On the Way Back

by Montague Kobbé

  Nathaniel Jones was born in a German hospital seven miles away from the American casern in which his father was to spend the last six months of his placement. Gertrude’s respectable family and Horace’s impeccable record worked wonders twisting, bending, shaping the rules of a busy army, in their effort to endow this indecent union with an impossible level of legitimacy. After weeks of laborious networking, Horace and Gertrude Jones were finally allowed to walk out of a church as husband and wife. Thus, a very private, very subdued service succeeded in completing the task begun by a phallic bar of candy years before: maintaining the heritage of a name that for four generations had identified the firstborn male in the Jones family and that had been denied to Horace by a twin toddler who took it to his grave even before he could learn how to say Nathaniel.

  But after Nathaniel’s birth Horace suddenly found that the brightness behind Gertrude’s sparkly blue eyes dimmed, that her firm, white thighs widened, that her soft, round buttocks began to drop flat, and he found himself harboring uncomfortable doubts about his original plan to take his war bride back to Alton, Illinois. So Horace declined an offer to go back to the USA, choosing instead an assignment in Wiesbaden. Yet he also considered it imprudent—unsafe, even—to take his German wife along to a city he didn’t know. He was not allowed to live with her inside the casern, or to share a residence with her outside army grounds. So Horace promised he would seek suitable arrangements and call for his wife to join him in Wiesbaden as soon as everything was in order.

  * * *

  Six years later, as Gertrude held Nathaniel by the hand on their way to his first day of school, all that remained of Horace Jones in her life was a surname, a monthly contribution toward the upbringing of their child, and a postcard sent by Horace six months after his arrival in Wiesbaden. She counted herself among the lucky ones: at least Horace had proved generous, if not loyal.

  Nathaniel Jones was raised by his mother in a small alpine town in southern Bavaria. He quickly and naturally learned to speak his native language. At age six he was enrolled in a German Grundschule. After successfully finishing his fourth year Nathaniel was moved to a German Realschule, where the crisis of his teens came and went with no detriment to his academic performance. Urged to outshine the ones who mocked him for his name, who reviled him for his mother’s transgression, Nathaniel decided to continue beyond his eleventh year, completed a twelfth and then a thirteenth year in a German gymnasium. Finally, he was admitted to a German university, where at the age of twenty-four he was the youngest student in his class to be awarded a degree in economics.

  But regardless of his accomplishment and despite his best efforts, in the eyes of his cohorts Nathaniel Jones remained—had always been—ein Ami—an American. The sparkle in Gertrude’s eyes had sufficed, if not to uphold the fire of matrimonial commitment in Horace Jones, at least to ensure his recognition of paternal responsibility, legitimated by the gift of his name. A gift that forever alienated Nathaniel Jones from his natural environment, a gift that Nathaniel hated as furiously as he impersonated it, a gift that immediately and irrevocably shaped his life, turning him into what he is now.

  II

  Dear Grandpa,

  By the time you read this letter I won’t be home no more. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me, like everyone else in the family. I never wished to hurt you. I only wanted to live my life. I think, of all people, you might understand.

  In the beginning, things were different, you know. When I met Nathaniel, he was just a tourist passing by who caught my eye. The reason I never mentioned him to anyone was because he was no big deal to me. But things got complicated. He extended his stay without telling me nothing, he spent weeks looking for me, his charm intrigued me, his experienced devotion seduced me. When Nathaniel proposed, it was no surprise. We had been spending plenty time together (alone, in his house, away from the gossip). The final extension of his tourist visa was coming to an end and he told me he would apply for a resident visa. The only problem was I still hadn’t told no one about my secret relationship. Sure, people knew something was up as soon as I didn’t show up for the parties, and left early from work, and didn’t pick up my phone. But nobody knew who I was seeing, nobody had a clue. Not even you, Grandpa. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never trust you enough to tell you. I’m sorry I never warn you in advance. I knew as soon as I told Mom and Dad about this man, I’d be treated like I lose my mind. I knew as soon as anyone knew, my brothers would go to set the record straight. I knew as soon as I spoke up, Uncle Glen would use all his influence in Immigration to make life impossible for Nathaniel. So I stayed quiet while his papers were still in order. And then I stayed quiet while I helped him settle into his new life in Anguilla. And then I stayed quiet after speaking to Father Rasheed (and forcing him to stay quiet too) about our plans for a secret wedding.

