On the Way Back

by Montague Kobbé

  The first thing SamB noticed when he arrived in Sandy Ground on August Monday was the invasion of French visitors arrived from St. Martin who, along with fiercely sunburnt skin and funny—camp—intonations, brought to the island their very own sense of maritime fashion: worryingly tight Speedos—often described as “man-hammocks”—were the price to pay for the boon of fluorescent thongs and nipple-covering bras that more often than not slid beyond the subtle bit of skin they were (or not) supposed to cover. SamB was more than happy to pay that price and accommodate the temporary guests with the amount of attention their efforts to impress demanded, joining in on the carefree celebrations for the day.

  So it was that on his first wander down the beach, still holding his first drink in his right hand, SamB spotted the rousing sight of an admirer: stunning brown eyes brighter than the sunlit ripples, cowboy hat tilted forward, daring one-piece swimsuit cut in so many places the tan lines on her naked body would resemble a jigsaw puzzle later that night. It was the professional oval-shaped American football the men of her group were eagerly throwing at each other which told SamB that he would not need to use his deficient French chat-up lines. Where’s that accent from? Australia? Most Americans were somewhat baffled when they heard the name Zimbabwe, found themselves slightly caught out by the thought of there being any white Africans. SamB. My pleasure. Samuel Bedingford had acquired the habit of introducing himself as SamB ever since he first got to the island, not because there were any other Sams—As or Cs—with whom he could be confused, but simply because he found it so cool. Tracey Anne? What a beautiful name. Tracey Anne was the only Southerner in a group of New Yorkers who all shared one common, constipated American English they called normal. At this rate of normality, Tracey Anne and SamB found immediate affinity in the marked emphasis on the letter i in her diction, mirrored in his vocalization of the a, in her dragged out h, which made his pronunciation sound harsher than it was. An affinity, it must be said, that was reciprocated in the beauty of each other’s eyes, in their complementing features, in their mutually flattering company. SamB smiled to himself. Tracey Anne thought he had smiled at her, smiled back. The breathtaking—heavenly—beauty of Sandy Ground, turned quaint for a day, was momentarily enhanced by her perfect charm.

  Tracey Anne sat between SamB’s plied legs—feet flat on the ground and slightly apart, knees bent upward, serving as support to his embracing arms—surrounded by the rest of a crowd dizzied by the effect of the alcohol in their thirst-quenching cocktails, when the belated gunshot startled spectators and participants alike in decreeing the beginning of the race. The unexpectedly fast progress of the unmoored sailboats, the hectic activity of the delayed starters trying to get on their way before it was too late, contrasted markedly with the prior parsimony, prompted some excitement among a crowd that had almost forgotten why they had come to Sandy Ground that day. Once the bloated sails began to head into the distance, the general evacuation of local motorboats crammed to the rim got going, hyperactive enthusiasts delivering unheard or unheeded advice with the same futility they proffered insults, which despite traveling the seven seas were not even meant to reach anyone beyond their own quarters. Tracey Anne and her friends decided to follow closely the opening half of the race and then head back to the beach once the boats had reached the buoy. One of the football players—the one who looked like a quarterback—went to get some food—barbecue ribs, chicken, fish, johnny cakes, and satay. SamB helped load a few cases of beer into the small boat: two in the cooler under the bench at the back, two in the fridge inside the cabin, and one more simply scattered about. He was lifting the last case, passing it to the wide receiver in the boat, when he recognized Dragon Jones standing on his own on the white sand. I’ll go get my friend. Pick me up on the far side, over there. SamB’s run along the beach was slow and rickety. Dragon could not hear him calling over the drowning melody of the calypso, the jaunty tunes of the soca. The Americans’ boat had gone around twice when SamB’s clumsy greeting sent Dragon—unaware—tumbling to the ground.

