Dragon seized the opportunity, fired a number of technical questions which made him look more erudite in the art of flying than he really was. Simon seemed surprised to hear Dragon’s voice, seemed to have forgotten there were more people at the table than himself and Nathaniel Jones. Startled and not yet recomposed, it was the latter he addressed while answering Dragon’s questions. You buy a young lady in an old dress: the plane was built in ’77 but it has no more than five years of active use at most; the engines were replaced in 2002, they have clocked around 5,000 hours each—you can verify that in the logbooks if you wish; the body must have around 20,000 hours—a pittance for a machine of this sort.
The price, which was still too high, was not touched upon again; the attitude, which had been insulting, progressively turned more casual, almost amicable; an occasion which had begun with a dangerously ill-conceived comment slowly took the shape of a lovely soirée, helped no doubt by the delicacy of a magnificent meal, by the tact of an astute negotiator, and by the aroma of two bottles of Bordeaux. By the time the waiter came to collect the empty plates of the main course, Simon’s impenetrable guise allowed for a brief, sharp laugh which fed minor hopes of a cheaper arrangement.
Before the arrival of dessert, Sheila took over the reins of the conversation. Her fine, delicate voice contrasted heavily with the forceful finality of her words. Come meet us on Monday morning at Mrs. Walker’s office an’ you will get a banker’s draft for 125,000 US for de plane. A long, lingering silence ensued as Simon O’Connor digested the sour core of Sheila’s beauty. Let’s say $140,000 and not another word, and as Simon placed the silver spoon he held in his right hand on the china plate before him, the first success in the creation of a real airline was sealed, and the future role of each of its founding partners established.
However, what seemed like a boosting accomplishment one day was recognized as no more than a minor achievement the next. The purchase of a plane more readily useful than initially thought, the purchase, in fact, of the first element of a functional fleet of aircrafts, was certainly a positive development. But the price at which it had come was not only financially distressing, it was also logistically unbalancing: suddenly, the search for creditors and investors would have to give way—without being disregarded—to the structural development of an organization capable of operating commercially. So, following the natural hierarchy the group had somehow adopted, Sheila continued to examine every possible route to provide the enterprise with a healthy monetary foundation, while Dragon busied himself with the more practical matters of operational requirements.
Which is to say that Dragon persevered with his initial instinct to address the shortage of indispensable personnel at Dragon Wings. He had decided against the obvious and turned to an extravagant friend to fill the position of chief pilot at Dragon Wings, partly because of some sort of nostalgic frenzy, partly because he knew it was far too early in the process to try to scout a man who was already flying for a small but successful chartering company. But Arturo Sarmiento had left Dragon with little choice, and a rash impulse compelled him to knock on SamB’s door.
Can you afford to pay my salary before you can afford to give me a plane?
A single argument was enough to disarm Dragon’s case. Yet, if the prior hope of a boosting accomplishment had been short-lived in the close quarters of the gestating airline, the disappointment triggered by SamB’s lack of support never made it to desperation because just as Dragon was forced to look elsewhere for personnel, the news came that Nathaniel had been scheduled to have a meeting with the chief minister to speak about the possibility of the government backing the airline.
Life, improbably, went on.
VIII
The world from atop Sandy Ground looks like an extension of paradise. Even with all the preparations for carnival, with all the excitement about the year’s greatest party, this view simply exudes peacefulness. As I drive down the hill that leads to the narrow stretch of land wedged between the deep blue sea—engulfed on either side by the closed angles formed by North and South Hill respectively—and the silver salt pond, parceled by an endless number of small stones lined up in perfectly measured squares, the sun has already begun its race below the thin leaden line of clouds that hangs just above the horizon. Sandy Ground—the umbilical cord of Anguilla—is always calm in the daytime. At night it remains the only bastion of entertainment, but during the day the long white beach is reserved almost exclusively for the affairs of local fishermen and shipping companies operating on the northern and southern ends of the bay respectively.