  But we couldn’t go ahead with it. The truth is we were in love. Nathaniel, a white man twice my age, had won me over. That is the truth. But I also love my family . . . very much. Even if Mom won’t let me tell her no more. Even if Dad won’t speak to me. So, I had to let you know.

  Of course it didn’t really work out. The Rawlingsons are too proud for something like that to be forgiven. The Rawlingsons are too stubborn to let a white man decide the course of their precious little one’s life. You know what followed: Mom’s hysteria, Dad’s threats, Uncle Glen’s attempts to get Nathaniel deported. He almost succeeded too, you know, had it not been for the help of a friend who I won’t name. But even in adversity, we seemed to grow closer, better, bigger, Nathaniel and me. And all along I knew that if someone understood my situation, it was you. You, who had left your little island as a young man, in search of a better future, you, who had found your happiness in the arms of a girl (just a child at the time) from another country, you, who had taken your chances, given up on that "better future," and returned home with a forbidden love and a foreign wife.

  How I wished to speak to you in those days of anxiety, Grandpa. But how could I? How could I face you and tell you the truth? How could I face you and hide the shame? How could I ask you to keep my secret? I was afraid. I couldn’t. Until Nathaniel decided to do the rightful thing. He showed up all dressed up in his suit and tie to ask Dad for my hand. I ain’t never seen little Dewan so upset in my life. I thought he was going to kill him. I think we all thought he was going to kill him. Jamaal was so afraid he forgot the whole thing and concentrated only on calming Dewan down. Mom went nuts. She ain’t been the same since, either, at least not to me. And Desmond, the troublemaker of the family, the oldest boy, the rudest one, he just sat there listening, watching, quiet. I think he might’ve understood, you know. I think he could tell, Grandpa. I think maybe he knew. I’m two years older than Desmond, Grandpa. I changed Jamaal’s nappies when he was a baby. Now he has a wife, a business, a house. I cooked lunch after school for all the children who ain’t living at home no more. I was almost finished with primary school when Dewan was born. Now Dewan has a child of his own. I just wanted to live, Grandpa. I’d just got back from school in Washington, and what was I supposed to do? Go back home? Work for Dad? Pretend nothing changed? Pretend I was still the same little girl? I just reached for my freedom, Grandpa. Then I found a man who managed to pin me down to commitment. And I was happy about it too, you know . . . funny how things work out . . . But I think you might understand everything about the irony of life. You, who left this island full of hope and prospects only to sail back poorer, older, but yes, happier. And I think Desmond might’ve understood. He never said so much. He still doesn’t speak to me. But I saw it in his eyes that night. I saw a flame go: "Alright, sis. If this what you want, if this what you think will make you happy, go ahead and grab it. Make your new life with this man and leave all a we behind. We’ll be alright. And we hope you’ll be alright too."

  It’s getting late, Grandpa. The rooster’s crawling outside and the sun will soon come out. When the sun comes out, I’ll have to stop writing this letter, I
’ll have to get on my way. But before, there’s so much I want to tell you, Grandpa, there’s so much I want you to know . . .

  III

  Nathaniel Jones sat outside what had quickly become his favorite bar, dipping his bare feet in the soft texture of the virginal sand, sipping his bottle of beer from the Caribbean that tasted more of lemon than alcohol, facing out, toward the South Hill side of Sandy Ground, eyes hidden behind the shelter of his dark sunglasses, when the slim figure of Sheila Rawlingson made its sudden cameo, swinging her perfect hips as she made her way through the sand, moderating the criss-crossing of her legs as soon as she got to the safe ground of the wooden deck, leaving a gusty trail of sweet perfume as she moved between the spread-out tables (the very last one of which, by the edge of the deck, bordering the sand, was occupied by Nathaniel Jones). Nathaniel’s world blacked out for a moment. For a moment, the steep fall in the Brazilian stock market meant nothing. For a moment, the consequences of a tragic decision to launch a new attack on Syria became unimportant. The price of oil: unimportant. Negotiations: unimportant. Business: forgotten.

