious figure criss-crossing her way down the catwalk that is the dining floor of the Straw Hat, a charming restaurant by the beach. The scene is enthralling, she is divine—beautiful, elegant. Nothing can go wrong this Sunday evening: dinner is a blast, Nathe is in great spirits, Sheila is delightful, and me, I just wonder why in the world I ever had any doubts concerning the success of our partnership.
After such a promising first impression, the meeting Nathaniel has arranged with Deianira Walker, his lawyer, for Tuesday becomes little more than a formality: shake hands, take seats, This is my advisor, pleased to meet you, here are the papers, read through provisions, sign at the bottom. And just like that, in the blink of an eye, Dragon Wings comes to exist.
Formalities continue in the guise of getting an office. Nathe has been speaking to a slimy character by the name of Jermaine Dwyer—short skinny legs, stomach bloated to the size of a boiler, the kind of body that makes an extreme sport of tying the laces of your shoes. He owns a small building on the road leading to the airport, which Nathe thinks is perfect as a venue, but Sheila protests relentlessly against the idea. Uncle Glen does have an empty space in de Business Center. The Business Center is
a trendy commercial complex where all the major local businesses (all twelve of them) have an outlet. Sheila’s getting excited. The prestige, the location, the opportunities. I goan speak wit’ Uncle Glen straight away. I can’t quite understand Nathe’s obvious satisfaction as Sheila unclips her mobile phone from the top of her trousers—skin tight, curled over her buttocks—and walks away to make her call.
Two hours later we convene on a roundabout opposite the government buildings. From a large red van emerges the gigantic body of a clumsy man. Glenallen Rawlingson must be in his sixties but to tell by the blank look in his eyes he could be the same age as any of the students at Demerara High School—the school next to what might become our office. His prominent nose, his dark skin (darker than the average Anguillan), his bulging eyes (made seem whiter by the darkness of his skin), his flat, inward-folded lips—all combine to cloud the expression on his face with a veil of uncertainty. His stride is self-assured, if slow, his voice, ungraspable, both near and far at the same time. He weighs well over two hundred pounds and towers upward at least six feet high. My awe must be evident because Glenallen lets escape a boisterous guffaw as soon as we are introduced. As he leads the way on our short walk to the Business Center, I can’t help wondering what kind of genetic affinity might exist between this enormous man and Sheila’s delicate beauty.
The office is a small room on the first floor of the building. The large window on the far wall faces northward, as does the road, which means there is absolutely no breeze (the wind in Anguilla always blows from the east), but all the dust from the street still manages to crawl up inside. The room feels stuffy even when completely empty but Sheila is obsessed with the idea of having a place—Dis is perfect, you know!—in the business complex of the island. How much de rent goan be? Glenallen is facing away from Sheila as she speaks to him; he doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t even flinch—he just lifts his left arm gently and with a sleight of hand, For you, is free. Nathe isn’t happy. If we don’t pay, we don’t take it. His white linen trousers seem to glide on the stagnant atmosphere until he stops two feet away from Glenallen. Five hundred. From across the room, Sheila can still only see Glenallen’s swollen neck and the back of his shaved head. Nathe stands motionless, just two feet away from him, observing every crevice in his face. I simply stare, amazed and confused, at the awkwardness of the transaction. Deal! Hands are shaken and pledges exchanged but the threatening smell that presided over our meeting follows us on our way to our respective cars.
On the Way Back Page 1