Everyone must be up at the village already, or getting ready for the opening of what promises to become two weeks of continuous celebration. Whatever the case, I find myself on my own as I sit outside my favorite bar, dipping my bare feet in the soft, cold texture of the virginal sand, sipping my first rum with thirst and delight, holding my sunglasses in my free hand, looking out past the rocking masts of anchored sailboats, past the clear shadow of Sandy Island—right in front of me—into the brazen, living, blazing shape of the blood-orange sun sinking inside the cradle of the blue horizon. The sky burns dramatically with all shades of reds, pinks, and oranges. My eyes—reflecting the glowing flames, I’m sure—ache from watching the sun for so long. I don’t want to miss a minute of this show. My sight gets blurry; I start seeing yellow, purple, green floating spots. I shelter my eyes behind the white plastic glass and drink placidly. I shut my eyelids momentarily and enjoy the bitter taste of the booze and the lemon dilating the buds on my tongue, irritating the more sensitive parts of my mouth, burning the top of my throat. I swallow, then open my eyes, gaze at the dying embers of the day with resolution—with scientific interest—ignoring the floaters, the stars popping up on the sky, everything around me. The final orange-yellow cord tucks under the sea. I’m still intensely looking at nothing. The sun is gone. I hold my stare: nothing. I lean back, relax. No afterglow. Again.
I hear Nathe’s raucous laughter inside the bar. I can tell by the tone of his voice he isn’t alone. I finish my drink quickly before their entrance and wait for a moment. The vigorous grip of his hand on my shoulder contrasts sharply with the tender touch of her kiss on my cheek: he is playing prominent macho, she, sweet intermediary. We just stopped at the Methodist church on our way down here to watch the sunset. The confusion of colors and shades has not left the sky, so they both choose to sit on the same bench as me, with our backs to the bar, facing the sea. You must have noticed the afterglow this time. I knew this would happen. There is no doubt in my mind there was none, but time has taught me to choose my battles with Nathaniel. The slow shaking of my head is enough to send them into a fit of laughter followed by a dismissal of my seemingly willful blindness. I take it, unperturbed, teased by the tingle of the sand tumbling gently from the top of the heap that Sheila, with the slow motion of her arched foot, has erected between us. The silky clay of her perfect skin brushes an infinite number of grains of minerals to the side; they put pressure on the pile, altering the balance of the whole; as the elements redistribute themselves, the excess crumbles to the base and tickles my leg on its way. Thus—indirectly—Sheila tickles me.
I spoke to the chief minister today. The tone of self-importance has returned to Nathaniel’s voice. I’m almost through with my second rum. His beer and her orange soda are still more than half full. The farce of a sunless crepuscule has vanished. Sheila gets up, walks around the table, sits opposite me. Nathaniel follows her. Was it something I said? This is business: nobody is amused by the comment. The Tourist Board is broke, the budget for the year tight. Government is prepared to guarantee no more than 40 percent of our seats. I’m not in the mood for business anymore. It’s been a long day and I just want to join the local crowd and see whether all the hype about this beauty pageant is actually worth it, but I know I’m not allowed to even consider taking an early night out. We can run the operation on 40 percent. I feel the scrutiny of Nathaniel’s eyes on me. His expression i
s not only of concern but of deep concentration. He is completely immersed in the figures, the possibilities, feasibility. He knows I’m slightly disconnected, tries to engage me with his commitment. Sheila saves me from his stare. De people from de Hotel and Tourism Association are prepared to give us deir full support. The HTA is a powerful private organization that brings together under a single umbrella the main hotels and restaurants on the island, as well as carrying out other activities directly involved in the tourism industry, in order to safeguard their interests. Their support is, of course, one of the necessary conditions for our project to succeed, but I just cannot concentrate on the words Sheila speaks when her lips move with such grace, when her perfect white teeth shine with such splendor, when her voice brings delight regardless of the news it conveys. What about solid cash? She’s been rambling on about magazines and advertisements and God knows what else. I needed to contribute, to show that I’m still taking part in this discussion, and I wouldn’t have been able to comment on what Sheila’s just said. Nathe likes my remark; I’ve fooled him, for the time being. Dere ain’ much available. His eyes are clouded with dismay. He understands, as I do, that not much is being used as an unsubtle euphemism for none at all. Sheila looks at me with expectation. Nathe buries his face behind the palms of his hands, holding his head from the top of his forehead with the tip of his fingers. A sigh lingers in the dark air. I don’t know which of them let it out. Maybe it was combined. I need a drink.
