Nathaniel Jones saw very little of his wife during the rest of the week that followed the extended celebration that was carnival in Anguilla. In fact, Nathaniel Jones would not see very much at all of his wife during the better part of the month she spent crossing out one by one the names of potential local investors for Dragon Wings. Until the Monday afternoon when Glenallen Rawlingson himself, the man at the very top of Sheila’s pointless list and the only name that could really make a dramatic difference in the fortunes of the airline, called Sheila Rawlingson-Jones. I been t’inking ’bout dis strange business proposition you make me de other day, you know. I mean, every old way you look at dis is madness, nuh, but for some reason I don’ even reach to unnerstan’, I jus’ kyan’t stop t’inkin’ ’bout it. An’ you know is sometin’ good an’ interestin’ you have cookin’ in you hands if Glenallen kyan’t stop t’inkin’ ’bout it. Why you don’t set up a meetin’ wit’ Nathaniel later today, Sheila, I wan’ have a little conversation wit’ de man.
The second time in their lives Glenallen Rawlingson and Nathaniel Jones had a civilized conversation was the Monday morning when the former came to the latter’s house in East End with a draft of an LOI in his pocket and a single condition. I kyan make dis fancy dream of yours come true, you know. I dunno why I would want to, but I do. You make so many mistakes already, but is still not too late. I kyan help you rectify dem, under one condition: by no means are de Stewarts to get involved in dis airline, you understan’? Dat ain’ negotiable. Is me or dem you wan, you kyan’t get bot’, an’ if is me, you have to decide roight now, and with this, Glenallen pulled the folded LOI out of his back pocket.
The agreement was not binding, the final figures were not even discussed—although a quarter of a million dollars was mentioned as a plausible sum—and nothing was officially finalized, but Nathaniel saw this as the greatest coup of his Caribbean life. He had agreed to meet Dragon in the Business Center that day to discuss the future of the operation, but suddenly it seemed improper to work during such a wonderful occasion. He showed up late and merry at the office, improvised a drunken celebration at his home, spent most of the night watching Sheila dance like a dervish, before she resolved to combat his weariness, his inebriation, to ravish him repeatedly with an ardor, an intensity, which differed from any other night—as if her delirious mind had mistaken him for someone else, as if they had never made love before, as if they were in a different place.
This was only two weeks after the Thursday morning when Arturo Sarmiento departed for Antigua on what had been intended as a two-day journey to validate his commercial pilot license. Arturo was concerned about his future; Arturo had absolutely no faith in the project; Arturo had no doubt whatsoever that, even if the airline were to come to fruition, the venture would eventually fail. Further negotiations for the purchase of the Trislander were being stalled by a lack of funds; the uncertainty regarding the actual machinery the airline would fly meant the search for pilots could not be carried out in full; no planes and no pilots meant the routes to be flown remained undecided; which in turn meant no team of employees could be assembled anywhere. The hope was that once the first domino fell, the rest of the pieces would follow automatically. Now that an injection of hope and an unofficial promise of further credit had been extended to the company, the soundness of such plan would come to be tested.
Arturo Sarmiento departed for Antigua on what was intended to be a two-day journey to validate his commercial pilot license, but Arturo Sarmiento’s flying instincts were less forthcoming on a Thursday morning of little sleep and much travail. His eyesight was fine, his physical went smoothly, and the emergency drills were, as expected, a piece of cake. But his Instrument Flight Rating (IFR) was appalling, his navigation exam a failure, and he did not actually have an Air Transport Procedure (ATP) license in the first place, which meant he could only fly aircrafts that weighed less than 12,500 pounds—nothing bigger than a Twin Otter.
Arturo Sarmiento’s flying instincts didn’t resurface as swiftly as he had expected, but the knowledge instilled in his brain had not vanished completely, not even after long years of absolute neglect. During a challenging morning of little sleep and much travail, Arturo was able to prove his erudition in aviation law and to show his mastery of aviation procedure; he was flawless in his manipulation of the machine’s systems and electronics, cruised through the sections on planning, monitoring, and performance, and he managed to get a decent Visual Flight Rating (VFR). However, his dismal performance on IFR Communication, his lack of accreditation on ATP, his less-than-subtle touch on the simulator prompted the inevitable: he would need to take a ten-week course and pass the relevant exams at the end it, before his commercial pilot license could be validated.