  Nathaniel Jones had come to this golfing paradise on the northern tip of the Caribbean to forget about everything for a little while (a fortnight). For the best part of two weeks, the professionals of entertainment had failed to achieve what a young local woman had managed with a sleight of her hips. Nathaniel Jones had not been able to deposit the burden lingering at the back of his mind either at the golf course or at the tennis court; he had felt no lighter in the depths of his spear-fishing dive than he had in the comfort of his swim with the dolphins; his thoughts had swiftly glided with him as he flew forty feet above the turquoise water of Shoal Bay; they had followed suit as he dived into Little Bay from the top of a fifteen-foot cliff. But now, for one brief moment, Nathaniel Jones’s range of vision faded into nothing as the tide of his consciousness lay flat as a bowl of soup whereupon one and only one wave made any sort of (big, huge) impression: the svelte image of a nameless young woman.

  Nathaniel Jones sat outside his favorite bar, sipping his bottle of beer, thinking of a way to make contact with this local woman, when he lifted his sunglasses in search of her eyes. Is the waitress in there? He grasped his chance. Quick, agile steps brought him to the bar. If this is good enough for you, it’s good enough for me. Can I buy you a drink? Sheila Rawlingson sat at the bar—peach daiquiri in hand—waiting for her good friend Leslie Anthony to show up. She had not seen Leslie since her return from America and now, she had heard, he was going away the following day to train for a year as a patisserie chef in a hotel in Paris. Leslie had already made plans to have dinner with someone else that night but he could still squeeze in a cocktail with Sheila after work, before dinner. Nathaniel was unaware of Sheila’s plans but he could guess she had not just dropped by her local bar for a lonely drink. We all have someone to meet, sometime. But you’ll still need to have dinner some other time. Nathaniel was not aware of the terms of Sheila’s present arrangement, of the chance that awaited him. Of course you can promise, anyone can promise anything. Whether or not you keep your word is an entirely different matter. He waited expectantly. She allowed an ounce of hope to seep through her words. Okay, den, you kyan buy me a drink sometime, but I kyan’t promise when. Nathaniel Jones had no idea how soon sometime would be. Neither did Sheila Rawlingson.

  Nathaniel Jones sat on the pier by the beach opposite his favorite bar, dipping his bare feet in the soft, cold sea water, sipping from his bottle of beer, eyes fixed on the establishment where the only wave that disturbed the otherwise quiet tide of his consciousness shared a drink that was becoming worryingly long but that promisingly had not yet led to dinner, when the Afro-Caribbean male who had until then accompanied her made his hurried exit—alone! Nathaniel flung his beer into the sea as he hastily fit his wet feet inside his shoes. While he made his way along the pier, one of the ripples produced by the impact of his bottle on the tranquil sea resonated in his brain, raising a shadow of concern for having chucked an empty bottle into what was otherwise an immaculate beach, for having littered in heaven.

  Sheila Rawlingson stood in front of the bar, packing her belongings into her purse, when she met the solitary shadow of Nathaniel Jones walking in from the beach. His attempt to look surprised failed so miserably it made them both smile. Sublime. You did promise. The promise that turned into a drink went down in a hurry. Nathaniel’s appetite was satiated merely by the sight of Sheila’s beauty, but his craftiness told him he needed to come up with something quickly if he wanted to enjoy her company any longer. Why don’t you join me for dinner? Thus it was that a drink that went down in a hurry turned into a banquet in the most expensive restaurant on the island: lobster, crayfish, crab, an abused tablecloth witnessing the details of a culinary extravaganza, a host of bottles of sparkling wine fueling the evening with a sense of adventure, an unlikely couple sitting in a candlelit corner of an exquisite restaurant, contemplating the moon, amusing each other. I have a couple of days left, why don’t you show me the local side of paradise? And a banquet in the most expensive restaurant on the island turned into a rendezvous in town the following day. The sun, the town, the traffic all conspired to turn a rendezvous into a guided tour of pleasure. But just like the appeal of a treasure hunt lies as much in the process of finding it as in the treasure itself, it was the behavior of his divulger of secrets that mesmerized Nathaniel on a day in which indigenous caves, millenary wells, and desolate beaches could have been replaced by scorching deserts and swamping wasteland to absolutely no detriment of his mood. So, where do you go on a Friday night? Let’s go dancing. Turn a guided tour of the hidden treasures of an island paradise into a late-night jam session at The Velvet in Sandy Ground. Late night, indeed. Very late and very dark, making palpable a dream he had not yet dared turn into a fantasy. Dark and fair skin sweat equally in the enclosed environment of a crowded nightclub. Dark and fair skin touching, rubbing, sliding, pressing. After a long stint which predominantly saw Sheila’s back reclining against Nathaniel’s chest, Nathaniel’s hands exploring the routes delineated between her arms, four legs slightly bent at the precise same angle delivering short, tuneful steps, leaving him completely exhausted, gagging for a drink.