  Twelve people on a boat that would comfortably sit eight was nothing short of luxury on a day like this. SamB sat on the bench at the back with Tracey Anne and two other girls. Dragon, meet Tracey Anne, Stacey, Melinda. The quarterback and the wide receiver were joined by another raving football player and a pretty blonde behind the helm. Stanley, John, Joe, Stacey. Dragon grabbed a beer, joined a group of three on the small triangular deck above the cabin, by the prow: Joan, Lynne, Joe. Suddenly, all their names blended into one another and Dragon forgot every single one of them. He smiled. The wide receiver, behind the helm, let out a warning. Four pairs of legs emerged simultaneously from under the railing on the side of the boat almost as soon as the surge of power thrust their heads backward. The scorching sun, ruthless in the shadeless environment of the open sea, dried Dragon’s bare chest within seconds, left a thin, pale coat of salt all over his skin. His lips cracked, his throat grew thirsty. The first beer went in a hurry. The wide receiver seemed to enjoy testing the performance of the two 200hp engines as much as anything; SamB took part in the fun, admiring the gracious beauty of Tracey Anne’s face, ridded of the long streaks of dark brown hair that covered it before; Dragon and the prow party were slightly less amused by the bobbling and bouncing of the hard surface underneath them. The wide receiver seemed oblivious to the location of the buoy, headed in the opposite direction. Dragon turned around, pointed the skipper in the right direction, and instantly turned into the sailing specialist of the bunch.

  The outward sail, aided by a strong westerly wind, was quick and uneventful. The Americans reached the buoy before the first tack, drifted idly as they watched the competitors go past. The wide receiver was replaced by the quarterback behind the helm and two girls joined the crowd at the prow, bringing beers for everyone. Someone opened wide the hatch of the cabin, placed the extra case of beers over some boxes so that it could be reached by the prow party through the opening with little effort. Five boats approached the buoy roughly at the same time. The Old Oak went around first, headed back east down the conventional route. De Vries, the only boat from Dutch St. Martin, in second, and 2Kool in fourth, followed it. Condor, in third place, and De Roque, fifth, both headed south, searching the streaky gusts of the shallow waters, banking on their ability to pull quick tacks along the coastline. Bumblebee, accomplished long-sailor that it was, remained the only front runner at sixth to take a sharp turn, travel the longer north path, trying to reach the shore in only one tack. Dragon rejoiced in his newly appointed task as he briefed his friends on the details of sailing tactics. On SamB’s request, they drifted by the buoy until De One, entangled in an intense fight with the boat from French St. Martin, came around. It was the only lapse of thirty seconds in the whole day when SamB’s eyes were not glued to some portion of Tracey Anne’s body.

  The quarterback took the opportunity to test the engines himself, chose a roundabout route—via Bumblebee’s North Hill path, then De Roque’s southern one—to reach the bay. Dragon thought Bumblebee had tacked too early, would miss wide of the finish line. But when he asked the more expert SamB about it he got no answer. As Dragon noted De Vries opening a gap, he suddenly understood why SamB was disinterested in the race. Dragon switched his attention from the boats to the delightful company. So, Gwen, is this your first time in Anguilla? A period of trial and error reacquainted Dragon with the names of his newly made friends and gave him a vague idea of the contrived status of their respective relationships with each other. The name’s Lynne. And no, Martin used to own a house in Sea Rocks, we used to come all the time.

  Who the hell is Martin? Dragon thought to himself. Never mind.

  Before Dragon noticed The Old Oak losing pace, it dawned on him that he would have to play his cards soon if he did not want to end up alone. Although there were six guys and six girls on that boat, experience had taught him that seldom in such situations do six couples ensue: inevitably there would be at least one frustrated party in
this bunch by the end of the night and he desperately wanted to avoid it being him. So he spied Lynne’s startling green eyes and the way they drifted past his empty chitchat, past the tiny square windshields by the “bridge” behind him, to focus on the lean figure of the quarterback. Is that your bloke? The word bloke, Dragon knew, would defuse any awkwardness the question might carry, perhaps even give him an edge by virtue of its exaggerated Englishness to the ear of an American. Who? John? Noooooh. The question did not have the desired effect, partly because Lynne’s attention was far too fixed on the movements of John, who in turn relentlessly wooed pretty little Stacey, who could not stop giggling to the tune of John’s come-on and who also happened to be Martin’s sister, who still sat on the prow—legs neatly folded in, hair flowing in the breeze—miserably dreading the blatant infatuation of his one and only meaningful prospect in life, Tracey Anne, with an insolent Zimbabwean intruder.