On my return, I find the loving couple analyzing the nature of our problems. Cheap flights for members and guests of the HTA can’t be deducted from the 40 percent quota offered by the government, which means it would be more profitable to fly with empty seats than to fly with anything up to 40 percent occupancy if it included passengers from the HTA. Sheila needs relief, seeks it in me, pierces me with her painful gaze. She asks the wrong question: SamB’s still sitting on the fence. He fears this might never take off and is not prepared to give up his present job until we can offer him something solid. Sheila’s head sinks with disappointment. Nathe drops her hand, stands up, paces around the table. We need alternatives. The statement refers to a lot more than simply pilots. We need to get this business going before the beginning of the season. Our absolutely latest starting date is the first of December. What looked like a hectic situation a few weeks ago, as I spoke to Art on the phone, is quickly turning into a desperate one.
What about Ralph? Sheila’s timid question is almost a concession of defeat. Nathaniel stops walking, our eyes meet. Sheila waits apprehensively for me to lose my temper, but I don’t. Silence is brief but poignant. Looking straight into my eyes, Nathaniel acknowledges him as an option. The final capitulation. I’m furious and frustrated, most of all because the situation has gotten to the point where Ralph can seriously be considered a viable candidate to become our chief pilot. The taste of rum no longer excites my senses. Ralph destroyed the propeller of the Queen Air in the accident that cost Leyland Airways its license. They both know how I feel about Ralph but I just want to make it clear that my position hasn’t changed. I gulp the last drops of my drink as they discuss when and where to find Ralph. It’s taken this much to get me involved in the conversation. As I head up toward the bar, the last thing I hear is, Better a bad licensed pilot than no pilot at all. Better for whom? I wonder. We have four and a half months to turn Dragon Wings into an operational airline. We have procured all permits by now, secured concessions from the government, even identified potential routes. All we need are planes and pilots. Let’s keep calm, and things will work out.
IX
Sheila made her way through the dark deserted beach with short but steady steps. As she reached the wooden platform she brushed the dry sand off her tiny feet with a swift, delicate movement; she slipped her toes into her sandals, waved gently, almost imperceptibly, at the two men sitting on the bench outside the bar, then carried on through her catwalk, criss-crossing her way out of the sight of her admirers. Father and son looked at her tanned slim figure disappearing in the shadows of the night with the same awe, the same satisfaction. She is gorgeous. Nathaniel—suddenly detached from the pressing issues that troubled his mind—bathed his lips in the stale foam of bottled Guinness. Dragon mirrored his expression, holding the plastic glass in his right hand with the same casual gesture as his father. Each of them embraced the comment as his own.
The intermission was over as soon as her grainy silhouette turned into a ghost. Pressing issues returned to Nathaniel’s mind. What followed was raw business. After a brief exchange that seemed to carry little of consequence, the breaking news: We have some friends at the HTA. Dragon swished the rum in his mouth from side to side as he weighed the significance of Nathe’s words. Who did you get that from? Rumors, gossip, promises form the hardest core of any small society, and Dragon was openly hostile to speculation. Newman, from Hotel Anguilla, has told me himself that he will back us all the way.