  Tomorrow ain’ no good for me. What followed was automatic. Nah, I busy wit’ family stuff all night. The situation merited one more try. I ain’ sure I kyan make it den, eider. A napalm bomb exploded in the hall of mirrors Nathaniel had built for himself over the last two days. One by one the reflecting images of a promise turned into a drink that went down in a hurry, turned into a banquet in the most expensive restaurant of the island, turned into a rendezvous in town, turned into a guided tour of the hidden treasures of an island paradise, turned into a late-night jam session at The Velvet, shattered into irretrievably small splinters that pierced the dream Nathaniel had not yet dared turn into a fantasy. But why? There was no answer. Why? There was no why. There was only two cars that took two separate ways, that forced Nathaniel to spend the last fifty-four hours of his yearly dose of relaxing amnesia alone. Except he could not. Because Nathaniel had been bitten by the bug of love, smitten by the arrows of Eros, and he could not conceive of departing the source of his ailment without finding the antidote. So he stayed behind. He called the airline, put back his flight (indefinitely), spoke to the hotel manager, prolonged his stay.

  IV

  Sheila Rawlingson felt Nathaniel Jones’s hardened weapon stroke the curve between her buttocks with delight. Seven years of academic life in an American university had not canceled out the art of overt sexuality cultivated in the islands. She smiled as she tilted her body forward, resting hands on knees, pushing her rear backward, keeping time with the music, dreaming to be had. Shut eyes reduced reality to the darkened beating of soca rhythms and the slippery touch of ever-more-adventurous hands. She obeyed the scratch of nails running up the sides of thighs, digging into pelvis, pulling closer, harder; she enjoyed the tender rub of left hand climbing t
he stairs of one, two, three, four ribs, molding fingers to the perfect shape of perfect breasts; she longed for the thrust of manhood to help her reach the ecstasy of womanhood, when the clumsy trace of an overexcited hand caught her hardened nipple between its index and middle fingers, pricking her out of her fantasy.

  She opened her eyes to the full extent of the scene: she had lost control of the situation. She—the expert teaser—had teased herself into desire. But not all was lost. She reclined her back against Nathaniel’s chest one more time, felt the panting of his tired breath. For five minutes or so, their dance continued, seemingly unaltered yet somehow devoid of its previous intensity. Nathaniel did not notice: he could only feel the heavy weight of his leaden feet grow heavier with every step. Sheila seized her opportunity to save some face—at least for the witnessing crowd, if not for herself—kept things going for another few minutes before granting Nathaniel the wish he wished most: a pause and a drink. From that point onward their night went downhill, but because beforehand the course of the evening had skyrocketed, because the chemistry between them had peaked out of sight, Nathaniel did not notice how much farther from him she now stood at the bar, he did not notice how she suddenly failed to lean in his direction when he spoke to her, he did not see her eyes bouncing from eye to nose to wall to feet rather than attentively—almost voraciously—focusing on his lips. In fact, Nathaniel noticed no negative signs whatsoever until the moment of her second rejection. I’m busy wit’ family stuff all night. No but, no why, no hope. Desperation would have taken hold of him at that moment had Sheila not stripped the scene of all emotion, forcing two cars with three empty seats each to head in opposite directions.