  That’s the frustrated one! Encouraged by his find, Dragon embarked on his quest for company for the night. With Stacey’s sweet small body already shivering for John, Lynne’s jaded eyes burning with jealous rancor, Tracey Anne’s smile crawling all over SamB, and an anonymous blonde making out with what was pretty unequivocally her very own wide receiver, the choice was reduced to the two remaining girls on the boat. A gust of wind blew in from the sea as the quarterback slowed down on his approach to the pier. Dragon instinctively turned to get an update on the race, but all he could see were the pale blue eyes of a girl who looked like a mermaid. His job was already done: left arm around her back, right hand pointing over right shoulder, back slightly arched forward, left cheek so close to her right it created static. That lone boat out north, that’s Bumblebee, the quickest runner at the moment. It was all a prank, of course: fluttering jibs, jaunty silhouettes, leaning keels—it all meant nothing to Dragon in the first place, and the boats were far too far to tell, anyway, but to the eager American ears that mattered, it all sounded plausible, possible, wantable. Sorry, what was your name again? Jo. Oh, Jo, Joanne, Johanna. Will you make my day tonight?

  XIII

  My eyes roll open as I’m forced to face the struggle of a brand-new day. What the light of day—banned from my bolt-hole by means of thick velvet curtains (Nathe thinks they belong to a whorehouse)—couldn’t achieve, the resilience of my hungry pet has accomplished. A daring spear of sunlight filters in through a crack between the two drapes, landing on a distant foot. It isn’t mine. I cease to forget: I’m not alone. I want to remember nothing more. The whirling passage to the living room takes me past an unusual amount of hurdles: too many pairs of shoes scattered on the floor. I don’t want to remember. The bag of Cat Chow above the fridge, a medicine kit on the counter. Sorry, Tiger. Priorities are priorities. Even aspirin is hard to swallow on this Tuesday morning.

  I sit. I sip a cup of something. I stare into nothingness wishing to disappear. Out of a different room emerges SamB. Barefoot and bare-chested, he slowly walks toward me. Today, his face is a smudge. I can’t tell whether he’s smiling or wincing in pain. His body collapses on the couch, pressing a pile of clothes deep into the upholstery. His left hand battles his own weight to retrieve a pair of (female) pants from under his butt. Stained underpants and sandy jeans entwine in a postmodern sculpture to adorn the silent space between us. I know why he has woken up in my house, but I don’t want to know. I refuse to remember.

  The sun emerges slowly, raising with it the temperature outside. It soon becomes too warm for anyone to sleep and we’re joined by our visitors. First, out of my room, Tracey Anne, small brown eyes sheltered behind half-shut lids. She collects her belongings—sandals, top, skirt—as she paces carefully around the house. There’s fresh coffee in the machine. She covers the pieces of her bodily jigsaw puzzle with an old gray T-shirt of mine from Leeds University which comes down well below the level of the skirt she was wearing the night before. I don’t want to remember any of that. Her perfect long legs still look perfect but her rugged mane and croaky voice are more attuned to the general feeling—my general feeling, at least—of the day.

  Lynne is next. I genuinely can’t remember Lynne joining us: a fit of jealousy caused by the painful embarrassment she felt at the dinner table when Stacey asked John to try some of her fish, then proceeded to feed him from her own mouth—lips lingering together suspiciously long—prompted Lynne to join the rest of the girls in their “other” adventure, and to give the gift she had so carefully wrapped for John to a perfect stranger. It turned out SamB was a lot more perfect, or much more of a stranger, than me. Nathe says it’s the exoticism of his heritage. I blame it on his accent. I feel uncomfortable as Lynne walks around collecting her and her friend’s clothes, and suddenly all I can think of is Sheila Rawlingson. I have cheated on Sheila, the most exuberant woman on the planet. Or at least I have cheated on the idea of Sheila, on the fantasy I have built around my father’s wife. I have cheated on my father’s wife, who is young enough to be his daughter. I have cheated on my father’s daughter. Jesus Christ. I have cheated on my sister, my father’s . . . Drop it now, Dragon. Just drop it. There’s fresh coffee in the machine.

  And out comes Jo, jeans buttoned up, top creased and soiled but on. I get up to make more coffee. Don’t worry about me: I need to go. Is SamB also feeling uncomfortable? Did he also cheat on someone? Is he thinking of my father’s wife? Jo’s walk is flimsy, her face another smudge. I don’t search for a smile. She no longer looks like a mermaid; Lynne’s eyes don’t have the sparkle of gems; Tracey Anne’s beauty fails to entice: no trace can be sensed in the embers of our night of the heat and the passion that made for a wild evening. That is all a part of yesterday, and this is the morning after the night before, and the magic and the spell that drove us through our adventure have somehow disappeared in the space between.