So, what had been intended as a two-day journey to validate his license had to be extended indefinitely for Arturo Sarmiento to find the only ECCAA-approved instructor on the island and begin his course as soon as possible. Arturo Sarmiento spent two days looking for Michael Haywood, an American pilot with thinning hair and high blood pressure who gave the impression of being constantly drunk. After Art turned every stone and called every number in the phone book, Michael finally surfaced on Sunday afternoon, having just returned from a fishing trip. His dismissive attitude and patronizing tone of voice instantly struck a dissonant chord in Arturo Sarmiento. The two disliked each other immediately, but Michael desperately needed the money and Arturo desperately needed an ECCAA-approved instructor, so, from the very outset, it was perfectly clear that this was going to be, strictly and exclusively, a business-oriented relationship in which the priorities were money on the one hand and expediency on the other.
If we start the course next week we might just make it for the examinations at the end of November—you’ve missed the enrolment deadline but I have my connections. Favors, like everything else, had a price with Michael Haywood, but that neither surprised nor upset Art’s South American disposition. Cash only, my friend.
Michael met Arturo Sarmiento on Monday morning with a washed-out copy of a token contract. Here’s 50 percent of your fees in cash. I’ll bring the rest once you get me onto the examination list. Michael gravely asked his pupil to print his name and sign at the bottom. Arturo Sarmiento returned the following Monday—and every Monday thereafter for the following ten weeks—for an intensive course that would allow him to rejoin the ranks of legal commercial pilots before the end of the year.
IX
This is the only way we are going to be able to set up this business in time. We have no alternative, Nathe. He paces the room patiently and tries not to show his anger, not to let it affect his demeanor. He is being civil and hearing me out but I know inside his mind he’s already halfway through his answer. We have to be realistic about this, Nathe, we have to be flexible. His fingers entwine, his pace slows down, he wrings his hands.
Before allowing me to reach my conclusion he butts in: We cannot turn this into a budget airline. His eyes pierce me right back to my seat. His eyebrows are raised, his forehead wrinkled, his entire face disfigured with aggression. This is not the place to make anything budget, these are not budget customers. And then something or other about thousands of dollars per night, exclusivity, golfing paradise, elite . . .
Nathe, we can’t afford to rely exclusively on tourists for this. His eyes bulge with anger—too much anger for the nature of our conversation. There’s something wrong with Nathaniel, something’s eating away at him. We have to appeal to the local population, Nathe. Everyone is related in these islands, everyone has a cousin somewhere.
I walk away from him, head toward my desk, pull a bottle of whiskey from one of the drawers, pour ourselves a drink. Nathaniel swishes the booze in his mouth, savors the heat on his tongue, before carefully placing the glass on the desk. This has got to be a cleanly operated, fancy, efficient airline, Dragon. He insists on the importance of image, on the advantages of ubiquity, on market strategies to make our launch a noteworthy event, but I can tell
there is something else, perhaps something unrelated, troubling him. Even if you want to target the local population, you cannot rely solely on the web: half these people don’t even own a computer. The steam train of Nathaniel’s thought is rolling and I know it won’t stop until it arrives at his final conclusions, as soon as he feels he has sufficiently demolished my argument. Relying solely on the web would estrange us from most of the local community and harm our image in the eyes of rich tourists. I sense in his use of the word solely his unique way of building a bridge between his position and mine. He knows that I’m right, that we cannot get offices in several islands at the same time in the next two months, and this is the extent of the compromise he is willing to make. But at least I know Nathe has come to his senses.