Before his meeting with the chief minister, Nathaniel had had lunch with Saul Newman, his old acquaintance from Hotel Anguilla. An exquisite meal on the terrace of the hotel reminded Nathe of that je ne sais quoi that captivated him on his first stay on the island. Saul’s inextinguishable Romeo y Julieta released a thin thread of smoke that curled around his right hand and charged his presence with a distinguished air. So you’re looking for help to set up this airline. A long drag set alight the burning cylinder between his index and middle fingers, conjured a curtain of smoke that distanced Saul’s face from the voice that uttered the words. At the HTA we can do a little something about that. Saul’s sentence carried a trace of danger, as if an unspoken warning was being issued. But for Nathaniel Jones, the most important thing that very moment was to get all the support he could to turn Dragon Wings into an operational airline in time to profit from the winter season, so as soon as the convenient sum of half a million dollars was agreed between him and Saul Newman, the mystic element of that je ne sais quoi he had recalled earlier acquired a very palpable aspect.
All we have to do is set up the airline before the first of December, and we will have resources to keep it afloat for some time, even if it is a grand failure. Nathaniel’s intonation came out devoid of its former gloom. Dragon was enlivened by the comment, encouraged by the tone of his voice. He knew that in a place like Anguilla decisions were largely dependant on the whims of an ego trip; he knew that a helping hand in the local game of intrigues was the best ally they could expect; and he also knew that Saul Newman, current president of the HTA, was as good a helping hand as one could get. What about Godfrey, from the Arawak Cave? Inevitably, in this maze of personal relations, rivalries often developed into hostile factions that would oppose each other uncompromisingly. They can sort that out themselves. For the time being we have the HTA’s support; their commitment to an operational subsidy would be legally binding for one year so long as we fulfilled our part of the agreement. The money would go into an escrow account as soon as our first flight took off. They would not be able to access it anymore, and it would only become available to us if we declared financial distress—this as a preventive measure to keep us from jumping at the money straight away.
The thick fake mustache drawn on Nathaniel’s face by the foam from a long last tilt of the bottle masked his attentive expression as he gauged the effect of his words in Dragon’s eyes. He had kept the news from Sheila in the hope that she might find independent means of funding the enterprise within her family. He had exaggerated its importance to Dragon in a final attempt to get him wholeheartedly committed to the project. The HTA wants to encourage tourists from Europe to travel directly to the island, avoiding transit through St. Maarten. Dragon knew the exact meaning of those words: obligatory linking routes to Antigua and St. Kitts, perhaps even St. Lucia. Nathaniel was transferring the focus of the present task from looking for suitable pilots to looking for suitable planes. All other routes are optional, entirely up to us. Father and son looked at each other with hopeful eyes. An operational
subsidy from the HTA meant a major boost for their airline: the assurance of getting to see at least one more high season filled Dragon with expectations, with genuine aspirations. The visible alteration in Dragon’s demeanor gave Nathaniel assurance that he could, finally, count on his son the rest of the long way. As we stand, if we manage to set up this company, we have a real chance of making it work.
X
Sheila made her way through the dark, deserted beach with short but steady steps. As she reached the wooden platform she brushed the dry sand off her tiny feet and waved gently, almost imperceptibly, at the two men sitting on the bench outside the bar. As soon as she got inside her car she lost her composed expression, tarnished her beauty with the sudden strain of desperation. She kept the teardrops that formed inside her eyes from falling but her vision remained clouded all the way back to her home.
Sheila’s eyes were still watery when she arrived, but the short drive had been long enough to restore her nerves, to allow her to regain her composure. As Sheila walked into her and Nathaniel’s den of love, she knew that, four and a half months to the day when Dragon Wings would have to launch its maiden flight, the key to the success of the project lay in finding independent means to fund it. Sheila also knew it was her task (appointed or not) to make certain they managed to attract local investors into the venture. So Sheila Rawlingson resolved to spend the long carnival break indoors, putting together an alluring package she would then distribute among the main potential investors on the island for them to consider once the summer celebrations were over.
On the Way Back Page 5