  We have our breakfast. I have to go. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere? There’s a tone of duty in SamB’s detached politeness. Are you interested in a seventeen-seat Trislander, by the way? My eyes bulge, my brain is startled out of its muted hangover. I heard there’s one going in the Dominican Republic for $150,000. The girls vanish from my range of vision, the regular weekday morning frame of mind kicks in. I’ll put you in contact with the people. I really have to go now. A rattling noise disrupts the solemnity of my driveway. The house is a mess, even emptied of the strangers’ belongings. Three awkward goodbyes are said on the threshold of my door but SamB’s breaking news has replaced my uneasiness with the hope of a hope. A taxi pulls up by my house. SamB has a car. No one has called a cab. The door of my house opens, SamB winks farewell in his usual fashion, the young women stand in line ready to go, yet something prevents the traffic from flowing, the foyer from emptying. Blocking the way, on the other side of the doorway, stands the imposing—small, strong, foreign—frame of a pilot, suited and booted, cap under his left arm, suitcase in his left hand, right fist clenched and raised, ready to knock on the opened door: Arturo Sarmiento.

  PART II

  I

  Nathaniel Jones was born in a small alpine town in southern Bavaria on a cold winter’s day several years after the invasion that turned America into the guardian of Western civilization and that left German people with a seemingly inexhaustible moral debt. Nathaniel’s mother, Gertrude Schmidt, was a lively member of a prominent local family that had somehow escaped the grip of ideological imposition and had managed to navigate the storm of Nazism without pledging unconditional allegiance to the party. Nevertheless, at the time of the American invasion, Gertrude Schmidt became just another member of that eternally grateful generation of Germans who greeted their invaders with genuine enthusiasm, not just because they—the Americans, the liberators—were the lesser of two evils but because they were, in fact, the most desirable option between two nations so perverse that you would never imagine they could coexist at any point in history.

  At the time of the imminent collapse of the National Socialist regime, Gertrude’s sparkly blue eyes had barely bee
n alive to the world for seventeen years. As a matter of fact, despite the atrocities of war and the deprivations of defeat, Gertrude’s sparkly blue eyes had not seen very much at all before the day she first noticed the long, strong arm of Horace Jones outstretched in her direction, kindly holding a bar of candy in his hand. Gertrude Schmidt did not expect such gesture of sympathy from a man enlisted in an army which authoritatively prohibited all interaction with the enemy, and Gertrude Schmidt saw in the generous boon offered to her by Horace Jones’s stiff arm an opportunity to hide, however briefly, from the ordeal of extreme poverty, so, despite the fact that Gertrude Schmidt had never been faced with a bar of candy before, her instinctive reaction was to embrace her benefactor’s sympathy with arms and legs wide open.

  Neither had Horace Jones ever experienced anything like the spark he found in Gertrude Schmidt’s blue eyes. He knew he was breaking direct orders when he followed the path that led to the source of such spark, when he silently handed Gertrude Schmidt a Hershey’s bar. But once Horace Jones discovered the gentler side of the master race, he found it impossible to comply with the rules he’d already broken, so he continued to risk his military career on a regular basis with secret expeditions into the blue spring of his infatuation, with a constant supply of the simple luxuries made available to American soldiers by CARE packages: sugar, coffee, bacon, honey.

  Concerned about the consequences of his illegal relationship, Horace Jones kept it secret long after the end of the nonfraternization policy, after the lift of the marriage ban. Until one Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1948, when, amid troubling discussions of denazification and trials of war, Horace Jones pondered the surreal serenity he had found in the small gasthaus where he had managed to secure a permanent room for his lover. He lay naked in the thin mattress that constituted luxury for Gertrude Schmidt, when he noticed the last remains of the twilight shining through the window over her stretched stomach. She lay, beautiful, on her side, facing the window, away from him. He looked on and saw, beyond the tracks of her ribs, beyond the dip of her waist, the convex line that sheltered her womb. He put out his cigarette, gently pulled back her left shoulder with his left hand. But the immaculate softness of her cheeks was covered in tears, as Gertrude Schmidt explained that she was five months pregnant. Three years of careful dating in utmost discretion came to an end four months later, when Gertrude’s sparkly blue eyes got glued with agony to the plain white ceiling of the infirmary nearest to the casern that housed Horace’s regiment.