It is time we submit a full draft of our intended itinerary to the ECCAA, Dragon. This is what I have envisioned—and the final word is enough for me to understand that Nathe is now in control. St. Kitts, Nevis, Antigua, Barbuda, and St. Martin are the destinations we can bank on at the moment. With a sleight of hand Nathe acknowledges the time constraints that make the prospect of opening an office in each of these five islands impossible: suddenly, he shows interest in the digital option. Can they program separate access for customers and travel agencies? Nathe’s anger is concealed beneath his pragmatism, but I can still sense it lying in wait, latent, tacit, simmering just under the surface. As of Monday we’ll have full-page adds in the Anguillan, St. Martin’s Daily Herald, Antigua’s Observer, and St. Kitts’s Sun. I will include details of our homepage, so warn the programmers to set up a provisional front page with all our contact information while they put together the real thing. Nathaniel’s particular way of capitulating is so obtuse I don’t know whether I should consider this a victory at all.
Nathe has adapted his ideas gallantly, reshaping mine in the process to the point where they no longer seem incompatible. But the day’s work is far from over: he reaches inside a drawer in the filing cabinet, retrieves a thin folder, and throws it at me. It is the provisional schedule with departure times and estimated flight durations. Direct flights to Nevis and Barbuda are listed during the week with intricate island-hopping patterns; an early-morning flight to St. Kitts looks desolate next to the three daily commutes to St. Martin. We’re finding difficulties with Grand Case, in French St. Martin, and St. Barths, because they insist on pilots speaking French. The same goes for Dutch in St. Eustatius. But we already have licensing for Juliana, in Dutch St. Martin. I can see that Nathe has put a lot of time into the elucidation of this plan. We have a problem: we need a twenty-five-seater to have any chance of making a profit with the longer routes. Nathe knows that the Trislander we are trying to get has a capacity of seventeen. Where are we going to get that? He acts surprised, looks straight into my eyes. That’s your job, Dragon, don’t ask me how to go about it.
He turns to me and approaches threateningly. I knew he would be disappointed with my proposal, but Nathe’s rage is not being sparked by our chat. I spoke to Alexandre Martínez last night: the Trislander is still on the market. I’ve already arranged a meeting with him this weekend in the Dominican Republic. Should I cancel? I can see Nathaniel reviewing our options in his mind. Get that Trislander, Dragon, and he moves on: Now, about those pilots—we cannot afford to disregard the two licensed pilots on the island. The two, of course, are SamB and Ralph. I know Nathaniel intends to send out a message to the local community, a message of commitment as well as solidarity. A partnership with Ralph, a native Anguillan, would be invaluable for us, Dragon.
I stand my ground firmly: Is that what you’re going to tell the families of our passengers when our local stud crashes our Queen Air into the sea? This time it’s Nathe’s turn to allow my snarky comment to drift past unanswered but recorded.
He looks like a man on the verge of a crisis. Does he know? He must know. But what can he know? He must know I’m in love with Sheila—that much is obvious. But can he blame me? Could anyone be blamed? I wonder where she is. I wonder what she’s doing. I wish I could be doing it with her. I come back to myself and find Nathaniel leaning on the desk by the large window, scrutinizing me with wild, irate eyes. I asked you a question. I have absolutely no idea what it was. Are you here now? Are you here at all? He is furious.
I was listening, Nathe. He doesn’t believe a word. I knew this would be a major blow for you. He is totally disinterested. That’s why I broke it down to the bare facts, Nathe. I still haven’t caught his attention. It’s not just the logistics of it, it’s the economic factor and the practical side of things. Nathaniel simply shakes his head. Calm down, let me explain.
Don’t tell me to calm down when you and I both know perfectly well my wife is fucking another man.
What the hell? Is he talking about me? You want to tell me what the hell is going on here? I can see the fever inside Nathe’s eyes recede under the effect of the booze.
I just told you. Don’t act like you don’t know—I mean, everyone must know by now, right? If even I know. And let’s be honest, you’ve seen her: what’s a woman like that doing with an old man like me, right? What could I expect? Is he genuinely feeling sorry for himself, or is Nathaniel drawing me into a trap here?
You’re being unfair, Nathe, and you know it. You’re being unfair to yourself, you’re being unfair to her, and most importantly you’re being unfair to me. I asked you to come here to talk business, Nathe.
His eyes grow wider and the expression in his face loosens as soon as he becomes aware. You’ve fallen for her too.
This had to happen. Of course I have, Nathe: I see her all the time, I work with her every day. She’s the most extraordinary woman—we all know that. We also know she’s your wife. This conversation is taking the strangest of twists but it’s too late to change the course of it. Somehow, I thought my father was accusing me of cheating with his wife and I’ve ended up defending her. Look, Nathe, I’m sorry, but I’m your business partner, not your marriage counselor.
And that is how the end got started.
X
Arturo Sarmiento returned to Anguilla with a suitcase full of failure, a dose of humility, and the tricky task ahead of him of catching up with time, but no one in Dragon Wings could take notice because before too long an injection of hope and an unofficial promise of further credit restored the element of urgency that the enterprise had lacked through the month of September. Shortly after the second time in their lives Glenallen Rawlingson and Nathaniel Jones had had a civilized conversation, the two were joined by Dragon and Sheila in Deianira Walker’s office to sign a deal whereby Sheila’s uncle would enter into partnership with the Joneses, purchasing 21 percent of the company in exchange of a quarter of a million dollars.
What followed after that was a period of hectic activity that started on a Friday morning when Arturo Sarmiento and Dragon Jones traveled to Santo Domingo to meet Alexandre Martínez and carry out the inspection of the Britten Norman Trislander that would make a large number of the initial plans for the airline seem achievable. The trip was long and complicated and all flights involved were predictably delayed, so before Arturo and Dragon met anyone that evening they had already spent several hours in various airports and departure lounges. That might have been why Dragon showed less tact than would have been advisable when a short, square, middle-aged man with strong arms, bowed legs, and a big round stomach introduced himself as Alexandre Martínez.
There was something utterly enigmatic about this man’s presence, about the way he carried himself. He sported a bushy mustache that for some reason gave him an unusual air of elegance but that at the same time was incongruous with the old-fashioned glasses hanging clumsily—almost mockingly—from his nose. Dragon—exhausted by the journey, exasperated by the delay—totally disregarded the casual pleasantries prescribed by Latin decorum, intemperately asked whether they could take a look at the plane. But Alexandre Martínez proved to be tolerant as well as sensible, and it’s too late for that, tonight, Mr. Jones. The
re is no light, night will soon fall, and you are tired from your traveling. I hope you two will join us for dinner. We can go ahead with the inspection of the airplane tomorrow morning.
Dinner was charming and a good night’s rest was exactly what both Arturo and Dragon most needed, other than a suitable aircraft to start turning the dream of a commercial airline into some version of a reality. But the inspection of the Trislander the following day presented Dragon with a problem: to be sure, the plane’s condition was acceptable and the interior had been safely stored in a dry place, to the point where it seemed never to have been used, and the three Lycoming engines sparked up in a hurry, and all systems appeared to work without fault—but when Arturo dove into the logbooks he spent an inordinate amount of time reading through them. His eyes sharpened, his body crouched forward as he read page after page. Arturo made no comment when Alexandre Martínez said something to him in Spanish but Dragon sensed he had found something he disliked. The self-consciousness of being observed deterred Arturo from continuing his investigation. He flicked through the rest of the logbooks, jumped off the plane, handed over the material to its owner. But the discovery of something unusual had already been made.
Hands were shaken, pledges exchanged—Either way, I will be in touch with you very soon—and behind remained the old-fashioned specs which sheltered the dark eyes of a shrewd businessman.
On the way back to Anguilla Dragon asked Arturo’s opinion. The engines’ books have been tampered with. The left engine is slightly older than the right one—allegedly fifteen and twenty thousand hours each. Arturo was unequivocal, yet inconclusive: You can be certain they’re older than that, but this doesn’t mean anything is wrong with them. Dragon sought in Arturo the sort of authoritative advice he was absolutely not prone to give. It might be they’re just trying to get as much money for their plane as they possibly can. Arturo simply would not commit. I couldn’t hear any misfiring, I couldn’t trace any malfunction in the system.
On the Way Back Page 16